Beyuls. Hidden paradise valleys whose locations will only be revealed at very specific moments in time when the world is under great threat from war, famine, and plague. Both a physical and spiritual place. Can only be accessed by a true and spiritually pure Buddhist after overcoming extreme hardship. Their locations are normally revealed through secret scrolls which are themselves hidden in caves, behind waterfalls, and in the walls of the temples. There are said to be 108 hidden throughout the Himalaya. The Tsum Valley, Thame Valley, and Rolwaling Valley are beyuls
Yeti. Could be just mistaken encounters with a bear and, perhaps, a distant memory of the orangutans that lived in the Himalayan forest until 10,000 years ago, or even the Gigantopithecus a huge Asian ape that went extinct 350,000 years ago. Part spirit, part flesh. The smaller one lives in the dense forest. The larger and far more aggressive one lives higher up, closer to the tree line and enjoys nothing more than snacking on yaks. To escape a male yeti, run uphill through dense scrub and its enormous penis will get caught up in the bushes and force it to stop the chase. To escape a female yeti, run downhill and the weight of her huge breasts will cause her to fall over face first.
Yarsagumba. A fungus that slowly kills and mummifies the larva of the ghost moth. This happens only a few short weeks in very particular Himalayan pastures between 4000 and 5000m, just before the arrival of the monsoon. It is used in traditional Chinese medicine as a general cure. Some western outlets have claimed it as a natural Viagra. It's recent surge in popularity has made it worth more than gold at times
As I debarked the plane onto the tarmac in Kathmandu, I was greeted not by fresh mountain air, but a persistent hazy smog. My guide, Siddhanta Gurung, awaited me with an ear-to-ear grin and a lei to drape around my neck. The three of us piled into a sedan sized “van” and prayed for our lives as the driver navigated the streets of Kathmandu. Streets were nothing more than alleys, lanes were non-existent, and people, dogs, cars, and motorcycles all shared the road in a functional and very surprising harmony. I think there were a total of 3 traffic lights in all of Kathmandu. Miraculously we made it to our hotel in one piece, got settled, then went to Swayambhu Temple aka the monkey temple.
The monkey temple was replete with monkeys, prayer banners strew impossibly high, and Nepalese prayer cylinders that apparently you spin for good luck. We did some shopping, picking up our signature souvenirs – coins and postcards – and a nice painting of the mountainous landscape. We went back to our hotel and it started raining in the afternoon and evening which was quite pleasant. Then I went out in Thamel to get a dry bag and find an ATM. I was successful on both counts although my haggling could use some work, they wanted 1400 and I got it for 1300. While walking a man offered me hash, and another few wanted me to check out the spas. I got back to the hotel to find our last travel companion in the lobby. A little later we went down the restaurant and had steamed chicken momos and a banana pancake for dinner. And went back to sleep until about midnight.
We slipped out of Thamel at 1:10 AM, the city still holding its breath in the dark. The highway surprised me—smooth, wide, almost gentle at that hour. Even so, Nepal wasted no time reminding us that this trip would challenge our assumptions. Three people were casually walking their dog on the highway, unfazed by vans whipping past at fifty miles an hour. It felt like the first nudge toward letting go of what I thought “normal” looked like.
Neon signs from a casino and a BYD dealership flickered by, small pockets of modernity before the road narrowed and the world shifted. Twenty‑five minutes later, the pavement gave way to gravel patches and the kind of rural road that made you wonder who decided it was still a highway. Our driver honked at a dog standing stubbornly in the center of the lane; the dog barked back as if negotiating terms. Even that tiny exchange felt like part of the adventure—an early reminder that this place had its own rhythm, and we were guests learning the beat.
The first mountain road curled upward, its edges dropping into darkness. The smoothness of the pavement and the absence of oncoming headlights kept my nerves in check, but the van—packed with six of us shoulder‑to‑shoulder—made every turn feel intimate. Two guys from Vancouver sat in the back, seasoned from previous treks to Gokyo Lakes and now chasing the Three Passes. Their calm confidence made me feel like we were stepping into a story much bigger than our own.
At times the road cut through what looked like a mining operation, dust rising in the headlights. Traffic cones advertised “WATER TANKS,” a detail so odd it made me laugh. We stopped at a tiny roadside shop where the bathroom was basic but welcome. We bought chicken crackers—somewhere between pork rinds and Funyuns—and mango candy filled with a salty mystery that none of us enjoyed. Even that felt like part of the deal: say yes first, judge later.
By 5:40 AM we reached Manthali Airport, a place that operated on its own brand of efficiency. We walked through a metal detector with our backpacks still on, and the security guard simply stamped us through. The plane was small enough to feel personal, yet it had a flight attendant who delivered the essentials: twenty‑minute flight, seatbelts, four exits, no snacks. The runway ended abruptly at a riverbed, so the takeoff was fast—no room for hesitation.
Lukla greeted us with cold air and strict rules about photography. It was 34°F, and our bag didn’t arrive with the flight. Instead of stressing, we found a small café and warmed ourselves with omelets, bread, honey, and a jam that tasted suspiciously like toaster‑strudel filling. Waiting an hour for the bag felt strangely peaceful; maybe the altitude was already slowing us down, teaching patience.
The hike to Phakding began on a stone path that dipped downhill, sometimes muddy, always alive. Donkeys passed us in steady streams, bells clinking, their presence announced by both sound and the inevitable trail of poop. Houses and shops dotted the way, each one a reminder that people thrive in places I once thought unreachable.
We reached Phakding—2,600 meters—around 11:20 AM and settled into Hotel Khumbu for lunch. My “mac and cheese” turned out to be a cheerful mix of vegetables, penne, rotini, and a sprinkle of cheese. My girlfriend’s fried veggie momos tasted like samosas, Sean went classic with dal bhat, and Eric ordered chow mein. Four beers appeared; My girlfriend and I finished most of ours, while the others barely sipped. Sid handed the rest to the porters, who accepted them with quiet smiles.
Our rooms were simple but familiar—two beds, an attached bathroom, thick blankets, and even a bidet. We slept deeply through the afternoon, the kind of sleep that feels like a reset button. Dinner at 6:30 brought more dal bhat, and the offer of seconds felt like a cultural embrace: in Nepal, you’re fed until you’re full, and then fed a little more.
We played rummy afterward, adjusting to rules that didn’t quite match the ones I knew. Lemon ginger tea with honey warmed our hands. A tiny girl wandered over, trying to claim our cards for her own collection before losing interest and toddling away. It was a small moment, but it softened the room.
By 9 PM we were back in our beds, doing a quick wipe‑down shower before collapsing. Through the paper‑thin walls, someone—Eric or Sean—snored with the confidence of a man who had trekked before. I lay there listening, realizing that this was only day one, and already Nepal was teaching me to stay open, stay curious, and let the unexpected shape the journey.
The morning in Phakding broke cold and clear, 41°F and crisp enough to make the first breath sting a little. Breakfast came at 7 AM, and my French toast tasted like comfort—simple, warm, grounding. The two Canadians from Discovery World Trekking joined us again, and their stories made the room feel bigger than the tiny dining hall. Sixty days in Nepal, maybe more. No return flight. One had quit his job in environmental science to wander Nepal and then Europe, chasing something he couldn’t quite name. Their openness to uncertainty felt like a quiet challenge: how willing was I to let go of my own timelines?
We left at 7:53, the trail still waking up. By 10:40 we reached Bishal Lodge for lunch. Chow mein for me, veggie momos for my girlfriend, dal bhat for the others. The food was familiar by now, but the conversations and the shifting landscape kept everything feeling new.
After lunch the trail tilted upward, and the real work began. Suspension bridges stretched across deep valleys, swaying under the weight of trekkers, donkeys, yaks, and even the occasional dog who crossed with more confidence than I did. Each bridge felt like a small act of trust—step forward, breathe, don’t overthink the drop beneath your feet.
The dust kicked up with every step, and somewhere along the climb I developed a slight cough. Nothing dramatic, just a reminder that the mountain had its own terms. By the time we reached Namche around 1:50, I felt the altitude in my lungs and legs. We walked straight to the Tibet Lodge for lemon ginger honey tea, and the warmth of it soothed the cough in a way that felt almost medicinal.
Our room in Namche was simple: two beds, an end table, an attached bathroom, and concrete walls that held the cold like a memory. Things dried slowly unless the sun found us, and the blankets were heavy enough that I ended up sweating in my sleep. I tried a “shower wipe shower,” but the wipes had dried into something closer to soft paper towels. I accepted that my armpits were entering a new phase of the journey.
We rested for three hours before dinner. Sean and Eric nearly slept through it, stumbling into the dining room with the dazed look of people who had underestimated the altitude. I ordered pizza, and while none of us chose dal bhat this time, we all agreed the food was bland. Still, the room buzzed with stories. A group from Australia told us they were flying back to Kathmandu the next morning—one of their friends had been hospitalized with a blood oxygen level of 48. She had done three treks in Nepal before. The mountain doesn’t care about experience. It humbles everyone eventually.
My girlfriend started taking Diamox that night. Sid shared the Wi‑Fi password—tibet7890—so we could keep our Duolingo streak alive, a tiny thread of normalcy in a place where everything else felt foreign and raw. We checked our oxygen levels: Eric led with 95, mine hovered around 88. Not alarming, but enough to remind me that every breath up here was earned.
We went to bed at 8:30, exhausted in a way that felt deeper than physical. Around 1:30 AM, my girlfriend woke with a nosebleed. Another small sign from the altitude, another reminder that discovery isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it’s a slow negotiation between your body and the mountain, each deciding how far the other is willing to go.
Namche Bazaar felt like the last outpost before the world tilted into something wilder. It had the energy of a frontier town—shops stacked along the hillside, trekkers weaving through narrow paths, and the proud claim of hosting the “highest live music bar” on Earth. Breakfast was light, more a formality than a meal, because the day ahead promised its own kind of weight.
We set out toward the Sherpa museum first, climbing steadily from 3,440 meters toward 3,880. The air thinned quickly, but the views widened just as fast. From the museum, Everest revealed itself for a moment—just a pale, distant triangle cutting through the sky—before the clouds swallowed it again. It felt like the mountain was reminding us that glimpses are gifts, not guarantees.
The climb to the Everest View Hotel was steeper, a slow push upward through switchbacks and stone steps. The hotel itself looked almost unreal, built from wood and stone flown in by helicopter, perched like a lookout post above the world. Clouds smothered the peaks, but the place had its own charm. We warmed our hands on hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies, laughing at the prices that seemed to double with every meter of elevation. Someone mentioned an “airport” above Namche, but since only helicopters land there, we decided it didn’t count.
By the time we returned to Namche around 11:15, my legs felt every one of the 10,000 steps. Lunch was simple—fried potatoes for me, tomato egg drop soup for my girlfriend, dal bhat for the others. Afterward we wandered the town, drifting into a German bakery where we shared a croissant, cake, and a cookie. My girlfriend collected more postcards, Sean grabbed bottled water, and Eric stocked up on Snickers. Even at 3,440 meters, the familiar tug of American branding showed up in knockoff form: Wal-mart, Yak Donuts with a suspiciously Dunkin‑like logo, Yakbuk Coffee with a green circle that looked a little too familiar. Namche had a sense of humor.
The afternoon cooled to 43°F, so we played games in the room before heading back out. I clipped my damp socks to my backpack, hoping the thin mountain air would do what the sun couldn’t. The coffee shop we found was warmer than our hotel room, a cozy pocket of chatter and steam. The Wi‑Fi password—dontknow@—made us laugh. Around us, Namche’s business class talked shop: parachute packing, new buildings that might become spas, a Chinese‑Indian fusion restaurant with a bar, and the constant logistics of helicopter deliveries. Oxygen, supplies, who knows. Up here, everything arrives by air.
We stayed for hours, playing Splendor on my phone while sipping a caramel macchiato and a matcha latte. It felt strangely luxurious, like we’d stumbled into a café at the edge of the world.
Dinner came late—closer to seven than six. My girlfriend and I ordered momos, Sean went for spaghetti, and Eric bravely chose a veggie burger that tasted mostly like American cheese. We shared a pot of lemon ginger honey tea, the unofficial drink of the trek. Eric warned us against the cold shower with the authority of someone who had attempted it and immediately regretted his life choices. Sean seemed a little drained at first, but he brightened as the meal went on.
Dessert was sliced apples and oranges, simple and refreshing. Sid briefed us on the next day, and by 8:30 we were back in our beds, the cold settling into the concrete walls while the blankets trapped enough heat to make sleep feel heavy and warm.
Namche had shown us a different kind of altitude—not just thinner air, but a thinner boundary between the familiar and the unfamiliar. A place where knockoff logos, helicopter‑delivered cookies, and cloud‑hidden giants all existed in the same breath. A place that asked you to stay open, because you never knew what the next turn would reveal.
We woke to 31°F and a sky that promised sun, the kind of cold that makes you move a little faster just to feel your fingers again. Breakfast was the set meal—bread, eggs, potatoes, tea—chosen less for taste and more for calories. Everything else on the menu barely cracked 200, and today was not a 200‑calorie kind of day. A woman at the next table coughed like she was trying to expel a lung, and the Australian couple lingered nearby, still grounded by their friend’s hospitalization. The mountains were beautiful, but they didn’t pretend to be gentle.
We left Namche around 7:40, climbing gradually for the first ninety minutes until our tea break. The incline was steady but forgiving, and the morning light revealed a clean, sharp view of Lhotse—one of those moments where the world feels impossibly large and impossibly close at the same time. A dog trotted along the trail like he owned it, and yaks grazed lazily on the slopes, unbothered by the thin air that had us breathing harder.
Sid shared more of his story as we walked. Fourteen years as a guide, three years as a porter before that. Three different licenses—sightseeing, trekking below 6,000 meters, expeditions above 6,000. It made me realize how much invisible expertise was carrying us forward each day. We were tourists; he was a craftsman of the mountains.
Lunch came early, around 10:50, at the View Point Guest House at 3,973 meters. Macaroni again—simple, filling, exactly what the altitude demanded. Afterward the trail punished us with a 1,100‑foot descent in just thirty minutes, only to demand an 1,800‑foot climb immediately after. It felt like the mountain was testing our willingness to keep saying yes.
Along the way we spotted a mountain goat perched on a cliffside, and the national bird of Nepal—a brilliantly colored male—flashed through the brush like a living jewel. Little bursts of life in a landscape that was growing more austere by the hour.
We reached Dole at 2:30 and warmed ourselves with ginger tea. The town was small, almost a suggestion of a settlement—two main teahouses and not much else. Only one other person was staying in ours. The room was barebones: no attached bathroom, thinner blankets, concrete walls that seemed to absorb the cold instead of keeping it out. The forecast said 23°F tonight. I believed it.
Dinner at 6:30 felt like a reward. I ordered chow mein and, despite the mountain of noodles, finished it easily. Altitude has a way of turning your body into a furnace. The dining room was warm from a wood stove, and it became clear that everyone else had figured out the heating situation long before we did. We ate pomegranate seeds for dessert—everyone except Eric, who still didn’t trust the fruit anywhere on this trek.
By 7:35 we were in bed, burrowed under blankets that didn’t quite feel like enough. Outside, the cold settled over Dole like a second nightfall. Inside, the quiet was deep, the kind that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. Another day behind us, another step deeper into the mountains, another reminder that discovery often comes wrapped in discomfort—and that open‑mindedness is sometimes just choosing to keep going.
We woke around 5 AM to 23°F, the kind of cold that makes you hesitate before unzipping your sleeping bag. But the sky was clear, the sun already brushing the tops of the ridges, and that thin warmth made the morning feel almost welcoming. I used a squatting toilet for the first time—an initiation of sorts—and decided that some experiences are best appreciated for their practicality rather than their comfort.
Breakfast came at 7:30, simple and warm, and by 8:27 we were back on the trail. The climb out of Dole hit hard: twenty‑five minutes of steep uphill that burned through whatever energy breakfast had offered. But once we crested the ridge, the path leveled out, and the world opened into sweeping views of Kangtega. My girlfriend and I stopped for a photo, the mountain rising behind us like a quiet guardian.
A little farther on, we gathered for a group picture with Cho Oyu in the background—one of those moments where the altitude, the cold, the dust, all of it faded into the background because the landscape demanded your full attention.
After an hour and forty‑five minutes we stopped for hot chocolate, hands wrapped around warm mugs while the wind whispered across the valley. Then, as if the mountains wanted to remind us who was in charge, an avalanche broke loose from Tombuchi Peak. It was distant enough to be safe but close enough to feel the rumble in our chests. A reminder that these peaks are alive, constantly reshaping themselves.
We left at 10:30, climbed another twenty minutes, then descended fifteen into Machhermo. The village felt livelier than Dole—people playing volleyball, trekkers milling around, the energy of a place that sees more sunlight and more stories. We’d crushed the hike in about three hours, and the early arrival felt like a small victory.
Lunch was followed by rummy in the dining room. The momos were shaped more like mini empanadas, crisp and delicious. We bought Wi‑Fi cards and tried to share the connection, but the mountains had other plans. The wind picked up while we played, gusts rattling the windows and sending dust swirling outside.
In the afternoon we hiked up the ridge behind the village. The wind hit us almost immediately, growing stronger with every step. By the time we reached the top, we had to shelter behind a rock, clouds sweeping over the ridge in fast, dramatic waves. Sean stayed behind—too tired from the morning—and I couldn’t blame him. Even short climbs feel long at altitude.
Back at the teahouse, someone had just lit the fire. The warmth from the yak‑dung stove seeped into the room, earthy and comforting. I taught My girlfriend how to play gin rummy, and we stayed there for more than an hour, letting the heat soak into our bones while the wind howled outside.
Dinner at 6 brought four dal bhats—simple, hearty, exactly what our bodies needed. Apples and pomegranate followed, though Eric still refused to trust any fruit on this trek. Wi‑Fi cost 1000 for 24 hours, and Sean paid 350 just to charge his phone for an hour. Up here, electricity and connection were luxuries, not guarantees.
The teahouse had both a Western toilet and a squatting one, though the entire floor was mysteriously wet. I chose not to investigate. My inner thighs were starting to feel irritated from the constant friction of hiking layers, another small discomfort joining the growing list.
By 8:15 we were in bed, the cold settling in again as the fire died down. Outside, Machhermo was quiet, tucked beneath the shadow of the peaks. Inside, wrapped in blankets, I felt the strange mix of exhaustion and awe that had become the rhythm of this journey—each day harder, each day richer, each day teaching me something I didn’t know I needed to learn.
I woke at 5:30 to 21°F, the cold settling into the room like a second occupant. Nights were becoming a strange battle—sweating under heavy blankets, then shivering when the heat slipped away. Regulating my temperature felt impossible, like my body hadn’t quite figured out how to live at this altitude. But at exactly 7 AM, the sun crested the ridge and poured warmth into the valley, a daily miracle that made everything feel manageable again.
Breakfast was Tibetan bread with omelets for three of us, and a sugar pancake for Eric. Simple fuel for a day that would demand more from us than we realized. We left at 8, walking for about an hour before taking a long break. My girlfriend ducked behind a rock to pee and took some Imodium—altitude has a way of humbling even the most prepared stomachs.
The climb that followed was steep and relentless, the kind of uphill that forces you into a rhythm: breathe, step, breathe, step. I led most of the way, pushing through the thin air until the first lake appeared—clear, cold, impossibly still. Even at 15,400 feet, algae clung to the rocks beneath the surface, a reminder that life finds a way in places you’d swear were too harsh for anything to grow.
The second lake was larger, deeper, and bluer—130 feet of glacial water that shimmered like a gemstone. It was a holy lake, so no swimming or washing, just quiet admiration. We rested for twenty minutes, took photos, ate cookies, and let the altitude settle into our lungs.
Gokyo appeared after 3 hours and 13 minutes, perched right on the edge of the third lake. It felt almost luxurious compared to the villages before it: a clinic, a bakery in the lodge, credit card acceptance, even horses for hire. We checked into the Gokyo Namaste Inn, though being on the bottom floor meant the cold pooled around us like fog.
But there was no time to linger—we started up Gokyo Ri almost immediately. The climb was brutal but exhilarating. We gained 1,300 feet in 54 minutes, and reached the summit in 1 hour and 34. Sean led, my girlfriend and Eric followed, and I brought up the rear, pacing myself against the altitude. From the top, the glacier‑carved valley stretched out like a frozen river of stone. Clouds rolled in quickly, swallowing the peaks one by one, but not before I snapped a photo of my girlfriend with Renjo La behind her.
The descent was fast—55 minutes of controlled sliding and careful footwork—and we reached the lodge at 5:15. I took a hot shower, the kind that feels like a luxury even when the water pressure is weak and the window is inexplicably open. It cost $7.40, and it was worth every cent. I left my watch behind but managed to retrieve it after the next person finished. My arms were developing small bumps—maybe sweat, maybe dirt, maybe just the altitude reminding me that nothing up here is easy.
Dinner at 6:45 was a mixed bag. I ordered carbonara but picked out the mystery meat. My girlfriend’s pizza was far better than the one I’d had earlier in the trek. A few people ordered the sizzling buffalo platter—yak meat was apparently too pricey to be casual. Sean floated the idea of climbing Gokyo Ri again tomorrow, but Eric gently talked him down. Even ambition has limits at altitude.
The Canadians were playing rummy with our porters, laughter echoing through the dining room. We discovered our room had a working charger—something of a rarity here—and it felt like winning a small lottery.
By the time we crawled into bed, the cold had settled in again, but so had a sense of accomplishment. Gokyo felt like a reward—hard‑earned, breathtaking, and humbling. A place where the lakes hold their own silence, and where every step reminds you how far you’ve come.
By Day 7, I finally felt like I’d cracked the code of sleeping at altitude. Instead of cocooning myself and overheating, I used my sleeping bag like a blanket and laid my next‑day shirt beneath me so it would be warm in the morning. It was a small victory, but up here, small victories mattered.
We woke around 5:30 to another 21°F morning. The early sun was sharp and bright, no clouds in sight, but the lake outside looked duller than usual—less blue, more muted. Maybe the light hadn’t fully reached it yet, or maybe the altitude was teaching me that beauty shifts with the hour.
Breakfast was at 7:30, and we left Gokyo at 8:42, heading toward Thangnak. The walk took only two hours, but it felt like stepping into a different world. We crossed a glacier, though you wouldn’t know it at first glance. It was rocky, dusty, almost lunar. Only the occasional creak beneath the stones hinted at the ice below. On the descent we kept an eye out for small rockslides—nothing dramatic, just the mountain reminding us to stay alert.
Thangnak was tucked against the hillside, quieter and more compact than Gokyo. We checked into the Khumbila Hotel, which had a sunroom that turned into a warm sanctuary around noon. My girlfriend loved it immediately. After days of cold rooms and colder mornings, that pocket of heat felt like a luxury spa.
Someone had left a game called The Original Funny Piglet Game on a table, but it came with no rules. My girlfriend looked them up, and soon we were flicking tiny pig figurines across the table, laughing at how seriously we were taking something so ridiculous. My girlfriend won most rounds—she had a knack for pig‑based strategy, apparently.
Later we wandered up the stream behind the village. The water was clear and fast, and we watched a man bend down and drink straight from it. No filter, no hesitation. It was a reminder that people live differently here, closer to the land, trusting it in ways we weren’t used to. We ran into the Canadians again—they’d had great views from Gokyo Ri—and together we spotted mountain goats perched impossibly high on the cliffs, along with a strange bird that looked like a falcon crossed with a chicken.
Back in the sunroom, we settled into an afternoon of cards. First rummy with Sean, then a round of gin rummy, then 31, and finally I taught everyone how to play Screw Your Neighbor. We used the little piglets as currency, which somehow made the game even funnier. Outside the windows, yaks and horses wandered past the teahouse, their bells clinking softly.
Thangnak felt warmer than the other villages—not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. Maybe it was the sunroom, or the short hiking day, or the simple pleasure of playing games with friends while the mountains loomed outside. Whatever it was, the place felt like a pause before the next challenge, a moment to breathe and enjoy the strange, wonderful rhythm of life at 15,000 feet.
We woke at 4:15 to a cold that felt sharper than the mornings before, the kind that makes you move slowly and deliberately, as if the air itself might crack. By 5:45 we were on the trail, headlamps bobbing in the dark, our breath rising in thin white clouds. The pace felt good—steady, focused—and within forty minutes we’d already passed a few groups, settling into the rhythm that altitude demands.
After two hours and fifty minutes, we reached the base of Cho La Pass. The wall ahead of us rose like a challenge—an 800‑foot climb so steep that a steel guide cable ran along the rock. It wasn’t technical, but it was exposed, and the mountain made sure you felt every inch of it. We reached the top after three and a half hours, lungs burning, legs shaking, hearts full. And somehow, impossibly, there was a charging station at the summit. Civilization in the most uncivilized place.
Descending the far side meant stepping onto ice, careful and slow. At the bottom, I took a photo in front of Ama Dablam—“Twice Mother”—its ridges sharp and elegant against the sky. Eric snapped a picture of the group with Cholatse looming behind us, a reminder of how small we were in a landscape built on giants.
We reached Dzongla in five and a half hours. The village was tiny, almost an afterthought tucked into the mountainside, but it had its own charm: a baby horse trotting around and another horse casually eating cardboard like it was a delicacy. Lunch came quickly, and afterward we collapsed into a few hours of rest, playing games on my phone while the altitude hummed quietly in our bones.
Later we hiked for about thirty minutes over a small hill, past the local trash dump, to a spot where the view opened wide. I set up a time‑lapse of clouds swirling around Ama Dablam, the mountain shifting moods every few seconds. Up here, even the sky felt alive.
Back at the teahouse, we played Splendor, then more card games as the afternoon cooled into evening. My girlfriend wasn’t very hungry—just tomato soup for her, and a granola bar later. At one point Sean picked up a loose noodle with a napkin and then immediately blew his nose into the same napkin, a moment so absurd we couldn’t help laughing. We used pomegranate seeds as tokens, the tiny red jewels clicking across the table as the games stretched into the night.
Dzongla was quiet, remote, and strangely comforting. After the intensity of Cho La Pass, the village felt like a place to exhale—a reminder that even the hardest days can end with warmth, laughter, and the simple joy of being together in a place few people ever see.
The sun hit our window around 6:30, a thin beam of warmth cutting through the cold room and nudging us awake. By 8:30 we were back on the trail, moving steadily toward Lobuche. We passed Lobuche Base Camp along the way—just a scattering of tents and gear, but it carried an energy that felt different from the trekking route. More serious. More vertical.
We reached Lobuche in 2 hours and 20 minutes. The village was noticeably busier than the places we’d stayed before—only six hotels, but all of them packed. Being on the main Everest route meant a constant flow of trekkers, climbers, and people chasing something bigger than themselves. At lunch we overheard a group talking; one of them had climbed Lobuche, speaking about it with the calm confidence of someone who had stared down a mountain and come back with a story.
Our room was larger than the last few, but the dark paneling and broken light made it feel like a cave. Still, space is space at altitude, and we took what we could get.
At 4 PM we went for a short hike—forty‑eight minutes up a hill that opened into a sweeping view of the Khumbu Glacier, Kala Patthar, and the distant sprawl of Everest Base Camp. The glacier looked like a frozen river of rubble, groaning and shifting beneath its own weight. It was beautiful in a way that didn’t try to be beautiful—just raw, ancient, indifferent.
Back at the lodge, we played cards before dinner and ate dal bhat, the familiar comfort of rice and lentils grounding us after a day of thin air and big landscapes.
Sid—Siddhanta Gurung—sat with us for a while, and we talked about the porters, Rinji and Jambu, who carried our bags with a quiet strength that made the rest of us feel soft by comparison. A large group from India filled the dining room, all wearing matching jackets and water bottles. Sid said they had climbed Lobuche and were heading to Everest next. Many carried ice axes and walkie‑talkies, their gear clattering as they moved. It felt like we were sharing space with people on the edge of something enormous.
Night settled in hard. The temperature dropped to 5°F, and the cold crept through the walls like a living thing. At 10:50 I got up to pee, and the dogs outside were barking nonstop—sharp, frantic, echoing off the stone buildings. Sid was in the next room, and through the thin walls we heard Eric complaining of diarrhea before he threw up. The uncertainty of altitude sickness hung in the air, unspoken but heavy. I didn’t know what the night would bring.
By 11:30 the barking grew louder, closer, as if the dogs were circling the lodge. The sound made the darkness feel tighter. They finally quieted around 2:30, leaving behind a silence that felt almost suspicious. Eric said he felt nauseous whenever he lay down, and the room felt colder for it.
Lobuche was a reminder that the mountains don’t just offer beauty—they demand respect. And sometimes, in the thin hours of the night, they remind you how small you really are.
The morning began with a shift we’d all been quietly dreading: Eric was heading down to Pheriche. Whatever hit him—food poisoning, altitude, or some cruel combination—had made it clear he couldn’t continue upward. Watching him pack felt heavier than the cold air. Up here, the mountains don’t negotiate.
The tap water wasn’t working, so we bought bottles for the day and left Lobuche at 8:22. The trail to Gorak Shep was busy, a slow procession of trekkers funneling toward the same goal. We got stuck behind a few sluggish groups, but the pace was steady enough. Somewhere along the way, Everest revealed itself for a heartbeat—a tiny sliver of summit peeking over the ridges before disappearing again. It felt like the mountain was teasing us.
We reached Gorak Shep in just under two hours. The teahouse was a riot of color—walls and ceilings plastered with banners, prayer flags, expedition stickers, jerseys, signatures from climbers who had come through on their way to something far more dangerous. It felt like stepping into a scrapbook of ambition.
We left for Base Camp at 11:15. Nuptse dominated the skyline, blocking Everest entirely, but its jagged ridges were mesmerizing in their own right. At one point we watched an avalanche spill down its face—far enough away to be safe, close enough to feel the power of it.
Base Camp itself appeared after an hour and a half: a graffitied boulder marking the spot, and clusters of tents pitched on the glacier for the climbers preparing their ascent. It was surreal—less dramatic than I’d imagined, but meaningful in a quieter way. A place defined not by what it is, but by what it represents. We stayed long enough for photos, then made the return in just over an hour.
Back at Gorak Shep, we drank tea and played games to pass the time until dinner. But something in me was shifting. My appetite faded; I managed only six of ten momos. After dinner, things unraveled. A small poop, a lot of gas, and then the shivering began—deep, uncontrollable, the kind that makes your teeth ache. I wore two layers, crawled into my sleeping bag, and still couldn’t get warm.
I took two acetaminophen, and by 7:45 the shivering slowed, but the night didn’t get easier. Sleep refused to come. Every time I checked the clock, hoping dawn was near, only an hour had passed. I took Pepto. My girlfriend handed me warmers for my hands. They helped, but only enough to make the night tolerable, not restful.
Gorak Shep sits on the edge of the world—cold, barren, and breathtaking. But that night, it felt like a test. A reminder that reaching Base Camp isn’t the end of anything. It’s just another step in a place where the mountains decide how the story unfolds.
My girlfriend and Sean slipped out at 5:45 to climb Kala Patthar, their headlamps flickering against the dark ridge. I stayed behind, grateful for a slower start after the long, restless night. By the time I changed into my hiking clothes and packed up, the sun was beginning to warm Gorak Shep in thin, hesitant rays.
We left at 8:10, moving steadily downhill toward Lobuche. The descent felt easier than anything we’d done in days, and we reached the village in 1 hour and 37 minutes. The air was still cold, but the altitude drop made every breath feel like a small gift. At Tukla Pass we stopped among the stone monuments—memorials to climbers who had died in the region. The wind moved through the chimes and prayer flags, creating a soft, mournful music. It was impossible not to feel the weight of the place. Up here, ambition and loss live side by side.
Another hour brought us to Thukla, where we stopped for lunch. I managed only a small bowl of garlic soup—my stomach still uneasy, my body still recovering from whatever had hit me the night before. The warmth helped, but only a little.
The walk to Pheriche took 1 hour and 10 minutes, a flat, windy stretch where the gusts pushed against us like a living thing. Yaks grazed in wide pastures, their silhouettes steady and unbothered by the cold. The landscape felt gentler here, though the wind never let us forget we were still high in the Himalayas.
From Pheriche, it was another 1 hour and 50 minutes to Pangboche. Along the way we passed people carrying staggering loads—five cases of water strapped to a back, six sheets of plywood, four metal beams. Their strength was humbling. We struggled with daypacks; they carried the infrastructure of entire villages.
Pangboche felt almost luxurious after the starkness of Gorak Shep. Our room had Wi‑Fi, in‑room charging, and—miracle of miracles—a flushing toilet. The simple conveniences felt extravagant after days of cold rooms and frozen pipes.
For dinner I ordered a vegetable and noodle soup called thukpa, warm and comforting. Sean’s chow mein arrived with chicken mixed in, a surprise he didn’t seem thrilled about. I still felt off—feverish earlier, some diarrhea—but I’d taken what I could to manage the symptoms. The warmth of the room, the food, and the lower altitude all helped steady me.
Pangboche wasn’t just another stop on the trail—it felt like a return to something more human, a place where the mountains loosened their grip just enough to let us breathe again.
We woke at 5:30 to 23°F, but the blankets in Pangboche were thick and generous, the kind that trap warmth so well you almost forget the cold outside. By 7:50 we were back on the trail, beginning the long descent toward Namche Bazaar.
Sean wasn’t doing well. The chicken from the night before had betrayed him, and the morning was a slow, uncomfortable slog. After two hours and forty‑five minutes we stopped for a snack, and it was clear he was struggling. The next hour was almost entirely uphill—one of those cruel stretches where the trail seems to rise just to test your patience. I had thukpa for lunch, warm and simple, and by the time we finished eating, Sean looked a little steadier.
We reached Namche at 2 PM, and the return felt strangely comforting. The town that once seemed chaotic and overwhelming now felt like a familiar landmark, a place with edges we recognized. We checked into the Sakura Guest House, this time on the top floor. It was much nicer than our first stay—brighter, cleaner, and somehow more grounded.
Around 3:40 thunder rolled through the valley, followed by a light rain tapping against the windows. From our room, I could hear what sounded like club music drifting up from somewhere below—Namche reminding us it had its own pulse, its own nightlife, even at altitude. By 4:15 the rain intensified, so I wandered down to sit by the wood stove and ordered a “hot orange,” which turned out to be warm Gatorade. Surprisingly comforting.
Sid chatted easily with the people gathered there—other guides from Discovery, speaking Nepali with the relaxed familiarity of coworkers on a break. A group from Singapore arrived, heading up toward Everest Base Camp, full of energy we no longer had. The rain stopped around 4:45, so I stepped out to buy souvenirs. The shop was packed with everything from cookies to candy to liquor. I picked up cards, soap, treats for people at work, and even a shot glass.
When I returned, my girlfriend was feeling a little nauseous, and Sean had fully spiraled into misery—dramatically wishing for an ICBM strike or any other quick end to his suffering. Altitude humor is dark humor.
We all retreated to our rooms by 7:30. My hands itched from the rash that had been creeping across my skin, and the warmth of the room—so welcome at first—became too much. I kicked off some blankets and tried to settle in, listening to the quiet hum of Namche outside. It felt like the mountains were letting us go, one layer at a time.
We woke at 5:30 to 29°F, the cold softened by the knowledge that this was our last full day on the trail. Fresh snow dusted the high peaks, a reminder of how quickly the mountains change their mood. By 7:40 we were moving again, the rain from the night before tamping down the dust and making the air feel cleaner, almost refreshed.
The walk to Phakding took 3 hours and 40 minutes, slowed by the usual donkey traffic. One donkey even got its foot caught in the slats of a bridge, a tense moment that reminded us how precarious life can be out here—for humans and animals alike. We stopped at Khumbu Lodge again for lunch, the familiar setting making the return feel real. I tried to dry my socks in the weak midday sun, hoping they’d be less miserable for the final stretch.
We still had 7.7 kilometers to go. At 12:24 we set off again, and by 2:37 we reached Lukla. Rain chased us into town, falling steadily until about 4 PM. As we entered, we stumbled into a procession—people burning incense, blessing baskets and offerings, blowing long horns that echoed through the narrow streets. It felt ceremonial, ancient, and strangely fitting for the end of our trek.
Our room had an en suite hot shower, a luxury that felt almost unreal after days of cold buckets and questionable plumbing. The rain paused briefly, then returned, drumming on the rooftops until nearly 10 PM.
Dinner was at 6. Sid surprised us with a small ceremony—shashes draped around our necks and a German chocolate cake iced with “Congratulations team Eric.” The team moniker only made it more endearing. We tried a few alcoholic drinks, which took a while to arrive; it was clear the bar didn’t get many cocktail orders. My girlfriend ordered a Mars roll—a candy bar wrapped in dough and fried—which tasted like a toaster strudel’s mischievous cousin.
After dinner the music started, and so did the dancing. Jambu, usually quiet on the trail, lit up completely—spinning, laughing, moving with a joy that filled the room. It was one of those moments where the walls between guide, porter, and trekker dissolved, leaving only people celebrating something they’d accomplished together.
Tomorrow, they would walk six hours back to their village. We would fly out. The journey was ending, but the mountains had left their mark—on our lungs, our legs, our stories, and the way we’d remember this place long after we returned home.
We woke at 5:45, the familiar early‑morning chill softened by the knowledge that today we were leaving the mountains behind. Our flight was scheduled for 9, but in true Lukla fashion, we didn’t take off until about 9:50. The plane held only eighteen people—small enough that you could feel every shift of wind—but surprisingly, we got a direct flight to Kathmandu. Ten extra minutes in the air, six hours saved on the road. A small miracle.
Landing in Kathmandu felt like stepping into another world. The quiet, thin air of the high Himalayas gave way to warm pavement, car horns, and the dense, colorful chaos of the city. Eric and Sean headed to the Aloft, while my girlfriend and I returned to our hotel.
We walked to a little burger spot and ordered chicken and cheese paratha—simple, greasy, perfect. Afterward we wandered through shops picking up spices, coffee, and a few groceries. Everything felt cheap compared to home, and the act of shopping felt almost surreal after days of teahouse menus and rationed snacks.
Back at the hotel, we collapsed onto the bed and watched TV for a while. The remote barely worked—you had to angle it just right, like cracking a safe—but eventually we found a rhythm. Later we went out again for naan, warm and soft, the kind of comfort food that hits harder after a long trek.
I bought some shirts and pants; my girlfriend picked up handmade paper. Back in the room, we organized our bags, easing back into the idea of normal life. The TV cycled through Discovery, Science, History, and a parade of Bollywood channels—bright, loud, full of energy. It felt like the city was reminding us that the world down here moves fast, even when we don’t.
The day was simple, almost uneventful, but in its own way it felt like a gentle landing. After weeks of altitude, cold, and constant motion, Kathmandu offered warmth, noise, and the strange comfort of being anonymous again. The mountains were already beginning to feel like a dream—one we’d carry with us long after the dust washed off our boots.
We slept in until 6:30, which felt indulgent after so many pre‑dawn wake‑ups. Breakfast was at the little café in IGH. I ordered an Americano even though I don’t really like coffee—maybe out of habit, maybe because it felt like the “city” thing to do. On the shelf beside us sat a book entirely about pigeons and another old guidebook on traveling in Nepal, the kind with yellowed pages and outdated maps. It felt like a reminder that people have been trying to make sense of this place long before we arrived.
After breakfast we headed to Durbar Square. The moment we stepped in, it felt like a bit of a racket. Locals walked freely through the area, but tourists were funneled toward a fee booth. Every few steps someone tried to sell us something—a tour, a flute, a carved trinket, a goat‑and‑tiger strategy game that started at 4000 rupees and dropped to 2500 in under a minute. It was still too big to carry home.
We visited the palace where the living goddess, the Kumari, was supposed to appear, but she never did. The courtyard was quiet, sunlit, and strangely still. Afterward we wandered the streets looking for sel roti, a donut in the shape of an onion ring, but my girlfriend decided she didn’t want one after all. So we walked the twenty minutes back to the hotel, weaving through traffic, vendors, and the constant hum of Kathmandu.
Later we found a beer garden—five drinks and two meals for $40. After weeks of teahouse menus and altitude prices, it felt like a bargain. We picked up some candy and a shot glass on the way back, then settled into the room to play the tiger‑goat game. It turned out to be all strategy, and my girlfriend won two out of three rounds.
We tried watching the first Avengers movie, but the reception kept cutting out, freezing mid‑explosion or mid‑quip. Eventually we gave up and went out again, climbing to a third‑floor restaurant overlooking the street. It was quiet, almost empty. My girlfriend ordered chicken masala; I got a chicken pizza. Simple, warm, grounding.
On the way back we grabbed shampoo, then returned to the room and put on Bad Boys 2. It was the perfect kind of mindless after a long trip—loud, ridiculous, and easy to watch even when the signal flickered.
The day wasn’t dramatic or demanding. It didn’t have altitude or glaciers or passes. But it had its own kind of discovery—the slow realization that after weeks in the mountains, even ordinary city moments feel new. Kathmandu was chaotic, colorful, and imperfect, but it was also a soft landing. A place to breathe, to wander, to let the journey settle into memory.
Eighty‑four point one miles. On paper, it’s just a number—an easy metric to tuck into a summary or a fitness tracker. But lived on foot, breath by breath, step by step, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes a story. Those miles carried you from the neon edges of Kathmandu to the thin, crystalline air of Gokyo; across glaciers disguised as rubble; over Cho La Pass with its steel cables and shifting ice; to the graffitied rock of Everest Base Camp; and finally back down through villages where the smell of woodsmoke and dal bhat felt like home. They carried you through cold mornings, warm tea, altitude headaches, card games, laughter, and the quiet moments when the mountains made you feel both impossibly small and impossibly alive. What stands out isn’t just the scenery—though the turquoise lakes, the serrated ridgelines, and the sudden avalanches will stay with you forever. It’s the rhythm you fell into. The way your body adapted. The way discomfort became normal, then meaningful. The way you learned to trust the trail, the guides, the porters, and yourself. It’s the people, too. Sid with his calm competence. Rinji and Jambu carrying more than seems humanly possible. The Canadians with their open‑ended adventure. The Australians humbled by altitude. The strangers who became part of the landscape of your days. And your own group—each person struggling, recovering, pushing, laughing, and discovering in their own way. There were moments of joy—dancing in Lukla, warm sunrooms, hot orange “Gatorade,” the ridiculous piglet game. And moments of vulnerability—nausea in Gorak Shep, sleepless nights, rashes, fevers, the uncertainty of what your body might do next. But that’s the truth of the Himalayas: they give and they take, they reveal and they conceal, they test and they teach. And somewhere in the middle of all that, you changed. Not dramatically, not in a way that announces itself, but in the quiet, durable way that only long journeys can shape a person. You learned to move through discomfort with curiosity instead of resistance. You learned to let the unexpected become part of the story. You learned that discovery isn’t always a view or a summit—it’s often the small, unglamorous moments that accumulate into something meaningful. When you stepped back into Kathmandu, with its honking scooters, cheap parathas, and glitchy TV remotes, the mountains already felt distant, like a dream you could still feel in your legs. But they left something with you: a sense of scale, a sense of humility, a sense of wonder that doesn’t fade just because the altitude does. Eighty‑four point one miles. Enough to change the way you see the world. Enough to change the way you see yourself. And the best part is that the story doesn’t end here. It just settles—for now—like prayer flags in the wind, carrying the memory of every step you took. Total Distance: 84.1 miles