Chapter 100 : Day 2 of my journey to Annapurna Base Camp

Chhomrong to Bamboo

It was 4 in the morning when I peeled myself out of bed. Outside our window, the mountains greeted us like God descending from the skies. The mighty Annapurna stood tall and silent, draped in early mist. Machapuchare, the sacred fish-tail mountain shimmered, mysterious and untouched, as though it was sculpted by moonlight itself. 

Our room had an unbroken view of it, as if nature herself wanted us to remember this moment forever.

By sunrise, our duffel bags were zipped and ready for the porters. I packed light, carrying only what I needed on my back. 

This journey after all, requires shedding of all that was unnecessary, physical and emotional.

The trail from Chhomrong to Bamboo is a dance of ups and downs. Not the brutal kind like yesterday's pure ascent into madness, but more of a winding waltz. 

My legs began to understand the rhythm. 

We crossed another suspension bridge, this one shorter and somehow less intimidating. I even found the courage to look down, snap a photo or two. I wasn’t the same woman who had clung to ropes with her eyes only focus to the end the day before.

Locals passed us by, their faces carved with stories, resilience and quiet warmth. I couldn't resist photographing them, a grandmother with colorful sari and eyes like ink, a boy with a copper hair and a shy smile, an 82 years old grandfather who made blessings to us. 

Their presence reminded me that this mountain doesn’t belong to hikers and dreamers, but to people who call it home.

Somewhere along the trail, my senses began to adjust to the pungent perfume of donkey dung. It’s amazing what you can get used to.

We stopped at Sinuwa for lunch. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and four hours into the trek, my body was shaking, weak. Rookie mistake. I bought a apples, had some cookies a friend gifted to me, and told myself I wouldn't let that happen again. 

This trail punishes those who forget to nourish themselves.

Then the rain came. Slowly at first, like a whispered warning, then with fury. My poncho, cheap and defiant, gave up the fight after two hours. 

Rain seeped through every layer, finding every weakness. The temperature dropped to 7 degrees. 

We took refuge in a shallow cave, cold and wet. Local porters huddled around a makeshift fire, their kindness extending to me. One even gave up a spare poncho for me to finish the trek.

And here’s where the darkness almost won. My Gore-Tex shoes were soaked from the inside, my wool socks drenched. My plus-size gear, limited and inadequate, made every step feel like betrayal. 

When people ask, “Why didn’t you get better gear?” I bite my tongue. 

Not all bodies are catered for. And sometimes, the weight we carry isn’t just in our backpacks. It’s in judgment, in assumptions, in the quiet battles we don’t speak of.

But I didn't come all this way to fall apart.

I told myself, your body remembers, your feet know this dance, your heart does not quit. One hour more, I whispered. Just one more hour.

And we made it. 

Bamboo, shrouded in mist, welcomed us at last. The air was colder now, somewhere around 5 or 6 degrees. Our tea house was humble, with three to a room and a shared toilet outside. 

Hot showers, hot water and Wi-Fi cost RM10 each, small luxuries that felt like heaven.

Dinner was warm. Company was quiet. We were dry, safe, and still standing. 

By 9pm, the room had fallen into deep silence, each of us curled into sleep.

I miss my family. More than anything, I wanted to hold my children, to tell them how much their mother has endured. 

But for now, I’ll sleep with the mountain watching over me.