"Great! We leave in two days," I announced, drawing a finger twice across the sky as I'd seen done in so many westerns. "Friday." That pleased him even more. "Eight o'clock." I sketched an eight in the sand and, pointing down the street, added, "Meet us at hotel." He seems to understand, I thought. But for good measure, I asked one last time. "Diy ya-go du-gay?" to which he responded with a languid nod, "Diy ya-go du."

As our new partner turned to leave, I remembered to ask his name. "Kyo-ray ming ka-ray ray?" 

"Patron."

"Patron, ya go," I shouted after him, only hoping his name matched his character.

October 23

Well, no Patron appeared on Friday. We finally found him nursing his swollen foot in town, clearly unable or unwilling to join our journey. So while Cheryl took advantage of the delay by restoring her health with the hotel's specialty, yak filled momos in hot pepper sauce, I continued my quest for the elusive horse.

It became strikingly clear, Chuzal was the epitome of the "one horse town" - and they weren't selling. Once I came very close. A sympathetic shopkeeper agreed to sell her white pony and cart for 1200 RMBs. But as luck would have it, I was 700 yuan short and she refused to take dollars or those worthless FECs, neither of which she'd ever seen before.

So I sprinted out to change money, but even that became a chore. There were no banks, not one. Not even one of those pesky, "Psst. Psst. Hey Misstah. Change money? Change money?" black market dealers.

By the time I returned, our horse trader had already closed up shop and vanished. Discouraged and cursing our fate, I returned to the hotel thinking maybe our wheeler dealer manager could change dollars. She seemed savvy enough. Then I could meet the merchant in the morning.

"Sure, how much do you want to change?" the pompous queen of Chuzal Dzong clucked, picking her yellowed front teeth with a pinky nail.

"We need to buy a horse, so probably".

"Why you not buy mine?" she seductively offered, turning and thrusting a chubby digit towards a healthy dappled mare grazing behind the inn.

I was open to that. Why, I was open to almost anything. "How much?"

That one naive question was the starting gun for a haggle-athon that lasted nearly an hour. Until finally, exhausted, we agreed on 1500 yuan. Sure, it was more than the other lady wanted, but I was relieved and felt we got a decent price on a good mare. Besides, I already sensed a horse would mean the difference between success and failure of our mission.

Unfortunately, any hope for celebration was immediately dashed. For as soon as we entered the kitchen, inexplicably, it was no longer her mare. It was the chef's! So frustrated negotiations began anew with a slight serious man in between the cacophonous caterwauling of waiters, simmering soups and frying noodles, until talks stalled at a figure 300 yuan higher than her last offer. And surprisingly, he refused to budge.

So with great reluctance everyone agreed to, "Sleep on it and talk tomorrow" - Saturday.

October 24

During breakfast, for some unknown reason, the capricious cook avoided us and any further negotiations. We silently fumed and stewed in the dining room, wondering how to resolve our problem.

Just then a bus pulled up, spewing a whirlwind through the front door and tossing a shroud of dust over the cadre of dogs asleep on the concrete porch. A man wearing a leather flight jacket and woman in a well-tailored suit stepped out, just in time for cameo appearances in our Chuzal drama.

The couple, tour guides, spoke both Tibetan and English, so it was much easier for them to shed light on our dining room dilemma. After briefly questioning the chef, who'd joined them at a nearby table, the lady quickly became just as dumbfounded. "The cook says it's bad luck to sell anything on a Saturday."

"But we agreed to talk about it today," I reminded. "Why, he even quoted us a price. He can't back out now. We really need to leave for Gyantse today." Already we'd lost too much time and energy shopping for a horse.

She sympathetically shrugged, shaking her short-cropped mane, as though it was hard to imagine anyone refusing to talk business, anytime. For at least thirty minutes everyone coaxed and cajoled that reluctant chef, but nothing anyone would say would convince him to reconsider.

Finally, in disgust and disbelief, we symbolically moved our never-ending bowl of yak momos to the other end of the dining room, while the stunned tour guides disappeared down the road.

Just as we prepared to face another day in futile search, the bus returned, belching to a stop. Breathless, the female guide ran in, crying, "We found a horse! You come quick."

This is too good to be true, we thought, climbing aboard the sleek bus, and we refused to believe until we saw it. As the coach rumbled east down that poor excuse for a highway, our guide boasted, "He very strong. Not far. And at very good price. We tell them we buy for us."

It was hard to believe, for an instant, anyone would be convinced those two were shopping for a horse for themselves. Still, as "deliberate" travelers, we were faced with a more immediate problem: an ever-limited budget. If only her "very good" price is the same as ours, I mused. "How much?"

"Only 1600 yuan." Why, that seemed in line with what we were quoted around town, but we faced the same obstacle as before.

"Great, but there's one small problem," we explained. "We don't have enough yuan. Only dollars."

Hearing that, her eyes lit up. Without missing a beat, she assured us, "Oh, we can help with that too," as she deftly drew her purse from behind the plastic seat. Within minutes, we veered down a nearly invisible dirt road and stopped beside a modest adobe farmhouse where a shaggy chestnut horse was tied, grazing in the yard.

"See. Very strong. Yes?", she announced, seeking instant approval.

Climbing down, I gave the gelding a cursory check, not wanting to appear too interested, since it was supposedly theirs. "Looks good," I whispered, adding, "Any chance they'll throw in the bridle, stirrups and saddle in the deal?"

With that, our appointed negotiator argued in odd verbal bursts with the wiry farmer for a second, who adamantly announced, "100 yuan."

Instantly I countered, "70!" At which point, they debated several tense minutes until our shrewd guide cried, 

"Too much talk, talk!" and began to walk away.

Sensing the game was up, the farmer relented sighing, "Diy ya-go du." As he bent over the short stocky horse he called "Sadhu," he draped the gelding with a tattered plaid blanket, a rickety wooden saddle and stout canvas bridle for the last time. Then, surrounded by wife and children in a poignant private ceremony, they solemnly tied a white gauze khata cloth around Sadhu's neck.

"What's that for?" Cheryl whispered to the guide.

"He says the horse is part of his family. That cloth will bless him until he reaches his new home."

Then the farmer uttered something directly to Cheryl and I, proving he never for an instant believed those guides were buying Sadhu for themselves. Turning to us, our horse trader translated. "He asks if you will take good care of him?" 

"Like our brother," we vowed.

As reluctant as our new horse, or da, was to leave his country home, it soon became equally clear how hesitant he was to exchange his hefty horse cart for our backpacks.

Back at the hotel, while Cheryl held Sadhu, the cook and I gingerly eased seventy pounds of attached packs over his head and onto his wobbly saddle - a big mistake. As soon as he saw that load, Sadhu reared up, snorting with a maniacal glare. Snapping the worn leather lead tying him to the post, he deftly shook Cheryl loose and stormed toward the courtyard gate!

"Damnnnn! Stop him!" I screamed, lunging for his saddle which easily wrenched off in my hand as I went sprawling in the dirt. Jumping up, I joined Cheryl, the chef and his four assistants in a galloping chase down the street with everyone frantically screaming, "Daaa!! Daaa!! Daaa!!" to villagers gossiping at a nearby chang or barley beer booth.

Hearing us, one grizzled man calmly set down his grog and stepped forward, as inexplicably, that wild gelding stopped dead in his tracks. Gently, the bystander reached up, grabbing Sadhu's bridle and casually handed him to me, as if that sort of thing happens all the time in a one-da-town.

And, after another more cautious loading, this time from his rear, we finally set off for Shigatse.

Sadhu's outburst aside, I was proud our expedition had increased to a threesome and fully convinced, with nearly a thousand kilometers (621 miles) and several 5,000-meter (17,000-foot) passes ahead, Sadhu'd soon become our most valued friend.

Sadhu? Wait! The great cosmic pun suddenly hit. In Tibetan his name meant "chestnut," the color of his hair. 

But in Nepal, where we were headed, a sadhu's a wandering holy man. Call it coincidence, but I like to believe he was meant to join us.

The following are Brandon's previous articles for the magazine:

• A Trek Across Norway ~ A Step Back In Time 
• The Camino de Santiago ~ In The Steps Of Popes, Princes And Kings
• A Walk On The Wild Side ~ In Zaire
• In The Steps Of African Explorers - The Quest For Kilimanjaro
• Tropical Tango To Micronesia ~ In Paradise
• Yak Butter Blues ~ A Tibetan Trek Of Faith
• Via Francigena ~ Trekking The Pathway To Paradise

Brandon Wilson is an award-winning author and photographer. "This was the fourth such pilgrimage trek for Brandon Wilson, author of Yak Butter Blues: A Tibetan Trek of Faith. Relive their journey, as he and his wife Cheryl, accompanied by their Tibetan horse, become the first Western couple to hike an ancient pilgrimage trail 1000-km. from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu. For a sample chapter, photos, music, links, and other pilgrimage trek information, visit http://www.PilgrimsTales.com. His new book, Dead Men Don't Leave Tips: Adventures X Africa, is coming this fall from Pilgrim's Tales and may be previewed at the same web site.