Mardi Himal Trek and

Pokhara
This trek has been physically demanding,
emotionally invigorating, and mentally centering.
It’s intimidating to write about — an infinity of
thoughts demand expression. I worry that no
number of words could accurately convey my
experience, but I might as well try.
CHAPTER 1: THE TREK
Exposition: a trek in the Himalayas is a multi-day
expedition during which one ascends and descends
a mountain, staying at “tea houses” — camps
offering basic accommodation and nourishment at
a small cost — while carrying all necessities in a
backpack.

My trek companions were Lea and Jessie — the

two other UVa students — and Nora, a delightful
26-year-old German grad student. Beforehand, we
spent two nights at a cozy homestay run by a
brother and sister in Pokhara, an idyllic lake town,
after a 7-hour bus ride from Kathmandu. We chose
our trek, Mardi Himal, per the recommendation of
two friends, for its alleged solitude and lesser-
known status; it was apparently a favorite among
locals, relatively undiscovered by tourists.
In retrospect, this was accurate. The solitude of
Mardi Himal during off-season was both eerie and
awe-inspiring, invoking, at times, peace of mind,
and, at others, fear.

It often felt as if we had the

mountain to ourselves — to
perceive her in all her
majesty and divine power,
through her darkness and her
light, through challenge and
triumph, through mud-
soaked ditches and through
cloud-bathed ambiguity and
sun-drenched, joyous peaks,
as clear as day.
The first day was a short but steep, physically
demanding stretch. Beginning in Kande (1770
meters high), we hiked 300 meters in an hour and a
half of sweltering sun and humidity, on a path
winding through fields of goats and roving cows,
past women in traditional Nepali garb carrying
vegetables overhead in woven baskets.

It was a challenging ascent — mostly consisting of

back-to-back stone stairs — that we prayed the rest
of the trek would not resemble. Suddenly, after one
switchback, a range of snow-capped mountains in
the distant sky came clearly into view. We were in
awe — this was our first view of the Himalayas in
Nepal. We were elated to discover that our first tea
house — Australia Camp — was situated right
after this, at the precise point where the peaks
appeared.

There, horses grazed in a wide open grassy field

overlooking the mountains, over which the sun set.
We met a women working on a loom who wove
beautiful, colorful “pashminas” (fashionable
Nepali scarves) for a living, and lived at Australia
camp year-round. (We experienced this in stark
contrast to the mass-produced, suspiciously
similar-looking pashminas sold for cheap on the
streets of Kathmandu). It was 2019, we thought,
and this woman made a living on a remote
mountainside weaving scarves to sell to passersby
— that was a reality so foreign to us, the first of
many that challenged our conceptions of how
contemporary humans can interact with the spaces
they inhabit.
We met two Australian young women who were
on their way down, who gave both me and Lea
their winter coats and beanies free of cost, warning
us of freezing cold temperatures at the summit.
The kindness of people in this country — even its
travelers — never ceases to amaze me.

The Nepali man running the teahouses played a

combination of traditional Nepali tuneage and mid-
2010s American radio hits, a bizarre trend I’ve
noticed here. I continue to be surprised at
American entertainment’s influence on the rest of
the world — Nepali establishments and
international travelers included.

It’s especially funny because sometime it’s songs

that haven’t been popular in the U.S. for a decade
or so — Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” and Green
Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” were
in Nepal’s Apple Music Top 50 music the other
day. I once ate at a restaurant that exclusively
played Ed Sheeran, and this Australia camp man
played Pitbull’s “Timber.” Music tastes, as I know,
are infinitely nuanced — an appreciation for
traditional Nepali string music and for
contemporary American top 40 rap can be
reconcilable.

Each teahouse has an identical menu, although the

prices and cooking time increase as you ascend.
We had read that Australia camp was famous for
its cornbread, but, upon inquiring about it, learned
that they were out. (We proceeded to ask about
cornbread at every subsequent destination, to find
that the cornbread ingredients had not made it up
the mountain — if there wasn’t any at Australia
camp, there definitely wouldn’t be any higher up.)
Oddly enough, the lodging at Australia camp was
the most expensive of our trek (200 roopees – less
than $2 – per person.) At Australia camp, there
were showers, running water, electricity, and even
Wifi — luxuries we were blissfully unaware that
we would lack for the subsequent ascent. I ate
veggie noodles and the group shared veggie
momos (Nepali dumplings) and a slice of apple
pie.

The second day was the longest (in hours and in

distance) and, in my eyes, the most strenuous. It
was invigorating.
Few feelings rival the sheer adrenaline and joy of
hiking through unknown territory with a goal in
sight, especially after a cup of coffee. (I did a lot to
moderate my relationship with caffeine this past
semester, but reintroducing coffee in Nepal a
healthy way — drinking a small cup, only in the
morning, for energy and endorphins to heighten
my enjoyment of physical activity — has helped
me optimize my experience).

We hiked for 7 and a half hours. During the first

few hours — mostly weaving in and out of
temperate forests, along gradual ascents and
descents — we passed two villages, and assumed
the rest of the trek would follow a similar
trajectory. We were sorely mistaken. Our guide to
the trek had listed the two villages as an hour and a
half apart, which they were, and each had food
offerings, lodging, and restrooms (this is a
generous term, every bathroom from Australia
Camp onward was a hole with a bucket used to
wash down solid waste, without soap or toilet
paper, whose odors deteriorated at a rate
proportional to the increasing altitude). The guide
had cited an hour and a half hike to our next
destination — Suiredanda — and, after a steep,
forested ascent up seemingly endless sets of stairs,
we needed it. To our surprise, Suiredanda was
merely a viewpoint featuring prayer flags and a
small, empty Hindu temple. Onward.

Being drenched in sweat from physical exertion —

and your own sweat actually making you cold once
you stop moving — is a unique feeling, affirming
the power of the human body, and a feeling we
experienced a lot those few days.

We seemed to be playing a game of tag with two

friendly, young Indian men, who we would catch
up to when they stopped for water, who were
generous in supplying information and guidance.
 We immersed ourselves in another forest — this
one full of old, sturdy, moss-cloaked rhododendron
trees. It had been a trying, exhausting day, and we
were ready for Donkharka — our stop an hour and
a half after Suiredanda — which, surely, we
thought, would be a small village. (Little did we
know that we had already passed the last “village”
for the remainder of our ascent). Donkharka was a
very minimal bamboo hut in the forest, offering a
minimal menu of some basic food and tea
offerings. After muesli bars and some deliberation,
we decided to trudge on to Forest Camp,
supposedly only 2 hours away. At this point, at
around 2400 meters, we had entered into a cloud,
which was surreal. We were submerged in an
unabated mist in all directions, making it so we
couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. What
would have been panoramic overlooks were
endless outstretches of opaque cumulus pillows as
far as the eye could see.

Long-distance hikes, especially steep climbs,

gradually separate groups by pace, and we were no
exception. With Jessie first, myself second, Lea
third, and Nora fourth, we ended up spread out
such that I often could see neither the person
behind nor ahead of me. I’ve often felt that hiking
is a solo activity for contemplation, and have tried
to explain to hiking companions how I can be
content with hiking independence, space, and
silence — so this solitude was refreshing and
centering. A lot of my Nepal experience has been a
journey in building confidence and cultivating my
ability to think for myself, work independently,
and derive joy and energy inwardly. Hours of
hiking alone solidified that. It was grounding to
have the space for both active, independent
thought and “forest bathing”-esque meditation of
observing the sights, smells and sounds of my
surroundings. It felt energizing to spend so many
hours ascending at my own pace, and continuously
affirmed in me the power of exercise as a means to
produce endorphins, making me feel exuberant,
strong, capable, and alive.

After a pleasant, level stretch, at long last, we

arrived at Forest Camp, where we were the only
guests. A kind, grandmotherly woman welcomed
and congratulated us, satiating us with pots of milk
tea, fried rice, momos, and dal bhat. Forest Camp
was frigid and had a rugged feel to it. There was
no electricity save for solar power, which a cloudy
afternoon did not provide. We remarked that it felt
undeniably remote, and that there were layers of
comfort zone we’d departed from -– our cozy
brother-and-sis homestay in Pokhara felt far, far
away; our family at the Foundation even farther;
and the United States almost inconceivably distant.

 It was home to a farm, replete with goats and

cows, and what we thought was a sick, horned cow
whose fur had grown gray from age, making a
strange wailing noise, but it turned out to be a
buffalo!
The trek stripped our emotions and perceptions
down to their bare bones. We ate when our
bodies needed fuel to continue; we drank when
we lost enough water from sweat that it needed
replenishment; we stopped walking when our
bodies couldn’t continue to move without rest.

Our rugged, simplistic accommodations alongside

few other guests and our removal from technology
and material luxuries seemed to make our
emotional experiences more stark.
They presented a series of contrasts – between feelings of
forested loneliness and the camaraderie of reconvening with
the group; between isolation from the outside world and the
clarifying peace of connection with nature; between
wilderness fear and the solace of reaching your home for the
next night; between frustrated exhaustion and the strength
one feels after strenuous activity; between disheartened
anguish and the utter relief of reaching one’s destination.

There was no internet access to mediate our

relationship with the outside world between our
departure from Australia Camp and our eventual
return to Pokhara. This fostered bonding, and
heightened our immersion in our physical and
mental perceptions of the present moment at any
given time.

We’d arrived at around 3 pm, which left us the rest

of the afternoon to recuperate and explore. Wifi-
less, electricity-less and exhausted, alongside no
other guests, we got creative with our activities. I
stumbled upon a guitar with a broken string, whose
owner let me play it for a long time, and we all
read, took a walk, watched the sunset, and did
some yoga. At dark, we encountered a group of 35
Nepali teens who’d just arrived at Forest Camp,
who we would ironically run into throughout the
rest of the trek. The group joyously sang and
played hand drums late into the night, disrupting
our slumber. We also met a 30-something year-old
French couple on a six-month bike-packing
expedition across southeast Asia, who we’d
encounter periodically.

Forest Camp was likely where I received 40 or so

bedbug bites on my calves (in the limited space my
pants weren’t covering), but the itching was never
excruciating and has since subsided, so I can’t
complain! I’ve decided that at least half of minor
physical discomfort is psychological; the person
constantly counting bug bites and thinking about
them is the person who feels more itchy, who
senses bugs when they aren’t there. When you’re
fortunate enough to be climbing a mountain with
your friends, in a space of breathtaking, awe-
inducing majesty, and there’s nothing you can do
about your discomfort, there are more important
thoughts to occupy your mind.

After Forest Camp, we were a group with a

mission. High Camp –- the highest point of Mardi
Himal with accommodation –- was 1,000 meters
away, more than twice the elevation we’d climbed
the previous day, but a fraction of the distance
from our starting point. Between them were Low
Camp, Middle Camp, and Badal Danda -– three
potential locations for our next night -– but it
would all depend on how we were feeling.
After Forest Camp, we entered into a dense sea of
rhododendron forest, more expansive and all-
enveloping than the previous day of montane
foliage. As the change in elevation was more
sharp, we became more spread out. The Forest to
Low Camp stretch was the least well-marked of all
trail segments, where, at points, any number of
footpaths could reasonably be a trail. Walking
along one of them, at some point I realized I
couldn’t remember the last time I saw a blue and
white blaze. I had lost the trail. Believing that I
would be able to intercept it soon enough, I
decided to continue walking for five minutes or so,
scanning the trees for blazes. After five minutes of
wandering to no avail, I began to panic. My
“mapsme” app showed that the trail was
significantly to my left, which was only mildly
helpful. At some point, it occurred to me that I was
truly, genuinely lost, in a huge forest with no
distinctive landmarks, far from blazes, with cell
service neither where I was coming from nor
where I was going. Knowing that the trail was
supposed to ascend a ridge, and that the trail was
to my left, I spotted a large boulder on top of
which, it occurred to me, the trail must be – I had
been hiking at a constant elevation for quite some
time. The boulder had three ledges, which it
appeared I could reasonably climb without much
trouble. Upon beginning to climb the first, and
upon looking back at the hill behind me, I decided
the rock was too muddy and daunting to risk
injury. My shirt and leggings are – at this point –
covered in mud. I decide that the weight of my
backpacking pack may threaten to drag me down,
so I toss it down and hop down from the ledge
myself afterward. I land safely, but my phone and
water bottle depart from my bag in mid-air; upon
landing, my pack, bottle, and self are at three
different points along the hill, and my phone, I
assume, is somewhere amidst the leaf litter. At this
point, a leech falls from the rock above onto my
cheek.

AT AROUND THEN, IT OCCURRED TO

ME THAT THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME IN
RECENT MEMORY THAT I WAS
EXPERIENCING RAW, GENUINE FEAR.
It felt visceral, primal, and innately human; the
kind of fear that evolution gave our bodies to
initiate proper action in sticky situations. Sure, we
may regularly expose ourselves to danger by
driving a car or embarking on a sketchy mountain
bike ride, but the feeling this evoked felt distinctly
primordial. In modern life, the primal emotions are
generally watered down –- through material
comfort, technology, and ease of living –- fear
experiences are generally on the order of
magnitude of a phobia of snakes or spiders, an
aversion to fast-moving rollercoasters or tall
heights. I think experiencing the full range of
human emotion — as uncomfortable, intense, and
overwhelming as it may be -– is when you feel the
most conscious of your humanity. I was
immediately grateful for a life in which these
moments were rare. I was aware of my own
imperfection and mortality, and of the unyielding
power of nature over me. Humans have spent the
past few centuries on a quest to exploit, to control,
to manipulate, to dominate the natural world, and it
was humbling to be truly at nature’s mercy.

So there I was, at nature’s mercy, lost, covered in

mud, a blood-sucking companion on my cheek, my
possessions scattered throughout the hill. At that
moment, something clicked inside of me. I didn’t
cry, I didn’t lose composure, I didn’t sit there in
self-doubt or self-pity. The fear set off something
within me – my veins coursed with adrenaline and
I proceeded in a calm, collected manner. Wiping
the leech off my face, I collected my belongings
and followed a zigzag path of backtracking, aided
my mapsme, to where, I imagined, the trail up the
rock must have originated. Five minutes in, sure
enough, a young rhododendron revealed to me an
unmistakable blue and white marking on its trunk.
Grinning from cheek to cheek, I begin running
along the trail, my heart beating out of my chest
with excitement, still pumping waves of
adrenaline. The forest opens up into a clearing, and
I spot a beautiful blue-tailed bird, an omen of good
fortune. Remarkably, I come across two hikers
headed downward (two of the only hikers I’d seen
on the mountain thus far), who I greet with
freakish enthusiasm. Hiking quickly, I manage to
catch up to Lea and Nora, both thoroughly
confused at how I got there without them passing
me.

At Low Camp, the four of us reunite for a cozy

meal, cards, and hot tea, dining alongside the
French couple. Upon hearing my tale, everyone is
empathetic and apologetic, and Jessie pledges to
stick with me for subsequent trails. The Low to
Middle Camp stretch is brief and easier than
anticipated. At Middle Camp, we reconvene with
the Nepali group of 35, a couple of whom share
advice, pleasant conversation, and a celebratory
joint with Jessie and me upon arrival. By Middle
Camp, we’d seen cows, goats, mules, donkeys,
buffalo, and stray dogs, but had yet to see a yak -–
at that point, the long-furred, horned, herd-oriented
montane creature had only inhabited vague,
recounted Himalayan folktale. So, at Badal Danda,
we were elated to find a yak farm, with yak dairy
products, several adult yaks, and ten or so precious
yak children. We also met a distinctly-looking
stray dog with a tic near his eye, which we tried,
unsuccessfully, to remove.

The day still young and our spirits high, we

decided to continue to High Camp. The Badal
Danda to High Camp stretch was supposed to be
the most strenuous, but was also the most
beautiful.
We had emerged from the forest, and Badal Danda
signaled a drastic shift in terrain. We were
suddenly hiking through a wide open space on all
sides, on a trail snaking through a grassy, alpine
pasture dotted with yellow and purple wildflowers,
without a tree in sight. We were in a cloud, once
again with the mountain to ourselves, in what
seemed to be a mystical limbo zone between
reality and a dream world. We encountered a herd
of yaks on the trail, with whom we were patient
(the yaks no longer in a domesticated setting, their
horns at once appeared more daunting). The trail
winded through a Mars-esque, rocky crater area
made from burnt red sandstone. We were steeply
ascending – grassy, rolling, wildflower-speckled
meadow still stretching as far as the eye could see.

We reach High Camp, come across a tea house

named “Hotel Peacefull,” and meet a man no older
than 30, with bloodshot eyes, who offers us 2
rooms for 100 roopees a person. When we begin to
walk away, he calls after us and offers the rooms
for free. We accept. Of the tea houses, High Camp
was by far the most rugged, remote and surreal.
Gone were the days of running water, electricity
(even by solar power), and heat save for an open
fire in the dining room.

On the trek, we felt acutely aware of everything

we consumed and produced – there weren’t
barriers like there are in the U.S. We’d been
carrying every piece of paper or plastic we’d
consumed since the beginning of the trek;
anything we purchased was an additional
weight on our backs; and the ever-declining
bathroom and running water situation made us
hyper-conscious of our bodily processes and
products.