Your Story is Something You Hold

There’s a certain kind of magic in starting a journey—when you leave a place behind and step into the unknown. Ours began in the chaos and color of Kathmandu, a city pulsing with life, dust, and endless honking horns. From there, we had 200 kilometers to cover—a deceptively short distance on a map, but an entirely different reality on the winding roads of Nepal.

It took us eight long hours. The ride felt less like a commute and more like an extreme sport—like being tumbled through a blender set on high. For anyone who’s ever complained about the potholes in Belgium: try Nepali roads once, and I promise, you’ll send your local council a thank-you card.

By the time we reached Machha Khola, we were dusty, exhausted, and more than ready to call it a day. A warm plate of momos, a cold beer, and the laughter of our group around the dinner table. We hit the beds early.

The second day began with breakfast at 7 a.m., and a reminder from the sun that Nepal isn’t all snowcaps and woolen scarves. The heat hit us hard. These first days of trekking wind through lowland valleys—lush, green, and almost tropical. It’s a contrast you might not expect, sweating under a heavy pack in a place usually associated with ice and altitude.

The walk was long, but the pace was forgiving. We stopped often for tea, snacks, and moments of silence to take it all in. There’s no rush up here. Life is slower, simpler. We passed tiny villages clinging to steep hillsides. One of the more sobering moments was passing a camp once funded by US aid—now left uncertain due to halted support. What happens to these communities when help disappears? When the world forgets them? Here, most families rely on what they can grow on the unforgiving terrain—fields of rice, scattered patches of corn, whatever the hillside will give. Without outside help, survival becomes even more uncertain. It makes you pause.

The first snow-dusted peaks crept into view, and the thrill of what’s to come returned. Suspension bridges swayed beneath our feet. We were getting closer to the heart of the Himalayas, step by step.

These first days are the foundation of a story I’ll carry long after my boots are packed away. It’s dusty and messy and beautiful—and it’s mine.