It started with a dream—a dream to stand amidst the giants of the Himalayas, to breathe in the crisp mountain air, and to lose myself in the simplicity and raw beauty of nature. The Annapurna Base Camp trek had called to me for years, and finally, one crisp morning in April, I found myself answering that call.
I flew into Pokhara with a flutter in my chest—not just from the altitude, but from excitement. The city buzzed with the hum of travelers, all chasing their own versions of adventure. With my backpack tightened and boots laced, I joined a small group of fellow dreamers, some strangers, some soon to be lifelong friends.
Our journey began from Nayapul, winding through terraced fields and rhododendron forests in full bloom. Each step brought us deeper into a world where time slowed down. We crossed suspension bridges that swayed like old lullabies, passed through stone villages where children laughed barefoot, and sipped hot tea in teahouses that felt like home, even if only for a night.
Every morning, we rose with the sun, the sky slowly lighting up the path ahead with hues of gold and lavender. As we climbed higher, the air thinned and conversations grew quieter. The mountains were speaking, and we were listening.
The trail tested us. Steep staircases like those of Ulleri made our legs burn. Sudden weather shifts turned clear skies into snow flurries in minutes. But through it all, we pushed forward, hearts beating in sync with the rhythm of the mountains.
Then came the morning we reached Annapurna Base Camp.
I remember it vividly—the final stretch lined with snow-dusted prayer flags fluttering in the wind. The air was thin, but electric. When we arrived at 4,130 meters, the peaks of Annapurna I, Machapuchare, and Hiunchuli stood like silent guardians around us. I stood there in stillness, surrounded by giants, humbled and breathless—not just from the altitude, but from awe.
The sun slowly rose behind the peaks, casting a golden glow over the snow. The silence was sacred. No camera could truly capture what my soul was feeling.
I realized in that moment that this trek wasn’t just about the destination. It was about the journey—the people I met, the steps I took, the fears I faced, and the strength I discovered in myself.
The Annapurna Base Camp trek changed me. It reminded me that we are all capable of more than we think. That nature heals. That adventure, in its purest form, is a return to who we really are.
And now, whenever life feels too noisy or overwhelming, I close my eyes and return to that morning in the mountains—where I stood at the roof of the world, and felt, perhaps for the first time, completely alive.
After the surreal stillness of that morning at Annapurna Base Camp, the descent felt like waking from a dream. The path we had once fought so hard to climb now rolled out before us with a familiar rhythm. The mountains, no less majestic, now felt like old friends we were saying goodbye to—one lingering glance at a time.
With every step downward, the air grew warmer, the vegetation lusher. Snow gave way to mud and moss, and the silence was gradually replaced by the buzz of life again—birds, wind through the trees, distant laughter from tea houses. We were retracing our path, but we were not the same people we were when we first walked it.
There was laughter now, deeper and fuller. Inside jokes born from shared struggles. Legs sore, but hearts light. We spoke about home, about what we'd do next, but there was always a pause before the answer—because part of us didn’t want to leave.
The villages welcomed us back like old friends. A little girl in Chhomrong gave me a flower she had tucked behind her ear. A tea house owner waved as we passed, recognizing our dusty faces. Even the trail itself, winding and rugged, seemed to say You did it. You belong here now.
Back in Pokhara, the noise of scooters and café music hit differently. I remember sitting by Phewa Lake, a cup of masala tea warming my hands, staring at the reflection of the Annapurnas in the water. That view—those mountains I had stood beneath just days ago—felt like a secret only a few truly understood.
I carried something back with me from that trek. A kind of stillness. A reminder that I am stronger than I think, braver than I believe, and that sometimes, it’s okay to not know exactly where you’re going—because the journey itself will shape you in ways you never imagined.
Now, whenever I hear the whisper of wind through trees or see prayer flags dancing in a breeze, I’m back there for a moment. On a winding trail under a vast Himalayan sky, walking slowly, breathing deeply, alive in every possible way.
And I know I’ll return one day. Because the mountains—once they find you—never really let you go.