By Jennifer Jang

I had no plan in the least, and no questions in mind when I first embarked on this journey.

Thus, I was also in for a surprise when I found myself in the Himalayas days later, trekking. Once persuaded by the stories from travelers I met at the hostel, I had stormed into the tourist information center, requested the best beginner solo trek and paid for the hiking permits. Roberto gave me his map and translated to me parts of his Italian Lonely Planet guidebook; Sara lent me her boots and hiking gear; Neil offered me the rest of his peanut butter. I carefully rationed my money and calories for each day, purchased water-purification pills and altitude pills, and then I was off, determined to show that “I could,” despite my age, gender and lack of guide and porter. On the first day of the trek, I met Lu, a Korean who shared my determination.

“No, Man,” he told his guide, Man. “I will carry my own backpack.”

“Really?” his guide grinned. “I can carry it for you, no problem.”

“No, no, no,” Lu hiccuped out. “ I have to carry it myself.”

Unfortunately the trek translated to stairs, sweat and jelly legs. But there was always something out of this world waiting for me to catch up to — a crisp green valley, an archaic stone hut, a herd of goats that chewed on foliage. At the end of the first day, as I conquered the last flight of murderous stairs, a group of first-graders ran down in the opposite direction, the stairs merely daily routine. “Namaste!” I smiled, and they greeted me back with shy “Namastes.” I took a selfie of us, and their shy grins rejuvenated me.

Some four days later, I was only a few stops away from the base camp. The last few days I had been staying at the same place as the other trekkers, so I recognized Raj, who was meditating at a giant rock. I passed him, but he caught up to me when I stopped to stare at the skyscraper-tall waterfall that had just came into full view. The water was translucent and broke into a shower halfway.

“That is very beautiful,” I said, and he agreed. He also stopped to admire the view. I remembered the debate we all had the day before, on whether to stop at MBC, and mentioned my decision.

“So I’m thinking of going on to ABC,” I started.

Macchapucchre base camp was the stop before Annapurna base camp, and some would be staying there. However, I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted to reach the top in the shortest amount of time.

“No, no, you should stop at MBC.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m thinking of it as a kind of challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge,” he said. “Some say it is more beautiful at MBC. Unless you are in a rush of course, then, you may try to go to ABC.”

It is not a challenge? I love challenge. Without it, I find only boredom. However, this journey started as an escape: I needed to escape the suffocating environment I felt in Taiwan. Up till that brief conversation, I hadn’t slowed down to consider what the journey meant to me personally. And I don’t have the answer for that yet.

I still went on to ABC; they all did too. There we had a big hearty party, playing card games such as “bullshit” and laughing over our ridiculous orders of food. We spent the night, woke for the sunrise, then took out our emotionless passport photos and used honey to paste them up on a beam in the dining hall, where they will oversee future guests. They will stay there for quite a while, in a row, among so many others. We said our goodbyes, goodbyes to the hours of camaraderie we shared.

Then we descended back to the unknown.