‘Hidden Himalaya’

The trek in Humla gradually increased in elevation until the fourth day, when we topped the 15,912-foot Nara Lagna and admired a view that extended south to the snowy peaks of the Saipal Himal and north to the sprawling Tibetan Plateau. From the crest of the pass the trail made a dizzying sequence of switchbacks, dropping nearly 4,000 feet to reach the Tibetan (Chinese) border before branching northeast and heading into the Limi Valley.

The feel became altogether lonelier: hardly any yak caravans, no more boisterous Karnali River. The valley was broad, with boulder-strewn slopes on either side, and the villages were hours and in some cases days apart.

After a couple of days of walking we turned up a side valley where a series of small, terraced fields stairstepped to what looked like a medieval castle — a stone complex of buildings, threaded by narrow alleys and topped by colorful flags. This was the village of Til.

The next morning, I approached a group of villagers who were processing the annual barley harvest. Rather than treating me as a tourist, they simply handed me a basketful of grain and put me to work. Imitating them, I shook the basket vigorously; the barley separated from the chaff and fell into a triangular mound that echoed the shape of the snowy mountains that rose above the head of the valley.

With the trek going so smoothly, something had to go wrong. First one of the women in the group twisted her ankle so badly that she could barely walk. Then we found out that the mountain pass at the climax of our trek — the 16,371-foot Nyalu Lagna — was covered in snow, possibly too deep to cross without mountaineering equipment. The injured woman as well as the horses could never make it over and would have to trek back out the way we had come. But McGuinness, a couple of porters, and I could continue onward and make the climb, maybe, if we were willing to take the chance of having to retreat.

We were. Two days later McGuinness shook my tent to wake me up at dawn for the ascent. A survival literature junkie, I was prepared, maybe even perversely hoping, for the worst, but the “Into Thin Air’’ vibe was compromised by blissful weather. Under a cloudless sky, glittering snow slopes ramped up to the pass. As the sun rose higher it thawed the surface of the crusty snow, and by midmorning I was sinking to thigh depth with every step.

Exhausted but happy, we stood on top by lunchtime. Wind whipped the prayer flags that marked the crest of the pass, with jagged peaks all around us and a turquoise lake visible in the valley far below.

When I finally made it back to Simikot the following day my overworked legs were near collapse. But my spirit was not. The whole country lay ahead on the Great Himalaya Trail, and I was ready to tackle the next circuit.

James Vlahos can be reached at jamesvlahos@earthlink.net.