Himalayan Hiking and Kathmandu

“The mountains are calling and I must go.” - John Muir

Bleary eyed and bad tempered, I stumbled out of my hostel into the buzzing cacophony of  Kathmandu street life on the hunt for bananas. The preceding twenty hour long travel day (Israel should really consider my personal flight itinerary before launching strikes on Iran in the future) had not cured the food poisoning gifted to me by the wonders of Tajik cuisine, thus I was following the sound advice from my smartest doctor friend (ChatGPT) and starting the BRAT diet. Sadly this diet consists of bananas, rice, apple sauce and toast, not electric green uppers, hand rolled cigs and sleep deprivation.¹

Kathmandu has an energy that can lift the sprits of any gastrointestinally challenged traveller. There is nothing quite like the joy of taking in your first impressions of a new city, absorbing the soundscape, vibrating with the joy of pure sensory overload as you are transformed into an Emersonian giant transparent eyeball. The calls of street vendors selling samosas and pani puri from pushcarts; the incessant honking of motorbike taxis snaking their way though the narrow streets; the deep resonating thrum of an Australian backpacker testing a Tibetan singing bowl; the greedy fluttering of pigeons descending upon breadcrumbs strewn temple grounds (for good karma); the whispers of “cocaine, hash, weed” from seedy mustachioed drug pushers plying their wares in the touristy sections of town (bad karma).

That afternoon I met up with a friend of a friend who lives in Kathmandu for half of the year with her British diplomat partner and enjoyed a meandering walk through the temples of the Patan district. Our tour was light on facts (“this temple is Hindu but also maybe Buddhist and is I believe probably quite old”) and heavy on indictment of the Nepali ruling class, who had recently responded to massive flooding that left hundreds dead with a collective shrug. After a lunch of buff kothey momos (beyond delicious dumplings that are steamed and then fried on one side, giving you a bit of gooey give and crackly crunch in each bite), we headed to the British embassy to catch a documentary being shown that afternoon.

Focusing on the role of matriarchal roots of the religious culture of the Kathmandu Valley, the film had amateurish production values, monotonous narration and slightly undercooked central thesis, but was ultimately an interesting introduction to (and radical reinterpretation of) the myriad temples and festivals forming a big part of Kathmandu life. The director of the film was in the audience, and in answering questions from the audience of posh British diplomatic workers (some of whom seemed plucked from the pages of a John le Carre novel) admitted that he narrated so much of the film because no other experts agreed with his rejection of the patriarchal history of Nepalese ceremonial life.

I spent the next few days taking in temples, going on information dense but sadly momo-free walking tours, and bopping around bars with other bearded backpacker types.  In the evenings I sought out the local Newari cuisine and found myself confronted with a litany of unknown dishes, relying of google image search to guide me through my selection of plates full of reverberating heat and piquant pickles, washed down with Chhaang, a milky rich rice wine served in a clay pot. Though thoroughly charmed by the city, I came to Nepal for the Himalayas not the urban expanse and was eager to begin my time in the mountains. My excitement only intensified on my flight to Pokhara, a lakeside city serving as Nepal’s gateway to the mountains, as I kept my eyes glued to the 8,000m spires rising above the clouds outside my porthole window.

My first trek of the trip was a four day walk to the base camp of Mardi Himal. I selected this hike because it allowed me to quickly gain elevation and walk along the treelined and snowcapped ridges of the famed Annapurna massif, before embarking on my planned longer journey into the high desert climes of Upper Mustang, an autonomous region with a rich Tibetan culture.

After scarfing down two bus station samosas during a rumbling ride down a potholed gravel road, I started my hike from the sleepy town of Kande (1770 m). On my bus ride, I caught glimpses of the ice capped mountains from my window seat—the last time I would see those peaks for the next two days. For as I began my ascent along the rhododendron lined pathway, the fog rolled in, sealing any vistas in a hot wet white blanket. I hadn’t quite anticipated that the Himalayan foothills would have the same drenched t-shirt clinging to your back humidity of Sarasota, Florida. Marching my way up interminable sets of stone cut steps (the trail construction here is top notch, and must require absurd amounts of labor to ensure that the path is not washed away during the yearly monsoon), I passed guest house after guest house, each with a name like “360 panorama mountain vista villa”. Some even had a little picture on the sign out front, showing you what the view would have been if only there was not an impenetrable wall of water vapor foreclosing any dramatic selfie or panoramic possibilities.

Lunch at one of these tea houses consisted of dal, curry and an amorphous slate colored buckwheat paste called dhido. With a playdough like consistency perfect for soaking up curry, the dhido both provided me with plenty of protein power for hiking and scratched my itch for ordering some weird unknown dish that hopefully contained no offal. I was not, however, anticipating its dubious digestive effects; like Ethiopian injera the spongy substance continued to expand post-consumption, producing a burgeoning bulge in my already voluminous belly.

Resigned to the fact that I would not, in fact be seeing any of those mountains that were rumored to be on the other side of the mist, I walked merrily along, admiring the muppet textured mosses and forearm thick vines, listening to the birdsong, cursing myself for not having downloaded that app that can identify the species by its call. Then I felt a drop. And then a big wet ‘nother. Within a minute a deluge had begun. I donned my wetwear, dismayed to see the trail transform into big brown slip n slide. And dear reader, I did in fact thrice slide and slip down the slick path, with looney tunes level pratfalls that made me glad that I was solo hiking (if a Mark falls in the forest and no is there to chortle, can he still die of embarrassment?)

Rolling into the Forest Camp (2400m) bedraggled and drenched just before sundown, I went from tea house to tea house asking if they had any open beds for my poor soaked self. Rebuffed by the guest houses of solid stone construction that looked warm and inviting and potentially were not lying about the promised warm water in their showers, I found a slot at a slightly dilapidated guest house run by a young family with a devastatingly cute puppy and an almost equally adorable five year old. Peeling off my layers muck coated outer-wear, I was distinctly nonplussed to discover three leeches holding fast to my left arm, like tween girls latching onto Justin Bieber circa 2011. Okay I know that my dramatization of this day may sound like this was not in fact so nice, but as I nestled up next to the fire to read my stories and slurp up some soul warming aloo curry, I felt this bone level contentment that always washes over me after a long hike.

The next morning, I did thirty minutes of yoga while waiting for breakfast (consisting of veg omelette, Tibetan fried bread, honey, black tea, recounting my meal bc this is really just a food blog). The sight of a white boy doing yoga led to fits of laughter and mimicry from the guesthouse owner’s young son. In fact, making fun of my morning yoga routine was one of the only things that could tear his eyes away from his TikTok videos, anxiety over youth screen time being, apparently less of a thing in these parts.

The second day of the trek was a brief burst of uphill. The twelve hundred meters of elevation gain passed swiftly; once I get into a good flow, I find that there is no better feeling than steadily pushing your self up the mountain, blowing by the groups taking breaks on the side of the trail due to altitude, thirst or the plaintive cries of young children who felt insufficiently consulted about the family trekking itinerary.

As the trail busted through the treeline at 3000m, I was even able to catch a momentary peek at a coquettish snow capped peak before she covered herself once again in her cloudy white shroud. The high altitude shrubland was also home to a herd of yaks, who stared stoically directly in my eyes before defecating on the trail and ever so slowly shuffling off the path, as if to say “I’m moving because I want to move, not because you’re asking me to.”

In the early afternoon, I stepped into High Camp (3500m), finding that once again, the sturdiest-looking guest houses had already been booked out by early risers and folks walking with guides who made reservations ahead of time. I found myself at the last guest house, perched on the edge of the ridgeside. Other guesthouses advertised warm showers, already had a cracking fire in the central stove and seemed full of smiling exhausted hikers swapping banal travel stories with new friends over piping mugs of tea. My guesthouse had no shower (frigid hose-down not advised but available upon request) and a chilly living room full of Nepalese tea house workers playing some gambling card game that involved a lot of delighted shouting and cards being thrown emphatically upon the table. But I was given a big thermos of tea, a showed to blanket and a comfy perch to read, and enjoyed the excitement of the card game whose rules remained a mystery to me no matter many hands I attempted to follow. Eventually another group of travellers arrived as well: a Frenchwoman with halting English and an unadventurous pallette. At mealtimes over the next few days on the trail, I invariably saw her with a big plate of spaghetti ragù, which seemed criminal to me in a land with such great food, oh so far from the hills of Italy. But of course, no judgement.

Just before sunset a miracle happened. The fog began to lift. I stood transfixed as, slowly, slowly, the mist melted away in the golden hour light, revealing the craggy form of the 7 km tall mountains that, as promised, had been there the whole time. After two days of being teased by the thick milky smokescreen, it was jarring to see Anapurna South right in front of me, so close you felt like you could touch it. The whole hillside broke out in excited murmurs, as scores of puffy jacket clad hikers left the warmth of the hearth to stand transfixed in a moment of unadulterated rapture and score some sweet content for the ‘gram. We unleashed a collective “ooh” as a gust of wind blew aside the remaining clouds, uncovering the iconic Machhapucharre  moutainface that had been, unbeknownst to us, looming there behind our right shoulder. An embarrassment of alpine riches was already in our laps, with the final ascent still to come.

I rose the next day at 3:15, eager to make the climb to Mardi Himal Base Camp and dismayed to discover that my headlamp was out of battery. Clutching my iPhone cum flashlight in my left hand and trekking pole in my right, I set out for my hike under a swirling milky way and blanket of innumerable stars. Little blobs of LED light bobbed ahead of me, evidence of a pocket of elderly hikers who had also arisen at this ungodly hour to witness the dawns glow on the mountain face. Passing this group in the first half hour, I was pleased to see no other lights ahead of me. I had woken up so early to ensure that I wouldn’t need to pass throngs of other tourists, giving me total privacy on this somewhat mystical climb up the ridge. Looking up at the silhouetted peaks, glowing glacier surrounded by pinpricks of starlight, I heard no sounds save my heavy breathing and the whip of the wind.

Then suddenly, a whoosh of fur and clattering of claw, as two dark forms rushed past me. After recovering from my initial terror and adjusting my eyes to the dark, I realized that, seeing me hiking on my lonesome, a pair of dogs had decided to accompany me to the top. Now trotting ahead of me, now sticking to my heels, now peering off to see the soft dawn colors in the valley below, my hounds (I dubbed them Dog A and Dog B) would never sit still long enough for me to get a properly framed portrait.

At 4200m, we passed a set of flapping Tibetan prayer flags and a rudimentary mountaintop tea shop, still shuttered as the owner was getting some shuteye. Although this stop could have been the end of the hike, my handy GPS map showed the trail continuing for another few hundred meters up the ridgeline for a spectacular sunrise viewpoint.

Perhaps when the trail seemed to abruptly fade into a rockfall zone of absurd verticality, I should have had a sufficient degree of self-preservation to turn around and soak in the phenomenal pinks and golds and mauves of the first fingers of sunlight playing on rock walls of Anapurna from the safety of the tea shop below. But spurred on by masculine stupidity and fortified by the calming presence of my canine companions, I proceeded to climb the sheer face of the ridge. While the ascent was perhaps more physically demanding than anything I have done since that one swim practice my senior year of college where I lost my lunch, I was more concerned about how the heck I would get back down. But that was a problem for future Mark.

Reaching the top (4500m) after an hour of struggle, the three of us collapsed down onto a rock, sharing a peanut butter granola bar and the most sublime view these eyes have ever seen. Meditating for a moment in my alpine perch and listening to my heart still pounding from the exertion of the climb, I felt intensely and exuberantly present. As I struggled to absorb the titanic beauty before me, I was overcome by a wave of gratitude for all the good fortunes in my life that had borne me to the mountaintop. Blessed by health, wealth, supportive family and a coterie of amazing friends, I was utterly alone and felt not at all lonely. I was also grateful for the fog the previous days, which made this final mountain vista seem all the more precious.

The route down the mountain was just as treacherous as imagined, requiring total and complete focus. Concentrating on each footstep and placement of my hiking pole to ensure I didn’t sprain and ankle or trigger a rockslide, my state of flow was only interrupted when Dog A decided to repeatedly jump on me and walk directly between my legs. I wasn’t quite sure if he was trying to be supportive or push me to my death, but I am assuming the former because I’m pretty sure that after tasting the epicurean delights of a peanut butter granola bar that dog would have followed me to the end of the earth.

But despite the misguided assistance from my newfound four legged friend, I managed to descend unscathed. And while I last saw Dog B running into the distance to go yap at some yaks, Dog A accompanied me for the next four hours as I slowly made my way back down to camp. (After she had been a loyal sidekick for most of the morning, I realized that she deserved a less generic name, but alas, at that point it was too late for a rechristening.) The owner of the tea shop aggressively shooed Dog A out of the dining area. I tried to explain that this wasn’t just any flea bitten curr, but family, and the owner shot me a look that said I would be next if I kept on advocating for the pooch. He also helpfully explained that the last bit of the route was extremely dangerous, and this year during rainy season a handful of hikers lost the path and plummeted to their deaths. Which I am glad I didn’t know beforehand because I really wanted to make it to the top, but I also promised my mother that I wouldn’t do anything too stupid.

The next day, before I slipped back down behind the treeline, I enjoyed breakfast complete with a delicious view of the peaks and a frothy cappuccino. Some remarkably strong porter had schlepped an Italian espresso machine all the way up the trail and, while the latte art was not quite as good as that from my personal barista slash former coworker Paul back in Berlin, it was a rare treat to enjoy a proper coffee in the remote Himalayas.  As I sipped my foam, the morning mist began to reclaim the mountains. A sense of mournful and nostalgic completeness overtook me as the summits were sheathed in the clouds, like the sense of closure you feel on the last day of camp. I finished my coffee and turned my back on the mountains, humming “Closing Time” as I traipsed my way back towards civilization. Okay I wasn’t actually humming that because it would be maudlin af but it was definitely that type of vibe.

Currently Reading

• Why Buddhism Is True by Robert Wright. Argues for the scientific validity of the main philosophical tenets of materialistic (i.e. non-religious) Buddhism.

• The Snow Lion and the Dragon by Melvin Goldstein. A political history of modern Tibet and its subordination by China. Interesting to see the Dalai Lama as a political player, though perhaps not always an adroit one.

• The Years by Annie Ernaux. A memoir in the third person, with sociological details of a changing France in the 20th century. It’s pretty good so far, I get why they tossed her the Nobel a few years back.

1. FYI boomers this is a joke about Charlie XCX.