Trekking the Sacred Mountains of Bhutan - The Ultimate Experience

The Lack of Preparation

A common question we get is "what was your favorite place to travel?" I always struggle to answer because every country offers something unique -- whether it's the food, the culture, the sights, or simply the chance to find mindfulness in nature. However, if I reflect from a spiritual standpoint, trekking through Bhutan's mountains stands out the most -- mainly because I was so unprepared.

Feeling Lost and Taking a Leap

Shortly before meeting Renee, I felt soul-sick. Something was missing and I believed stepping out of my comfort zone was the cure. I found a trip through Peregrine (now part of Intrepid Travel) called "Bhutan's Sacred Summit Trek." It was a 13-day journey, with 10 days trekking through the Himalayas to see Jomolhari (or Chomolhari), a sacred peak where an image of the Buddha was left in 1970. The goddess, Jomo, believed to reside there, is seen as Bhutan's protector.

After booking the trip with just a month to prepare, I received the packing list and fitness recommendations. It advised three months of altitude training to prevent sickness, warned of frostbite, and noted the dangers of bears and leopards. It also stressed packing light -- only carrying what you were willing to bear yourself. That's when I realized I might be in over my head. So, of course, I went.

Arriving in Bhutan

Bhutan measures its economic success by Gross National Happiness. Surrounded by breathtaking mountains, the country fiercely preserves its traditions, architecture, and trades. Before my final flight from Kathmandu to Paro, a stranger asked if I would watch their luggage. Airport security warnings played in my head, and I refused outright. The situation was awkward, made worse when we ended up seated next to each other on the flight.

During the descent into Bhutan, sheer Himalayan cliffs flanked our small plane. The turbulence was intense, and my panicked mind imagined the wings scraping rock. Yet, the locals around me sat calmly, as if on a city bus. I steadied myself as the turbulence subsided, and suddenly the mountains opened into a paradise. Temples perched on cliffs, untouched landscapes stretched before me --it felt like stepping in to Shangri-La.

I was the first to arrive in our group and was whisked to my hotel, where they served me my first butter tea. As I sipped, intrigued by its richness, I had no idea in just three days, on April 18th, 2014, the deadliest avalanche in Himalayan history would strike, killing 16 Nepali mountaineers. What did I get myself into?

Tiger's Nest: A Test of Will

The next day, we set out for Tiger's Nest Monastery, clinging to the cliffs of Paro Valley. Legend has it that Guru Rinpoche flew here on a tiger's back to subdue demons that plagued the area. The 900-meter climb (2,952 ft.) would take 2-3 hours.

At first, I felt exhilarated --this was a pilgrimage every Bhutanese person aspires to take once in their lifetime. I was honored to be part of it. But then, reality hit: I had never done a hike like this before.

The overcast skies didn't allow for great pictures, but nothing could diminish the beauty of this sacred site. Heart pounding, and exhilarated, I was blessed with a second wind as we proceeded to the monastery. Inside, we made offerings of cash, food, and small gifts before beginning our descent. Later, we explored Bhutan's cultural heritage through traditional masks and unique architecture. The next day, our real trek would begin -- climbing to 4700 meters (15,419 ft.) to reach Jomolhari Base Camp.

The Man With No Luggage

We bused to Drukgyel Dzong, a 17th century fortress now in ruins -- an ominous start to our journey. As we prepared, duffel bags filled with cold-weather jackets were laid out. One traveler complained about the fit, causing a scene. I offered her my jacket, only realizing later that the zipper was broken.

Horses arrived to transport luggage, and I noticed another traveler loading a steamer trunk. The same person I had switched my jacket with. I turned to our guide, confused --weren't we supposed to carry everything ourselves? He shook his head, explaining that the carts would meet us at camp each night. I looked down at my single backpack --holding just a few clothes, a walking stick, toothbrush, toothpaste, and my e-reader. The sherpas nicknamed me the "The Man With No Luggage." I took it as an honorary title.

The Roar of the Yeti

As we climbed, weaving across rivers and forests, an unearthly roar echoed through the valley. I turned to our guide. "Was that a yeti?" He shot me a stern look. "No yetis," he said. And nothing more.

It became an ongoing joke. "Is that a yeti cave?" I'd ask our guide. He would only give a frustrated look and shake his head occasionally giving me a "no yetis." The roar was likely a bear, but to this day, I wish I had recorded it.

Food and Amenities

Given our remote surroundings, I was surprised by the quality of our meals -- scrambled eggs, diced chicken, porridge, and hearty stews. But what I remember most was our guide's cheerful call: "Juice stop!" We would gather around, savoring a boxed fruit juice after hours of hiking. Even now, Renee will remind me "Juice stop!" when it's time to pause and appreciate our surroundings.

Arriving at camp was always a relief -- seeing the red-orange tents in the distance meant a hot meal was waiting. The campsites were prepared ahead of our arrival, with an outhouse dug for privacy. The sherpas, their mouths stained red from chewing betel nut, watched over us, a habit I was curious about never brave enough to try.

Mornings began with a quiet wake-up call, a cup of tea, and a bowl of warm water to wash away the night's chill. Evenings ended with the comfort of a hot water bottle tucked into our sleeping bags-- small luxuries that made all the difference in the mountains.

A Scream in the Night

At Jomolhari Base Camp, we were shocked to find other trekkers. For days, we had seen no one, and suddenly we were surrounded. As a means to celebrate our arrival, a fellow trekker, Ed, and I had decided to do the YMCA dance.

We were given a free day to acclimate to the altitude which I spent walking around the area to get better views of the Jomalhari mountain.

That night was bitterly cold. I started reading Game of Thrones -- a terrible choice while shivering in a tent for anyone familiar with the pages that describe the white walkers.

Just as I turned off my headlamp, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence. I quickly peered out of the tent, and called out, "is everyone okay?!" Nothing. Just eerie quiet. I debated about investigating, but there were lot of pitfalls around the area and I felt it was too risky to go at night.

The next morning, I asked the group if they had heard the scream. The woman I had given my jacket to sheepishly admitted, while turning to her husband "That was me. There was something in the outhouse."

We all turned to the outhouse --whatever had scared her might still be inside. I cautiously unzipped the tent flag. A ball of fur bolted out. A shivering black and white puppy had sought warmth inside. As we all laughed in relief, our guide arranged for the puppy to be taken to safety.

Just Keep Swimming

By now, the effects of altitude sickness were beginning to show. My body ached, my head pounded, and I had to force myself to eat. I had started to pop aspirin like tic tacs. Each step felt like my feet were made of lead. Even through all that, I had hoped for a moment of enlightenment. Instead, my oxygen-deprived brain latched onto Dory's "Just keep swimming" mantra from Finding Nemo.

One guide began insisting on frequent stops, forcing us to sit every 50 feet. Frustrated, I told him stopping made it harder. The next morning, he was gone. Our lead guide informed us he had succumbed to altitude sickness and descended with the horses. I felt terrible -- I had pushed him without realizing he was struggling.

On Top of the World

As we descended, we saw marmots and grazing yaks. As oxygen started to flood back in to my body, I sprinted downhill, overwhelmed with energy. As I sat at the opening of my tent, I blasted Imagine Dragon's "On Top of the World" as I took in the scenic beauty that surrounded me. It was one of those rare, perfect moments where everything felt in harmony. It is a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life.

A Simple Smile

After this moment, a fellow trekker told me "Your smile keeps me going." I was stunned and asked what she had meant. She pointed out that after every grueling point on the journey, I would turn around and smile at everyone. I had not even been aware I had been doing it-- It was just me being me.

That simple smile helped her push forward when exhaustion threatened to take over. As someone who has spent years in leadership, I was accustomed to constant pressure -- always expected to do more, to push harder. But here, in the vastness of the mountains, it wasn't strategy or strength that made a difference. It was a smile. It was the most meaningful feedback I had ever received. The words struck me deeply, nearly bringing me to tears.

The Descent

The most memorable point in the descent was when we camped at a valley floor. Curious about our next route, we asked one of the guides where we were heading. He looked up at the towering cliffs that sheltered us, pointed to the highest peak, and said, "We will go there, and then head down on the other side."

Our hearts collectively sank. It felt like we had just come from there. Ed, the comedian in our group, broke the tension with a smirk. "Well, it seems we're heading to the place closest to impossible - so naturally, we must be going to 'nearly impossible!" Laughter rippled through our weary group, and just like that, we pushed forward, one step at a time.

As we descended, the steep switchbacks, the landscape transformed --dwarf rhododendrons began to creep into our path. Signs of civilization reappeared. Yak farmers passed us on their way to the valley. The descent was brutal on the knees, each step a controlled fall onto uneven rocks. But when we reached the base of the mountain, I smiled.

The Return to Civilization

As we returned to Drukyel Dzong --reality came rushing back. The woman, who had complained about her jacket from the very first day, was now in a heated argument with her husband. Throughout the trip, he had spent much of his time talking to another hiker, but no real conflict had surfaced. It was as if the moment we left the mountains, so did the sense of peace we had carried with us.

I turned to our guide and, with a knowing smile, asked if he planned to intervene. His eyes widened in panic. "No!" he said. "That is a domestic dispute. I know better than to get involved."

We all piled into a vehicle, the first in days, and made our way back to the hotel. Bhutanese architecture lined the streets, a blend of intricate woodwork and quiet elegance. As we entered the lobby, a strange sensation washed over me -- an uneasy awareness of someone standing uncomfortably close.

From the corner of my eye, I saw what I assumed was a homeless person, ragged and disheveled. The closeness irritated me. But when I turned, I realized -- it was me.

The mirror reflected a version of myself I barely recognized. My clothes were caked in dust, my face streaked with dried sweat, my hair wild from the days in the wilderness. Yet, in my own eyes, I saw something I hadn't before - a quiet hunger, an alertness, a rawness that only the mountains could carve into a person.

And then all I could think about was how incredible a shower would feel.

The moment I got my room key, I bolted inside, stripped off the layers of dirt and exhaustion, and stepped into the shower. The water crashed against my skin, washing away days of grime, but something deeper had shifted. That moment of simple luxury -- hot water, clean skin, warmth --etched itself into my mind. Even years later, I find myself cherishing every shower, never taking it for granted again.

Final Reflections in Thimphu

As we settled back in civilization, we wandered through the bustling markets of Bhutan. We observed the takin, the country's national animal, its strange, almost mythical form lounging in the distance.

Near the market, my guide helped me collect a small vial of sand -- a gift for Renee's sand collection. A simple gesture, yet it carried the weight of the entire journey.

It has been nearly 11 years since I trekked through Bhutan, but the mountains still call to me. I left as one person and returned as another. Maybe that is the essence of trekking, of climbing mountains both real and metaphorical. At some point, stripped of distractions, you are left with only your thoughts.

And if you're lucky, those thoughts will remind you to just keep swimming.