KINGDOM IN THE CLOUDS

High over the Himalaya, as the little 70-passenger Druk-Air jet began its descent toward the airstrip at Paro, the captain gave a running commentary on the snowy mountainscape we could see outside the window--Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and Kanchenjunga.

“I will be maneuvering the plane steeply into the valley, so you may find the trees and the mountains a little closer than usual,” the voice warned, tongue in cheek.

Steep, forested mountainsides rushed forward. Isolated houses on ridges just a few hundred feet below whizzed by. Nervously, my wife and I contemplated the alarming proximity of the Himalaya as the aircraft did a tight turn at the end of the valley, swooped down over a rushing river and came to rest on the thin airstrip.

The sense of being somewhere different starts the moment you fly into Bhutan. As we stepped out of our aircraft into the 7,500-foot-high Paro Valley, we saw sturdy wood and mud Bhutanese houses sitting on a hillside right over the runway. From the terminal, not much larger than a log cabin, we watched our bags being manhandled from the aircraft just a hundred yards away. (The new, larger airport terminal that was going up right next door that day is scheduled to open the first week of April.))

The tiny kingdom of Bhutan received 6,000 visitors in 1998--more than 20% of them Americans--an astonishingly small number given the country’s rich, Tibetan-influenced heritage and the lure of its high Himalayan peaks and valleys.

But this is how the royal government of Bhutan wants it. Tourism is not restricted; anybody can visit. But the kingdom shuns mass tourism, preferring instead what it calls “quality tourism.” The quality experience comes at a price: a daily tariff of up to $250 per person. In return, visitors get an all-inclusive deal that ensures a guide throughout their stay as well as transport, lodgings, meals and cultural or trekking tours.

Bhutan’s approach to tourism reflects its cautious approach to development generally, with environmental and cultural preservation the cornerstones of government policy. The kingdom is steering a “path toward sustainable development.” The king has often been quoted as saying that “gross national happiness” is more important than “gross national product.”

We arrived in Bhutan a year ago in the quiet--and cold--winter season. Within an hour of touching down, we were in the Druk Hotel in Paro (there’s also one in Thimphu, the capital). Set among pine trees on a hillside above the town and built in traditional Bhutanese architectural style, its fresh whitewashed exterior glowed in the bright afternoon sunshine. Inside, our new home was spacious and stately; we just about had the place to ourselves. We were led up a wide, impressive staircase into a room with big, double windows that opened out onto a deep and satisfying panorama of the Paro Valley.

The proximity of Tibet makes it a strong presence here, although the Bhutanese have their own distinct identity and separate, complex culture. We saw the Tibetan legacy when we quickly made our way down from the hotel onto an ancient covered footbridge crossing the Paro River. From here, there was a good view of Paro Dzong, one of Bhutan’s spectacular fortified monasteries, built in the 17th century by Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyel, a monk who fled persecution in Tibet. We spent a few quiet minutes admiring the dazzling white symmetry of the dzong. Here was a building that had not suffered the neglect and wanton destruction that its cousins north of the Himalayas have suffered at the hands of China.

Below us, the clear waters of the river flowed from the distant, high mountains, dusted with recent snow. Beyond the bridge, monks walked quietly in the lengthening shadows of a tidy, tree-lined avenue. We had been in Bhutan less than three hours, and already it had us in its spell.

This may be a small, remote country, but English is widely spoken. It and Dzongkha, the national language, are both taught in schools. So even outside the capital, where English speakers are less prevalent, you can usually find a school-age child with whom you can converse.

There was still enough daylight to go a few miles farther to Drugyel Dzong. This monastery once guarded a trade route to the Tibetan border town of Phari, just 16 miles away, but was partially destroyed by fire in the 1950s. Undeterred, we climbed to the highest part of the ruin, from where we watched the last of the day’s sunlight draw back into high, snowy slopes that lead up to 24,156-foot Mt. Jomolhari.

We spent more time in Paro at the end of our stay. In the National Museum, housed in a sturdy watchtower that once protected Paro Dzong, our guide, Pema, led us up and down narrow stairways and along dark passageways through excellent displays of religious costumes, statues and thangkas, religious paintings trimmed with silk. One room was dedicated to Himalayan weaponry taken from past invaders and included ancient Tibetan swords, spears and shields, British muskets and even Chinese Kalashnikovs.

Paro’s best sight used to be Taktsang, a tiny monastery clinging to a steep cliff. But a serious fire in spring 1998 resulted in extensive damage to the buildings, and Taktsang is now closed to visitors. Still, it’s worth the walk through forest and then uphill to a small restaurant with a panoramic--if distant--view of Taktsang’s lofty perch.

The capital city of Thimphu is today less than two hours by road from Paro. But we chose to arrive in the traditional way: on foot. We trekked the best part of four days along the Druk Path, which winds through the southern slopes of the Himalayas.

After two days of demanding and breathless ascent, we arrived in the dark at the highest point on our walk, a snowy meadow near the top of a 13,000-foot ridge. We woke early the next day to find ourselves camped beside an ice-covered lake. It was a stunning site in the bright, still morning, and suddenly the effort of the previous two days seemed worth it. Our cold and sleepless night under canvas was a fading memory as the yellowish light of early morning lapped at the high ridges just above us. We sat by the tent flaps, our boots resting on the crunchy snow, waiting patiently for the warmth of the sun to trickle down the sides of our mountainous amphitheater.

We were both fit when we tackled the Druk Path, but we had severe difficulty getting acclimated to the altitude. Even on our first day we walked at a snail’s pace and were extremely short of breath. On the second and third days we lost our appetites and were unable to shake off severe headaches. We learned an important lesson: The Druk Path is a splendid short trek, but best attempted at the end of a trip to Bhutan to give your body a chance to adjust.

That evening, we gained our first memorable sight of Thimphu: The capital lay in the valley still a few thousand feet below, a pool of distant tiny lights like something out of a fairy tale.

And Thimphu lived up to its promise when we finished our trek. This small town (population 40,000), spread along a broad valley, is dominated by Bhutan’s best-known dzong, the splendid Tashichhodzong. Having to contend only with a trickle of tourists--from what we saw, mostly Europeans, Americans and United Nations workers on holiday--the routines of daily monastic life are protected and thrive. Photography is prohibited inside the monastery, but we were allowed to enter the monastery buildings, where we watched the monks pray and listened to the hauntingly beautiful music of Buddhists in worship.

Now a word about getting in--or not. There’s no guarantee of entry into Bhutan’s monasteries, which are, after all, sanctified places of worship. In fact, it may be more accurate, more of the time, to say that visitors are not allowed in the dzongs unless a festival is going on. As in so many things, it can depend on your attitude, your guide and whether or not it is a good day at the monastery.

Nothing else in Thimphu compares to Tashichhodzong, so other visits were more low-key. We spent an instructive hour in the National Library and visited a small temple that is home to young Buddhist nuns. Only once was there the faint echo of the distractions of conventional tourism. In a small workshop where paper was being handmade--starting with a bin of branches at one end of the building, continuing with vats of hot pulp and finishing in a ramshackle showroom--paper and paper products had coyly been put on sale.

Until the 1960s there were no road links in Bhutan, and much of the country was inaccessible other than by pony or on foot. In 1962, a paved road was constructed between Thimphu and Phuentsholing, on the border with India. In 1963, another road linked Thimphu with Trashigang in the country’s far east.

Bhutan’s roads cross high passes, becoming less reliable as you travel east. Between Thimphu and Trongsa lie the Dochu-la and Pele-la (la means pass), each approaching 11,000 feet. At these altitudes, landslides are a year-round hazard, and itineraries are easily disrupted by the vagaries of nature. A frequent sight is gangs of Indian and Nepali laborers breaking stones and mixing bitumen to repair the roads.

We had timed our arrival in Trongsa to coincide with the tsechu, the annual festival. The following morning, we watched festival-goers enter the dzong in formal dress. The men wore loose tunics called gho, together with elegant white silk or cotton wraps slung over their shoulders. The women wore long dresses called kira.

We spent the better part of two days watching long, slow and gracefully enacted performances with names like “The Black Hat Dance,” “The Dance of the Stag and the Hounds” and “The Dance of the Judgment of the Dead.” Squeezed into a small cobblestoned courtyard surrounded on three sides by brightly painted wooden galleries, spectators craned to watch the dancing and singing. And there was comedy too. Three atsari--Bhutanese clowns wearing bright red, foolish masks--put on an entertaining sideshow. Each clung possessively to a balloon made from a dried yak stomach and tied to a piece of string. One later exchanged his balloon for an inflated condom, which presumably came from a small family-planning display at the entrance to the dzong. The balloons and condoms were used to bash spectators, performers and even monks over the head. If the hapless victim tried to escape, the atsari gave chase--across the courtyard, up and down wooden stairs and along passageways--while the crowd screamed with laughter.

The next day, we crossed another 11,000-foot pass--the Yotong-la--into the Bumthang Valley, a comforting Himalayan landscape of streams, pine trees, whitewashed Bhutanese houses and ragged prayer flags hoisted atop tall poles.

Next morning, a brighter and warmer Bumthang greeted us. We struck out for Kuje Lhakhang, a major temple complex a mile or two up the valley, and were sidetracked by a housewarming ceremony. While six musicians chanted and played horns, drums and cymbals inside their darkened home, the friendly householders plied us with tea, biscuits and a strong Bhutanese liquor made from barley.

This was the easternmost point on our 16-day journey. Now we went back the way we came, knowing that another week or two was what would be needed to extend our explorations--time we didn’t have. Yet images of what lay east had been planted in my mind a few days earlier when, with much amusement, our guide told us how he had taken tourists many times since the 1970s over the 13,500-foot Thrumshing-la. Each time, the foreigners aboard his vehicle spent the ride in a kind of monastic silence, absorbing the perils and splendor of the ride up and over the pass.

Before leaving Bumthang, I located the names of these eastern points on a map of Bhutanese trekking routes: Beyond Mongar, the road goes another 20 miles east to Trashigang and then reaches a dead end a little farther on at Radi. Here, the map confidently states, you can trek another 10 to 15 miles to reach the high, isolated valleys of Merak and Sakteng close to the border with the Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh. What it did not tell me is that the last two, Merak and Sakteng, are not open to foreigners. Maybe someday.

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GUIDEBOOK: Finding the Essentials in the Himalayas

Getting there: The national carrier Druk-Air is the only airline serving Bhutan, but must be booked through specialist travel agencies. It flies to Paro from Delhi or Calcutta (India), Bangkok (Thailand) and Kathmandhu (Nepal). The most expensive round-trip air fare is from Bangkok, $695. Trekkers can also arrive or depart--but not both--overland; the most convenient route is via Phuentsholing in West Bengal, India.

Tours: Among the travel companies that specialize in Bhutan: Geographic Expeditions in San Francisco, telephone (800) 777- 8183, (415) 922-0448, fax (415) 346-5535, Internet https://www .geoex.com, offers trips ranging from easy touring to rigorous treks (sample price, eight days for $2,350 per person); Bhutan Travel in New York, tel. (800) 950-9908, (212) 838-6382, fax (212) 750-1269, has three dozen tours (for example, an eight-night festival tour in September starts at $2,790 per person); Wilderness Travel in Berkeley, tel. (800) 368-2794, (510) 558-2488, fax (510) 558- 2489, Internet info @wildernesstravel.com, has 25-day tours (which include a 16-day trek), starting at $5,695 per person. (Note: Prices above do not include air fare.)

We booked directly through a Bhutanese company, Tashi Tours & Travel, in Thimphu, tel. 011-975-2-23027, fax 011-975-2- 23666, which booked our flights from Bangkok and assisted with visas. (Treks include porters, a guide, a cook, ponies, tent and food. Trekkers need to bring sleeping bags.)

Where to stay: Bhutan is still developing its tourist industry, which means standards vary. The Druk Hotel in Paro is modern, clean and has an excellent restaurant serving Indian, Western and Bhutanese food. East of Thimphu, accommodation is likely to be in a simple lodge with limited heating and hot water, although facilities are being upgraded in several areas such as Punakha and Wangdue Phodrang. Credit cards are rarely accepted, but U.S. dollars can often be used at hotels and gift shops.

When to go: Spring (March through May) and fall (September and October) are the peak seasons (June through August is the wet monsoon season). There are fairs, or tsechus, in several locations during these times (for example, Paro in late March, Thimphu in September).