Yaks, tents and swing bridges. We head to the Himalayas for Sagarmāthā National Park and a sight of Nepal’s famous peaks. Daunted? Our writer was too, until she strapped on her boots and got walking. Follow Emma Gleason step by step as she takes us on her eight-day trek.
I never really thought I’d see Everest in my lifetime. That big, mythic peak that Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary first summited back in 1953. Known to Nepalese as Sagarmatha and Tibetans as Chomolungma, it’s the lure of World Expeditions’ Everest Trek. Always keen for some adventure and anything involving tents, my editor agreed and we began making arrangements.
Thumb through the calendar a few months and, somehow departure was only six weeks away. In the hubris of emails and fancying myself “intrepid” had I agreed to something beyond me? Would I be beset by blisters, not fit enough for all those kilometres of terrain and altitude? I bought new boots, drew up a rough plan of “exercise” and vaguely nutritious meals; consulted the comprehensive gear list supplied by World Expeditions, purchasing some things that seemed critical – waterproof hiking pants, thick socks, gloves. Five jogs later, the time had come and, after a couple of days of travelling, I was in Nepal.
Day one
Having arrived in Kathmandu the night before, most of my day is spent restlessly soaking up the sights of Nepal’s capital city while mentally and logistically preparing for the coming week.
Unpacking my luggage and rearranging what’s needed on the trail, I assess how much I can realistically carry in my Osprey day pack, and what will be left behind, securely, at the Radisson; a task that’s repeated after we’re given our large World Expeditions gear bags, which contain sleeping bags, fleece liners and puffers for us to use during the trek – temperatures are expected to get down to near zero at some higher altitudes at night.
Luggage weights are critical (there’s a strict limit to what can be taken on the plane, 15kg and 5kg for the kit bag and pack respectively, and carried by porters) so I weigh everything multiple times with travel scales.
Satisfied, our group convenes on the roof of the Radisson as the haze turns pink then slate blue, to be briefed by our team leader Bir Singh Gurung, who has been with the company 26 years, and his evening dispatches will be a daily ritual during our trip.
Day two
I’m up at 5am, half an hour before our scheduled wake-up call – another thing I’ll repeat throughout the trek – and have a coffee, instant, in bed while reading the news, before peeling myself out of the soft bed to shower (great water pressure at the Radisson) and pack. Then breakfast, idli for me, as much as we can fit in. Kites and ravens swoop overhead in the milky hazy as the city wakes up. Bags are lugged down and, we pile onto a lavender blue tourist bus and head out of town, the choke of traffic – busses and bikes embellished with “Buddha was born in Nepal” and “TikTok King” and “Mongolian Boy” – thinning as we leave the brick density of Kathmandu behind us; driving past signs for Ghurka Beer, Yamaha, Khukri Rum, City Express Money Transfer; banana palms and blooming roses, haystacks and brickworks. Travelling overland gives you a sense of place and an appreciation for distance – feelings that become even more significant when the mode is on foot, as we’re about to experience, walking to get somewhere.
Day three
After overnighting in Ramechhap, where we stayed at a World Expeditions campsite near the airstrip (where flights now leave for Lukla, instead of Kathmandu to ease pressure on Tribhuvan International airport) we rise to the nasal roar of Twin Otter engines; a good sign, flights are notoriously changeable due to visibility and weather.
The airport, when we get there at 9am having been called for our standby flight, is an organised throng of locals and travellers – weighing bags, arranging tickets. One dedicated man is wearing a full-snood long-sleeve. It’s always interesting what people wear. There’s the tight, slick activewear; the all-black tactical crew; those in the colourful gear of more traditional outdoor garb; marles, high-tech merino, polypropylene, Gore-Tex – functional fabrics that represent a certain kind of lifestyle and access. There’s a subtle but unignorable social assessment that takes place in these kind of spaces. Eyes quickly scan you head to toe, clocking style, brand names. You can see the mental arithmetic and status judgments; whose a novice or potentially out of their depth, who’s a seasoned expert with old gear – worn to an extent that has no shortcuts. I do it too, this social observation. It tells us a lot about each other, and with so many travellers drawn to the region, these observations elicit visual information that gives writers detail.
We’re a group of 10, seven of us journalists, and there’s camaraderie in the personalities and our shared trade. Discussing the trip and how we write about it is an early and ongoing topic of conversation. What sort of information can only be gleaned by first-hand experience? Is there a responsibility to only write about a place you’ve visited – a privilege in an era of proliferating listicles and imminent AI-created articles? What perceptive thought sets apart a story by a person who’s undertaken the time, geographical miles, and comfort to see what a place is like and tell you about?
These thoughts drift through my head as I sit on the departure lounge floor, soon scrabbling to board. We all cram on, legs finding space amidst our carry-on packs, and depart for Lukla.
Following the valley up, flanked by ridges and everything both too close for comfort and too far away, my heart is in my throat. But travel requires faith and trust, a relinquishing of control and independence; easy things to avoid or forget in our individualised, self-sufficient culture. Testing this is one reason I’m here; I’ve never done something like this on my own, no one to hold my hand on the tiny plane or remind me I’m tough halfway up an ascent.
Lukla, perched on the hillside, 2860m above sea level, with the Tenzing-Hillary Airport’s short and sharply pitched airstrip, is famous. The gateway to the region and a transit hub for the region’s people and visitors, there’s a border town feel; a thoroughfare for guides, porters, deliveries, tourists and pack animals converging on the colourful little town.
We walk to Ghat, a gentle descent to 2530m, crossing our first two swing bridges over the Dudh Kosi river ( the first of many).
Cloud nestles over the town as the afternoon wears on. Temperatures drop too. Tugging on fleece and thermals, and sliding sandals over socks (a necessity on a trek to give your feet a break in the evenings) we have tea and biscuits. Staying warm, especially after you’ve stopped moving, is important.
The brazier in the dining room gets cranking – sustainable yak dung is preferred as it minimises deforestation – and dinner is prepared by our head cook and his staff. Vegetables have been picked from property owner Gaga Maili’s (translates to middle sister) garden – organic salad and cauliflower, there’s no modern fertiliser here – and they’re served with chicken.
Food is important, and we’ll be getting three meals a day from the crew. The benefits are myriad; less risk of sickness, better nutrition, and we’ll be fuelled for all that walking. So is sleep. We’re all in our tents before 8pm, and will be for the rest of our trip.
Day four
Watching the rising sun slowly drench the nearby peak, we wash with the bowls of warm water in front of tents – provided every morning and evening – and pack our bags. Early risers are in the dining room already, and we toss around metaphors for the vista as we take notes and fuel up on breakfast (porridge, pancakes, boiled eggs) before departing to walk to our next camp at Monjo, which sits at 2850m.
It’s a gradual climb, past mani walls and stones – the picturesque cairns and boundaries are important in Tibetan Buddhism and should always be on your right – and these devotional geographic markers are, to my visitor’s eyes, moving; faith is part of the landscape.
We pass Himalayan cedar and blue pine, the famous rhododendrons – their season is starting and the hillsides are beginning to blush – blossoming pear and spiky Sichuan pepper trees.
Small, astrakhan-coated mountain horses pick their way along the trail, while Himalayan tahr scramble speedily down the cliffside across the milky river.
The camp at Monjo is tucked behind the village. A family-run World Expeditions site for the past 10 years, its caretaker Dali – who gifts us cream khada (scarves) for luck when we leave – has earned enough money to establish a guest house too. Her farm feeds her family and guests, and extra produce can be sold at market.
Before dinner, Bir tells us about Sagarmāthā National Park, which we’ll enter tomorrow, with pre-arranged permits, and spend the next four nights and five days.
Day five
We wake up to the sight of Numbur, 7000m high, beaming in the morning sun. It’s a big day, one of our tougher walks, headed to the famous, cinematic settlement Namche Bazaar.
We’re entering the Khumbu region, our permits are approved (revenue goes to community development in the region) and we enter Sagarmāthā National Park, but not before pouring over the old relief map outside the gates. Established in 1976, it spans 1184sq km and contains 300 snowy peaks, including Everest and other notable mountains – Lhotse, Nuptse and the beautiful Ama Dablam – as well as five major Sherpa villages, which are inhabited year-round. The park is home to red panda, musk deer, snow leopard, tar, wild yak and pheasant, the national bird.
It starts off easy enough. Setting off along the valley, river below, we cross the high bridge after a traffic jam of mules. However, from there it’s mostly all switchbacks all the way up; music helps, and I’ve made a playlist for this.
Also helpful, our lead sherpa guide Bal Bahadur (who goes by BB) keeps a slow, steady pace that makes the walk, though not an effortless undertaking, far easier than I expected. I’m also feeling the difference having spent an hour stretching last night, and my niggly knee and hip are no bother at all.
Bir and BB’s advice to walk “sherpa style” proves wise; short, slow steps to stretch out your energy and be softer on your joints. Up and up we go until, finally, we near Namche Bazaar.
I stubbornly never look at pictures of a place before I visit, if I can help it, so was genuinely surprised, as we rounded the rocky bend of the trail, to see a dense, colourful amphitheatre of buildings nestled in the crook of the hillside, high up at a 3440m.
It’s unreal, this horseshoe-shaped town. Considered the Sherpa capital, it’s a hub of activity for the trekking and mountaineering industries. Every year it’s visited by 40,000 people plus 40,000 porters and crew.
Vultures soar above in the midday sun as we have coffee.
We walk through the steeply pitched streets up to the lodge at the very top of the village. The cinematic, commanding Hotel Sherwi Khangba is located on the site where the 1953 British Everest expedition camped, and those that followed in the 1960s and 1970s.
It’s all wood and stone, with cosy dining rooms filled with carpeted bench seats and wooden cabinetry. To our relief they offer hot showers – 400 rupees ($5) or 500 ($6) if you need a towel – that are worth every cent.
The hotel is family-run, as is the museum next door, which the owner founded. It’s an astonishing archive of Sherpa culture – cataloguing domestic life, agriculture, trade, textiles, religion and history, alongside the mountaineering feats of the Sherpa people, centring their achievements and expertise – and a must-see.
Another see, the first glimpse of Everest and Ama Dablam.
Clouds start rolling in, crawling down the ridge and across the property like a smoke machine on a grand scale.
I settle into the dining room with my book – it’s from the library back home, a bold move – and buy a soft drink to calm my stomach, which is unsettled from the altitude. It’s not cheap, the higher you get the more expensive things are; they’re not easy to get up, transported by commercial porters, or military craft fly in cargo (building materials, food, expedition gear) to the Syangboche airstrip nearby.
Day six
Setting off, we walk past the Syangboche airport tarmac, headed to Kyangjuma. En route we visit the Denali Shmidt Art Gallery, one of the highest in the world, where waste is turned into art – some on display, other objects available to purchase, like a relief sculpture of Everest made from bottle caps. It’s part of the Sagarmāthā Next centre, which works to promote sustainability in the region, and it operates a “carry me back” campaign inviting trekkers to each take one kilogram back out of the park. We do so, of course, in addition to collecting waste for World Expedition’s 10 Pieces initiative. All are stored in handy roll-top bags that clip on to our packs.
Next, it’s up – up and up – to the historic, handsome Hotel Everest View – all stone and wood and calm. There’s a grand piano by the fire pit in one of the dining rooms, not an easy thing to get here.
We share lemon, ginger and honey tea, basking in the view and the rhythmic hum of choppers ferrying visitors, prioritising, one would imagine, speed and convenience to slogging for days as we have.
Onwards and, finally, down the hill for a spell (the hotel elevation, 3880m, is our highest point that day) past volcanic rocks and stupa – striking Buddhist mounds – through rhododendron forest starting to bud. It’s the same route that Namche’s secondary students do twice a day, six days a week.
The secondary school in the Khumjung settlement serves around 350 students, up to grade 10 – many of whom have gone on to be pilots and doctors, including the local GP – and it was built in 1961 by Sir Edmund Hillary and The Himalayan Trust.
Khumjung’s township has what’s thought to be one of the longest mani walls in the Khumbu region, covered in an unfathomable amount of people’s wish-fulfilling cintāmaṇi slates.
The mountains put on a show today, appearing clear and sharp until early afternoon before acquiescing to a swaddle of clouds. Our camp is in the village of Kyangjuma, 3550m, where I buy a yak bell at a market stall, carefully wrapping it to store in my pack. It’s the coldest night, frost crystalises on our tents and snow dusts the nearby peak.
Day seven
We wake up to a red streak of cloud behind the handsome peak of Ama Deblam (more shapely than Everest) and milky brushstrokes from the winds on Lhotse – a gentle flourish that belies their true velocity. I dig out my balaclava (finally!) and bury into my World Expeditions down jacket, a welcome loan. It’s that freezing, invigorating kind of cold, though things warm up quickly once the sun rises.
The sky turns an acute shade of blue, one we’d yet to see up here. Everything, especially the peeling pink and orange of the birch trees, feels rendered in high definition as we set out. We’re walking eight hours today, descending an hour to the river and crossing a suspension bridge and army checkpoint. From there it’s three hours up dusty switchbacks to Tangbuche Monastery.
A passing porter is carrying three full gas bottles, which puts any fatigue on our part into sharp perspective. He’s going from Shangboche airstrip to Dingboche, and it will take him two days.
The monastery, the largest gompa (compound) in the Khumbu, was first built in 1918, and destroyed by an earthquake in 1934 before being rebuilt and eventually consecrated in 1993. Home to around 50 monks who follow the Rnying-ma-pa sect of Tibetan Buddhism, it’s a destination for locals and mountaineering parties, who seek blessing before ascending Everest, making it a prosperous operation.
Across the grassy field are guest houses and yak (we’re cautioned to beware of the black one) with those famous peaks sitting resplendent in the distance, and we set out in the direction of Pangboche.
Our camp for the night, perched at the edge of the village, is our highest elevation, just shy of 4000m and the most picturesque of the trek. I stare in dumb amazement at the amphitheatre of peaks.
Pangboche has a top town, with a monastery and residential homes, while the lower section houses a concentration of tea houses and lodges.
A post-trek exploratory walk (what better way to unwind after a seven-hour hike?) takes some of us past 4000m, passing weathered mani walls and stupas – the most striking I’ve seen yet – and rippling Tibetan prayer flags, faded and frayed.
The temperature has dropped and, thankfully, the cosy dining room at camp is toasty when we return.
This is our furthest point in the trek, and there’s not even a whisper of a blister on my feet; it seems new, properly fitted, high-quality boots were a sound investment, as was the podiatrist’s advice on socks. The rest of my body also seems suspiciously robust. The usual aches I get – a niggly knee and a more recent hip injury – haven’t bothered me (though I’ve been rolling both, and my feet, every night with a rubber ball borrowed from kind Helen). And the Sherpa pace of walking is a revelation.
You feel very in your body on a trip like this, there are no distractions. We eat a Nepali dinner of dal, potato curry and chicken (easy to digest, Bir says) and head to our tents, clutching hot Nalgene bottles – you can fill them with near-boiling water quite safely, a life-changing product attribute.
This night is our highest sleeping elevation, 3930m. It’s the coldest of the lot; inside the World Expedition tents, on comfortable camp beds, I’m bundled into my sleeping bag and the fleece liner, clad wearing thermal, two pairs of socks, and on my head is a buff. I wake up at 1.30am, shimmy out of this cocoon and into my big down jacket for a loo mission. Altitude can make your bladder go into overdrive, and makes digesting food more challenging – both of the main issues I’ve been having, plus a few light blood noses – but they’re minor compared to some of our party, who have had more respiratory challenges, though fixed by taking Diamox, acetazolamide that treat the symptoms of altitude sickness. Bir has been checking in with us constantly, and our crew carry a portable altitude chamber just in case.’
Altitude sickness is something of a luck game, and even the fittest people can be struck with symptoms.
I have a fitful rest of the night, with odd, vivid dreams – another byproduct of altitude – before drifting off into some proper sleep.
Day eight
At 5am I’m woken by the dog – a very good boy – barking. A few of us (the same ones each day) are up to see the dawn kiss the peaks. Crows caw and, as always, the temperature dips just after sunrise. The view gets better and better as the sunlight spills over the mountain and into the valley, illuminating the monastery Tangbuche Monastery in the distance.
I deploy my thickest socks today, because the majority of the walk is downhill, and a Voltaren. We head back from whence we came, down the switchbacks, past tree roots smoothed from years of hands, back to Hotel Sherwi Khangba for a hot shower.
Day nine
Time is strange, fast and slow. We only have two more nights on the road, Ghat and then Lukla, before returning to big, busy Kathmandu.
I’m congested from all the track dust – a mix of dirt and, more than anything, dung from the pack animals – and it woke me up in the night.
We’re walking to Ghat today, another full day. Mostly downhill, while aerobically easier, it presents unique challenges; knees take belting, as do toes, even with shallow gentle steps.
I borrow some hikers wool from one of our party to cushion the blows, and regret not bringing my own.
We cross paths with another World Expeditions group at breakfast, they’re heading in the opposite direction in the Everest Base Camp trek – a couple of villages further than our route.
It’s another pearler of a day, pretty normal for this period of the year – April, the best time to trek – and the trail is busy. Crossing a bridge near the exit to the park late morning we encounter a flood of tourists – a Babel-worthy cocktail of languages: French, Russian, Swiss, Indian, Australian, Japanese – that is a salient reminder of the scale of tourism here. “In October, sometimes you spend 20 minutes trying to cross a bridge,” says Bir. (Except for monsoon season, tourists come year-round).
There’s an etiquette required on a busy trail; walk single file and stay aware of your surroundings, porters should have right of way. On the way down from Namche Bazaar we passed a man carrying a chest freezer up the hill on his back.
April means spring. Big fuzzy bumblebees, a dreamy swarm of dragonflies, ladybirds everywhere.
A blustery wind whips up the valley as the river surges down; the prayer flags sound like helicopters. The sun’s still out. That breeze makes the hanging bridges more visceral, and the trail dirt – buffs and sunglasses are essential. Dusty, we arrive at Ghat.
Day 10
It’s our last day of walking and a short one. Everyone’s “Khumbu coughs” are lingering – a dry cough caused by dust, exercise and dry air, and very common. We hear Lukla before we see it, all those planes coming and going on that famous tarmac. At the lodge, where we’re staying for the night – no more tents – there are thank you speeches and gratuities, and we get to personally thank every member of the crew. There are a few hours for exploring the town and collecting any (light) souvenirs; we convene above the “Irish Bar” to discuss the trip, toss around headlines and puns – writers can’t help themselves – and reflect. Dinner is Nepali thali, buffet style, at the lodge, but I’ve been fed so well by our cooks on the trail that I can barely eat anymore. With an early departure the next morning, it’s quickly to bed.
Day 11
Up early for a morning flight out of Lukla, 5am wake up. We have coffee and some breakfast before walking five minutes to the airport. The whirr of engines is a good sign, and planes are already ferrying people to and from the transit hub.
Down (literally) the runway and up we go. The pilot has a full cup of tea on the floor at his feet, and nothing has ever made me feel more at ease. Our Twin Otter soars over (and through) the ridges and down the valley to Ramechhap – hotter, 22c maybe, and blanketed in dust and haze.
It’s 7.30 the town’s denizens are starting their day; vegetables are on market stalls, shops are opening, and tea shops are serving patrons. We settle in for the long drive back to Kathmandu. I realise we haven’t seen a car since we were last in Ramichab.
The difference between the lowlands and the mountains is, with our new perspective, stark. The past eight days feel hazy too, and time as a concept is fuzzy and hard to grasp. Emotionally I feel like a chipped tooth; craggy and sensitive if you know where to touch. I’m still coming down from the experience. From the highs – altitude, topography, adrenalin and satisfaction – to lows in all regards.
Ascent started well before this trip. I was pulling myself out of a low period and charred nervous system, and walking it off in the Himalayas presented a goal, an antidote.
Travel as a cure for modern malaise is at best a cliche, but the distance of geography and severing of communication and access that it can offer carries weight as a salve to the churn and stagnation of life – paradoxical complaints. A luxury and a privilege and all that. Using your body to do something challenging feels good.
You also gain an appreciation for supply and logistics, the challenges of geography that we’ve been naive to in the digitisation and efficiency of the modern world. Friction.
The purple bus goes past the orderly wheat field and big hulking trees by the river. Van, buses and motorbikes ply the winding road, its sides soldiered by black and white concrete blocks. Plastic chairs sit below mango trees.
Back in Kathmandu, the city is bursting with noise and people.
After showering (thoroughly) at the Radisson and scrubbing my boots, I head to my favourite tea and coffee shop – it has orange Formica tables – for chai and samosa. It’s nice to be back in the throb of people, the warm wind. Stepping trustingly into the traffic to cross the road.
The country is a study of contrasts – city life and the mountains, tourists and locals – and reckoning with extremes.
Day 12
Nepal is moving, I think in the van to the airport.
That thought is amplified when we get there. Met by a scrum of families. A heady cocktail of tears, nerves, excitement. Fresh haircuts and festooned with scarves, flags, totems. Mothers, sisters and girlfriends weeping. Last year 1.6 million Nepalese citizens departed the country, more than 900,000 of those for work and study.
Through the clear partition, more travellers arrive – hopeful, seeking self-betterment, new challenges. More than 1 million international tourists visited Nepal in 2023. It’s the same in the departure hall.
We’re all looking for something, room to move.
Emma Gleason is the New Zealand Herald’s lifestyle and entertainment deputy editor (audience). Based in Auckland, she covers culture, lifestyle, travel and entertainment.
The writer travelled to Nepal as a guest of World Expeditions on its Everest Trek in Comfort experience.