For most of the time during a trek of the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, you have a road or a sidewalk’s worth of width in your path.

On one side, you might have a mountain and on the other side, you might have a steep cliff, but your footing (unless you’re totally drunk-not advisable) is relatively secure.

Every now and then, you cross a suspension bridge, which is great, unless that kind of experience/fear of heights is a thing for you.

BUT….

There was one part during the cold, early morning ascent towards the Thorong La Pass, where things change dramatically.

So, imagine, it’s 5am and it’s barely dawn.

You have some visibility, but you’re still wearing your headlamp from the very early morning hours.

You have 3-5 layers of clothing on, plus a backpack.

You’ve been climbing up a steep incline for more than an hour (possibly 2, you don’t really know, since time has taken on a new dimension).

Then, you are confronted with a new reality.

The path, which was sufficiently wide and sufficiently spacious on both sides becomes narrow.

VERY narrow.

On one side, you have a sloped mountain and then half of the path is covered in ice and snow.

On the other side, 100% guarantee of death.

And you have about the width of your body of uncovered ground. About 1/2 of a yoga mat.

And then you have to walk this for something like 300 feet (maybe more, maybe less, I have no idea).

You aren’t thinking about your taxes or your inbox.

You might think “I’m glad my life insurance policy and will are up to date.”

But most likely, you aren’t thinking about anything other than “where should I put my next step so that I have the least probability of death?”

You can feel your heart beating. Your breath is as deliberate as your walking.

It is scary, no doubt.

But it’s also enlivening because you are 100% present.

100% in the moment, knowing full well that an unfortunate (and luckily, unlikely) massive gust of wind could change the trajectory of lives.

A friend on the trip once remarked to me that the reason why so many people, in his estimation, shy away from meditation is that they are uncomfortable being in the present, so they prefer to dwell on the past or anticipate the future.

Uncomfortable or not, when you walk this stretch of path, you have no choice but to be present.

The good news is that the discomfort leads to a strange serenity and the realization that the present is all that there is.

For context, many (but not all) paths look like these

For most of the time during a trek of the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, you have a road or a sidewalk’s worth of width in your path.

On one side, you might have a mountain and on the other side, you might have a steep cliff, but your footing (unless you’re totally drunk-not advisable) is relatively secure.

Every now and then, you cross a suspension bridge, which is great, unless that kind of experience/fear of heights is a thing for you.

BUT….

There was one part during the cold, early morning ascent towards the Thorong La Pass, where things change dramatically.

So, imagine, it’s 5am and it’s barely dawn.

You have some visibility, but you’re still wearing your headlamp from the very early morning hours.

You have 3-5 layers of clothing on, plus a backpack.

You’ve been climbing up a steep incline for more than an hour (possibly 2, you don’t really know, since time has taken on a new dimension).

Then, you are confronted with a new reality.

The path, which was sufficiently wide and sufficiently spacious on both sides becomes narrow.

VERY narrow.

On one side, you have a sloped mountain and then half of the path is covered in ice and snow.

On the other side, 100% guarantee of death.

And you have about the width of your body of uncovered ground. About 1/2 of a yoga mat.

And then you have to walk this for something like 300 feet (maybe more, maybe less, I have no idea).

You aren’t thinking about your taxes or your inbox.

You might think “I’m glad my life insurance policy and will are up to date.”

But most likely, you aren’t thinking about anything other than “where should I put my next step so that I have the least probability of death?”

You can feel your heart beating. Your breath is as deliberate as your walking.

It is scary, no doubt.

But it’s also enlivening because you are 100% present.

100% in the moment, knowing full well that an unfortunate (and luckily, unlikely) massive gust of wind could change the trajectory of lives.

A friend on the trip once remarked to me that the reason why so many people, in his estimation, shy away from meditation is that they are uncomfortable being in the present, so they prefer to dwell on the past or anticipate the future.

Uncomfortable or not, when you walk this stretch of path, you have no choice but to be present.

The good news is that the discomfort leads to a strange serenity and the realization that the present is all that there is.

For context, many (but not all) paths look like these