
My little mountain expedition had not been difficult to organize. I had opted for a route considered easy compared to the usual ones in the Himalayas: it would have lasted five days, and it would not have taken me higher than ten thousand feet. Most importantly, it would have offered me unforgettable views of the Annapurna massif.
I left with a guide and a porter. To get to the starting point of our trek, we had to use public transportation. That journey turned out to be a true epic. The bus, hand-painted all over with complicated floral patterns, had a surreal cargo on its roof, ranging from bulky bales and overloaded suitcases to poultry cages filled with live chickens. Inside, it was packed to the brim with passengers, all struggling to get a breath of fresh air through the open doors and windows. As for the road, it was the narrowest, the bumpiest, and the most dangerously winding I had ever seen in Nepal. We passed sharp precipices so close that only a few inches, or a few pebbles, stood between them and the bus. As we went up and away from Pokhara, I could glimpse the city at the foot of the mountains and the shimmering waters of the lake, while the snowy peaks of the Great Himalayas loomed closer above us.
After the adrenaline rush provided by the local bus, it was finally time to get our feet moving. The trail started at a relatively low altitude, on the banks of a river, and ascended gently through forested hills. The air was hot and humid, so I felt my face burning even before I made any physical effort. But it would only be a short walk, considering the many hours on the bus.
We spent the first night in a small village with narrow stone alleys and whitewashed houses scattered among terraced rice fields. The lodge chosen by my guide was clean and welcoming, and the food that the hosts cooked for me was delicious. It would be the same everywhere I stayed. As a bonus, in spite of the altitude, the night temperature was bearable, even for someone as cold-averse as me.

Some lodges had television. Just like their countrymen in Kathmandu, the hosts often watched Indian soap operas together with the whole family. At my usual dinner time, a TV series on Hindu mythology, very popular with the locals, was airing. All the screens showed the image of a chubby child with a trunk attached to his nose, who played the role of the elephant-headed god Ganesha.
The next day, the hike was longer and more strenuous, but the scenery also grew more spectacular. We followed a trail of stone steps through secluded hamlets and dense forests, crossing bridges over cascading streams. We often shared the path with donkeys and goats. The higher we climbed, the steeper the slopes became, but the vegetation didn’t get any scarcer. Although the ruthless steps made my ligaments squeak, and I was breathing harder because of the altitude, it was manageable. And I felt so grateful for being there that I wouldn’t have let the slightest inconvenience spoil the joy of my trip.

Sunil, my guide, was constantly by my side, answering my questions, giving me advice, or simply telling me various stories from his experience as a guide. He arranged accommodation and food for me, leaving me with nothing to worry about. I perceived his presence like a genuine privilege.
At some point, we came across an incredibly large group of tourists, so large that the path was packed for hundreds of feet. Despite their numbers, they had only one Sherpa to lead them—I don’t know if it was for financial or other reasons. In the evening, at the teahouse where we were staying, I heard that part of that group was nowhere to be found. They had no trekking experience and very few of them spoke English. Some had misunderstood the guide’s directions, rushed ahead and lost their way. Needless to say, the trails were not marked.
All the Sherpas in the lodge had to join the search party, forgoing food and rest. That was how they ended their day, after having crossed the mountains in flip-flops, carrying two backpacks each, one on their shoulders and the second attached with ropes to the first.
I met many Sherpas on the trek, and I gained an endless respect for these people. Their faces were hardened by the wind and snow, but their spirit was always calm and friendly. Without their help and dedication, most expeditions to Nepal’s highest peaks would not have succeeded. Lately, they also had to deal with the consequences of mass tourism, which even the Himalayas were not spared from.
One by one, the populated areas remained behind, and we started to hike through the jungle. The elevation tempered the excessive humidity with a welcome coolness, to which a few waterfalls contributed from time to time. As the forest thinned and gave way to alpine meadows, the snow-capped crests of the Annapurna promptly conquered the background.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful!” I exclaimed in a moment of awe at a picture-perfect landscape.
Hearing me, Sunil blushed with pride and pleasure.
The combination of mountainous terrain and warm climate was a constant source of delight for me. Instead of the barren rocks and bitter cold that I would have expected in other places at ten thousand feet above sea level, I was greeted by lush vegetation and mild temperatures. The trail cut through flower-strewn grass, the forests echoed with birdsong, and the clearings were populated by brightly colored butterflies the size of my hand. From above, the white summits of the Great Himalayas watched over us like mighty rulers from their heavenly abode. With so much greenery around, it was easy to forget the altitude. Only the fog that lingered behind us in spots reminded me that I was actually above the clouds.

The following night was chilly, but I coped honorably, thanks to my thermal clothes and the warm sleeping bag. It was going to be a short night, though.
“Wake up! Wake up!” Sunil knocked on my door when it was still dark outside.
I must have mumbled “Please…already?” while I was half asleep, because he replied:
“Come on, get up and let’s get going. There is something you absolutely shouldn’t miss.”
We left the teahouse and hiked for a while by flashlight, until he found the perfect vantage point for me. Then we sat down and waited in silence for nature’s show to begin, like spectators waiting for the curtain to rise on a stage.

As dawn broke, the surrounding peaks gradually came into view under the first rays of sunlight. The growing sun unveiled them one by one, starting with the eight-thousanders and continuing across the entire mountain range, with the elegance of a magician revealing a secret treasure. The snow on the ridges changed color from orange-red to molten gold, like flames ignited by the morning light, while the valleys below laid out a contrasting blanket of deep green shadows.
That was the reason why Sunil wanted to take me hiking in the early hours, as if to prove my admiration for his country right: the privilege of contemplating the divine Annapurna and Dhaulagiri when they spread the new day’s blessings over the land at their feet.
Maybe high up, where there is nothing but ice-covered rock, the mountains become cold and merciless. But that is a realm where only the master climbers and their guardian angels, the Sherpas, can ascend. For ordinary mortals like me, able to reach only modest altitudes, beauty was more accessible than greatness, and admiration more convenient than struggle. This is why the Himalayas remain in my memory not just as the highest but first and foremost as the most beautiful mountains in the world.