A Walk Through Time: From Narayani's Shores to Himalayan Vistas
Carrying whispers of history: Growing up with the Narayani River flowing past my doorstep and the Manaslu peak always in sight, I dreamt of exploring the hidden trails that snaked northwards. These paths whispered tales of ancient traders, carrying spices, salt, and stories between Tibet, Nepal, and India until 1960 and 70s. Their journeys, often arduous and fraught with hardship, laid the foundation for cultural exchange and paved the way for generations to come. One such trader, Hange Chepang from Jyandala, frequented the Thori trade route, leaving behind a legacy of resilience and resourcefulness documented in this insightful account.
Embarking on my own pilgrimage: In the dawn of 2022, I decided to retrace their steps, not as a trader but as a modern pilgrim on a route etched in history. It's past noon, not exactly textbook trekking time, but hey, I was never one for dusty textbooks. My backpack, a white behemoth on my back, attracts curious glances as I weave through the bustling Narayanghat bazaar. The distance board on the highway sparks memories of our Trans Nepal run in 2014, a youthful ambition taken out on these dusty roads.
Crossing the mighty Narayani, the Himalayas emerge from the haze, Manaslu and Himalchuli beckoning like slumbering giants. Kalika temple, my local Everest, perched familiarly on its ridge. Now, a gondola whisks pilgrims up, but I preferred the traditional path, relishing the sweat and dust as a badge of honor earned.
Saune, north of Devghat, welcomed me with the friendly suspicion reserved for northbound wanderers. As I camped on the outskirts, a dehydrated dinner warming my stomach, a neighbor invited me into their kitchen. Stories flowed like the river beside us, fueled by the earthy aroma of millet moonshine and bidi smoke. Laughter mingled with the crackling fire, forging a connection that transcended language.
Day two brought me deep into a dense forest, the rustle of leaves whispering tales of unseen predators, real or imagined. The trail merged with a road, but it vanished soon after, swallowed by a landslide. After a wrong turn, I found myself on a cliffside, anxiety mingling with awe at the panoramic view. A chance encounter with a kind hunter set me back on track. Reaching a hilltop farmhouse, I approached an old couple drying beans, inquiring about lunch. Their response was a skeptical glance and muttered, "It's past our usual time." With a nod, I pressed on, finding refuge in Dhan Bahadur Gurung's house in Dodya, a village nestled amidst orange orchards with breathtaking Himalayan views.
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The next day, after some confusion, I found the beautiful single-track trail and crossed the river. A snack break at Sarang Ghat fueled my legs with delicious momos. Dharapani beckoned, but daylight nudged me onward to Baksi, offering panoramic views of Bandipur and the mountains beyond.
On the way to Bandipur, a local mistook me for a trader, inquiring about herbs (Jimbu!) and forgotten remedies. We laughed, savoring the unexpected connection. Bandipur itself perched on a hill, the approach a gradual climb. Lunch at "The Hotel," run by friends, marked the end of my journey. A quick bus ride later, I was back in Narayanghat, my humble abode.
More than a trek, a conversation with history: This wasn't just a trek; it was a walk through time, a conversation with history. Stepping onto the ancient trade route, I felt connected to the countless traders who came before me, their stories carried on the wind. As I leave Bandipur behind, the Himalayas stand tall, no longer just mountains, but a canvas painted with the colors of history, culture, and the indomitable spirit of exploration. And I, like those traders, carry a piece of that spirit within me, ready to write my own chapter in this ancient story.
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