I have always loved a good shower, but two specific experiences stand out in my memory—one representing the pinnacle of human pleasure, the other a descent into cold, shivering despair.
In 2001, I tackled the Annapurna circuit in Nepal. It was a three-week trek through the staggering beauty of the Himalayas, but it came with a catch: for the first two weeks, there were no showers to be found. By the time we arrived in a small mountain town that offered hot water, I was more trail-dust than man.
That shower was the closest thing to religious bliss I have ever experienced. I didn't just stand there; I sat on the floor and rocked to and fro in utter ecstasy as the hot water hammered down on me. In that steaming cubicle, I made a silent, solemn vow to the universe: I will never take a hot shower for granted again.
Fourteen years later, the universe decided to test that vow.
I was hiking with friends near Lake St. Clair in Tasmania. It had been a long, miserable day of trekking through relentless rain. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with a deep, internal cold. When we finally made it back to the campsite, the sight of a shower block felt like a hallucination of salvation.
I hurried inside, fumbled out of my sodden clothes, and stood naked in the cubicle, trembling with anticipation. I reached for the handle, ready for that Himalayan heat—and saw the sign that broke my heart: INSERT $1 FOR HOT WATER.
Chuntering under my breath, I frantically searched my discarded clothes. I found notes. I found 50-cent pieces. I even found a $2 coin. But the elusive $1 gold coin was nowhere to be found.
There is a specific kind of fury that comes from standing naked and freezing in front of a machine that demands exactly what you don't have. Swearing at the injustice of it all, I had to pull my wet, cold clothes back onto my shivering body and head back out into the rain in search of a dollar.
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