On the road

Finally, we were back on the road, together. That alone felt like a small victory. But the relief didn’t last long. The rain intensified, turning the track into a ribbon of mud, swallowed by the pitch-black night. Headlights carved narrow tunnels of visibility, revealing just enough to show how little margin for error there was.

This driver was different. More experienced. Calmer. The jeep itself felt sturdier, more grounded. I clung to that thought as I drifted in and out of shallow sleep in the front seat, my head knocking against the window with every pothole, and there were countless ones.

At 2 a.m., all four jeeps screeched to a halt and lined up behind each other. Ahead of us, the road pitched sharply upward, a steep incline reduced to wet clay by the rain. The first jeep tried to climb. Its tires spun helplessly before it slid backward, alarmingly close to the edge. A collective breath was held in the darkness.

The second attempt failed. The third finally worked, just barely. To reduce the risk, the passengers had to get out and wait in the rain while the jeep attacked the slope empty. We watched in silence as it fishtailed wildly, sliding from one side of the track to the other, nearly tipping over before crawling its way to the top.

The second jeep needed two attempts. Then it was our turn.

The driver turned to us and calmly said we should stay inside. More weight meant more grip. None of us argued.

The engine roared. The jeep surged forward, slipping, bouncing, showing us every possible angle of the road at once. My stomach lurched, nausea rising as the tires lost and regained traction again and again. And then — somehow — we made it. One attempt. We erupted into shaky laughter and quiet celebration inside the car, adrenaline still coursing through our bodies.

From there, the night blurred into a long, relentless crawl, through rivers cutting across the road, past fresh landslides, through forests and open fields. When we finally reached paved roads in the early morning hours, it felt surreal. We changed vehicles again. We had just enough time to grab a coffee and stumble to the bathroom before we raced off again.

The next car was worse. No trunk. All luggage was strapped to the roof. Too few seats. Once again, we were crammed together, limbs overlapping, muscles stiff and sore. By now, we realized that Bibek had been riding in the trunk of the previous jeep all along, staying with us, watching over us from the shadows.

Ten more hours followed. Nerves frayed as flight times crept closer. Bibek urged the driver on, faster, not safer. Tires screamed through hairpin turns as we raced the clock.

And then, suddenly, light.

We watched the sunrise from above the clouds, descending from the Himalayas into the Nepali highlands. The landscape slowly softened. The stark greys of rock and mud gave way to greens and browns, terraces and villages. Still, the scars were everywhere. Landslides had torn Nepal open. Debris strewn across roads, entire sections washed away. We crossed rivers repeatedly, weaving past crews desperately trying to stitch the country back together.

Eventually, we reached the outskirts of Kathmandu. One final car change. A van with enough seats. Luxury. We stretched our aching legs and joints; the simple act of straightening our bodies felt indulgent.

At the hotel, we had one hour. One precious hour to shower, change clothes, and pretend we were human again. Apples waited in the room. Kiki and I devoured them before stepping under hot water. The warmth loosened muscles I didn’t realize were still clenched. I scrubbed away days of sweat and dust. The best shower of my life.

We repacked, duffels emptied, backpacks reclaimed. Normality, slowly returning.

We learned we had missed Alfred by forty-five minutes. He had flown from Everest Base Camp to Kathmandu, and we were meant to meet him here. Timing, once again, had other plans. Bibek soon had to leave as well, already heading out with another group.

We shared one final meal together, replaying the trek, the fear, the absurdity, the shared trauma of the last twenty-four hours. Then came the hugs. Long ones.

Back in the hotel, where Christoph and Michael were staying too, doors closed quietly one by one. Without ceremony, without words, we collapsed into our beds.

And just like that, the long, chaotic road back from Mount Everest was over.

What a journey it has been. I am so grateful for everyone on the trek. All amazing people!

Christoph and Michael have already completed the Annapurna trek together.