Hiking in the dark

“Every journey begins with a single step, but in the Himalayas, every step feels like a pilgrimage.” – Reinhold Messner

The group finally reunited in Lukla. As soon as our helicopter touched down on the tiny runway, Bibek gathered us together and led us through the bustling mountain town. Lukla had a certain charm—stone-paved streets, wooden houses clinging to the slopes, and the constant flutter of prayer flags above our heads. We stopped at a small restaurant where the rest of the group had already finished lunch. Over hot plates of food, we were introduced to our porters and Sherpas—quiet, strong men with warm smiles, who would soon become our lifelines on the trail. We rented Nordic walking sticks, made last adjustments to our gear, and then, almost suddenly, it was time to set off.

There is only one road in Lukla, a stony mountain path lined with prayer flags, that connects the airport to the greater trail. Passing through a ceremonial gate felt like stepping out of one world and into another—the symbolic beginning of our Himalayan adventure.

The first steps were easy, the path winding down before climbing steeply again. “Climb high, sleep low,” Bibek reminded us, explaining the careful rhythm of acclimatization. Along the way, we encountered our first caravans of donkeys and naks (half-cow, half-yak), their bells ringing as they hauled supplies to villages higher up. Clouds hung low, shrouding the valleys in mystery, but the air was crisp and fresh, and luckily no rain followed us.

Excitement bubbled in the group. Every suspension bridge felt like a scene from a movie—long, swaying structures draped with hundreds of prayer flags that whispered in the wind. Beneath us, rivers carved their way through deep gorges, their power echoing the force of the recent landslides. At one point, the trail opened up to scarred hillsides where whole swaths of earth had collapsed, leaving behind a raw reminder of nature’s strength and fragility.

Not all encounters were so serene. Kiki, in her enthusiasm, wandered too close to a cow guarding her calf. In an instant, the mother lowered her horns and charged. My heart stopped. Thankfully, Dhan, one of our Sherpas, reacted with lightning speed, stepping between Kiki and the cow, waving his arms, and driving it back. Kiki laughed nervously afterward and learned the hard way not to approach cows, donkeys, or yaks on the trek.

Further along, the path split around a massive boulder inscribed with flowing Sanskrit mantras, white letters curling across the dark stone. Our guide instructed us to pass clockwise, a gesture of respect and good fortune. It reminded me of the prayer wheels we had spun in Kathmandu—each turn, each step, a small wish for safe passage and prosperity.

By the time we reached our destination, night had settled over the mountains. We switched on our headlamps, the narrow beams bouncing against the rocky path as we made our way to the Shangri-La Guesthouse. It was a modest teahouse, but its wooden interior glowed with warmth. We gathered in the common room, shedding damp clothes for dry ones, and ordered our meals. The atmosphere was cozy, almost family-like. A friendly cat padded between us, eventually curling up on laps and purring as if he too were part of the team.

Dinner was hearty and delicious—simple Nepali food that tasted like heaven after the long day. Around the big wooden table, many of us pulled out our journals, the scratch of pens mixing with the low murmur of conversation. There was something soothing in writing together, recording the day while it was still fresh, before fatigue carried us off to bed. We lingered until around 9:30, laughing softly, sipping tea, sharing the thrill of having truly begun.

That night, tucked under heavy blankets with the chill mountain air pressing against the windows, it finally sank in: the trek had begun.