IT'S NOT HARD TO ENJOY peace when you're standing in the afternoon sun on a rocky promontory looking toward 23,997-foot Chomolhari, the sacred "Divine Mountain of the Goddess," a peak that hasn't been scaled from the Bhutan side since 1970, owing to the national ban on climbing. Behind me is Tiger's Nest, the 300-year-old monastery where, in a.d. 748, Guru Rinpoche, the saint who brought Buddhism to Bhutan, is said to have flown in on the back of a tigress and meditated in a cave for three months. Considering that we've just hiked three sweaty hours to reach this famous compound, which looks as if it were plunked down by a divine hand on an uninhabitable, 3,000-foot-high cliff, a visit by a flying tigress doesn't seem out of the question.

Since foreign visitors need special permission to enter Tiger's Nest—the home of about 60 monks, many of whom look no older than 12—we're waiting in the walled yard for the rest of the group before we enter the temple. Olson does a head count. There's one person missing.

"Where's Lily?" asks Thurman.

It's no surprise that Lily is AWOL. The ultimate 21st-century pilgrim, she not only brought her iPod mantra playlist but also lugged two suitcases full of brilliantly colored outfits that she matches to her mood of the day. In between bouts of wanderlust, which have taken her from India to New Mexico to study with famous gurus, she lives in a house in Zürich and hosts revered leaders like the Dalai Lama.

After a bit, someone spots her glowing blond hair high up on a mountainside. She's bushwhacking her way toward us across the slope. Olson dispatches a Bhutanese guide to fetch her, while the rest of us filter in.

The dank, cool space is an assault on the senses, like entering somebody else's dream halfway through. Flickering candlelight throws shadows on giant clay Buddhas painted a shimmering gold and lined up behind the altar like benevolent sentinels. On every wall are murals of Buddhas entwined with their consorts in tantric embraces, and the altar is flush with plastic flowers, tarnished coins, butter sculptures, and food offerings. Through the open window, horns bellow from a distance . . . until they're drowned out by the insistent ringing of a cell phone.

While the rest of us glance at one another, wondering how much bad karma comes with improper cell-phone etiquette within earshot of a Buddhist temple, Milissa Tranovich, the day trader—who's been standing near the doorway—hurries back outside to quiet her phone. The call, it turns out, is from a Bhutanese government official Tranovich met while playing golf at the country's only course.

Lily still hasn't surfaced, so the rest of us sit, close our eyes, and begin the hourlong meditation.

"Think of being in a high, free zone, visualizing the enlightened beings above you," says Thurman. "If you're not Buddhist, put Jesus up there. And if you're not Christian, put Krishna or Jade Queen or Uma or Gwyneth up there," he laughs.

Today's theme is the immediacy of death, a topic that could easily be intimidating, given a glance at the man in charge. Thurman has a prosthetic eye that stays open when he meditates—he lost it in a freak accident with a tire iron while changing a flat at age 19—and at six foot three, he bears a slight resemblance to John Wayne. But instead of being scary, he's reassuring, the type of guy who's prone to smart, goofy humor and all-encompassing bear hugs. I drift off into bliss until I'm brought back by the voice of Bob.

"We are going to die!" he booms. "We won't see anything. Our eyes won't work, our ears won't work, we won't smell anything, we won't taste anything, and we can't touch anything. So put aside the denial—this mañana, mañana, mañana feeling—and face the fact that you will die!"

Buzzkill. But this is the dharma, the nature of reality. Since I can't do much to alter the arrival of my own death, I readjust my lotus position, breathe deeply, and listen.

"When I think about dying, I first get all paranoid and scaredy-cat," Thurman continues. "But actually it gives me freedom. True freedom. Soul freedom. Spiritual freedom. Inner freedom. Ultimate freedom! Nirvanic freedom! Freedom that is indivisible from bliss!"

Just when I get close to nirvanic freedom myself, meditation time is up. Tranovich steps outside to resume her conversation with her golf buddy, someone complains about the chill, and a boy-monk in a saffron robe shyly asks me for a stick of gum. I don't have one, so I give him my pen and start heading back down the mountain. On the way, I'm struck by the zoolike sensation of this spiritual mission. But I can't tell who the real captives are: us foreigners, trying to glean happiness and inner peace in an alien place, or the Bhutanese, who are trying to preserve their ancient way of life while simultaneously stepping into the present.