The clouds hang low over the grinning mountain that tells us we are headed west. A hazy cityscape spreads herself before our eyes, drowning in the smog that turns thick into cloud as the gaze shifts up. At first the mountain looks weakened by this haze. But the mountain is fierce. The mountain is prominent. The mountain rises from the clouds and never ceases to smile in its navigational duty to the citizens and travelers below. We are headed down the throat of this mountain.

In Chiang Mai, it is not uncommon for temples or stupas to rise from thin air. They occupy venerated plots of land next to contemporary hotels and even louder tourist traps, their aged brick and intricate gold trim allowing curious juxtaposition to the unacquainted wanderer. With originations dating back centuries, the youngest more than double the United States in age, and infinitely in wisdom. Much of what they have seen has been lost to the depths of history, taken to the ground with conquerors and visitors long come and gone. So it is the hills that hold the truest stories of time. Read More