Chele La is where the roads of Bhutan stop climbing. The saddle at the top, 3,988 metres up between the Paro and Haa valleys, carries thousands of tall white poles, and every one was planted for a person who died. The drive up leaves Paro in a long stack of hairpins through pine and rhododendron and comes out above the treeline with nothing on it but flags, a few stupas and the weather. From the tarmac the poles read as a texture laid over the ridge. Walking in among them, with the cloth snapping over your head, is what the drive is for. They are manidhar, raised a hundred and eight at a time for one death, each carrying a strip of cotton printed with mantras to the bodhisattva of compassion. The wind is understood to read them and carry the prayers on to the dead.
On a clear dawn the northern lip of the saddle gives you the other thing. Jomolhari, 7,326 metres, and the spire of Jichu Drake stand out over the treeline. It is a skyline you can find but not stand on: Bhutan holds its high summits as the houses of gods and closed them to climbers. Cloud usually rises out of the valleys and takes both peaks by lunch. The air is clearest in October and November, once the monsoon has washed the dust out. Below the treeline the slopes burn with rhododendron in April and May, and blue poppies open among the rocks at the foot of the poles in June and July. A path drops off the ridge and takes you down through fir and juniper to Kila Goenpa: seven small temples and a row of retreat huts wedged into a cliff above the Paro valley. Nuns have held that ledge since the ninth century. Over the far side the road falls into Haa, which stayed shut to foreign visitors longer than any other valley in Bhutan, until 2002. Nothing up here is ever taken down. The flags are left to fray and bleach and rot off their poles, because the wind is still reading them.