The Hermit Encounter

Tenzin met a wild sage one time in the eastern Himalayas, where the winds were said to whisper strange and ancient secrets. This hermit lived in a cave. Tenzin knew there were quite a few hermits in that area, but this one was more elusive than the rest and particularly highly revered. His name, if ever it was known, had been lost, and people simply called him “mountain hermit.” Had he transcended his original name and become only a description? His age was also long forgotten. When Tenzin visited, the hermit had forsaken food for thirty years already, surviving on spring water, solitude, and, it was said, the breath of the mountains.

The kind abbot of the local temple near the place where the caravan had stopped told Tenzin that a sage, known to have stopped eating for decades, was expected to visit the monastery in two days. Tenzin thought this would be worth waiting for and told his caravan leader that he wanted to delay his departure for three days to obtain an audience with this mystical saint. The caravan leader decided to go along to witness the miracle as well. After all, it’s not every day you can meet a real, living, supernatural being. Some of the caravan men thought the man must be a fraud. In the end, three of them decided to go together.

There was a short but steep climb up to the local meditation cave where the sage would receive visitors. Tenzin and his caravan brothers sauntered up the trail, passing a number of local visitors, most of whom were carrying offerings for the monks at the temple above the valley. One group of women had brought a large watermelon and were loudly complaining that it was too heavy to carry but too precious to leave at the side of the trail. Tenzin offered to help, and for the next few minutes had to endure the jibes of his caravan brothers, who teased him about the logic of bringing a large fruit to a hermit who did not eat.

Suitable offering or not, the watermelon eventually made its way to a small campfire where water was being boiled for butter tea to serve the many visitors who had come to witness the unusual sage who had defied the laws of nature. The monks had further comments when Tenzin laid the watermelon before them—comments that were quickly shouted down by the women, who claimed actual ownership of the big melon. Grinning, Tenzin backed away from the monks politely and joined the visitors lining up to enter the reception room.

The reception room was a simple space with a wooden bed covered in yellow satin—the suitable color for a visiting saint. The saint entered, surrounded by long-term followers and some visitors from far-off places. They had come to see a marvel of nature. The marvel turned out to be a very sun-darkened man with large, dark eyes that darted around frantically during the entire interview. It seemed the unaccustomed room was as intimidating to him as he was to his visitors.

His slim limbs seemed to bear his weight awkwardly—except when he moved. Tenzin and his caravan brothers had caught sight of him earlier, leaping up the mountain slope ahead of all the visitors. As he ascended the steep slope, the sage appeared at peace, and the look of anxiousness faded, replaced by a deep and settled gaze that Tenzin couldn’t forget. It was as if the sage were happier on the uphill trail, away from the crowds. There, he did not seem to bear the weight of knowing more than most people—knowledge that seemed to reflect eons of stories, far beyond what others could witness or understand.

One of the monks in the reception room whispered that the sage was always afraid no one from outside the region, where the hermit's cave was located, could truly understand anything he wanted to say.

The sage’s skin was weathered with lines, like those seen on the face of any older Tibetan nomad. Had this sage traveled much? Despite his presumed years, he moved with the grace of an animal at home on rugged paths. Tenzin recalled the earlier glimpse of the sage running up the rocky trail, very fast—almost as if he were flying. Tenzin thought to himself, “He likes to walk the mountain trails; each of his steps is light but deliberate; he does not trip.”

The sage explained (through his companions, who translated for him) that he traveled with such an entourage because he spoke only a rural dialect that outsiders from his village could never understand. The caravan leader mumbled that the companions were not only translators but likely funding his travel expenses as well.

The companions spoke of the sage’s cave, tucked into a difficult-to-reach part of the mountain’s heart, many hundreds of miles to the northeast. There, they said, the sage meditated on the cosmic dance of stars, listened to the murmurs of ancient stones, and conversed primarily with the spirits of wind and water.

“Fanciful nonsense,” murmured the caravan leader.

On a more practical note, one of the attendants explained that while the sage ate nothing digestible, he drank water and was known to swallow a type of completely indigestible juniper nut. The nuts, which grew on a particular kind of juniper tree, were said to keep his bowels functioning. Indeed, although the man took no solid or liquid sustenance, he reportedly maintained regular excretions. These excretions had been examined, and it was confirmed that the juniper nuts were passed fully intact.

The sage wore a simple dark red monk’s robe, a gift from one of his companions, and slung over one shoulder was a farmer’s overcoat woven from mountain grass, designed to keep off the rain.

When the sage spoke, his voice emerged from a silence that felt distant from the chattiness of his companions. Some of the attendants said his voice sounded like distant thunder. At one point, the sage turned to look at Tenzin, who had been politely hovering near the back of the room, away from the pushy crowd. A look of frustration crossed the holy man’s face—perhaps frustration at his inability to speak directly to Tenzin. Tenzin hesitated to voice the questions in his mind, but the holy man kindly gave a prophecy instead of waiting for questions. Speaking through his translators, he said:

“Child of the valleys below, you tread the same trails as your ancestors. The mountains are not mere rock and snow; they are the guardians of the forgotten tales of many men. Listen to them.

“The hunger that gnaws at your belly is only a shadow. True sustenance is in the communion of earth and sky. The wind speaks in whispers of forgotten empires, and the stones remember the footsteps of your forebears.

“To ascend these peaks, you must shed much. Wisdom calls for shedding more than the desires of the flesh. Release your burdens—the weight of expectations, the chains of yearning. Become light, like the mist that hisses through the highest summits.

“And remember this: a hermit’s hunger is not for food but for revelation. In the emptiness of fasting, I feast upon the universe. My limbs, limber as prayer flags, can rush past the stories of ages.

“Go, Boy. Seek your heart in the heart of the mountains, and find your real questions. When you return to your home, bring not answers but questions—questions that echo through time and awaken the stones. It is questions that will benefit your people. They must find their own answers.

“The hermit knows that the hunger that feeds the soul is the hunger for wonder.”

The translation might have been a little stilted, but Tenzin was too awed to notice. He felt that this little sermon was meant just for him and addressed his most personal questions. So did many of the others present. One of them muttered under his breath, “Are you real?” Nobody answered that.

Having received the sage’s holy words, Tenzin and his caravan brothers departed that day, feeling that staying any longer would be inappropriate. It was rare to receive so many words specifically directed at a single person. Though Tenzin did not fully understand the sage’s message, he felt his steps grow lighter, and his heart warmer, as he descended the steep slope. His companions pointed out that he had been the only recipient of a personalized prophecy that day.

Perhaps this blessing from the hermit changed Tenzin’s life. Perhaps it prepared him for the special mysteries of the mountains. Perhaps the sage’s words helped spark the legends that later grew around Tenzin’s solo journeys in the mountains. These legends offered a unique taste of eternity. They were stories that outlived Tenzin’s presence on the land.