The first time I caught a glimpse of a snow-capped Himalayan peak, I was overwhelmed by a swell of emotion and suddenly felt very small. It was day three of my solo expedition through Nepal—a journey I had planned to last eight days but would go on much longer. I felt the adrenaline and ecstasy grow with each step on the exposed trail hugging the barren cliff side. A jagged peak pierced through the clouds of the gloomy sky, and I could finally see what I had climbed all this way for.
As cliché as it sounds, I came to Nepal to find myself in the mountains and then realized I had to lose myself first. There are few better places for an identity crisis than alone in the shadow of giants. I hired no guide or porter; it was just me and an exceptionally heavy pack stuffed with a sleeping bag, plenty of layers, a few books, and bags of lackluster trail mix from a supermarket in Kathmandu.
My original plan was to trek through the Langtang Valley, a remote region devastated by a deadly earthquake in 2015 and a subsequent avalanche. I took a public bus from the New Bus Station in Kathmandu to Syabrubesi, the gateway to the Langtang Trek, riding nine hours over bumpy rural roads with perpetual debris from landslides.
With each day on my own, I felt a deepening sense of detachment from society and a growing communion with nature. My anxieties and insecurities faded away into the glacier-scraped valleys. During the cold nights, I read the Snow Leopard, Peter Matthiesson’s account of a rugged 1970s expedition in search of the elusive animal. Fifty years ago, Nepal looked very different than today. Matthiesson slept in makeshift shelters and built fires out of yak dung, one of the few flammable materials available at this altitude—plants only exist as memories. But the past few decades in Nepal have seen rapid development, and life in inhabitable landscapes were becoming more habitable, for better or for worse.
Along the trails I followed, hikers slept in rural guesthouses that offered varying degrees of comfort; some had even been recently equipped with flushing toilets. There was no phone service, but sporadic Wi-Fi, and I politely declined anytime a friendly Tamang, the predominant ethnic group of the region, asked if I wanted the password.
To experience Nepal’s more remote side—and the kind of solitude that swallows sound—you have to step onto lesser-traversed trails, like those leading into the restricted mythical kingdoms of Mustang and Dolpo, where entry requires a special permit.
In search of my own road less traveled, I took an alternate return route, veering to the Frozen Lakes instead of continuing on back to Syabrubesi. I finally found myself alone as I scaled what felt like a 90-degree ascent, the weight of my bag dragging me backward. A red panda scuttled across the trail, its fluffy raccoon-like tail unmistakable. Langur monkeys screeched from the canopy above. Their calls calmed my nerves after finally finding the solitude and then fearing it. I thought about being careful what you wish for.
I walked in the midst of a dense pine forest and passed seemingly ancient Buddhist monasteries, where roots grew from cracks in the stone. I eventually settled in for the night in a secluded guesthouse perched above the treeline with clear views of Tibet. The sun set, casting warm hues across the pale giants, and I skipped through the fields, exclaiming in disbelief: “The Himalayas are pink!” A woman lived there alone with her young son, and she cooked me curry with Tibetan flatbread over a fire.
That night and the following morning were pure ecstasy, untouched by the presence of another hiker. I felt wholly independent, accountable for every success and every misstep. But when the journey ended and I found myself back in Pokhara—a hippie town of fire dancers and lakefront vegan cafés—I felt restless and depressed. I longed to return to the solitude of the mountains, where my biggest concern was the next step of the trail, a simplicity sharpened by the fact that I was only responsible for myself, having limited mental and physical capacity for other cares or concerns.
I spontaneously climbed aboard a local bus to Besisahar, intent on a short section of the Annapurna Circuit. I hiked for 17 more days, steadily climbing toward the infamous Thorong La Pass at 17,769 feet. Without being subject to other people’s whims, solo trekking often takes on a life of its own; it creates room in an itinerary for the unexpected.
At high altitude, each step feels heavy. Altitude sickness can strike anyone, no matter your fitness level, and I’d learned to build in extra acclimatization days and carry the altitude medication Diamox, which is best taken preventatively. Step by step, through the barren rocky landscape, above the clouds, I trudged forward, fighting the pain but relishing the accomplishment of each footstep. Once at the top, exhausted, I drank hot chocolate at a small shack and lingered a while before starting the long way down toward Mustang. The snow disappeared, the sun came out, and birds returned.
Climbing down and down, I reached Muktinath, a holy site in both Hinduism and Buddhism. Pilgrims dotted the landscape. Hawkers sold ammonite fossils collected from the riverbed. Roads returned. The sound of engines felt unfamiliar. Most trekkers ended their journey here, but I opted to keep going.
The next day, when I appeared to be the only living soul in a windswept valley, a voice bellowed from a cave above. “What are you doing here?” I called back. An eccentric monk explained in English (widely spoken in Nepal thanks to tourism) that he was killed in this cave in another life, and he now must sleep here. He invited me into the rocky quarters, but I left him in his solitude, not wanting to intrude on his own journey—you can’t lose yourself if someone else finds you first.
Know before you go
If you plan to take public transportation in Nepal, be prepared for long and arduous commutes. Landslides can close roads without warning, and the traffic and road conditions, often worsened by ongoing construction, make journeys unpredictable and exhausting. Even if you don’t want to be accompanied by a guide, you could hire a car service to take you to the trailhead and back from Pokhara.
In 2023, Nepal passed a law requiring tourists to be accompanied by licensed guides. In practice, it doesn’t seem to be strictly enforced. I applied for the necessary permits and checked in at every tourism office along the route, plainly stating that I was alone. No official objected.
You can apply for the Langtang and Annapurna permits in either Kathmandu or Pokhara, but make sure to get them before heading to the trail.
