Written in Samagaun on October 31, during our weather layover.

I awake in a haze of darkness at 3,510 m and pry the silicone plugs from my ears. I allow my still-acclimatizing brain a moment to process exactly what I am hearing. I peer out the fogged glass of our small room but see only the tops of a few distant trees. The constant white noise can only be one thing: rain. Not the same drizzle we heard the night before, but intense sheets of rain unlike anything I have ever heard.

We are no strangers to sleeping through rain events. From 48-hour downpours in the temperate rainforests of coastal British Columbia to torrential thunderstorms in the European Alps, we have spent many a sleepless night in a tent. But this felt different. Having just spent four days walking through a narrow river canyon recently walloped by a savage flood, the gravity of this situation felt far more severe. It was our second night at the Bodhisattva Hotel, and it seemed impossible for it to rain any harder. And then it did.

Lying under the thick wool blanket, my mind races through the possible consequences of so much water falling on already saturated Himalayan slopes. While it's only rain here at 11,500', the constant urge to pull the blanket a bit higher on my shoulders tells me the freezing level can't be much higher than we are. I run through our itinerary: 12,000'. 14,000'. 16,000'... How much snow could possibly be falling at 20,000' on Larke Peak? The unfathomable rate of rain and the sheer volume of water on this old tin roof make me believe it could easily be dropping 10 cm of snow per hour at higher elevations. Uh oh. A meter of new snow could thwart critical acclimatization hikes, not to mention our summit bid.

Adding to my anxiety about what lies ahead, my throat feels swollen and swallowing is painful. Last night, the wood stove in the dining hall was cranking as trekkers desperately tried to dry out their saturated gear. Thick smoke plumed from the poorly ventilated stove, diminishing the air quality at a time when oxygen already comes at a premium. I drink some water and attempt to swallow again. Better. I pray this doesn't blow up into a serious respiratory infection.

Suddenly, I hear a voice in my head that says, "All you can do is sleep." So often, as humans, we project ourselves into the future and feebly attempt to forecast upcoming events. Almost certainly, these estimations are embarrassingly inaccurate. Things are rarely what you expect them to be. Why bother? It will snow however much it snows. My throat will heal in the time it needs to heal. Close your eyes and rest.

Several hours later, I open my eyes again as dull blue light sneaks in through the curtains. My throat is still swollen, but a bit more tolerable. The rain still falls, perhaps a bit lighter. We stumble into the dining hall to discuss plans for the day with our guide, Kishor, since we had opted to table any decision-making until morning, based on the weather.

"No signal," he says. We both check our overly sophisticated iPhones. Confirmed. The Wi-Fi shows full bars, but nothing will load. So we revert to checking the weather the old-fashioned way: look out the damn window. Rain, rain, rain, and a lowering snow line coating the steep slopes above Samagaun.

I quickly remember that our Garmin inReach can pull weather forecasts for our current location. After 10 minutes, the little device buzzes with an optimistic forecast: rain chances diminish significantly after 12 p.m. Cautious about putting much faith in the tiny numbers on the pixelated screen, we enjoy a humble breakfast of oat porridge and plan to reconvene at 11 a.m. to look out the window once again.

So here we are, 24 hours later, posted up at the quaint and quiet 888 Cafe, sipping Americanos and waiting to make our move to higher ground. In the meantime, we revel in the relative luxury of this village, for it may be our last opportunity for much downtime and comfort.

See you on the other side.