Welcome to PART I of My Nepal Trekking Experience, which is also PART II of My Nepal Story!

I understand this might sound a bit confusing at first, but don’t worry. What I’ve done is combine two different series (PARTS I AND II) into one since they were both set in Nepal. PART I details my time spent in Pokhara living with a wise spiritual teacher. PART II (exactly what you’re reading now) chronicles my trekking experience.

Don’t worry if you haven’t read PART I because PART II reads just fine without PART I. That said, PART I does provide some helpful context, like how I got to Nepal in the first place. So if you do want to go back to PART I and read about my time spent living with a wise spiritual teacher, visit the series homepage for the full table of contents.

If you’re ready to read about my trekking experience with a Tibetan Lama (PART II of My Nepal Story), you’re in the right place. Now, let’s begin…

Me, My Friend and the Tibetan Lama

June 3 (Day 0) — The Guide

Okay, now we go, says Ganesh.

My good friend Bradley and I pack our backpacks, head out the front door of our last night’s homestay and into the streets of Kathmandu.

The guesthouse belongs to Ganesh, former President of Nepal’s Tourism Board and the owner of the trekking company Everest Holiday. He’s organized our entire trip—everything from the guide to the food to the permits.

I’ve lost big, he said to us yesterday as he handed us our government-backed trekking permits for the trail. The permits are expensive and the trekking package he offered us includes a Tibetan Lama guide and three meals a day, but for some reason, Ganesh was spell-bound by our presence during our first meeting.

I see you two and I can’t help myself. I don’t know. Good guys. Meditation and trekking. I help, but I lose big.

He shrugs his shoulders, palms up and laughs when he says this. Even Bradley and I are surprised by the price. It’s a chunk of change but not one that breaks the bank. It bought us 20-days of trekking the Himalayas on the Manaslu Circuit and Tsum Valley trails, two of Nepal’s newer and lesser-known trails, but Ganesh explains that he has no worries about anything because one tourist on the trail helps many people.

One trek means guide, porter, farmer, cooks and many villagers, he says.

For this, we tell him we are bloggers and we’ll share his business with everyone. He perks up and smiles big.

You share, he says. You share!

We nod.

Today is the day our hike begins and we walk down the street to wait for a city bus carrying our trekking guide—Lama Dai.

Bradley and I wanted to hike alone but a guide is required for these remote trails. When Ganesh told us our guide was once a monk who meditates twice daily, we were sold.

Lama Dai speaks little English and will lead us through the Himalayas for the next twenty days. He has a bright smile and I can tell he has a kind heart. Together we board the bus, leave behind the city and embark on the journey.

I drift in and out of sleep as the bus rattles up the twisting mountain roads for the next five long hours and the landscape outside my window keeps me awake. I peel my eyes open to green terraces rippling down the mountainside, cows and oxen gnawing grass and villagers harvesting their yield.

The scene moves like a carousel from wilderness to towns and villages where there are dilapidated homes made of brick, mud, corrugated tin, rock and concrete.

Even in the cities, many of the homes and shops lining the road look like they are either falling apart or still in construction. Those in the States might call them tear-downs, encampments, shanties, shacks or sheds, and it seems it’s this way in most of Nepal—the poorest country outside of Africa, so I’ve heard.

At times I wake and turn my head to see if Bradley’s still sleeping in the back of the bus where he moved to find more leg room.

Bradley is a college buddy of mine, class of ’15 Pacific Crest Trail hiking partner, and close friend ever since. After the trail, I spent my time writing a book while he served at a meditation center. As these projects came to a close, we knew a new adventure awaited us.

I think we are all gifted with the ability to feel when our lives have become too comfortable. We fall into routine and no longer take the risks we might once have been willing to take. When I found myself back in Dallas, I felt safe and protected—not only from harm but from whatever awaited me should I choose to jump.

It’s a scary feeling, and my life tends to blow up shortly thereafter. When I leave, I lose friends, relationships and the opportunity to settle down and build a stable life. But everything in life is trade-offs, and I find myself willing to live with the consequences. I discover which friends I miss the most and those who miss me, I uncover new interests and passions, and I gain confidence in taking steps outside my comfort zone. So, once again, I had to leave to find myself. Maybe later, I’ll find out there was never anything missing in the first place, but for now, something inside me called for something different and I surrendered to the flow.

The result of that feeling was that Bradley and I packed our backpacks, caught a plane to Nepal to live with a spiritual teacher for a month, and were now ready to integrate what we learned into this trekking trip.

Who knew what would happen, but after a four year hiking hiatus, I was itching to get back on the trail, explore the Himalayas, and see what I could learn about myself along the way. And who better to join me on the adventure than my old friend, Bradley.

Lama Dai turns to me as the bus comes to a halt.

Dal bhat, he says.

It’s the name of the staple Nepali rice dish, but Bradley and I are pugio (full) so instead of eating we stretch and play hacky sack until it’s time to leave once more.

People get on and off the bus at each town or sometimes in between them in the middle of nowhere and I wonder where the heck they’re going. One guy hauls a stinky styrofoam fish cooler into the middle aisle and the smell soon worsens as it’s cracked open by someone’s foot on the way out the bus. Luckily, my window slides open and offers a refreshing, warm breeze from the outside world.

The ride ends as a grueling, one-stop, nine-hour drive and we finally arrive in Sati Khola where there’s a guesthouse with a place to sleep. There, we fulfill our needs: outlets for charging, naps, dal bhat and more sleep. All in anticipation of the big day ahead and I can hardly wait to get started.

June 4 (Day 1) — Donkeys, Road Walks & Hot Springs, Anyone?

Today is the day and I rise to eat a banana, compliments of Lama Dai, and a piece of Tibetan bread, which is flour and sugar, fried. It’s not much compared to the extravagant breakfasts we’ve eaten in Pokhara and Katmandú, but it’ll suffice until lunch.

As we head out onto the trail, an excitement swells inside my body. It’s been four years since I’ve seriously backpacked and the hiker feels return to me all at once. I know I’m in for a journey and I’m excited for all the ups, downs and lessons learned that lay ahead. I’m hoping for survival and grateful to have Lama Dai leading us.

Me, Bradley and Lama Dai depart onto the dusty, mountain-side trail large enough to fit the occasional passing Jeep or caravan of donkeys hauling village goods: bags of rice, propane tanks, concrete, wiring, and wood. The path slopes gradually upward and downward as the khola (river) rushes a milky white beneath us.

It seems there are no other hikers here, only local villagers carrying nothing or small backpacks. Occasionally, Lama Dai exchanges a few short words in passing with the locals. He’s a smooth talker as they usually laugh while Bradley and I can only offer a smile and a Namaste.

With the occasional vehicle passing us, the trail is essentially a road walk, so we ask Lama Dai how long the terrain will stay the same.

We walk the left side, Lama Dai says.

For how long? Bradley asks again.

Five days, Dai responds.

Bradley and I glance at each other and laugh. It’s soul-shattering news that the trail will be this way for the next five days.

I feel the desire to see new or interesting sights. Eye craving, I call it, but what am I supposed to do about it now?

It takes time, but eventually I abandon my preconceived expectations, allowing my eyes to see what they are seeing and nothing more. Whatever happens happens, and this allows me to enjoy what’s unfolding in front of me.

Still, the news makes us laugh. We decide if there’s to be a title for the first section of this hike it would be The Left Side.

We reach lunch and when the dal bhat arrives on the table, I mix it up with my hands and shovel it into my mouth. I’ve yet to speak of this, but as is common here for the locals, this is how I’ve eaten all my meals in Nepal. Restaurants provide silverware but we shake our heads, hold up our hands and say “at-le-handso” (we’ll use hands!). This usually pleases the locals and they smile while watching our eating attempts.

I pour the dal (bean soup) onto the bhat (rice) and mix everything up with my fingers including the curry, achar (spiced pickles), or saag (jungle greens). The key to eating is a four-finger scoop and a flick/push with the thumb. Otherwise sticking your whole hand in your mouth can make you look foolish, a lesson learned from past experiences, says Bradley.

Bellies filled, Bradley and I become curious about what awaits us along the trail today and soon realize the Maps.me app on our iPhones has a rudimentary line of the trail, including elevation gains and GPS capabilities—a big win considering neither of us brought maps.

While searching our phone maps, Bradley spots hot springs in the next town of Totopani, and his eyes widen. It’s burning hot outside and the sun shines bright, but soaking our limbs in a warm water embrace sounds good for the bones nonetheless. We confirm the existence of the hot springs with Lama Dai and march forward into the distance with eyes on the prize.

Finally, we arrive at Totopani, which we think means “hot springs” because pani means water so toto must mean hot, right? We’re doing our best to learn as much Nepali as possible, but it’s a steeper climb than any we’ll face on trail.

As we search the village for the much anticipated hot springs, we can’t help but laugh and sigh. Their large concrete pools are empty because it’s the off-season and the only hot water we can find trickles down onto a stone floor with the force of a half-way turned faucet.

Disheartened, I retrieve my frisbee and fill the underbelly with hot water. It offers just enough depth to soak my feet and hands, while Bradley finds a small corner of the trough with some depth to it. The hot water wraps around my toes and I smile knowing we made the best of the situation.

As we reach the next village of Dohban and settle in for the evening, I feel tired and grumpy from the long day’s hike. I hope to settle into my hiker strength soon and wish for nothing but an easier hike when I wake.

June 5 (Day 2) — The Culture Walk

Whole day is climbing, no shade, says Lama Dai.

Great, I think. At least ten hours of sleep leaves me feeling decently rested.

I am sweating and my face is red when we reach the first stop for pani (water) and bee-so-nay (rest). Lama Dai takes a seat at a nearby bench, dawns his spectacles and unfolds a map.

Bradley and I glance at each other and crack up. We had no idea Lama Dai had a map this whole time without our knowing and accuse him of hiding it from us. He laughs, so we think he understands what we’re saying. Whether he does or not, at least we’ll soon find answers to where we’re going on this trek.

It turns out the Manaslu Circuit, at least the portion we’re hiking, is shaped something like a narrow horseshoe or a pinched rainbow. We start from the bottom-right and move up the arch. Before we reach the apex, the Tsum Valley Trail juts out like a tributary after a few days hike. We then hike the Tsum Valley in full (a few days round trip) before making our way back to the Manaslu where we’ll finish out the rest of the rainbow. It’s all the information I’m able to gather and it suffices for now.

As we continue, I can’t help but notice the the thundering blasts of what sounds like construction echoing from across the valley.

I turn and narrow my eyes. Villagers harnessed against the mountainside are pounding away at the stone with huge sledge hammers.

I point and turn to Lama Dai. What are they doing? I ask.

Jeep road, Dai says.

My eyes widen. The project is quite the undertaking but the effort makes sense; another road would dramatically help the villages financially and provide some much-needed relief to the constant and never-ending stream of donkey caravans heading from both directions.

Lama Dai says it’s like this every day—donkeys coming and going from village to village. Bradley and I call today Donkey Day as there are so many.

The donkeys are worthy of further explanation as they are everywhere on the trail. In some instances, I’m even helping to mush them along with a soft tap of my trekking pole and a whistle. They’re minuscule gestures compared to the whipping and rock projectiles dealt from the hands of the village boys in charge of the caravans and I do my best not to judge them as I personally know nothing of leading donkey caravans. I would later discover that donkeys do not move without someone who knows what they’re doing coaxing them from behind.

I come to view this trek as a Culture Walk. We are essentially living the life of a Himalayan villager, walking from village to village, carrying more weight than some and much less weight than others. Some villagers are hauling packs four to five times the size of ours with the help of an strap that runs across their forehead and causes protrusion of their neck’s vascular system. It looks like hell carrying all that weight, especially for the younger boys, women, and older men, but it seems they are veterans and offer us a namaste as we pass.

Speaking of culture, as we arrive at lunch, we order dal bhat again. Looking at the menu is but a running joke at this point. Apart from the breakfast bread, dal bhat is the only thing we’ve eaten so far and will likely continue to eat. Lama Dai is no fan of our plan and says no dal bhat this evening, which disappoints Bradley because it is his favorite.

As the sun descends beyond the mountains, we climb in elevation, cross cable suspension bridges and arrive at Philim, a sprawling village complete with a children’s school, volleyball court and many places for weary travelers to rest.

Showers? I ask Lama Dai.

It’s been a couple days and my body is starting to feel a thick coating of sweat and dust.

Shower, he says, and he leads me down the steps of our small hotel and shows me the spot.

Hot water? I ask.

Cold.

I laugh, hop in and close the door.

As I’m catching my breath, jumping in and out of the frigid water, I figure I might as well test the other faucet and soon warm water flows from the shower head.

Communication between us and Lama Dai is challenging at times but as we learn to repeat and rephrase our questions, the messages eventually get through.

There is just one outlet for Bradley and I to share in our bedroom, which is wonderful since electricity will be difficult to find in the coming days, but it’s installed unusually high up on the wall, standard for village guesthouses. We call it the ‘Hang Game.’ As we sleep, both our iPhones charge suspended in mid-air by their cables with the help of an adaptor.

Anything for that beautiful phone juice.

It was a long day and we’re only just getting started. It feels good to hike again and I wonder if I’ll have the stamina to continue day in and day out. Only time will tell. Most of all, I’m excited because tomorrow is a special day.

June 6 (Day 3) — My Birthday in Tsum Valley

Today is my twenty-eighth birthday, a day that brings memories of my last on-trail birthday when I turned twenty-four.

It was the first birthday I spent alone. I walked all day steeped in feelings of loneliness, but I learned that day how to meet my own happiness needs.

It’s difficult but trainable to do so, to be happy without anyone or anything else, just as we are in this moment. Especially in life’s darker moments, it takes effort to muster up even the littlest bit of happiness where before there was none, but doing so makes me feel strong and reminds me of my own potential. It’s a powerful lesson knowing the only thing stopping me from being happy is myself.

After being stuck behind a donkey caravan for most of the morning, the path splits and heads uphill and we enter the Tsum Valley Trail through a stone doorway.

A smile spreads across my face as the rocks and dust and heat give way to a ribbon of trail covered by the shade of a forest canopy. Moss crawls across the boulders and up the trees and black butterflies flutter atop a cool canopy breeze. These dramatic and immediate changes give different feelings to the mind and body. For whatever reason, I feel relief. The cold eases my wandering mind from the prior day’s difficulties and we walk in awe of the scene.

I’m not unhappy about leaving the Manaslu Circuit for now. Given the steep climbs, cliff-side ledge walks, and vast amount of patience required for donkeys, it’s already a fairly difficult trail—not one I would recommend to my parents or the average hiker.

That said, I realize I’ve brought way too much stuff and the hike would be a thousand times easier had I left behind the gear made useless by the guesthouses, including my sleeping bag, tent and some extra clothes, but I slog onward regardless, telling myself I’m building strength in my chicken legs for the days ahead.

As we walk the forest, Lama Dai reaches into the brush and pulls from it a long stick made of bamboo. He turns to me with a grin and it makes me feel silly I ever lugged trekking poles all the way over from the States.

He continues to shape his newfound walking staff in the small village of Lokpa, dulling the edges against the concrete.

As we wait for dal bhat, Lama Dai says the villagers here in Tsum Valley are Tibetan whereas the villagers before were Nepali. We won’t cross the Chinese border into Tibet, but it’s another sign we’re entering into different territory, and I’m ready for different.

Right before we leave, Bradley and I consider filling up our water bottles.

Pani ahead? Bradley asks.

Lots of pani, says Lama Dai, so we shrug and leave them empty for the miles ahead.

It turns out there’s no pani for miles and the largest climb we’ve faced so far—there’s so many stairs, one might think I wished them so for my birthday.

Hours later, there’s a small village home with a black water hose out front where we plop down and chug. Lama Dai walks into the house and returns with two small candies.

Nepali chocolate, he says, placing them in our hands.

Bradley and I chuckle. It’s actually a cough drop but we enjoy the sweet candy, which cools the back of our throats.

We spend the night in a large cliffside lodge in the village of Chumling and meet Becky, a UK woman whose spent the last seven years in Nepal trying to preserve a small Nepali village dialect.

In the midst her work, she returned home one weekend to visit friends. It happened to be the same weekend as the 2015 earthquake, which devastated Nepal and killed one third of the village she was attending to.

She returned a couple days after and experienced a 7.2 magnitude earthquake. The earth was in waves and a tractor was being lifted off the ground, she said. It was… crazy.

The Nepali village people are resilient, she continued. Most people would leave or just wouldn’t know what to do. They adapt.

When she returned, the people slept in tents for more than a month as they rebuilt.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard mention of the earthquake. In Katmandú, our guesthouse owner spoke of similar tragedies. It seems the ripple was felt all across the country.

Before we head to bed, we wish Becky the best in her mission and I leave with a newfound perspective. One where the people are not lacking in material possessions, but rather adaptive, resilient and capable of overcoming given the resources at hand.

It’s time to sleep and my birthday comes to an end. I had big dreams of finding cake in Chumling, but settle instead for an assortment of small treats eaten by the light of my headlamp.

June 7 (Day 4) — Ghost Villages

It’s pouring rain, I pull the sheets over my head, and I imagine a blessed zero day, but I change into hiking clothes anyway and meet the crew in the main village cabin for breakfast after our morning meditation.

As we devour our honey-slathered Tibetan bread, Bradley turns to Lama Dai and asks how long he thinks the rain will last.

Dai shakes his head. One hour, he says.

Turns out he knows the mountains much better than we do because the rain stops the moment we finish our breakfast.

Sparked by the sounds of perfect English, I turn my head to meet a family of five from the Bay Area. The dad wears a long sleeve 49ers tee and looks of Indian descent. Since we’re trekking the off-season, the family is only the third group of westerners we’ve met on the trail thus far, and we exchange surface-level convo before they pack up and head out.

It’s nice being the only tourists in each of the guesthouses. For us it means little noise, attentive service and bathrooms all to ourselves. But the familiar sounds of English are refreshing, too.

Before departing the lodge, we ask a village man when he thinks the monsoons will come. It’s a concern in the off-season and the reason why there’s almost no tourists around.

Eighteen days, he says with a shrug.

Perfect. If he’s right, our hike will end two days before the storms and if he’s wrong, we’re stuck in Himalayan monsoons. I hope to God he’s right.

The day begins and there is much climbing to be done. I learn from Bradley how mountain ranges erode, crumble and disintegrate over time and because the Himalayas are so high in elevation, they are also one of the youngest in existence. Knowing the Appalachians hover around 3K feet, it puts into perspective the old age of that range and plants a new seed of intrigue in my mind for future hiking.

When we arrive at our nightly destination, the sprawling village of Lamaguan, there are hardly any village people. We shrug and again assume it’s because it’s the off season.

It’s mind-blowing how few hikers and villagers there are on the trail during this time. In fact, the path and villages seem mostly comprised of donkeys, their marshals and construction workers, and we realize how the off-season is surprisingly an ideal time to hike this trail. It felt like we’d stumbled across a well-kept secret as almost every night we had guesthouses and cooks to ourselves. The key was finding an open residence in the first place.

There’s only one home in the whole town without a lock on the door and we step in to meet a man named Dawa, who speaks very good English, and ushers us into his guesthouse.

When we ask Dawa why it’s like a ghost town here, we finally understand why all the villages are nearly empty—hundreds have camped out to the north hunting cordycep mushrooms called Yarsigumba, a trendy nootropic sold in teas and pills, which sell well in the Chinese and American markets. The villagers make very good money hunting them—a single shroom worth 1,000 rupees, or $10 with some villagers making up to $1,000 in a single week.

I nod. I’d be in the jungle too had I known about the hunt!

After eating a dal bhat dinner, Dawa brings us next door to his guesthouse and sets us up with two rooms—Bradley and I in one room and Lama Dai in his own. It’s like this every night, close quarters for me and Bradley, but we get along well and manage some shut eye before waking for the next day’s big adventure.

June 8 (Day 5) — The Cave and The Sky Monastery

Since we eat them every single morning, it makes sense we’d finally get a shot at cooking our own Tibetan bread. The hard work is finished the night before, the dough prepped by the village locals, but we roll them into balls, flatten and carve before frying them in the skillet.

Today’s a short hiking day—seven miles max—so we opt for the nearest adventure: Milarepa Cave.

As we buy our cave tickets and make the climb, memories of seeing the new Aladdin movie with Bradley in Pokhara return to me. I am now in search of a genie lamp with my wishes ready.

Inside the cave are two exhibits. The first is Milarepa’s footprint, which he somehow left indented on a rock.

As the story goes, Milarepa lived a thousand years ago, learned Black Magic, and set his sights on destroying the local villages. Right before he could do so, his teacher convinced him otherwise and Milarepa instead became enlightened—a sufficient prerequisite to leave behind a stony footprint.

The second exhibit is filled with paintings and altars dedicated to the man himself, who is depicted as green-skinned because he ate lots of jungle leaves. Bradley and I take a seat and soak in the chilly cave vibrations before setting out for the day.

As we walk, the opportunity to bathe in the nearby glacial river presents itself. Before Lama Dai can catch up to us and tell us otherwise, we strip down to our shorts and dive in. It’s freezing, takes away my breath, and I stay under for no longer than half a second before re-emerging. We wash our socks and shirts, strap them atop our packs to dry, and move onward.

For the first time on the trek, we eat something other than Dal Bhat for lunch— noodles. It tastes like tricked-up ramen and the light meal satiates my belly.

We also purchase some goodies from the local store—Feel Its (cookies, advertised: a milky delight!), Digestives (biscuits, advertised: goodness of wheat!) and Choco Pies (cakes, advertised: fill your mouth with a rich choco taste everyday!). The marketing is hilarious and enticing and it’s enough treats to celebrate our evening arrival at Mu Gumba, a village which marks the end of our Tsum Valley trek.

Mu Gumba is a large monastery high in the Himalayan foothills where there resides six Lamas, one little girl and a young man serving as cook. Lama Dai must feel at home as he calls us into the temple when it’s time to meditate.

The Lamas sit facing each other, open some books and begin chanting. I take my seat and suddenly, I’m drenched by the hypnotic music of the Lamas. No single Lama sounds particularly lovely but each grumbled and raspy voice has a tone and pacing that when layered together among the rest, provide a rich, full sound that resonates throughout the mediation hall.

I am in a trance and my mind slips away into the audio experience. At times the little girl pipes up and the Lamas laugh or start coughing.

Just when I think it might be over, I hear some fumbling.

Each of the Lamas has picked up a musical instrument and at once the noises of drums, horns, and cymbals erupts from the moment of silence. I assume the noises are meant to shake things up in the mind and it does the job quite well.

I am spell-bound by it all and my body feels turned to stone as if I’m now living inside a hardened shell and unable to move. This pleasurable experience has happened to me a few times before and I accept, calmly sitting through the remainder of the hour.

The rest of the night is clockwork—shower, eat and prepare for sleep. Tomorrow we head back the way we came to finish out the Manaslu Circuit and I feel ready for the challenge ahead.

Continue reading Part II of the series here:

I hope you enjoyed the read! If you did, please share it with a close friend, comment your thoughts below, and consider following the journey:

A special thanks to Everest Holiday, Gossamer Gear and friends and family for your support.

Wishing you well on your journey.

Love,

David (@stay.in.alive)