By Daniel Cooney
Five friends started an 18-day trek in northern India, across 12 mountains in the Himalayas.
One was forced to quit because of altitude sickness in the first week, while another gave up days later and left without telling anyone, sparking a 24-hour search. The three of us who made it got lost and were tracked by our footprints.
"This has to have been the hardest physical day of my life. I was near to tears with exhaustion, fear and stress," I scribbled in my diary after a 13-hour hike, much of it in the grip of altitude sickness, which upended my sense of balance, sapped my energy and confidence and left me stumbling with a pounding headache and tingling hands along cliff-face paths that seemed to sway underfoot.
But it wasn't all pain. My altitude woes quickly disappeared as I acclimatised and we dragged so many luxuries into the Himalayan mountains that we were usually too busy being pampered to worry about discomforts.
Ten mules carried our gear: tents for sleeping, dining, cooking and even washing; tables and chairs; bottles of whiskey; trunks of tinned and fresh food - even a silver tray to serve it on.
A staff of eight waited on us round the clock. "More tea, please" or "May I get some hot water for washing", we'd call out, and within minutes our fancy would be fulfilled.
Our hiking party with its long caravan of mules and staff looked more like a major expedition to discover new lands than a boys' adventure. In India, travelling in style is relatively affordable and, of course, fun.
The five of us - in our late 20s and 30s - were all friends, living in Bangkok: a Sri Lankan, two Britons, an Indian and myself, a New Zealander.
We wanted the hike to challenge us physically, but also hoped the silence and grandeur of the mountains would knead our frazzled and cluttered minds into a more meditative state.
We chose to hike in Ladakh, part of India's section of the Himalayas. The region is part of Kashmir, which has been racked by rebellion for 16 years, but it's far from the fighting and has become increasingly popular with foreign tourists, attracted by the multi-hued, moonscape-like mountains.
A typical day on the hike would start with the cook's assistant, 35-year-old Sonam Norgies, who trekked in canvas sneakers with holes in the toes, gently slapping our tents to wake us and give us warm water for washing and tea.
Bleary-eyed, we'd stumble down to the dining tent, the table laden with porridge, muesli, eggs, baked beans, freshly baked bread and coffee.
Then, while the staff cleaned, packed up and loaded the mules, our 25-year-old guide, Stanzin Mutup, who was always on the lookout for wandering female yak shepherds to chat up, would point us in the right direction and we'd start walking, a small pack on each of our backs with water, a lunch box, camera and jacket.
The paths were usually easy to follow, though on occasion we did find ourselves scrambling along animal trails on mountainsides or crisscrossing rivers as we sought to descend a valley.
The mountaintop passes were well marked with Buddhist shrines and strings of flags, which according to local beliefs emit prayers for whoever placed them there each time they flutter in the wind.
Normally, we'd stop walking by about 4pm, the camp usually already set up, tea brewing and Indian pakoras or some other snack splattering away in an oil-filled pan. As the sun set, we'd move into the dining tent to play cards and sip whisky until dinner was served.
Despite all the luxuries and our battalion of aides, the trek still felt like an edgy adventure - though this may have been partly due to all our mishaps.
One morning, we walked ahead of our guide and mistakenly hiked up the wrong valley. By late afternoon, just as we started wondering how cold the Himalayan night would be without sleeping bags and tents, we noticed our camp helper standing by our side, a smile on his face.
"I tracked you by following your footprints," Namgail Dorjay said. "I saw where you'd had lunch by the dropped eggshells."
As darkness fell at the end of one long day, three of the exhausted mules tripped on a narrow track and plummeted down a cliff. Amazingly they survived, bruised and bloodied, but with no broken bones.
Part of the charm of the trek was the people we met. The tourist trail in much of Ladakh isn't so heavily trodden that villagers demand money to allow their photographs to be taken, and children don't pester visitors for sweets or pens.
By the end of the hike, we were glad to return to civilisation. Eighteen days is a long time to spend "roughing it" in mountains, in the constant company of the same people. I had begun to crave fast food and hot showers, and my thighs were red raw from chafing.
The stresses of city living didn't bother me for weeks. Eventually, when they did, I just took my mind back to Himalayas, to the silence, the crisp clean air and the incredible sense of freedom that comes from standing on a mountaintop and looking over countless snow-topped peaks to the far horizon.
- This article was originally published on page 6 of The Star on April 09, 2005