‘Hidden Himalaya’

Trekking the first stretch of an ambitious mountain trail

June 20, 2010|James Vlahos, Globe Correspondent

SIMIKOT, Nepal — We were four people with one sleeping bag and no tent. Night had fallen in the Himalaya, and the temperature was below freezing. But to Jamie McGuinness, a Kathmandu-based guide, there was no cause for panic. The time he and his sled dogs had gotten lost in the Arctic during a whiteout, that was a crisis. The blizzard in Dolpo when the villagers thought he was ghost, definitely a problem. But tonight? We would figure something out.

“I’ve got a warm jacket,’’ McGuinness said. “You guys can share my sleeping bag.’’

Our trek was in Humla, the most remote district in Nepal. Tucked into the country’s far northwestern corner, Humla is mountainous and roadless, and home to only 43,000 people, most of them clustered around the district headquarters of Simikot. The southern reaches are relatively lush, encompassing the deep gorge of the Karnali River, rhododendron thickets, and pine-shrouded slopes that rise to snowy peaks. The north is more arid and includes the Limi Valley, windswept and vast. Limi is the site of the Halji Gompa, established in the 10th century and believed to be Nepal’s oldest Tibetan Buddhist site.

While parts of Nepal have arguably become too popular — the wilderness vibe suffers when you can order a latte mid-trek — much of Humla is as it has been for centuries. Jim Donovan, who works for the Nepal Trust, a local development agency, calls Humla “the hidden Himalaya, where life is as it always was.’’

Fortunately, due to its isolation and near-total lack of tourist infrastructure — visitors sleep in tents rather than in cushy teahouses — Humla has yet to be mobbed by the Lonely Planet crowd. Unlike in more established tourism areas such as Annapurna or Everest, you can trek for a week or more without seeing another foreigner.

On our first day, after landing on a gravel airstrip in Simikot, we had set out at a pace so rapid that jogging was sometimes required. We soon outpaced the porters and horses trailing behind us with tents and other vital gear. The trail hugged a mountainside, with the Karnali, churning with rapids, a thousand feet below at the bottom of the gorge.

In such a remote place you can’t tromp into a village after dark and expect chardonnay and a hot tub, but there was certainly hospitality. After spotting light coming from a small stone hut, we walked in and introduced ourselves. The woman inside was friendly and served us soup heated over a wood fire and chattered with McGuinness in Nepali. Her husband peeled potatoes as he looked on.

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