The 1,000-year-old Tabo monastery in Spiti preserves some of the finest Indo-Tibetan art in the world. The aroma of flickering butter lamps welcomed us in the huge assembly hall. Dimly lit and eerily silent, the deeply cracked walls were adorned with stunning murals of celestial deities, the Buddha and his disciples. Using a flashlight, we moved slowly from one astonishing scene to the next. As pictures of the Dalai Lama are outlawed in Tibet, we were happy to see his smiling face on the altar. Behind him towered a 20-foot-high golden statue of the Buddha flanked by bejeweled thrones and gleaming silver and gold reliquary stupas.

The Dechen nunnery is perched next to the historic Kungri monastery. Historically, women living in the Himalaya have not enjoyed gender equality. The nunnery provides much-needed education for young Buddhist women and is sponsored by the Jamyang Foundation of San Diego. Having been inspired by the foundation's leader, the American nun Karma Lekshe Tsomo, we were eager to visit.

Dechen's head nun, the 58-year-old Sonam Zangmo, stood less than 5 feet tall, but was firmly in charge; her tiny brown hands, rough as sandpaper, were always busy. Spunky and good-natured, beloved by the nuns and respected by the monks of Kungri, she welcomed us to her nunnery with open arms, insisting we stay in her room.

That evening, a powerful blizzard descended on the Pin valley. We awoke to the sound of snow-laden tree branches cracking and falling to the ground. Prayer flags hung in frozen silence as monks and nuns slept in and villagers stayed indoors. The only thing moving was the Pin River, snaking its way through the now white valley far below.

As the storm raged outside, Aisha worked in the kitchen and I stayed busy learning the names of our new friends. Our offer to teach English was eagerly accepted. Our first class was filled with spells of bashfulness and roaring laughter.

Worried that the blizzard would collapse the outhouse, Sonam grabbed a tarp and headed out into the storm. A frigid wind pelted our faces as we followed through two feet of wet snow. Braving the snow in running shoes, the nuns swept the roof while Sonam and I cleared snow and ice from a pile of buried logs. Showing startling strength, Sonam shouldered a heavy log and climbed the icy ladder to secure the tarp. With frozen hands, it was all I could do to follow.

That evening, muddy water dripped from the kitchen ceiling. The nuns sat on the cold cement floor toasting chapattis and chatting. Sonam sang a hauntingly beautiful Tibetan song as she pumped an old churn filled with butter tea. We enjoyed our dinner of curried vegetables and chapattis. When she finished eating, Sonam picked up her plate and licked it perfectly clean. The nuns retired to their rooms for spiritual study. Warm in our sleeping bags, we were lulled to sleep by the soft murmuring of sacred mantras.

LIVING THE LIFE

The sun was just rising when Sonam burst into our room and motioned us outside. The sky was crystal clear; the sun's early rays illuminating a world of dazzling white. For the first time we could see how truly spectacular the Pin Valley was, its pristine peaks soaring dramatically into the deep blue sky.

Everyone was relieved, but there was work to be done. With the pipes frozen, safe water had to be hauled from a spring a mile away. Shoveling two feet of wet snow with a blunt wooden shovel proved to be back-breaking work. However, when monks from the monastery offered to help, the mood turned festive. Amid boisterous laughter, the roof got shoveled, melt water trenches were dug and the monks were invited to lunch.

Life went back to normal, but the only road out of the valley remained closed by avalanches. When I asked an old villager about the road, he shrugged, "There is no rush. The road will open when it is ready. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week."

Aisha helped the nuns with letter-writing and I settled into a routine of chores and daily treks to the village. The vastness and beauty of the Pin Valley was something I couldn't get enough of. The monks of Kungri welcomed me to their afternoon puja — a wonderfully raucous prayer ceremony in which chanting was punctuated with the glorious bellowing of trumpets, bells, drums and clashing cymbals. The massive prayer hall was adorned with 1,000 statues of the Buddha and 1,000 statues of the beloved Indian saint, Guru Rinpoche.

The unseasonable storm had proven to be a blessing, for we had been forced to experience the harsh reality of life in this rugged land. We hope our presence had improved the nuns' English and made life easier for them during the blizzard. Aisha had developed close relationships with the nuns, and I knew that saying goodbye would not be easy. As our Jeep pulled away, the tears flowed.

FIELD WORK

It would take two bone-shaking days to reach Ladakh in India's far north. We hit a roadblock when a tanker truck broke through the tarmac and ground to a halt on its axles. Undeterred, drivers and passengers hauled rocks to build a temporary lane along the steep edge of the cliff. Sunset was enjoyed from the frigid Taglang La, at 17,600 feet, the second-highest motorable pass in the world.

Ladakh is isolated from Tibet and the rest of India by sheer walls of rock and ice. This geographic phenomenon has preserved Ladakh's traditional way of life and protected its Tibetan Buddhist population. Consequently, the Indus valley surrounding Leh contains one of the greatest concentrations of monasteries in the world.

By riding local buses and hitchhiking, Aisha and I radiated out from Leh, the capital, to explore. Heading south, we spotted the huge 15th-century Thiksey monastery perched on the summit of a steep hill. In the eastern chapel, we came face to face with a golden two-story-high statue of Maitreya, the future Buddha. His head, visible only from the second floor, was crowned with a magnificently bejeweled headdress. Captivated by his beautifully serene face — so radiant and lifelike — we thought this great Bodhisattva would begin speaking to us at any moment.

West of Leh, the 11th-century temple complex of Alchi is said to represent the crowning glory of Indo-Tibetan art in Ladakh.

Aisha and I hoped to find a family that could use our help during the busy fall harvest. Arriving in the peaceful hamlet of Likir, we knew we were in luck. Neatly terraced fields teemed with activity. In the distance, we heard the rhythmic calls of a yak driver and followed our ears to the front gate of the Lotos family farm.

Rinchen Lotos, a tall man with an easy smile, welcomed us with a warm "Julley" (Ladakhi for hello). We followed him into the fields and thus began our harvest stay with the Lotos family. We spent the afternoon collecting, sorting and bagging potatoes.

At the mid-afternoon break, everyone plopped down in the dirt for tea and tsampa (roasted barley flour). We met Dolma, Rinchen's wife, a sturdy, hard-working energetic woman. In northern India, women do most of the manual labor, and compared to her husband, she was roughly dressed, in a soiled maroon coat, a tattered vest and worn running shoes. Dolma loved to laugh and would startle us by falling to the ground and rolling in the dirt with laughter. As the sun set, we raced across the fields with sacks of potatoes on our backs. In good fun, the women, who easily won, kidded me as I wobbled under the load.

ADVENTUROUS SERENITY

At dawn the next morning, Dolma was already digging in her garden. Rinchen, dressed in a long maroon robe, was murmuring mantras as he shuffled about the property carrying a smoldering puja pot. Satisfied the home was sufficiently blessed with the fragrance of burning juniper, he disappeared into his puja room for morning prayers.

Our workdays began as soon as the fields thawed. Tashi, the hired hand, a wiry fun-loving man of 60, drove the yak team while steering the wooden plow with mighty thrusts of his weight. The yaks moved fast, and to warn us he would sing out "Hari-Hari, Hari-Hari" when they were moving. At each break, he would fortify himself with copious amounts of raksi, a locally brewed grain alcohol. Late in the day, his crooked furrows drew laughter, but he never slowed down. We worked through the sunset, our days finishing in hushed fields bathed in the soft light of the harvest moon.

Our stay with the Lotos family brought us new friends and time well spent in a peaceful land far removed from the frenetic rush of the West. For those seeking adventure, India's Buddhist Himalaya can be a wonderfully wild, mysterious and diverse experience. For Aisha and me, it was the perfect combination of adventure and serenity — an intriguing mix of soaring peaks, magical monasteries, ancient traditions and hospitable people. Although we taught in a nunnery and toiled in the fields, we left knowing that we had received infinitely more than we had given. If you go, I promise you will have an adventure that exceeds your wildest expectations!

Chick Alsop is a dedicated trekker who divides his time among O'ahu, the Big Island and the back of beyond.