Langtang trek: landslides, an earthquake and yaks

With our beastly journey to Syabrubesi behind us, Med, Luc and I set out on the trek through the Langtang valley with a spring in our step and the colours, views and scents of the valley made for an energising climb in the sunshine.

The forests were full of trees that seemed to be dripping with moss and ferns, the river was raging with glacial-melt waters, the birds and other animals chatted away oblivious to our

intrusion, and even the air seemed to take on a new, pure quality.

The national park is sacred, so no animals can be killed within it, preserving it as a rich, natural paradise. Trekking through the forest-lined valley on the first day, we saw long-tailed, Gray Langur monkeys and the native species of, to quote, "a goat-like deer". We walked past flowers, bamboo and even thick plants of natural marijuana!

Unfortunately, with all that nature surrounding us, I did have a run in with a leech (on my back) within the first couple of hours. But, despite their sluggish, fanged demeanour, they are harmless and leave just a small, red mark in their wake. However, if you'd tried to tell me that at the moment I discovered its fat little body on my back I probably would have told you otherwise!

Unlike the leech, the monsoon season had left its mark on Langtang. We clambered up and down slippery pebbles, rocks and boulders, scrambling over toppled-over trees, jumping over destroyed parts of the trail and carefully shuffling over unstable logs and rocks to cross waterfalls. It filled us with a sense of adventure, but it was apparent how vulnerable the mountains, and their inhabitants, are at this time of year.

We arrived, happy and sweat-drenched, at Lama Hotel (2340m) - a strangely named settlement that would be our resting place for the night. After an afternoon greeting a few fellow trekkers in the sunshine, including Andreas and Marit who we'd met the day before, we huddled inside the spartan, wooden dining room of our lodge - 'Friendly View'. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the room was lit with just two, faint bulbs. Conversation about that day's trekking buzzed and we all relaxed in the hot glow of the log fire.

Suddenly, the lodge and the ground beneath it started shaking. Gripped with fear, I held on tightly to the bench I sat on. Another group's porters rushed into the room and a few people started scrambling, terrified, to the door. Landslide, I thought, my heart pumping in my chest. But soon the shaking, lasting just 30 seconds, came to a stop and we all stood in suspended disbelief. Earthquake, I then thought, and I was right. I went outside, feeling a little claustrophobic now in the small lodge, and asked the hotel owner what had happened.

News crackled in on the mountain radio, first that the quake had been in Tibet, and later that it had in fact been in Sikkim, India, which borders Nepal in the east. Shaken, quite literally, we went to bed wondering what else the Langtang valley would have in store for us.

Over a breakfast of cement-like porridge, we heard the sad news that a few people had been killed in Kathmandu, where the buildings are held together with tangles of electricity cables and broken rocks on roofs. Later, we would learn that even more had died in Sikkim and many more still missing there, in the very same mountain range we were exploring.

Clouds had started to roll in and there was a patter of rain as we walked through thick forest on the second day. The river crossings became a test of agility and in my mind that day was the picture of the American girl from the poster who had gone missing 18 months before on the same stretch of the trek.

Although we had climbed up to over 3000 metres and had emerged from the forest, the mountains were still soaring high above us, disappearing into the mist that now blanketed the valley. We arrived in Langtang (3300m) and found the old village to be an enchanting collection of stone and wood-carved houses with more stone walls and pathways winding between them.

Seeking shelter and warmth at the 'Shangri-La' lodge, I spent the afternoon looking after the family's four month old baby, who was layered in over-sized clothes and seemed to enjoy my English nursery rhymes.

The small lodges up the mountain are wooden

and basic and, as the temperatures drop in the evening, you can find yourself sat around the fire with the family who own the house and even in the kitchen, watching them preparing the evening meals. The mountain folk of Langtang are made up of three main ethnic groups: Tamang, Hyolmo and Bhotia - our experience was that they were all in some way related to each other, with many brothers and sisters in the different settlements along the trek.

The men of the mountain wear anything from herringbone vests and faded shirts to moth-eaten North Face fleeces and faux-leather jackets. Those who dutifuly serve as trekking guides are easily identified by their crunched-up toes, made so by years of gripping rough mountain trails wearing nothing more than thin, rubber flip-flops.

Contrasting with the muted browns of the men’s garments, the women of Langtang are wrapped in brilliant dresses that paired colours and patterns that would be incongruous in the western world, but somehow here seemed to match perfectly. They also wear the traditional brass earrings of the valley people - heavy, the earrings are supported with loops of pink or red wool. Their hair, that has never been cut, is usually tied in a single, long, shiny braid down their back.

Like the local people, we started to adjust to going to bed early and rising not long after dawn. But that night I had an altitude-interrupted sleep and awoke with a the start of a cold. We trekked slowly upwards, through the mist. I started to get a bad headache, which can be a symptom of altitude sickness. After an hour sat in a wooden hut nursing a cup of tea, Andreas and Marit, both medics, advised Med and I to go back down to Langtang to err on the side of caution. So, just half an hour from our next stop, we descended for another night's acclimatisation at Langtang village - hoping we would meet the others the following day.

With my head feeling a bit clearer the next day, we set off again up the same path. Thankfully,

the mist had lifted somewhat and we could see the view of the valley for the first time in two days. Each little settlement we passed was preceded by a line of stone mani walls, inscribed with Buddhist mantras to guard the towns and offer safe travels to those that pass. We ensured we passed them to the left as is tradition and enjoy spotting large, hairy yaks dotted all around.

Higher up, past the tree line, lies the village of Kanjin Gompa (3800m), named after the white,

sloping walled gompa (small, Buddhist monastery) that lies at the junction of the Lirung valley with the Langtang Valley. Approaching the settlement, we were surrounded by massive rocks protruding out of the now faint breaths of mist. We picked our way around the lodges of the villages, with kitchens blowing out fire smoke, finding where our three trekking friends were staying.

It was so very cold in the village and, wrapping myself up in borrowed blankets for the afternoon, I suffered more flea bites than I dared count. Still, the Tibetan bread and yak cheese (from Kanjin Gompa's cheese factory) made up for it - as did the sublime sunset view of the white mountains that towered over us on all sides.

The next morning it was still clear and we assembled at 5am to start our summit up to Kyimoshung (4640m). Still suffering with a cold, I was about 80 plods behind the group, my lungs and legs feeling heavy in the thin air. I struggled up sand (a reminder of just how new the Himalaya are) and eventually, exhausted, reached the top.

It was a luminous morning up high in the mountains, with sharp, iced peaks, outlined in blue every way we looked, including Langtang Lirung (7227m). We stood right next to a glacier that looked as if a river had just frozen - suspended and rugged. The brightness was almost blinding and we enjoyed the heat of the sun on our backs as we took in the panorama.

After three days of mist, we had earned this view.

The Langtang valley gave us pine forest, shifting clouds, swift mountain streams, ribbons of waterfalls, rugged landslides, glaciated mountains giants, grassy meadows strewn with flowers and yak cheese to share with new friends. We made our descent down feeling thoroughly content, steeply up and steeply down the labyrinthine valley.

Poon Hill to Gandruk trek: 3 Brits, 2 Aussies and a crazy man

The vast majority of the Shangri-La countryside in Nepal is still inaccessible by road, hidden behind ridges and up steep valleys. These tracks are used by pilgrims, trekkers, traders and locals, and this paradise land, without wheels or engines, was where we were heading to next.

We decided to 'warm up' our legs (in preparation for a bigger trek to come) on a five day trek in the Annapurna region - looping from Naya Pul to Gorepani and then east to Gandruk. We were dreaming of seeing a panoramic sweep of Himalayan peaks - but it would prove to be almost as illusive as the rhino in Chitwan.

Med, Tom and I started the trek alone, without a guide or a porter. Despite an early setback of a vast, still-tumbling landslide at the foot of the mountain range, the winding paths proved easy to follow and the locals were always friendly. Old men and women, with lined faces and gorgeous smiles, would waggle their fingers to show us the way and we soon felt a million miles away from the Nepal we had experienced so far.

The trek offers spectacular mountain scenery along

with charming villages inhabited by the Gurungs and Magars (two of the many ethnic groups of Nepal), dense rhododendron forests full of birds and deep, sub-tropical valleys, all set below the mighty Annapurna range.

On the way up, we passed small villages and settlements,

often getting a glimpse of people trying to eke out a living on small parcels of land. Men ploughed with oxen and, with shouts and guttural throat noises, encouraged the cumbersome beasts to turn on small stepped terraces the size of postage stamps; colourfully-clad women walked up and down with parcels to trade, often barefoot, pressing the soles of their feet against the rough track made from heavy slabs of rock that must have taken an unimaginable amount of time and energy to assemble up the steep faces of the landscape.

Yet, the most enduring image of the trek has to be that of porters, moving up the steep hillsides carrying enormous loads, heavier than their own body weight. With the thick strap of the conical wicker baskets tight against their foreheads, their backs bent under their burden, their feet clad often only in flip-flops, they moved slowly up the mountain, carrying bags for organised treks or supplies for isolated villages. Seeing this everyday, we didn't moan once about the comparatively small loads we carried.

We greeted everyone we met with "Namaste,” pressing our palms together at our heart for the customary, Nepali (and Indian) greeting. Twig-thin men with grizzled beards and red-rimmed watery eyes would look out from beneath their topis - the traditional headwear of Nepal that resembles a soft, crushed fez - and returned our greetings with broad, gap-toothed grins and

deep, lingering drawls of "Namaastaaeee."

We kept walking through the lush green, terraced valley, following the path of the river, climbing up steep steps until we had to rest to catch our breath and find a pump to replenish our bottles. Tea houses, perched precariously up the steep valley, provided a welcome break on the way - and of course a place to re-charge our trekking batteries with hearty helpings of Daal Bhaat (the Nepali staple meal of lentil soup, rice and curried vegetables - of which you are usually given two, or even three, enormous helpings in one sitting!) and hot chocolate.

Our first afternoon and evening was spent in the

quaint village of Ulleri, filled with friendly children who lined the streets waiting to 'high-five' us on arrival as if we'd just completed a marathon (well, almost). The tea lodges were almost flimsy, cobbled together with bits of plywood, but the showers were hot, the beds fairly comfortable and the food was tasty and laden with carbs.

After peeling off our boots and socks and washing away the day's layer of dirt and sweat, we sat outside with views of the surrounding mountains. A man carrying a large, chicken-filled coop on his back caught our eye. We wondered, "is there anything they can't carry up the mountain?"

Cards games, book reading and map studying are the staple, post-trek activities. And with the arrival of the black, night's sky, it's off to bed early by the light of one bare bulb (if you're lucky).

On the second day, after an early-morning start, we stumbled upon the crazy man of Ulleri, locked away in a wooden room on the main thoroughfare out of the village. Mountain whispers from the few trekkers we had encountered the day before told us he tried to shoot people in the village and has been imprisoned for five years, left without food. I looked into his dark, bewildered eyes and noticed his wild, dusty hair and half-believed the stories. It seemed impolite to ask the locals for the truth and we didn't wish to linger in his gaze any longer.

As we climbed further up the valley, we became more enclosed by thick jungle and steep, canyon walls. The second day was a fairly short climb up to reach the beautiful village of Gorepani, which stands at 2800 metres above sea level. Gorepani is the spring board from which to reach Poon Hill, an Himalaya view point that we were to summit early the next morning.

Gorepani brought us the pungent smell of drying mushrooms, a "bonza" pair of Aussies, Damo and Sarah, and our first western-style toilet of the trek - such luxury!

We awoke the next morning to drizzle and fog, but decided to carry out the ascent to Poon Hill regardless, which stands at 3210 metres. At the top, the sunrise promises views of two of the Himalayan giants, Dhaulagiri (8167 metres) and Annapurna I (8091 metres), along with a maze

of other white peaks.

But for us, there was no view, just a thick fog soup that dampened our faces and our spirits. So, I'll skirt around the pre-dawn climb, freezing temperatures and slippery steps we endured. I guess it would make us appreciate what was to follow all the more.

We bid farewell to our trusty companion, Tom, who had to

hotfoot it down the mountain to catch his flight home, and embarked upon a day's trek through the deepest river gorge in the world, wading through jungle with our Australian friends. The canopy of trees let through chinks of light but it was a unrelenting, damp day to our next stop:

Tadepani.

And here came our just deserts. After a murky day, the dense blanket of cloud started to dissolve, revealing celestial mountain crests that glowed in the light of the full moon. The peak of Machapuchare (6993 metres, known as the 'Fishtail' peak, which is forbidden to climb as it is regarded as holy - that night a local man pointed out the shape of the tiger god that resides within it) stuck out like a glowing white tooth in the sky, and later, Annapurna I (8091 metres, the tenth highest mountain in the world) revealed itself too - it seemed in touching distance from our lodge balcony. We had no idea they had been so close all this time, choosing this moment to rise out of the fog and gleam down on us.

The next day we made our way through dense, tangled jungle, filled with trees that had trunks covered with moss and plant matter. There were more leaches than before (Med and I someone survived, unbitten - the Aussies didn't fair quite so well), and we stumbled upon little maggots sprinkled on a huge section of the jungle floor. It was humid under the canopy, and we were relieved to arrive at beautiful Gandruk.

With a medieval vibe, Gandruk commands stunning, valley vistas over terraced rice paddies and tea plantations. We settled in for the afternoon, playing endless games of cards (which, truth be told, I usually lost). The next morning, the mountain range once again put on a stunning display for us. Huge snow-capped peaks - ethereal, supreme, heavenly - dominated the morning valley. Our smiles didn't do this view justice - it's a totally natural high that sends you soaring.

Spellbound, on our final day we descended back

down to Naya Pul, stopping for endless trails of mountain ponies, adorned in colourful costumes and heaving heavy loads up to the villages.

The trek was a physical challenge and we played witness to an ever-changing show of cloud and light, mist and mountain. The mountains were playing 'peak'-a-boo with us, but were even more spectacular for it.

Giddy with memories of the mountains, our hearts were now set on our next trek in the Langtang region, but our legs would need a few days of gentle recovery.

Seeking Shangri-La

Shangri-La, a fictional earthly paradise first described in the 1933 novel, Lost Horizon, by British author James Hilton. This mythical, Himalayan utopia - a permanently happy land, isolated from the outside world - is almost within reach in Nepal.

Draped along the greatest heights of the Himalaya, Nepal is where the ice-cold of the mountains meets the steamy heat of the Indian plains. It's a land of yaks and yetis, stupas and Sherpas and some of the best trekking on earth.

Thousands of backpackers and jet setters alike grab their hiking boots and make their pilgrimage to this rugged, land-locked country in search of this mystical kingdom.

Around 64% of the country is covered by mountains; one third of the total length of the Himalaya lies inside Nepal's borders and the country claims ten of the world's fourteen highest peaks.

Yet, Nepal is not just a mountain climbing, apple pie eating Shangri-La. It's also one of the poorest countries on earth. So, many visitors, drawn to Nepal by the promise of adventure, leave equally enchanted by the friendliness and openness of the Nepali people.