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| A view from Tharepati |
The third day of the Helambu trek was supposed to be a manageable journey - two strenuous uphill sections from Kutumsang to Tharepati. On the trekking map, the two locations were just an inch apart. The estimated hiking time? Six hours. My reality? Nearly ten.
It turned out to be one of the most unforgettable days of my trekking adventures - not because of the breathtaking landscapes or the serene beauty of the Himalayas, but because of the near disaster that unfolded at the end.
I’ve never been a fast hiker, and since I was trekking solo without a guide to keep me on pace, my short rest stops stretched longer - scenic pauses turned into extended breaks, and lunch time doubled in duration. Despite my leisurely pace, I felt good upon reaching Mangengoth, the midway point for the day, where I stopped for lunch. It was 2 PM when I got back on the trail, reassured by the lodge owners where I was eating my meal that Tharepati was just two hours away.
That’s when things started getting strange.
I found myself stopping constantly to pee. Every time I tried to replenish the lost fluids, the cycle repeated. Almost every 200 meters, I had to stop. This constant start-and-stop routine added at least an hour to my journey. Then came the treacherous parts - sections of the trail wiped out by landslides, leaving me to traverse narrow paths with 50-meter drops. Alone in the wilderness, fear began to creep in.
I hadn’t seen a single soul since leaving Mangengoth. The solitude was turning into loneliness, and it was suffocating.
By 5 PM, the clouds rolled in, and the first sounds of distant thunder sent a chill down my spine. Rain would make this increasingly difficult trek exponentially more dangerous. As darkness fell suddenly, I reached for my headlamp. The visibility dropped to near zero - I could barely see two meters in front of me, as the trickling rain and night fog rendered the light almost useless. Each step forward became a calculated risk as I pressed my hiking stick onto the ground, ensuring I wasn’t about to slip off the mountain’s edge.
Then, a glimmer of hope - I stumbled upon a small cabin. Relief washed over me, only to vanish just as quickly. The cabin was abandoned, in no condition to spend the night. I knew there had been a trekking party ahead of me that had left Mangengoth right when I sat down for lunch. If they made it, there had to be a lodge somewhere. But where? Was I even still on the right trail? Doubt and panic set in.
The rain intensified, and thunder grew louder. I reached the point where fear paralyzed me. Taking another step felt like choosing between three equally terrible options: slipping off the mountain, encountering a wild animal, or being struck by lightning. My mind raced - was this it? Was this how my trek would end?
Then, a miracle.
I heard voices. Villagers, perhaps? But where? The rain and darkness distorted direction. I strained my ears, desperate for any clue. Then, something unexpected - cigarette smoke. The unmistakable scent drifted up from below. Like a cartoon character hypnotized by an alluring aroma, I instinctively followed the scent. Step by cautious step, I made my way down a slope, slipping on patches of snow that had accumulated at the high altitude, until I finally stumbled onto a wooden porch.
Two men stood there, smoking. Recognition hit me - I had seen them at lunch back in Mangengoth. Relief flooded over me. I made it. I was safe.
That night, as I sat by the fireplace at the lodge at Tharepati, shrouded in a blanket, sipping tea, and listening to the storm rage outside, I reflected on the absurdity of it all. Who would have thought that, of all things, cigarette smoke would be my guiding light? In the end, it wasn’t years of trekking experience or sheer determination that saved me - it was a couple of guys taking a smoke break at just the right moment. That night, I learned that sometimes, survival hinges on the most unexpected things - even a cigarette.
