Kingdom of Air, Chapter One: Approach
Title: Kindom of Air, Chapter One: Approach
Characters: Gwen, Ianto, Owen, Tosh; assorted male OCs.
Rating: R for language.
Spoilers for: Torchwood Season One, Dr. Who episodes "Army of Ghosts," "Doomsday," "Utopia," and "The Sound of Drums."

Summary: Approach: (n) The path or route to the start of a technical climb. Although this is generally a walk or, at most, a scramble, it is occasionally as hazardous as the climb itself.

Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.

I am ridiculously grateful to seize for all the beta help.




10 September 2008


The streets of Pokhara are still muddy, slippery from the trailing edge of the monsoons, but the sky is brilliantly blue and the sun is hot on his shoulders as he makes his slow way towards Phewa Tal. He supposes that he ought to be resting; everyone else is, after the flight and the bus, but he just can't seem to be still right now. Not with the mountains so close, pressing in all around him.

The Himalayas. Home to the Eight-thousanders, the fourteen tallest mountains in the world. Time was he could have listed them all (and he still could, most likely; he has a talent for holding on to all sorts of information, some of it useful, most of it not). Time was, he'd cherished dreams of climbing them, all the way up to the roof of the world. But. Times change, and one thing leads to another, and Torchwood had found him instead. There isn't really anything to regret about it. He has more than enough danger in his life to be content; he doesn't need the mountains anymore.

Still, old dreams die hard, and now that he's in the shadow of the Himalayas, it's hard to deny their pull.

Pokhara is bustling with trekkers, climbers, adventurers and tourists of all types. There are men in hemp shorts with their beards twisted into dreadlocks, middle-aged couples sweating in the heat, one woman with perfectly coiffed hair and hiking gear so ostentatiously new that it almost gleams. She gives him a slightly contemptuous look and he grins back, bemused. Out of the cute suits, he's just another face in the throng. It's a good feeling. It's like his uni days, spending the summer wandering from climb to climb with nothing to worry about except placating his mum.

It's a shame, really, that they're here for work. He'd like some time just to enjoy the sunlight and the verdant green, so different from Cardiff. He'd like to get lost in the crowds of chattering people, go visit some temples or something, play tourist for a while. More than anything, he'd like to find some small peak to climb, just a little one, for old time's sake. He could take Gwen along; she seems fascinated by the mountains, and it'd be nice to have someone to go climbing with. A little bit of a vacation. Lord knows they've earned it.

But the men from London are arriving tomorrow, and after that, it's briefings and planning and then they'll be on the move. Whatever they're looking for, the Ministry of Defence is eager for them to find it.

He taps out a rhythm on his thigh as he walks.

Finally, he's there, on the shores of the lake, the mountains slicing the sky to either side and reflected on the peaceful water. One of the most spectacular vistas in all the world, and he's here, right now. That's all that really matters.

He grins, shutting his eyes and turning his face to the sunlight. Thank you, Harold Saxon.

*

He comes back to the hotel with a bag of gifts to take home to his family dangling from his wrist, a thick wad of trekking maps (souvenirs of all the mountains he isn't going to climb) shoved into his pocket. Several large boxes are waiting for him in the manager's office. It takes three trips up the narrow staircase (with help from both the hotel's porters), but he manages to get them into the room he and Owen are sharing, spilled haphazardly across the floor.

Owen, sprawled in a sweaty heap on the bed, looks up and groans at him. "I thought it was cold in the Himalayas."

"We're not in the Himalayas yet, and I did tell you to pack shorts."

Owen just rolls his eyes. "Like you really expected me to listen. When have I ever?" It's more self-deprecating than Ianto expected, and it coaxes an answering smile.

"There's another pair of shorts in my bag, if you want," he says, slitting the first box open with his pocket knife. "You'll need a belt, though."

"You're a good man, Teaboy," Owen says, and immediately begins to paw through Ianto's luggage.

Ianto grimaces, realizing too late that he shouldn't have offered Owen a chance to snoop. "Right. You take the boxes, I'll find the shorts."

Owen is already studying a coil of rope. "I don't know what you had in mind for this, Ianto, but I'm not interested, thank you."

"Actually, Owen, we were going to tie you up and leave you here," Gwen says, grinning at them from the doorway. Then she sees the boxes, and her eyes light up. "Ooh! What's all this, then?" She dives into the open box without waiting for a reply.

"Climbing gear," Ianto says, swatting Owen's hands away from his suitcase. He shifts a stack of neatly folded t-shirts and locates a pair of shorts. "There. Now go change."

Owen takes the shorts, but doesn't go anywhere, as Gwen unpacks a set of crampons and looks askance at the spikes. "So what are these?" she asks.

He zips his suitcase shut before he steps away from it. "Crampons." Owen sniggers behind him. "For ice climbing. Here, let me show you." He finds a pair of boots near the bottom of the box, pulls one out, and deftly straps one of the crampons to it. "You dig the points into the ice, and then use that and your ice axe to pull you up the slope."

Tosh is watching from the doorway. "I didn't know you were a climber, Ianto."

"He's not," Owen says, smirking. "Looked it up on wikipedia before we left."

"For your information, Owen, I did quite a bit of climbing when I was a student. Haven't for a while, though."

Gwen beams at him. "Well, we're in the perfect place for you to get back into it, aren't we?" She snatches the pocketknife up off the floor and grabs another box.

"Do you think we'll be doing it, then?" Tosh asks, folding herself on the floor next to Ianto. She looks a bit uneasy. "Climbing mountains and everything?"

Ianto can only shrug and look over at Owen, who shrugs back. "Mr. Saxon said we'd have all the gear we needed ordered for us," Owen says. "If he sent us all this stuff..."

"I'm sure we won't be doing anything much," Ianto says, trying to ease Tosh's nervousness. "Probably not anything higher than in the Beacons."

Her face tightens slightly, and Ianto realizes too late that he really should have thought before he spoke.

"Er... Well. I'll go and change, then," Owen says, and flees.


11 September 2008


The jet lag is hitting hard now, and Ianto leans back in his chair a bit, fights to keep his eyes open as the men from Harold Saxon's new and improved Torchwood One go over their plans. "So," one of them says (Scott, maybe? Or is it Steve?), "given that we don't want too many civilians mixed up in this, Mr. Saxon thought it best that we keep our team light. That means that Dr. Harper will be acting as our team doctor, and Miss Sato --"

"Dr. Sato, actually," she says, with a slight frown.

Steve (has to be Steve; Steve is the one with the quiff and the sharp, pointed chin) gives her a grin that's just a touch condescending. "Right. Doctor Sato will be handling our communications links. We've got a satellite phone that should allow us to keep in regular contact with the boys back in London." Steve and Scott share a look that raises Ianto's hackles a bit. He remembers his time back in London, the way they talked of the other branches of Torchwood, particularly the rag-tag group of misfits based in Cardiff. Some things, apparently, never change.

Owen pushes his chair back at a tilt and gnaws on the end of his pen. "Not that I can't handle it, because I can, and not that I'm not a genius, because I am, but high altitude medicine isn't exactly my specialty."

Steve turns the condescension on him. "I wouldn't worry about it much. The trek --" Owen winces at the very word -- "should give us plenty of time to acclimatize, and anyway, we're not going all that high up. The artifact was spotted near someplace called Camp Three --"

"Camp Three?" Ianto's never climbed in the Himalayas, but he's read every book on them that he could get his hands on, so he knows a bit about the subject. "On which mountain?"

The men from London glance at each other, then one of them (Scott - he's got the sandy hair and the meticulous stubble) starts shuffling through a stack of papers. Steve taps his fingers on the table. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat! "Looks like it's..." Scott frowns. "Dawl... Dolly-gear..."

"Dhaulagiri." 8,167 meters above sea level. Seventh highest mountain in the world. Ianto's throat goes a little dry.

"That's the one." Scott gives him a speculative sort of look, and glances at another bit of paper. "Ianto Jones. You're the archivist, right?"

"Yes." There's nothing more to say to that, so he doesn't say anything.

Steve steps in, with his vaguely condescending smile. "You'll be in charge of the artifact once we locate it, of course. We won't be able to bring much along in the way of storage for it; that sort of thing is a bit too heavy to drag up a mountainside, so you'll have to rig something up to keep it from getting jostled."

Now Scott is tapping on the table. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat! "I'm sure I'll sort something out," Ianto says. "Do we know what exactly we're looking for?"

"The climbers who spotted it didn't give us the best description, unfortunately." Steve shakes his head, with a weary sigh for all the inadequacies of laymen. "The bit they could see was rounded, like a sphere, sort of a goldy bronze color. Rather large, apparently. They didn't go too near, so we don't know if there were any markings on it."

Tosh, who had been leaning forward, sinks back into her chair, disappointment written on her face.

Sphere. Gold. Large. The memory pricks at the back of his brain, but vanishes in a fog of weariness and the relentless rat-a-tat-tat! drumming of fingers on the tabletop.

*

"So," Owen says, when they're safely back in the hotel room. "Camp Three."

Ianto sighs and tries to find a comfortable position on the hard, lumpy mattress. "Dhaulagiri is one of the biggest mountains in the world; it's not the sort of thing you can climb in a day. So you set up four different camps, each one nearer the summit. Given Dhaulagiri's height, Camp Three would probably be about seven thousand meters above sea level. Maybe a bit higher."

"Ah." They fall silent, listening to a bus rattling down the street, sweating on their beds. "Tosh isn't going to like that."

"No. She really isn't."

"You don't like it much either, do you?"

"Not particularly, no." But then, he almost does, in a way. They're not going to the summit, obviously, but he's never had a chance to climb this high before, and all the old longings are back with a vengeance. Just to be there for a little while, even if they go no higher than Base Camp...

Owen sighs heavily and gets out of bed. Ianto turns his head and watches as Owen rifles through his suitcase, finally producing a thick sheaf of papers. Glancing up, meeting Ianto's eyes, Owen flushes. "Acute Mountain Sickness," he says, brandishing one set of papers. He holds out another. "High Altitude Pulmonary Edema." Then another. "High Altitude Cerebral Edema."

Caught off-guard by Owen's tense, almost defensive tone, Ianto says nothing. Owen takes it rather badly. "Look, I'm not an idiot, you know. I know what happens to people who climb mountains. So don't think..."

"Owen." Owen falls rebelliously silent, and Ianto offers him a half-smile. "I never said you were an idiot."

Silence. Owen sighs again and flops down on his bed, on his stomach, and begins reading.

Ianto closes his eyes, tries to get comfortable. Acute Mountain Sickness. High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. High Altitude Cerebral Edema. So many things that could go wrong, and he's not exactly traveling with experienced climbers. They'll have a guide, of course, and sherpas and porters to assist them, but... Suddenly, Dhaulagiri sounds so much less enticing.

"Owen," he says, at last. "Why are we here?"

"I take it you don't mean life, the universe, and everything?" Owen shakes his head. "You know the drill, Ianto. Track down aliens, arm the human race, 21st century is when it all changes, blah blah blah."

Ianto smiles. "You forgot the bit about how we've got to be ready." But the uncertainty comes out in his voice.

Owen drops his paper and just looks at Ianto for a long time. There's something unsettling in his eyes, something Ianto knows but cannot name. "Look, Harold Saxon wants us here, and he hasn't led us wrong yet. Whatever his reasons are, I'm sure he's got them, and I'm sure they're good ones. That enough for you?"

It is, of course it is, and yet for a second, Ianto feels as though it shouldn't be. But he's very tired, and it's very hot, and he just wants a bit of a rest.

He falls asleep to the sound of Owen tapping out a restless rhythm on the side of his mattress.


12 September 2008


They don't step off the bus so much as they fall off, tumbling out one after another. Ianto leans against the hot metal for a moment, overwhelmed by terror, nausea, and diesel fumes. He never, ever wants to get on another bus ever again. "Christ Almighty," Owen swears, obviously sharing Ianto's feelings on the subject. "If that's what travel is like here, I'd just as soon walk."

"Glad to hear it, mate." A tall man, grin flashing from behind a blond beard, strides toward them, followed by a small cadre of sherpas and porters. They immediately descend on the luggage compartment, pulling bags out with brisk efficiency. "Hillary Edmund Hall," the blond man continues. He's got a strong accent, one Ianto recognizes: New Zealand. "Folks call me Hill. I'll be your guide up to Dhaulagiri."

Hands are shaken. Introductions are made. "Right then," Hillary says, beaming at them all in a way that reminds Ianto, uncomfortably, of his Captain. "First stop is the inn. Not much, but it's homey, and the dal bhat isn't too bad. Suggest you don't drink, though; no one wants to be hungover the first day of a trek. I remember this group of Japanese businessmen I had once, headed to Everest Base Camp, now those blokes could really put 'em away, swear they had hollow legs..."

Gwen is hanging back, and Ianto waits for her. Her eyes are fixed on Scott, who's got a mobile pressed to his ear and is cooing endearments into it. "Miss you too, sweetheart," he says, voice a bit high, as though he's talking to a dog or a small child. "Me too. Miss you so much."

It's more irritating than anything else, but Gwen looks sad, a bit wistful, maybe. "You could call Rhys when we get to the inn, you know," Ianto suggests, trying to coax some of the melancholy off her face.

She only sighs. "I could, I guess. But I'm not so sure he'd answer."

There isn't anything Ianto can say to that, any advice to give. But he rests his hand on Gwen's shoulder and gives a bit of a squeeze, and she manages to smile at him. "It's weird, isn't it?" she asks, looking back at Scott. "I feel like I spend half my time with that stupid Bluetooth on, yelling into it like a lunatic. Feels a bit naked, going without."

"It's rather nice, actually," Ianto suggests. "Getting away from the Hub, into the sunlight, no computers or mobiles or anything. Clears your head. Nice fresh air."

She giggles. "You sound like Jack. And our last excursion into fresh air didn't go so well."

There's an odd twist in his stomach, and that sense again of something he ought to remember, something he ought to know. "I suppose not. Still... don't suppose we're too likely to see cannibals again. Yetis, maybe. Or some other horrible furry monster."

This time, Gwen laughs outright, and just the sound of it erases Ianto's sense of unease.


15 September 2008


They spent their first night on the road in a tourist lodge, shivering on wooden bunks, their only source of heat a stove fuelled by yak dung, of all things. It didn't give much warmth, but it produced a lot of smoke, and Owen's been coughing ever since, a nagging, dry cough that won't give him any peace.

There's something unsettling about it, Owen coughing. It's still hot enough here that he's wearing Ianto's shorts, belted tight around his narrow waist, and the way his bony knees stick out from underneath makes him look weirdly helpless, like a scrawny, asthmatic kid. Ianto tries not to think about it much, but it's hard.

Then Gwen forgets to put sunblock on, and gets burnt so bad that she can't sleep. Tosh's brand new boots give her blisters. Owen coughs and coughs. It's all small things, nothing to worry about, really, but then again, the small things have always been Ianto's job. He can't just switch it off.

"Worried?" Hillary sits down beside him, a bowl of pasta in his huge, gnarled hands. He wraps the noodles around his fork, slurps them down. Sauce gets on his beard.

"A bit," Ianto admits. "They've never really climbed before, and it's a lot..."

"Trust me," Hillary says with a grin. "Nothing to worry about. Some of the sad sacks I've gotten up these mountains... At least you lot are in halfway decent shape. Tell you what, though; we're getting into the foothills, lots of little peaks around, and we've got to take our time getting to Dhaulagiri proper, to acclimatize and all. Why don't I take you on a few side trips, let you get some practice in? Or, seeing as I've got to organize the sherpas and keep your friends in London updated all the time, you can do it."

"Me?" Ianto fights a blush, but can't quite master it.

Hillary points at Ianto's feet. "That's a well-worn pair of boots you've got there, Mr. Jones. And you said that they hadn't climbed before, not that you hadn't." Ianto stares down at the tent floor, embarrassed, but pleased. "What's the biggest peak you've bagged?"

Ianto's flush deepens. "Mt. Cook," he says, not daring to look up. "Aoraki."

"Aaahh!" Ianto can feel the heat of Hillary's grin. "This'll be nothing to you, then. Aoraki may not be the tallest, but it's a right monster if you don't know what you're doing. Got caught in a storm once trying to do a traverse of the three peaks, my mate and I... Christ, that was a time. We were stuck in our tent for three days, me and him, and he's melting ice down on the stove so we've at least got something to drink, and then there's this whoosh and the inner shell of the tent just goes up into flames, so I'm trying to put it out with my sleeping bag, which just ruins both of them, of course. So we're freezing cold, one sleeping bag between us, and the bastard kicks in his sleep, of course..."

Ianto sits, and listens, and laughs, and for a few minutes, forgets everything else.


18 September 2008


Ianto stays in the lead on their side trips for the most part, if only to keep Gwen from hurrying off on her own path and getting lost, but Tosh is lagging behind this time, so he drops back to check on her. "How're your feet?" he asks, taking her hand and helping her up a particularly slippery incline.

She rests her hands on her hips, panting a bit. "Not so bad. Owen had a look at them last night, wrapped them up. I'm a bit out of shape, I guess. And it's a bit..." She looks nervously off to the side.

"High," he finishes, with a rueful grin. "Just concentrate on the path and you'll be fine."

"If this keeps up, I'll be completely useless when we're actually on the mountain," she admits, biting her lip.

"You'll be fine," he says again. "I'll keep an eye on you. Nothing's going to go wrong."

She looks into the distance, and frowns. "Maybe I'm not the one you should be keeping an eye on."

He follows her gaze and sees something that makes his heart tighten up in his chest. Gwen is blithely scrambling up a cliff face that's far too high to be safe, no ropes, no harness, nothing.

Ianto feels a sudden, semi-hysterical urge to demand that Gwen come down from there right now young lady! Is this what he put his parents through for so many years? Grabbing a coil of rope from his pack (wishing vainly that he'd thought to bring more of his gear), he hurries to the base of the cliff, where Owen is watching, bemused. "Sorry, mate," he says. "She was half up when I got here, and I figured you'd rather not have to rescue both of us."

"Thanks, Owen," he says. "Gwen! I'm coming up after you!"

She turns and actually lets go with one hand to wave at him, and he has to quash a wave of panic. Owen swears quietly, shaking his head. "And please don't do that again!" Ianto adds, before beginning to climb after her.

Gwen, apparently, has the luck of small children and drunkards everywhere, as she's managed to find the easiest possible bit of rock to climb. It's jagged and pockmarked, with lots of places for hands and feet to grip, none of them too far apart. Ianto hurries up it, reaching the top barely five minutes after Gwen. "Sorry," she says, when he pulls himself up over the edge. "Only I thought, you know, get a bit of practice in, since we're going mountain-climbing, and all."

He sits next to her, their legs dangling over the side. "I don't suppose you thought about how you were going to get down?"

"I... oh." She looks abashed for a moment, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

And this is definitely what he put his parents through. He'll have to call and apologize when he gets back to Wales... "Never mind. Rest a bit, and I'll help you down."

"Thanks." She smiles at him. "Sorry. Got a bit ahead of myself, didn't I?"

"Only a bit." At his answering smile, her face lights up.

"It is a lovely view from here, though, isn't it?"

He looks out for the first time, at the green hills they're still climbing through, the yak kharkas dotting the landscape at irregular intervals, and the saw teeth of the Dhaulagiri Himal, white-capped and sharp, cutting into the horizon. "It's beautiful."

After a bit of respite, he wraps the rope around her in an improvised harness, tying himself in to the other end with just a few meters between them, enough for her to have some slack without allowing her to drop straight to the ground. "Right. I'll go first. Stay on my right side, and I'll help you find your footholds, all right?"

"Thank you," she says again, and she still looks a bit chagrined, but not enough to be comforting.

Never mind. He'll lecture her when they've made it down.

"Right." He starts down, and once he's secure on the rock face, has her follow after.

It isn't as bad as it could be, really. There's a few bits where he has to reach out and put her feet where he wants them, and she keeps dislodging small pebbles at just the right angle for them to bounce off his head, but she's got the makings of a decent climber. Still, when they're finally firm on the ground, he gives her a stern look as he unties her from the rope. "We're not doing this again, Gwen," he says.

"No," she replies, and he doesn't quite believe her.

Ianto sighs, and starts coiling up his rope before he stows it in his pack. "Look, we'll find a good spot tomorrow or the next day, and I'll set up a belay. Then you can practice all you like. Just... not on your own, all right?"

Her grin is practically blinding.

"Actually," Tosh says, and her voice is quiet, "we should all practice, shouldn't we? I mean, if we're going up a mountain... We need to know what we're doing, and right now, Ianto's the only one who does." He blinks at her, a bit surprised. "So I think he should teach us how."

Ianto looks at Owen. Owen shrugs. "Right," Ianto says, feeling a bit blindsided. "Well. I'll do what I can."


21 September 2008


Ianto drops to the ground, tired and soaked with sweat, and takes off his helmet, setting his rope and protective gear down carefully before dropping the harness next to them. He pauses, eyes closed, and considers his t-shirt, damp with perspiration and gritty from climbing up and down the rock all day. With a quick, decisive gesture, he yanks it over his head and off, balling it up in his hand. Gwen lets out a soft, startled sound, almost a squeak, really, and he blinks at her, confused. "What?"

"Nothing!" Her eyes are very wide. "It's just... well, I'm used to the suits, and this is a bit... Um..."

"Naked," Tosh supplies, and then blushes. Gwen looks at her, and they giggle.

Ianto quickly crouches down to gather up his climbing gear, and tells himself that he's just flushed from climbing all day.

Owen coughs. "All right, ladies, that's enough. Give the young lad some space, yeah? Tosh, I want to look at your feet. Yours too, Gwen. You've been up and down that rock all day."

By the time Ianto is on his feet, his gear wrapped up in his t-shirt and clutched almost protectively to his bare chest, his team has wandered off towards the girls' tent, disappearing under the flap. Ianto turns to walk to his own tent, but Steve is standing there, blocking his path. "Not bad," the Londoner says, slapping Ianto on the arm. "You're quite the climber."

There's something in his smile that makes Ianto's skin itch. He forces the irritation down, keeps his voice polite, if only just. "I've done a bit, yeah," he says, and starts making for his tent, forcing Steve to scramble to keep up with him.

"It's not in your files," Steve says.

"I'm an archivist," Ianto points out. "It's not a skill you need too often when you're cataloging alien tech." He pushes his way inside the two-man tent he and Owen share, hoping that the Londoner won't follow.

He does, of course, sitting on Owen's sleeping bag as easily as if it were his own. Ianto ignores him, rummaging in his pack for a fresh t-shirt. "Guess you never know when it's going to come in handy, huh?" Steve laughs; Ianto does not. "Anyway, I just wanted to... I mean, it's bothering you too, right? How long this is taking?"

Now Ianto does look at him, clean t-shirt still loosely clenched in his hands. "It's perfectly standard. If anything, we should be taking it slower."

"You don't really believe that, do you? Besides... this is important to Mr. Saxon. Really important. He's going to be Prime Minister, you know. If we can impress him now, show him what we're capable of..." Steve spreads his hands to suggest the limitless possibilities, grinning broadly.

Ianto takes a deep breath, and tries to sort out why he's suddenly so damned frightened. "I'm sure. However, Hillary's been guiding in the Himalayas for nearly twelve years. He knows the risks, and he knows what to do. I trust him."

Steve leans in, his hand hitting the canvas floor of the tent. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat! "Come on, Ianto. You're a good climber; you know what you're doing. I mean, really, we shouldn't have any civilians on this trip at all. We bring the artifact down from Mount Dolly-whatsit, just us, no guides or sherpas; we'll really have Saxon's attention then, won't we? Huge potential. We could try to get you back in London, at the very least. Christ knows you're wasted on Cardiff."

I'm needed here, he'd said, when Saxon first offered him the chance to go back to Torchwood One. Nothing's changed since then; if anything, the team needs him even more now. Ianto's hands clench around the t-shirt. "I'm going to check on my team," he says, very quietly, and then bursts out of his tent, leaving Steve to gape after him.

Outside, he pauses, pulls the t-shirt on, tries to collect himself a little bit. What the hell is going on? Steve talking about advancement, power, going back to London, getting rid of the guides... Ianto knows he needs to do something. Maybe he should try calling Saxon himself; the man seems friendly enough, has always been good to them. Saxon should know, he should be warned...

For some reason, Ianto looks down at himself, watches his hand pat out a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat! And even though he's outside, in the bright, warm sunlight, he is suddenly so cold.

No. No, he won't call Harold Saxon, after all. It doesn't seem like such a good idea. Perhaps, at this moment, it's best that he just doesn't tell anyone. Not until he really knows what's happening.

(In case you're interested, here is a picture of Phewa Tal, as viewed from Pokhara.)