We stumbled into Chhomrong exhausted, with our thighs burning.
We had just descended what felt like a thousand steep steps. My knees were creaking; Saffron was leaning on my trekking poles while gasping; Anker was sweaty but whistling cheerily. “We stop here,” he said, as we walked into Chhomrong.
Chhomrong was the biggest village we’d encountered since we left Ghorepani. You could probably even go so far as to call Chhomrong a town—at least by mountain standards.
Our group was resting at the top of a hill, enjoying some hard-earned rest after an hour of nonstop stair climbing. Saffron, Anker, and I had arrived at the top of the stairs to find Linjon, the sick German from Suile, and his guide already relaxing near a small lodge. They had beaten us out the gate in the morning, and we’d finally caught up.
They could not have picked a more beautiful spot to rest—although after an hour of walking up near-vertical stairs with a heavy pack, a garbage dump probably would have seemed perfect, too.