The Hues of the Himalaya

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Always ship your returns via an insured carrier. Search engine Use this form to find things you need on this site. A little further we encounter an old Soviet truck spewing toxic fumes. He has just dropped his contraband, and is about to drive back over the m-high Nara La pass to the Tibetan border village of Hilsa. With a giant plume of dust in our wake, we roar over what could barely even be called a wide trail were it located in the Swiss Alps.

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I peer out of the cabin to find the valley floor, but without success. A herd of yak appears from around the corner, accompanied to the sound of furious honking by our teenage driver. There is barely space to pass and the cliff face drops into an abyss below. I cover my eyes and piss my pants. A day late and a dollar short. High above the seething Karnali, an impossible path has been hewn from the perpendicular wall. In a gulch we encounter a collection of sculpted houses against a cliff. Every inch is filled with perfectly carved terraces. Ripe millet stalks sway on the echoes of drums.

Humming women chant and the whole village is out for harvest. Deeper into the valley, the hamlets of Til, Halji and Jang are as if drawn from some medieval graphic novel.

At dawn we chant the mantra on the rhythm of the prayer drum at the year old Gompa, a Buddhist building serving as monastery, fortress and school. Days later we pitch our camp in an arid Himalayan landscape just below the m-high Nyula La pass. Ram tries to light a fire from the yak dung he has collected behind some stones.

A passing shepherd warms his hands and disappears half-heartedly into the night with emaciated goats following in his wake.

Howls of a nearby wolf pack rifle through the valley. By the time we stumble back into Simikot our bodies have adapted to a diet of Chapati, Dal Bhat and yet more Dal Bhat. Our skin has acquired the musky odour of our dusty surroundings.

The wind howls at my face and I feel ice forming on my beard. I pull my clothes tighter. To my left, the Lhashamma peak, at m, is being swallowed by the clouds. On every step up, my lungs cry for oxygen and my muscles plead. Still m ascent until the m Kagmara La pass is reached. A golden eagle swoops effortlessly on a thermal. It has been two weeks since Simikot.

I recall the place fondly as I toil — terraced fields shimmering in the sun and cannabis plants flowering among the cornfields, spreading a sweet smell over the trail. Malnourished, rag-wrapped, but charming children do not even know how to beg. The village community of Dharma haunts us to the edge of the forest. We have been confused with aid workers.

Saddened, we disappear into the dark, tropical jungle. Mule caravans dominate on the steep, undulating forested trails, exporting famous red rice, cultivated in Mugu; and importing consumer goods. The Dasain Hindu festival concludes in the windy regional capital of Jumla. Thronging crowds — haggling and waving rupees — push and shove. The streets are crimson with the slaughter of goats and the bloodthirsty goddess Kali rejoices. Ram struggles but eventually finds two young boys willing to porter in the rugged Dolpo, a sparsely populated high desert, which requires us to carry almost all food and camping equipment for the next weeks.

Enthusiasm evaporates when the braided carrycots are awkwardly twisted on their backs. We traverse the m Namala and m Bagala passes in a knee-jarring and frigid hour marathon. Even to high-desert standards, superlatives pour from our mouths. It is difficult to process — the human brain is not built to comprehend such a vast landscape. At the southern horizon, the m Dhaulagiri blocks the monsoon rains and to the north the vast Tibetan plateau still awaits freedom.

We descend into the Tharap valley, the perfect vignette of what forbidden Tibet is all about — manis, stupas, gompas, dust-scattering yak caravans and monasteries decorated with prayer flags. Contrast points in the ochre mountain desert. Clouds of spindrift blow over the ridge in the sunshine. The silence is only broken by the roars of invisible avalanches breaking off the Gakoshir Himal. The Rolwaling Himal is west of the world-famous Khumbu, where Everest reigns.

This secluded valley, on the border with Tibet, offers a wild and dangerous route to the Everest Region over the glaciated Tesi Lapcha pass. Rolwaling serves as a wildlife barrier between the Langtang and Sagarmatha National Parks. A surging river thunders through virgin forest full of swinging, thieving monkeys. Above the canopy, tiny streams trickle along steep granite walls.

The valley has only one settlement worth mentioning — Beding.

The village is perched above a colourful monastery below Garin Shankar Himal. Mutilated Sherpa hands reach out: We must continue and soon we have camped. Our simmering gas stove battles with crushed ice chunks from the Drolambu ice fall. Snuggled in layers of down, I peer through the tent zippers towards the chaotic debris on the Trakarding glacier.