Amitha and Anjuna were excited to hear of my plans to visit Sri Pada. I had decided that I couldn’t leave Sri Lanka with out having gone to climb this mountain. Also commonly known as Adam’s Peak, it sits at the top of Sri Lankan geography and has been a pilgrimage for over a thousand years. In the center of Sri Lanka, Lonely Planet had described getting to the peak as “simple.” This statement, however, was followed by a page worth of explanations that demonstrated everything but this fact. I was not concerned about getting there, but I had real fears about not being able to get back. Not expecting to find any English so complicatedly far from Colombo, and knowing that I would be making this journey by myself, I worked actively to quell my anxieties while holding tight to my cell phone.

Defiantly striking heavenward against the surrounding skyline, Sri Pada has been claimed by every imaginable religious group. The huge foot print at the top of this 2243m peak seems to be the major cause. The name Adam’s Peak comes from the Judeo-Christian claim that the footprint was the first place Adam stepped after having been cast out of heaven. Buddhists, however, believe it to be the last earthly step of the Buddha, made during his ascension to Nirvana. Some believe its owner to be St. Thomas, or even the Hindu Lord Shiva. My favorite, however, comes from the name Samanalakande, or “butterfly mountain”, the place where butterflies come to die.

Despite the historical diversity, only Buddhism is readily apparent during the 7km assent. Travelers, including myself, frequently begin the hike around 2am in order to reach the top by sunrise. I had checked into a hotel in Dickoya after a 5 1/2 hour train ride from Colombo and was shocked to find myself freezing due to the altitude and the rainy weather. After an unexpected and embarrassingly large dinner, which I justified with my lack of food for the day and the forthcoming workout, I dozed fitfully until 1am, when my tri-shaw showed up to take me to the base of the mountain. An hour later, I found my self gazing up at a string of lights winding their way up into the sky, illuminating the path for pilgrims.

Near the beginning, monks greeted travelers as they slowly moved forward on their midnight assent. The path started off rather shallow, but quickly turned upwards, eventually forfeiting to a vertical progression of stairs. And while the way is now well established, elderly women, devoutly struggling against their failing joints, worked their way up the mountain, one step at a time, harkening back to the journeys of past generations:

“…others struggle upwards unaided, until, fainting by the way, they are considerately carried with all haste in their swooning condition to the summit and forced into an attitude of worship at the shrine to secure the full benefits of their pilgrimage before death should supervene; others never reach the top at all, but perish from cold and fatigue; and there have been many instances of pilgrims losing their lives by being blown over precipice or falling from giddiness induced by a thoughtless retrospect when surmounting especially dangerous cliffs.” — Vicotiran-Era Guidebook, 19th Century

Roughly 5200 stairs and a number of hours later, I found myself waiting for sunrise at the top. As the sun slowly burned into the morning clouds, an allusion to the storm from the evening before, I found myself remembering the young monk who had greeted me at the base.

“May Lord Buddha bless you and your journey,” he said in pristine English, his eyes glimmering purely in the artificial light. He couldn’t have been much older than me, but pressing a dot of paint on to my forehead and reaching for my hand, he slipped a plain threaded cord around my wrist. With a kind enthusiasm, he momentarily looked into my eyes, and then, while chanting a series of prayers, he repeatedly tied the cord to hold the blessings tight.