The Backpackers Guide to Growing Up

There is never a perfect start to the rest of your life. While we fight time each and everyday, we will always lose. Whether we grow up too fast, fight to stay young or claw our way back into remembering the good old days we are always wanting what escapes us.

Fortunately for me, I found myself in a place where time stood still. As if resurrecting into a Jules Verne novel, I found myself in a land untouched by time. Unscathed by anxieties and free of all concern. Perhaps it was the hypoxia but I found peace.

I found Nepal.

The pressures of being a newly minted 21 year old are seemingly forgotten by those who’ve already lived through it and misunderstood by those who have yet to face it. There’s an overwhelming sense of needing to be an adult, to grow up right away. We’re of age which must mean we need to hit the ground running. There is however also the pressure of needing to soak up every last drop of adolescence. As if we somehow our undying thirst for salvaged time could ever be quenched.

Much like any 21 year old decision, this adventure began with no plan, a duffel bag filled with snacks, a few layers, my Canon and a journal. My mom dropped me off at the airport on Christmas daystars in her eyes and anticipation seeping from my pores, we said our goodbyes and I made my way through the airport.

By 9 a.m. on the 27th, I landed in Nepal and roamed the airport completely unsure of how I was supposed to find the one person who I knew in the country. My attempt to exit the airport began confidently, collecting my bags and visa with purpose, as if I’d done this a million times. Nothing could possibly stop me, I had myself together like a real adult. Standing in line for customs however, I got nervous. Unsure where to go next and worried that somehow I wouldn’t be allowed in. My heart raced, the man behind me in line attempted to make small talk, only making me uneasy and wanting to run. I picked up the pace, with no direction I just tried to get out. With my hastened pace, I realized perhaps too late, I had no idea what I was doing. No wifi, no cell service, I was terrified.

My only thought was to wait outside where sure enough, I found Sam. The girl I had trekked to Machu Picchu with six years ago but hadn’t seem since. She wrapped me in a hug and immediately hustled me towards the car, only stopping to pet the stray dogs laying on the sidewalk as we passed.

While this wasn’t my first time leaving the country, this felt different. I was immediately swept into a world filled with life. Traffic seemed louder, people seemed happier, colors were brighter and everything felt easier.

We arrived at the hotel and the jet lag finally hit. I fought it as best I could before deciding a venture into the city was my best course of action. The streets of Kathmandu were always busy, people whirring about, cars moving in every direction, paying no mind to traffic laws and motorcycles flying by nearly sweeping your ankles.

Nothing about this world felt real. Best of all, I didn’t feel real. Having left the states, it felt like I’d left everything. Stripping away anything that didn’t reflect my truest self. Aside from time spent in the hotel at night with wifi, I was untouchable to the world I’d left behind.

Our days roaming the city and religious sites were days of beauty, I was completely enthralled in the Nepali way of life. Not only did I start to fall in line with better personal practice but I began to understand Buddhism on a level I hadn’t known prior. I found myself moved by each practice, touched by the simplicity in their action and the kindness behind each gesture.

It became glaringly obvious that everything they do is with clear intention and purpose. From the simplest prayers and food dishes all the way to burial practices, everything was done with intention. I had the privilege to see some of these practices and truthfully, I felt unworthy. I believe that with intention comes intimacy, each of these practices served as a gateway into the culture. Becoming so closely entangled with the beliefs and practices created profound respect and longing to understand. I watched as women painted the story of the Buddha, working with paintbrushes consisting of a single yak hair. I say cremations and the way families mourned lost loved ones adorning their fires with marigold wreathes. All of which were experiences that I never would’ve expected. I was honored to be allowed and able to see it. While burials are a time of mourning, the respect with which I witnessed this culture treat death was beautiful.

This only proved my suspicion that while we as a Western culture claim to make the most of life, we instead neglect it. We’ve lost respect for what it means to be alive and more so we’ve lost respect for what it means to live.

By December 29th, we were ready to begin trekking, a feat not meant for the faint of heart. The first real scare is the flight into the Lukla airport. Known for being the worlds most dangerous airport, the short runway leaves little to the imagination and provides the adrenaline needed to begin your journey. Prior to our arrival, we spent sunrise soaring over the Himalayas. Watching the valleys flood with fog, pooling around trees, still untouched by the morning sun. As noted above, the peaceful morning faced an abrupt end when we came to a cliff edge referred to as a runway.

Our team emerged into the first clean air I’d seen since the US, picked up our packs and began our hike to the first village of Phakding.

The first two days I let myself fall to the back of the pack, taking pictures of even the simplest of things, getting so caught up in all that was round me. By the start of day three, I had come to the realization that this trip was for me and me alone. I had to respect it as the privilege that is was. From that point on, I hardly ever strayed away from the front of the pack. I indulged in the silence around me and felt the world cradling me as if to say I had found home again.

I listened to our guide, Bhanu, talk about his family and his life. He told stories of their culture and always made sure to remind me to pass to the left side of each and every prayer rock, maze and stupa we passed. Each day brought views most only dream of, new faces and occasionally some stray dogs that would tagalong to the following village.

January 6th marked the hardest day, the day before our base camp summit. We had spent the morning trekking to Gorak Shep, a village that only exists to house trekkers with no real permanent residents aside from the owners. We took a break before three of us fought for an afternoon summit of Mount KalaPatthar. The Bhanu’s dismay, we’d all completely lost our appetite. Despite trekking for up to 9 hours a day, the thought of eating made us all nauseas. That coupled with the onslaught of soup left us malnourished, sick and tired.

Despite this, me and two team members forged on for our afternoon summit. Despite being well acclimated having been raised above 9,000 feet, I thought I was on the verge of hypoxia. After about 5-10 steps it feels as though your corroded is going to explode. Jumping from your neck as if the skin is the only thing keeping it from the oxygen you so desperately need. Each step harder than the last, we pushed. We reached the summit just before sunset and stared at Everest in all it’s glory. I stood at the highest point, teetering on the edge of the rocky chasm that lay below. At this point, the 18,210 foot elevation weighed heavy on all of us. Vision going in and out I still remained unafraid. The clouds rolled in and with them brought snow. We practically ran down the mountain, excited to see what the sun kissed Everest looked like from below. Any hair poking out from our hats froze, but there I sat with my two teammates, bonded for life.

There’s moments like that in our lives where everything feels so complete. Your heart is full, your mind empty and your muscles at ease. We giggled together and made our way back to the teahouse where freezing felt unavoidable so we sat by the fire with our tea, still wearing parkas to bed.

The morning of Basecamp, we walked in near complete silence. The occasional giggle and once it warmed up, a casual exchange. Becca, my newfound best friend, and I giggled together but had a mutual understanding that this was worth more. We would walk in silence, kept company only by our own breath and the sound of rocks shifting beneath our feet. We reached Base Camp one and on that day, I cried. I didn’t anticipate I would but there I sat, taking a video for my parents telling them I had made it, crying. I cried thinking about how much they would’ve loved it. I thought about how I would always be their little girl but here I was, a world away and all grown up.

For being so close to the top of the world, I’ve never felt so small.

I never wanted to leave but the time came and the trek to a new village beckoned for us. I walked at the front in silence, Becca and I only speaking during or occasional breaks. By midday, I felt more alive than ever before. I had spent countless hours in silence but as I walked, the mountains hear my gratitude. I thanked them for my life, I thanked them for reminding me to live. Gratitude, much like any other muscle must be exercised. On that day I remembered this. I felt grateful for more than my own being. I was grateful for the world around me and how despite all that may complicate it, it is beautiful.

More than that, I remembered that life doesn’t’t have to be so serious. To live with intention is beautiful but too much thinking is unnecessary. The Himalayas force perspective, not only in the literal, physical sense but through a mental sense as well. We are so small. And truthfully, nothing matters. Let go, be free, act as you’ve always wanted.