Between Yaks and Plywood

I’ve reduced the two days in Samagaon to Dharamsala into a single post, as they were relatively uneventful.

To Samdo

We left Samagaon around 8 a.m., under skies still dripping from last night’s rain. As we wound our way out of the village, the clouds finally pulled back just enough for Manaslu to reveal herself. Half a mile from town, the mountain stood there at last—huge, glaciated, aloof. I snapped my photos quickly, knowing how fast the curtain can drop again. It was the first clear view I’d had, and possibly the last from this side.

The trail to Samdo was thick with yaks. They sat eating the grass or plodding past in small caravans, bells clanging, horns gleaming, eyes unbothered by the narrow path. Yaks are less inclined than mules to shove you into a ravine, but they’re larger, hairier, and just as entitled to the right of way. I kept my distance.

We also passed the largest Mani walls I’ve seen so far - at least several football fields long. I appreciate them, but don’t really understand the appeal of building them so large. They seem to lose their spiritual purpose when they become monumental.

True to form, the final kilometer into Samdo was brutal—a steep, relentless climb that punished already tired legs. The village sits perched in a broad alpine basin, stark and windswept, with the river far below.

We rested briefly after arrival, then set off again for an acclimatization hike. The path wound higher to around 13,291 feet. At that altitude the air thins perceptibly; every step reminded me we’re creeping closer to the pass. Overhead, a vulture circled low, buzzing us in wide arcs. A dark-humored motivator—no one wants to look like they’re auditioning for a sky burial.

Back at the tea house, the altitude made itself known in smaller ways too. Three flights of stairs to my room left me winded, as if I’d just sprinted. The accommodation is stripped-down: no electricity in the rooms, shared Asian-style toilets, thin walls. It sets the tone for the coming days—basic, functional, and a little harsh.

Tomorrow, higher still. The air will thin further, and the comforts will continue to fall away. Samdo feels like the last staging post before the real high mountains begin.

To Dharmasala

We left Samdo in the morning under clearing skies, the rain of the night still clinging to the ground. The first stretch of trail was mercifully flat, but the looming climb to Dharamsala was already visible off to our left—a steady reminder of what awaited.

On the way out of town we passed a woman riding on horseback, suffering visibly from altitude sickness. It was a sobering sight, a reminder of how quickly the elevation here can punish even the strongest trekkers.

The trail itself was smooth, not technically difficult beyond the steady elevation gain. Yaks roamed the path in abundance, including one particularly massive specimen whose hump rose to my shoulder. The scenery shifted as we climbed—rockier, starker, the last hints of greenery fading into a harsher alpine palette.

It took around four hours to reach Dharamsala, and by then the clouds had regrouped. We arrived in the rain, soaked but relieved, knowing this camp was our staging ground for Larke Pass.

The accommodation was, to put it kindly, basic. A friend’s husband, after seeing photos online, joked that it looked more like people trafficking than a trekking lodge. The reality wasn’t far off: a drafty construction shell with four thin mattresses stuffed onto 4mm plywood. Calling it a mattress felt optimistic—it had all the substance of smoke, visible but not really there.

We had an early dinner at 5 p.m.—the lack of electricity set the schedule for us—and were in bed by 6:30. Easy enough when there’s nothing to do in the dark. The South Africans I’d met earlier in the trek rejoined me here, the four of us huddled into the container.

Outside, the rain hammered down all night. At higher elevations, it almost certainly fell as snow.