I wasn’t born in Kathmandu. I was born into the mountains of eastern Nepal. But I grew up in a Kathmandu household where studies were considered the backbone of a good future.
The Outdoors? Just a distraction.
But even as a boy, I couldn’t ignore the pull of open spaces. I was always sneaking away from home to play with my friends, searching for something beyond walls and routine.
Sometimes, those escapes ended with me running away altogether — only to be dragged back and scolded by my uncle.
Life took another turn when circumstances pushed me into a hostel for three years. Being away from family left me disconnected, shaping me into someone who preferred silence over conversation.
Yet, in that quiet space, I found myself staring at sunsets, tracing the lines of hills against the blue sky, breathing in the cleaner Kathmandu air of those days.
Without realizing it, I was learning how nature could soften loneliness.
The Wrong Beginning: Hiking for the Wrong Reasons
During my high school years, I began hiking — but for all the wrong reasons.
It wasn’t nature I was chasing at first; it was Mary Jane. The goal wasn’t to climb mountains or hike but to get lost in a haze.
Wandering felt easier when I wasn’t fully present, and for a while, I convinced myself that running away from the trauma was better than facing it.
Beneath the mask of a “cool” high schooler, I was drifting with no direction. The past looked dark, the present felt empty, and the future didn’t exist.
2017: A Turning Point Toward Trekking in Nepal
In 2017, everything shifted. I had already begun hiking here and there, this time not for escape but because walking in nature gave me space to reflect.
Around the same time, I faced a crushing disappointment — a failed VISA interview that I had pinned my entire future on.
I had traded the certainty of a writer’s life for the chance to move abroad, and in one rejection, everything fell apart.
Frustrated and reclusive, I withdrew even further. And then, as if by chance, some friends suggested a trek to Langtang Valley.
THAT DECISION CHANGED EVERYTHING.
Langtang Valley Trek: The First Real Step Into the Wild
Five of us boarded a bus to Syafrubeshi or Syabrubeshi, carrying a tent but — in our inexperience — no mats to sleep on.
I was a complete novice: no training, no knowledge or camping, no clue how to carry weight on my back.
Still, I pushed myself forward, driven by stubbornness and the silent vow not to be the friend left behind.
That first time I experienced fierce rivers, sharp valleys, boulders the size of a house.
At the Riverside Hotel, my first night in the wilderness felt like stumbling into another world.
A small teahouse sat beside a roaring river, where glacial waters shifted from blue to grey under the fading sun.
For the first time in my life, I dipped my feet into a glacial river — the shock of freezing water locking me in place. It hurt, but in that sting, I felt freedom.
Freedom from self-doubt, self-loathing, and the fog that had long clouded my mind.
Dinner came under the dim glow of an oil lamp, followed by sleep to the soundtrack of rushing water.
I don’t remember the exact steps of that trek, but I remember those moments — the cold river, the flicker of the lamp, the white noise of the wind and the roaring river.
The next day, the trail led us through Langtang village — or what was left of it. The 2015 earthquake had buried the village under white boulders and gravel, leaving behind a haunting silence.
At the memorial, we paused, reading the names of lives lost. Friends, families, the entire community of Langtang written into stone. The grief was heavy, and yet, so was the resilience of those who had stayed.
By the time we reached Kyanjin Gompa, the highest settlement in the valley, exhaustion blurred the details. What I do remember, vividly, is the climb to Kyanjin Ri.
From the ridge, the valley stretched far below us, with mountains rising higher still, guarding the horizon.
I stood there, breathless, staring at those peaks. A question burned in me: What would it feel like to stand on top of one of those mountains?
At that moment, I wasn’t just a boy from Kathmandu anymore. I was someone who wanted to climb, to witness, to experience raw adventure.
Finding Purpose in the Mountains of Nepal
That trek was more than a journey to Langtang. It was the beginning of my life with the mountains. What started as an escape became a calling.
Standing on Kyanjing Ri lit a fire in me — one that would eventually lead me into guiding, mountaineering, and telling the stories of these wild places.
The boy who once ran away from home had found a home in the wilderness. The mountains didn’t just give me adventure; they gave me purpose.
