The Circuit of Spirits: A Storytelling Journey Through the Manaslu Trek

"Note: I don't want to disclose the real name. So I put random Names for the people for the blogs of our travel."

So, our Himalayan travel blog with local legends, emotions, and lived experience: Saying “Yes” to the Unknown

There’s a Nepali saying: “हिँड्ने मान्छे कहिल्यै हराउँदैन” (A person who keeps walking never truly gets lost).  I didn’t know it then, but saying yes to a spontaneous Manaslu trek would test that idea in ways I couldn’t imagine.

Six strangers. One mountain. Sixteen days that would quietly rearrange something deep inside us.

This is not just a trekking guide. This is a lived story of dust, silence, laughter, fear, and the whispers of the mountains themselves.

Day 1–2: Kathmandu to Soti Khola — The Beginning of Letting Go

The journey began in the chaos of Kathmandu’s horns, dust, and tangled energy.

By the time we squeezed into that jeep, we were still strangers: Lucas adjusting his camera, Anna watching silently, Marco talking endlessly, Sophie smiling at everything, David scanning the horizon like a seasoned trekker… and me, unsure why I said yes.

As the road dissolved into dirt, so did our comfort. By the time we reached Soti Khola, the river roared beside us like a warning. That night, I, as a guide, quietly said:

“पहाडले सबैलाई समान बनाउँछ” (The mountains make everyone equal).

I didn’t understand it yet—but I would.

 

Day 3–5: Into the Valley — Learning to Walk Together

The trail eased us in gently of terraced fields, waterfalls, suspension bridges swaying over the Budhi Gandaki.

But walking together? That was harder.

David moved fast. Sophie stopped for flowers. Marco joked. Anna observed. I struggled to keep rhythm with my breath and with people I barely knew.

Somewhere between Machha Khola and Jagat, the mountains began their quiet work.

Comfort disappeared.

Egos softened.

 In a crowded teahouse, eating dal bhat with our hands, something shifted. “दाल भात पावर, २४ घण्टा” (Dal Bhat power, 24 hours)—the locals laughed.

Simple food. Simple life.

Strange how enough it felt.

 

Day 6–7: Crossing Into Another World — Where Spirits Live

As we climbed higher, the landscape changed and so did the feeling. Mani walls appeared. Prayer flags fluttered like voices in the wind.

We had entered a different world—the Tibetan Buddhist region.

A local elder in Bihi Phedi told us a story: “These mountains are not empty. Spirits walk these paths. Respect them, and they will guide you.”

That night, Anna whispered, “Do you feel it? Like we’re being watched but not in a bad way.”

Everyone laughed. And I said the spirits might be surprised to see us, too.

 

Day 7: Lho — First Glimpse of Manaslu

And then… we saw it. Manaslu.

Towering, silent, impossibly विशाल (vast). Lucas lowered his camera for once. No one spoke.

 I remembered another Nepali line: “पहाड बोल्दैन, तर सबै कुरा भन्छ” (The mountain doesn’t speak, but it says everything).

That was the moment it stopped being a trek—and became something deeper.

 

Day 8–9: Samagaon — The Silence That Changes You

Samagaon felt like the edge of the world. Thin air. Slower thoughts. Shorter sentences.

We hiked to Pungyen Gompa, where glaciers cracked like thunder.

Then we sat… for hours. No phones. No distractions. Just presence.

Sophie finally said: “I’ve never felt so small… and so alive.” That night, a shopkeeper named Tsering shared something: “If you rush in the mountains, they will slow you down for you.”

Anna nodded quietly. “I think… I needed that.”

 

Day 10–11: Samdo to Dharamsala — Preparing for the Unknown

The last villages felt like the last pieces of civilization. Cold sharpened. Oxygen faded. Conversations became intentional. Even Marco stopped joking.

There’s a Nepali saying: “धैर्य गर्नेले हिमाल चढ्छ” (Only the patient climb mountains).

We were about to find out why.

 

Day 12: Larkya La Pass (5,106m) — The Day Everything Broke and Rebuilt

3 AM. Frozen boots. Stars too close to ignore. The climb was brutal. Every step felt like lifting the weight of doubt itself. At one point, I thought: Why am I doing this?

David just smiled: “For this.” And then we reached the top. Wind. Prayer flags. Endless peaks. And something cracked open inside all of us.

 We hugged.

We cried.

We laughed like children. 

Lucas whispered: “This isn’t a photo… this is proof.” Proof that we could suffer and still move forward.

And I sang a line, "There's a blaze of light in every word, it doesn't matter which you heard..." by Mumford & Sons, I Will Wait. 

Lucas agreed, saying there would be better words to describe it....

Day 13–14: The Descent — Returning, But Not the Same

As we dropped into green forests again, it felt surreal. Like waking from a dream.

We met a young boy on the trail who asked: “Why do you come here?”

 Marco answered simply: “To remember what matters.”

The boy nodded. Somehow… he understood.

 

Day 15–16: Back to Kathmandu — The Quiet After

The jeep ride back felt different, quieter, heavier with meaning. Conversation faded, replaced by reflection, as our eyes turned into mirrors, each one holding the weight of trials, hardship, and the quiet swell of emotions we carried within.

Anna said something that stayed with me:

“We didn’t become friends because we tried… The mountain just made us honest.”

 And maybe that’s what Manaslu really does. It strips away everything unnecessary until only the truth remains.

I nodded and said, Anna, well, you might have taken a liking to the spirits. 

For a moment, everybody was serious, but eventually everyone laughed, saying we were protected by unseen guardians throughout the trial to Manaslu.

Our journey ended. Before departure, we did some "cheers." And i dedicated one song to them in nepali, 

"फेरि भेट होला, हाँसी खेली बितेका ती दिनहरू

सम्झनामा मात्रै रहे पनि, मनले बिर्सन सक्दैन कहिल्यै

बाटो छुटे पनि, साथ छुटे पनि

कुनै मोडमा फेरि भेट होला..."

By Udit Narayan, Feri Bhet Hola, from Kusume Rumal

The things and stories I heard throughout the journey I want to express....

The Local Legend: Why It’s Called the “Circuit of Spirits”

Locals believe Manaslu is protected by unseen guardians. Old traders used to whisper:

If your heart is not clean, the mountain will turn you back.And honestly?

After 16 days… I believe it.

Why Choose the Manaslu Trek

 If you’re searching for:

1. Best off-the-beaten-path trek in Nepal
2. Authentic Himalayan trekking experience
3. Manaslu Circuit itinerary and story

 

This is it. Unlike Everest, Manaslu still feels raw, untouched, and deeply spiritual.

It offers:

1. Remote trails
2. Rich Tibetan culture
3. The challenging Larkya La Pass
4. Real human connection
5. Practical Tips (From Real Experience)

 

Best Time to Trek:

1. Spring (March–May): Blooming rhododendrons 
2. Autumn (Sept–Nov): Crystal-clear mountain views

 

Essentials:

1. Broken-in boots
2. Down jacket (-15°C or lower)
3. Trekking poles
4. Cash (no ATMs after Soti Khola)

 

Important Note: You must trek with a licensed guide. This is a restricted area.

Final Reflection

At the end of it all, I understood something simple:

“यात्रा गन्तव्य होइन, अनुभव हो”

(The journey is not the destination; it is the experience.)

We came as strangers. We left as something harder to define....Not quite friends, not quite family…

But connected by something only the mountains can create.

 

Ready to Experience the Circuit of Spirits?

 Don’t just read stories like this—live one.

 Contact Us:

WhatsApp: +977-9860745982

Email: himalayaneco124@gmail.com

“पहाडले बोलाउँछ भने जानुहोस्…

त्यहाँ तपाईँले आफैलाई भेट्नुहुनेछ।”

(If the mountains call you… go. You might just find yourself there.)

Dudh Pokhari to find myself???

“We leave pieces of ourselves in the mountains, hoping they will replace the weight we carry with something lighter.”

I didn’t go to Dudh Pokhari to find myself. That sounds like a cliché from a movie, doesn’t it? The truth is, I went because I was tired. I was tired of the noise, the endless notifications, and the subtle, nagging feeling that I was running a race I hadn't signed up for.

When the jeep engine finally sputtered to a halt in Ramechhap, leaving the dust of the city behind, I realized I wasn’t just looking for a view. I was looking for silence. Real, unadulterated silence.

And in the misty heights of Dudh Pokhari, I found exactly that.

The Unpromising Beginning

Let’s be honest about the journey. It is not for the faint of heart.

The road to Ramechhap is a testament to patience. It is a ribbon of dust and gravel clinging to the sides of massive hills. As our jeep rattled over the rocks, my body ached, and there were moments when I wondered if the destination was worth the jarring of my bones.

But there is a peculiar wisdom in discomfort. When the road is rough, you are forced to surrender control. You cannot rush; you can only endure.

“बाटो कठिन भए मात्र गन्तव्यको महत्त्व थाहा हुन्छ।”

(Only when the road is difficult do you understand the value of the destination.)

Somewhere along that bumpy ride, looking out at the terraced fields plunging into the river below, my frustration melted away. I stopped checking my watch. I started seeing the rhythm of the hills—the slow, deliberate pace of nature that doesn’t rush for anyone.

The Climb: A Conversation with Gravity

The vehicle drops you off, but the mountain demands you earn the rest of the way on foot.

The trek upward is steep. My lungs burned with the thin, crisp air, and my legs felt heavy. I am not a seasoned mountaineer; I am just a person trying to escape the grind. Yet, with every step, the city felt further away—not just in miles, but in spirit.

A local villager passed me, carrying a load that looked heavier than me, moving with a grace that made my struggle seem trivial. He didn’t speak, but his presence was a reminder of resilience.

“जीवनमा उकासो हुनु भनेको सजिलो मार्ग खोज्नु होइन, बलियो औंला राख्नु हो।”

(In life, rising up doesn’t mean finding an easy path, it means placing a strong foothold.)

When I finally crested the ridge and saw the lake, the physical exertion instantly made sense. It was the price of admission for something sacred.

The Mirror of the Sky

Dudh Pokhari sits cradled by the hills, quiet and stoic.

They call it the "Milk Lake," and when the light hits it right, the water takes on a milky, ethereal glow. But when I arrived, it was a mirror—a perfect, still reflection of the vast sky above.

I sat on a cold stone at the water’s edge. No vendors were shouting, no music playing, no pressure to take a selfie for Instagram. There was just the wind and the water.

I looked at my reflection in the lake. It looked calmer than the face I see in the bathroom mirror every morning.

“जब बाहिरको हुल्लड थम्छ, भित्रको आवाज सुन्न सकिन्छ।”

(When the noise outside stops, you can finally hear the voice inside.)

I realized how much noise I carry in my own head. The worries about the future, the regrets of the past. Sitting there, watching a lone bird glide over the water, those voices faded. I didn't find grand answers to life's big questions, but I found the space to stop asking them for a while.

Warmth in the Cold

The air at that altitude bites. It has a way of cutting through your jacket and settling in your bones.

Seeking refuge, I ducked into a small tea shop run by a couple who seemed to have lived in these clouds forever. The inside was dim, smelling of woodsmoke and drying herbs. They handed me a mug of hot tea, their hands rough and weathered, their smiles incredibly soft.

We didn't share a language, but we shared a moment. They didn't ask about my job or my follower count. They just asked if I was warm enough.

In our world, we equate richness with accumulation. Here, in the shadow of the mountain, richness is measured by warmth and hospitality.

“साँचो धनी त्यो हो जसको मन खुसीले भरिएको होस्, खजानाले भरिएको होइन।”

(The truly rich one is he whose heart is filled with happiness, not whose treasury is filled.)

That cup of tea tasted like gratitude. It was a simple reminder that human connection doesn't need Wi-Fi or small talk; it just needs presence.

The Descent: Carrying the Mountain Home

Leaving is always the hardest part.

As I began the descent, I looked back at the lake one last time. It looked exactly the same as when I arrived—unmoved, untouched, peaceful. But I was different.

My problems in the city hadn't disappeared. The deadlines would still be there when I returned. But the weight of them had changed. They felt smaller. Manageable.

I hadn't just visited a place; I had touched a part of myself that I had neglected for too long.

“फर्केर आउँदा खाली आँखा ल्याउनुभन्दा भरिएको मन ल्याउँदा राम्रो हुन्छ।”

(It is better to return with a full heart than with empty eyes.)

I came to Ramechhap looking for a break from the world. I left with a promise to myself—to protect that stillness, even when I’m back in the chaos. To breathe like I breathe in the mountains: deeply, slowly, and intentionally.

If you are feeling the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders, don't just look at photos of places like this. Go. Let the bump in the road shake you awake. Let the silence fill the gaps you didn't know existed.

The mountains are waiting. And they have a way of giving you exactly what you need, even if you didn't know you asked for it.

Whispers of the Clouds: My Journey to Sailung

The Call of the Mist

By Sushil Gurung

Some places don’t just exist on maps; they hum quietly in your heart long before you ever set foot. Sailung was one of those place.

Walking through the bustling city, I first heard its name in a small teashop in Kathmandu, whispering by a friend. A guide between sips of steaming masala chiya.

“Go there,” he said softly with the expression of chimes. “That’s where the clouds speak.”

And that was it—a whisper that grew into a calling. My journey to Sailung wasn’t just a normal trek into Nepal’s high eastern hills; it became a quiet voyage inward, into the stillness, the silence, and the stories older than the wind itself.

The Road from Kathmandu to the Sky

Following the whispering, I left Kathmandu at dawn. Looking thorugh the windows, Chasing the sun along the winding road through Banepa, Dhulikhel, and Mudhe. The towns were wrapped in pine-scented air and the hum of morning life. The road to Sailung Danda takes six to eight hours by jeep, depending on the season. Mine was spring time. Asphalt turns to gravel, then dust, and finally into a path that seems to climb straight into the clouds.

Rolling through Dolakha’s countryside, terraced hills rose around us like green amphitheaters. I was the only in central space surrounded by tiers of seats for spectators. Children waved from stone fences, women carried baskets of millet on their backs. Far beyond, the snow peaks glowed in silent, patient, eternal.

When we reached Deurali, the gateway to the trek. The air grew sharper and colder. The road ended, but who knew the real journey had only begun?

Into the Realm of Clouds

The climb to Sailung is short but steep feels nostalgic that tests your lungs and quiets your thoughts. The trail winds through the rhododendron forests where sunlight filters through petals of red and gold. In spring, the hills themselves seem to bloom at its peak beauty.

Locals call it Sailung Danda, the hill of a hundred peaks. And truly, as I climbed higher, the horizon unfolded into waves of gentle domes 108 in total. As legend says, each of them are the seat of a resting deity.

The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and the faint chime of yak bells(tingling). Each step upward it felt like letting go of big noise, rush, and the digital hum of city life. The higher I went, the quieter I became.

The Legend of Sailung Baba

At the crest, I met an old Sherpa herder tending his sheep beside a line of fluttering prayer flags. His smile was carved deep by wind and years, bright like meadows that grows once a year.

“They say Sailung Baba sits here,” he told me, pointing to the horizon, “watching over the gods as they rest in these 108 hills are their seats.”

To the Tamang and Sherpa communities, Sailung is sacred as a meeting place between heaven and earth. During local festivals, villagers gather here to offer prayers, burn incense, and dance beneath an endless sky.

That evening, as I sat beside a small fire outside a teahouse, glaring in the starry stars. Though the wind was chilling, I felt that sacred calm settle in. The stars hung so close it seemed you could reach out and poke your fingers against them.

The Symphony of Sunrise

Before dawn, I climbed to the Sailung viewpoint. The cold stung my fingers, and a burning sensation in my nose with breath rose like smoke. For a while, there was only darkness but the hope of light burning through me.

Then slowly with a glow.

The astonishing first-glance light spilled across the horizon, and suddenly the sun rose behind Gaurishankar Himal like lights bathing the peaks in molten gold. One by one, the Himalayas awakened throughout Everest, Langtang, Dorje Lakpa, Ganesh Himal, and others that are stretching in an unbroken arc of fire and ice.

Beneath them, the world lay wrapped in a sea of clouds, shifting and whispering like an ocean of light.

I stood there, wordless.

Life Among the Clouds

Time moves differently in Sailung, feeling slow and seamless, like the drifting of soul in the mist.

The locals live simply: tending yaks, brewing butter tea, and spinning prayer wheels. Tamang women wear bright shawls that echo the colors of the rhododendrons. Children laugh freely, as though time itself has no hold here.

Hospitality is a quiet ritual. A cup of warm tea is always offered, and a smile is always returned. At night, Looking at the burning crackilng coal with tired body, was it worth? And stories unfold around the fire with the tales of wandering monks, mischievous spirits, and the eternal dance of the clouds. And i got my answer.

Sailung, I realized, isn’t just a place to see. It’s a place to listen to wind, to silence, to yourself.

Practical Guide: Trekking to Sailung

Location: On the border of Dolakha and Ramechhap districts, about 130 km east of Kathmandu.

• Altitude: Around 3,146 meters at the hilltop.
• Best Seasons: October–December and March–May for clear skies and comfortable weather.
• Route: Drive from Kathmandu to Mude Bazaar, then trek via Deurali to Sailung.
• Accommodation: Basic teahouses and homestays in Deurali and Khola Kharka. Camping is possible for solitude seekers.
• What to Pack: Warm layers, trekking shoes, a sleeping bag, a rain jacket, a headlamp, and a curious heart.

Unlike Everest or Langtang, Sailung remains blissfully and quietly untouched by the tourist rush. It rewards you not with luxury, but with solitude, serenity, and Himalayan grandeur in its purest form.

Whispers That Linger

As I descended, the clouds parted one last time. The hills shimmered beneath me, giving me a feeling of being alive, ancient, and breathing.

I realized then that Sailung isn’t a destination; it’s a conversation between earth and sky, between stillness and movement, and between what we seek and what we already are.

When I returned to Kathmandu, the city’s noise felt softer somehow. The mountain had left its echo in me with a quiet whisper that said,

“Come back whenever you forget who you are.”

Chasing the Sky Goddess: My Journey to Ama Yangri, Sindhupalchowk

 

written by: Uday Rai

Traveler: Sushil Gurung

 

Where the Sky Meets the Soul

There’s a quiet ache that comes with city life — the hum of machines replacing the song of wind, and the glow of screens outshining the stars. One chilly Friday morning, I decided I had had enough of Kathmandu’s chaos. The mountains were calling, and this time, the call had a name — Ama Yangri, the “Mother of the Sky.”

I’d heard of her — a sacred peak in the Helambu region of Sindhupalchowk, revered by the locals as a living goddess who watches over the valley. They say she’s the protector of the land, and that her blessings bring harmony to the hearts of those who seek her.

So, with my backpack, camera, and a restless spirit, I set off — chasing clouds, faith, and perhaps, a little redemption.

 

The Road to Helambu: Into the Heart of Sindhupalchowk

The journey began with a winding drive from Kathmandu to Melamchi, a town still bearing the scars of the 2021 floods but alive with resilience. The road, carved between emerald hills and glistening rivers, twisted like poetry written in stone.

From Melamchi, a rough dirt trail snaked up toward Tarkeghyang, one of the traditional Sherpa villages that cradle the route to Ama Yangri. The air grew thinner, the chatter of civilization faded, and every curve revealed another frame of raw Himalayan beauty — terraced fields, prayer flags, and houses built from centuries of wisdom. By the time I reached Tarkeghyang (2,600 m), dusk had already spilled over the horizon. The village seemed to float in a soft mist — wooden houses glowing under butter lamps, and a stupa standing guard at its center. I spent the night at a small lodge where an elderly Sherpa woman served steaming thukpa and shared stories of the mountain that loomed beyond the clouds.

 

The Legend of Ama Yangri: The Mother Goddess of Helambu

Before dawn, as I sipped yak butter tea, my host began to tell me the legend of Ama Yangri — one that has echoed through generations.

Long ago, it is said, Ama Yangri was a compassionate goddess who protected the Helambu Valley from evil spirits. When demons threatened to destroy the region, she sacrificed herself to shield the people. Her spirit merged with the peak that now bears her name.

Locals still believe that no harm can befall Helambu as long as Ama Yangri stands cloaked in snow, watching from above. It is also said that those who climb her summit with a pure heart can glimpse the Himalayas from Everest to Langtang in a single sweep, a divine panorama gifted only to the faithful.

According to another legend, the term ‘Ama’ signifies Mother, ‘Yang’ denotes Wealth or Money, and ‘Ri’ means High Place or Hill. The name, therefore, symbolizes a “Mother of Wealth residing on a high hill.” In this belief, Ama, the goddess of prosperity, is placed before Yang to represent her nurturing role as the guardian and benefactor of the people living in that region.

That story stayed with me as I began my ascent — a poetic whisper that turned each step into a prayer.

 

The Climb: Between Clouds and Faith

The trail from Tarkeghyang to Ama Yangri is not long — about 3 to 4 hours uphill — but it tests your lungs and spirit alike. I started at sunrise, the air crisp and thin, my breath weaving into the fog. The path wound through ancient rhododendron forests where sunlight trickled in golden shards.

With every turn, I heard the wind hum through the trees — a sound almost like chanting. Prayer flags fluttered along the ridges, whispering blessings to anyone who dared listen.

Halfway up, the trail steepened, and the earth seemed to tilt into the sky. My legs trembled, but something kept pulling me upward — maybe curiosity, maybe reverence.

And then, just as the last patch of mist lifted, I saw her.

 

The Summit: Face to Face with the Sky Goddess

Ama Yangri Peak (3,771 m) is crowned with a chorten (stupa) wrapped in prayer flags. When I reached the top, the world below dissolved into a sea of clouds. Before me stretched a breathtaking horizon — Everest, Langtang, Dorje Lakpa, Ganesh Himal, all shimmering like ancient sentinels.

There was silence — deep, sacred, eternal. I felt like a speck of dust in the presence of something vast and merciful.

Standing there, wind whipping through the flags, I understood why locals bow before Ama Yangri. She isn’t just a mountain — she’s a mother, a protector, and perhaps, the quiet pulse of Helambu’s soul.

I closed my eyes and let the wind carry my thoughts away — every worry, every regret, every restless craving of modern life. For a fleeting moment, I was free.

Descending with Grace: The Return to Earth

The descent was easier, but my heart was heavier — as though I was leaving behind a part of myself. The villagers I met on the way smiled knowingly, as if they’d seen this transformation before.

Back in Tarkeghyang, I joined a small local gathering. Someone played a Tibetan lute, and laughter filled the air. The stars glowed brighter here — unpolluted, unhurried.

I realized then that Ama Yangri isn’t just a destination; it’s an awakening. It’s where the divine meets the human, where silence speaks louder than prayer.

If You Go: A Traveller’s Guide to Ama Yangri

 

Getting There:

From Kathmandu, take a bus or jeep to Melamchi Bazaar (approx. 4–5 hours). From there, drive or hike to Tarkeghyang or Sermathang, the two main starting points for the Ama Yangri trek.

 

Best Time to Visit:

 Spring (March–May): Blooming rhododendrons and clear skies.

Autumn (September–November): Crisp air, clear mountain views, and ideal trekking weather.

 

Trek Duration:

1–2 days (short trek from Tarkeghyang) or 3–4 days including visits to surrounding villages like Sermathang and Melamchi Gaon.

 

Accommodation:

Basic teahouses and lodges in Tarkeghyang and Sermathang offer warm meals and cozy stays.

 

Highlights:

• 360° Himalayan panorama from the summit
• Traditional Sherpa culture and monasteries
• Sunrise above the sea of clouds
• Spiritual tranquility

 

 What Ama Yangri Taught Me?? 

As I made my way back to Kathmandu, the road seemed different — the same turns, yet somehow softer. I had left the mountain, but Ama Yangri hadn’t left me.

She lingered in my thoughts, like a prayer unfinished — a gentle reminder that the greatest journeys are not measured in miles but in moments of stillness.

And perhaps, that’s the real magic of Ama Yangri — she doesn’t just show you the Himalayas. She shows you yourself.