Landing at Lukla’s cliffside airstrip, the trek began with the hum of small shops and the chatter of porters in the narrow streets. Soon, the path slipped into a quieter rhythm, winding through rhododendron forests and terraced farmlands. Gentle descents and swinging suspension bridges carried me toward Paiya—also called Chutok—a small settlement surrounded by green hills, with the faint scent of pine in the air. Leaving Paiya, the trail climbed steadily, revealing the first teasing glimpses of distant ridgelines. Panggom welcomed me with stone houses and prayer flags fluttering against a backdrop of layered hills. This Sherpa village, perched on a ridge, felt like a gateway between the settled lowlands and the wilder, higher valleys to come.
From Panggom, the path narrowed and grew wilder, winding along forested slopes where the sound of rushing streams followed me. The air felt fresher, the human presence lighter. Ningsow appeared as a scattering of homes, a place where time seemed slower and nature wrapped closely around daily life.
The climb to Ramailo Danda was a test of patience and endurance. The reward, however, was a sweeping ridge-line view that opened up the Hinku Valley in all its untouched beauty. From here, the world felt bigger, and the peaks seemed a little closer, their snowy faces catching the afternoon sun. A descent through deep forest followed, the kind where the air smells of earth and moss. Here, the Hinku River roared far below. Chhetra Khola lay tucked in the valley, a resting point where the water’s sound was a constant, soothing presence.
From Chhetra Khola, the trail shadowed the river, sometimes clinging to the valley wall, sometimes crossing wooden bridges. As I neared Kothe, the trees thinned and the first dramatic views of ice and rock walls appeared. Kothe itself was a quiet village beside the roaring Hinku River, its lodges simple but warm. The walk to Thangnak marked the true start of the alpine world. The valley floor widened, glaciers loomed overhead, and the vegetation shifted to hardy shrubs and grasses. Thangnak sat surrounded by towering cliffs and frozen waterfalls, a place where you could feel the mountains’ power closing in.
From Thangnak, the climb was gradual but constant. Glacial moraine fields and icy streams guided the way toward Khare. The air grew thinner, and every step felt heavier, but the sight of Khare—huddled beneath Mera’s snowfields—brought a rush of excitement. This was the last true settlement before the climb. The climb to Mera La was a test of both lungs and legs, with winds sweeping across the snow slopes. From the pass, the view was endless—peaks upon peaks fading into the horizon. Mera High Camp, perched on a rocky outcrop, offered a place to rest beneath the stars, the world silent except for the wind.
The final ascent began in the deep cold before dawn. Step by step, crampons bit into the ice as the first light painted the eastern sky. When I finally stood on Mera’s summit, the reward was pure magic—Everest, Lhotse, Makalu, and countless other giants all around. It wasn’t just the view—it was the weight of the journey, the stillness of the moment, and the feeling of having touched the very heart of the Himalayas.