Traversing Sherpa villages, ancient forests, and precipitous gorges, a new lodge-based trek to Everest Base Camp makes for an epic adventure, minus the roughing it.

Photographs by Christopher P. Hill

*Left to right:* The woman who oversees the kitchen at Rimishung Monastery; trekkers crossing the highest suspension bridge over the Dudh Koshi river.

A couple hundred meters below us, the corrugated green and blue rooftops of Namche Bazaar catch the evening light before vanishing from sight, like some Himalayan Brigadoon. For a second, I wonder if I imagined it.

Thick clouds soon obscure the entire landscape. Footsore and eager to get back to my lodge after a day’s hiking in the surrounding hills, I reluctantly slow my pace. Tashi, my placid young Sherpa guide, marches on undaunted. Before long, he too disappears down the stone trail, leaving me alone in the ghostly grayness. But we’re close now: the brisk wind carries the jingle of bridle bells and echoing cheers from an unseen game on the town’s football pitch, one of the highest in the world.

I’m in the Khumbu region of northeast Nepal, on day three of a 10-day journey to the foot of Mount Everest. The path we’re following is the Everest Base Camp trail, a 65-kilometer trekking route from the mountain village of Lukla into the high Himalayas. Tracing the course of the Dudh Koshi and Imja Khola rivers, it traverses rocky gorges, precipitous ridges, and fields of glacial moraine before reaching the primary staging area for climbers attempting to summit the world’s loftiest peak. Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay walked a similar route on their legendary 1953 Everest expedition, making it a bucket-list pilgrimage for adventure seekers. Tens of thousands of trekkers now hike the trail each year, alongside legions of porters and pack animals in an incessant stream of foot (and hoof ) traffic that has given rise to the wry nickname “Everest Highway.”

Our trek is something different. Organized by local hospitality company Mountain Lodges of Nepal (MLN), it’s billed as the first “luxury” expedition to the EBC, combining overnight stays at comfortable lodges with helicopter flights to the Khumbu Glacier below Everest. This is only the second time this version of the itinerary has been offered since its launch last spring.

I first meet my fellow trekkers in Kathmandu, joining them for an afternoon expedition briefing on a rooftop terrace at the iconic Dwarika’s Hotel. We’re a motley crew: a French lighting designer living in Bangkok; an American-Bhutanese couple from Thimphu; a British journalist from Singapore; an exuberant Kathmandu wine merchant; and myself, a Jakarta-based Canadian. Traveling with us are Namgyal Sherpa, CEO of the Sherpa Hospitality Group that operates MLN, and Jason Friedman, a gregarious and well-seasoned hospitality consultant who has been working with Namgyal to reposition the family business for a more upscale clientele. Besides masterminding this trek, he also helped develop Shinta Mani Mustang, the group’s high-profile lodge in Nepal’s Mustang region.

Early the next morning, a 30-minute turboprop flight lands us at Lukla’s thrillingly short runway, carved into a mountainside 2,860 meters above sea level. No roads lead here; from Lukla, everything—food, fuel, building supplies—must be carried in on foot or by pack animals.

After a short walk from the tiny airport, we reach the edge of town and settle in for breakfast on the sunny terrace of MLN’s Lukla Lodge. A sturdy two-story stone structure with green-trimmed windows, it was the first mountain lodge built by Namgyal’s father, Lhakpa Sonam Sherpa, 25 years ago, back when the company was known as Yeti Mountain Home. Since then, they’ve developed six more lodges in the Everest region, and another half dozen around Annapurna.

*Left to right:* The path to Phakding’s Rimishung Monastery; the lounge at Monjo Lodge.

As we gear up, we’re introduced to the guides who’ll be accompanying us. My first lesson in Sherpa culture comes with the revelation that many Sherpas are named after the day of their birth. Thus, we have two Mingmas (Tuesday) and a pair of Pasangs (Friday). Young Tashi is something of an outlier—his name means “auspicious.”

Before hitting the trail, we stop at a gatehouse below the lodge, where a small gallery honors Namgyal’s mother, Pasang Lhamu Sherpa. Hailed as a national hero, Pasang became the first Nepali woman to summit Everest in 1993. Tragically, that achievement cost her her life; she died in a storm during the descent, aged 32. Namgyal was just a kid at the time. “She was a trailblazer, always up for a challenge, inspiring women to dream big,” he says. “Like her, I feel that we all have a responsibility to make a change and bring positive impact in the communities we live in, the communities we come from and belong to.”

Today’s hike is an easy one, descending gradually from Lukla into the Dudh Koshi river valley. At just three hours, it’s a scenic warm-up for the days ahead, filled with sights that will become a fixture of our journey: forested hillsides flecked with wildflowers and the early blooms of rhododendrons; piles of mani stones inscribed with sacred mantras; bone-white chortens and spinning prayer wheels; strings of colorful prayer flags; and always, a stream of backpackers, mule teams, and porters—most from the ranks of Nepal’s poorer ethnic communities—bent double under their burdens.

While our own porters have already forged ahead with our duffle bags, we proceed at what Jason calls a “civilized pace.” Some of us walk together, others prefer to move in thoughtful silence. It’s mid-May, and the weather is cool and invigorating. Halfway along, we halt at the little Sherpa settlement of Cheplung, where a glass-walled café lays claim to having the world’s highest coffee roaster. Its enterprising owner, Dawa Yangzi, gets her beans from farms in Nepal’s hill country. She also pours a mean espresso.

We reach Phakding in about three hours. The lodge, which shares its name with the surrounding village, sits above a bend in the Dudh Koshi, a milky torrent of glacial meltwater that flows down from the base of Mount Everest. It fills the valley with a deep, resonant rumble.

Trading our hiking boots for sandals in the mudroom at the entrance, we retreat to our cozy pine-clad rooms—there are 18 in total, housed in two stone-built blocks—for a hot shower, mindful that there’s only so much solar-heated water to go around. The lodge is a couple of decades old, but MLN’s recent refreshment program has upgraded the facilities. Chief among them is a striking new restaurant, erected on the site of a former helipad. Centered on a stone-edged hearth with a soaring copper chimney and wrapped in windows that frame views of the woods across the river, it’s a world apart from the humble teahouses along the trail. Dinner that night—fried potatoes with coriander chutney, bowls of syakpa (a traditional Sherpa stew), seared chicken stuffed with bacon and yak cheese—would have been memorable even without the generously poured wines portered in by our Kathmandu wine merchant. Snug in the warmth of an electric blanket, I sleep deeply.

Mantra-inscribed mani stones; Nepali dal bhat at Deboche Lodge. — *Left to right:* Mantra-inscribed *mani* stones; Nepali *dal bhat* at Deboche Lodge.

*Left to right:* The restaurant at Phakding Lodge; a pony in Pangboche.

Over the next two days we’ll walk more than 10 kilometers and gain close to 1,000 meters in elevation. Jason assumes the role of mother hen, regularly checking that we’re drinking enough water—a safeguard against altitude sickness—wearing enough sunscreen, and not walking too quickly. “One pace, one breath—it’s not a race,” he says.

Not far from Phakding, we leave the main trail behind and follow a winding forest path up into the hills. Along the way, I chat with the elder of our two Pasangs. A 51-year-old from the village of Thame, he’s an accomplished mountaineer in his own right, having summited Everest 11 times and K2 in the Karakorams twice. But his professional climbing days are over. I ask him if he misses it. “Guiding expeditions is very hard work, better for younger men,” he says. “But yes, I do miss it … being above 4,000 meters makes you feel so alive.”

Our climb eventually brings us to Rimishung Monastery, founded five centuries ago by followers of the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism. After a round of yak butter tea in the adjoining refectory, we’re escorted into the main prayer hall, where narrow windows cast dim light on vivid thangka paintings and murals. The air is thick with the scent of incense and butter lamps. A dozen russet-robed monks and novices, seated cross-legged at low benches in front of the altar, begin chanting to the sound of drums, cymbals, and horns. It’s a sung puja, Namgyal explains—a purification ritual performed to bless our journey.

If only the weather were as kind. Back on the main trail, a slow rain begins to fall. Some of us scramble for the ponchos in our daypacks; others duck into teahouses. After reuniting at Monjo Lodge, we gather around the bar for drinks as Pasang checks our blood oxygen levels, a nightly ritual. The wine merchant produces more bottles, the Frenchman shares a block of comté cheese, and the couple from Bhutan pass around slices of the cured Yunnan ham they’ve brought in their luggage. It feels like we’ve been blessed after all.

The trail from Monjo to Namche Bazaar proves the toughest—and most scenic—leg of our trek so far. A brief descent to the Dudh Koshi brings us through a pagoda-roofed kani gate marking the entrance to Sagarmatha National Park, named after the Nepali word for Everest. (The Sherpa people, who speak a Tibetan-derived language, refer to the mountain as Chomolungma, or “Goddess Mother of the World.”) A plaque informs us that we’re also crossing a spiritual threshold into a beyul, or sacred hidden valley. The park’s UNESCO World Heritage designation sounds prosaic by comparison.

By now we’re all well versed in trail etiquette—walking clockwise around any chortens or mani stones in our path, exchanging namastes with passing locals, and keeping to the uphill side of pack trains, lest we be nudged off the sheer drops that edge much of the route.

We fall into an easy rhythm: one step, one breath, our trekking poles keeping time on the uneven flagstones. A steady uphill push brings us to the trail’s highest suspension bridge—a dizzying span of steel cables and metal grates strung 135 meters above a churning confluence of the Dudh Koshi. White khata (ceremonial scarves), tied to the rails by previous travelers, flutter in the wind. Swallowing my fear of heights, I’m halfway across when a team of dzopkyos—shaggy yak-cow crossbreeds—lumbers onto the far end of the bridge. I scurry back, the great drop beneath me forgotten in the onrush of sharp horns.

*Left to right:* The proprietor of the Sherpa Barista café in Namche Bazaar; a room at Deboche Lodge.

Up and up we climb, through forests of blue pine, juniper, and fir, pausing to catch our breath whenever a bend in the trail reveals a tumbling waterfall or fleeting first glimpse of Everest through the clouds. And then, almost suddenly, we stumble into Namche Bazaar. Terraced into the horseshoe-shaped slopes of a hanging valley, the biggest town in the Khumbu was once a key stop on the caravan route between Tibet and the lowlands of Nepal. Now, it’s a bustling hub for trekkers and mountaineers who, like us, typically spend a couple nights here acclimatizing.

Some 480 Sherpa families live in Namche Bazaar. During the spring and autumn trekking seasons, they welcome as many as 10,000 visitors a month, offering modest accommodations in an abundance of guesthouses. After three days on the trail, it feels like a mini-Kathmandu, sans traffic. In the market area beyond a whitewashed stupa, trekkers from every corner of the planet drift through stone-paved walkways lined with pizza joints, vegan cafés, bakeries, and gear shops. There’s even an Irish pub.

Our lodge sits above it all on a ridge that, were it not for a veil of clouds, would command a dramatic view dominated by the peaks of Kongde Ri and Thamserku. With time to spare before dinner, I walk up to the nearby Sherpa Culture Museum, where founder Lhakpa Sonam Sherpa oversees an extensive collection of artifacts and displays. I learn how the hardy Sherpa people migrated from eastern Tibet more than 500 years ago, and about their widespread adoption of “Sherpa” as a surname to satisfy census requirements in more recent times. Another room documents Sherpas’ invaluable contributions to Himalayan mountaineering. A photo wall commemorates every Sherpa climber who has summited Everest, including our own Pasang.

The next day, a circular hike through the surrounding hills yields plenty of distractions—mountain goats! eagles! helicopters!—yet the mountains remain stubbornly enshrouded. At the Ama Dablam View Café, there’s nothing to see but clouds. Farther on, we wander through rhododendron groves and past yak pastures to the monastery at Khumjung, whose proudest possession is an alleged yeti skullcap, displayed in a glass case that doubles as a donation box.

The trail back to Namche Bazaar brings us to Sagarmatha Next, a learning center, art gallery, and waste lab that supports sustainable tourism in the Khumbu. “Because this is such a remote region, waste handling is a major challenge, particularly the thousands of plastic water bottles trekkers consume each season,” explains Tom Gustafsson, a sun-burnished Swede who co-founded the operation. “But together with the Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee, we’re seeing improvements every year. The long-term goal is to have no waste left behind.” Aside from its eco-focused museum, the complex also showcases upcycled art and products, including ornamental “stones” made from plastic bottle caps collected from the hiking trails. Another recent initiative is Carry Me Back, a crowdsourced waste-removal system that invites trekkers to carry a small bag of non-biodegradable trash back down to Lukla, where it will be flown to Kathmandu for proper recycling or disposal.

When Namche Bazaar disappears behind a bank of clouds on the descent to our lodge, I find myself scanning the foggy trail—not just to watch my footing, but also for any stray trash. It’s spotless.

*Left to right:* MLN’s Phakding Lodge overlooks a bend in the Dudh Koshi; old photos of Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary on the wall of the lounge room at Namche Lodge.

“Guys, there’s a change of plan,” Jason announces at dinner on our second night in Deboche. “We’re going to have to skip Kongde.”

Perched on an isolated mountain spur at an elevation of 4,260 meters, MLN’s Kongde Lodge was meant to be our destination the next morning—and the first helicopter ride of the trip. From the pictures I’d seen, it promised incredible views northward toward Everest and the surrounding peaks of the Mahalangur Himal range, not to mention the opportunity to get well away from the main trail. But the weather is not cooperating: Kongde is clouded in, unreachable by helicopter. “We’re at the mercy of the mountains,” Jason shrugs.

Though the news is disappointing, the prospect of spending another night in Deboche—3,830 meters above sea level—softens the blow. The lodge here is a new addition to MLN’s Everest circuit and their farthest outpost along the trail. It had opened just days before our arrival. Decorations were still being hung when we checked in after the six-hour walk from Namche Bazaar, and the bar has yet to be completed. Namgyal talks about adding a sauna and steam room. Even so, it provides us with the most comfortable digs of our trip, complete with heated bathroom floors, pristine bedding, in-room heaters, and hot water on demand.

I might not be sleeping quite so soundly if I fully grasped what Jason and Namgyal have in store for us tomorrow. With Kongde off the table, we still need to achieve some serious elevation if we’re to acclimatize sufficiently for Everest Base Camp. The plan? A climb of 1,000 vertical meters.

By 7 a.m. our boots are laced and we’re back on the trail. Our steps retrace the previous day’s trek along the Imja Khola valley, this time with a clear view of pyramidal Ama Dablam—the so-called “Matterhorn of the Himalayas”—filling the eastern sky. At the village of Pangboche, we detour upward along a sharp- edged ridge above the local monastery, which includes among its treasures not only another yeti skull, but also a mummified yeti hand. One can sympathize: the wind at these heights is sharp and desiccating.

Beyond a line of poles strung with furiously flapping prayer flags, we clamber over scree and rocks through a thickening mist. There’s no trail on this treeless mountainside, no signs that anyone has passed this way before. After four hours of climbing, we finally reach our target altitude.

“Phew,” Jason gasps triumphantly as the group collapses on a patch of relatively flat ground. “This isn’t trekking, it’s mountaineering!” Our hard-won vista is breathtaking too. We can see Everest and Lhotse, Ama Dablam and Thamserku. Giants of the earth. If I take anything away from the Himalayas, it’s a newfound sense of humility about this planet that we presume to call our own.

*Left to right:* Namgyal Sherpa talking with village residents at Monjo Lodge; the summit of Ama Dablam seen from the trail to Pangboche.

*Left to right:* Yak butter tea at Rimishung Monastery; a novice monk at Tengboche Monastery, near Deboche.

*Left to right:* A helicopter flying out of Everest Base Camp; monks performing the sung puja at Rimishung Monastery.

The helicopters carry us four at a time from Deboche to Everest Base Camp. We cover a distance that trekkers take days to walk in less than 15 minutes. There’s hardly time to process the change of scenery. One moment, we’re lifting off from the edge of a pine forest; the next, we’re crouching in the wash of rotor blades amid the jumbled moraine of the Khumbu Glacier, where hundreds of yellow tents cluster below the looming faces of Lingtren and Nuptse.

During Everest’s brief spring climbing season, from late April through May, as many as 400 hopeful summiters make their way to the camp, along with some 600 guides, porters, and support staff. I expect it to be crowded. Instead, it’s eerily quiet; most climbers are already on the mountain, either descending or pushing toward the summit.

The altitude—5,364 meters—hits us immediately. We pull on our parkas and pick our way sluggishly over the loose rocks to our own sub-camp. Every step is an effort.

The site comprises several large sleeping tents and a stove-heated geodesic dome for dining and socializing. I later learn it’s the same dome Namgyal’s father used on his own Everest expedition in 2023, a successful climb that marked the completion of his Seven Summits challenge—the scaling of the highest peak on each continent.

Whatever it is that possesses someone to test their physical and mental limits in such extreme environments, I clearly don’t have it. Much as I’m thrilled to be here, this is as far above sea level as I ever care to be. So I’m relieved to learn that our only outing today is a short hike to the icefield next to the camp, where we crunch across a craggy landscape of crevasses and icicles laced with rivulets of crystalline meltwater. A light snow begins to fall. There’s a dreamy quality to the scene—or perhaps that’s just the thin air taking hold. Adding a surreal touch, our French companion pops open a tin of Parisian caviar on a block of ice for us to share.

I sleep fitfully that night, chilled despite my thermal sleeping bag and frequently roused by the pops and groans of the ever-shifting glacier beneath us. Even so, I’m faring better than two members of our group, who turned in early with pounding headaches and are now on supplemental oxygen. Surprisingly, they’re among the fittest of us. Altitude sickness, it turns out, is as unpredictable as the elements in these mountains.

They’re helicoptered down to Lukla at first light, before the clouds close in again. The rest of us will follow them soon enough—if the weather allows it.

A view of Everest Base Camp looking north to the summit of Mount Lingtren.

Walk (and Fly) This Way

Mountain Lodges of Nepal’s 12-day Everest Base Camp Trail is available for group or individual bookings from mid-March through May, priced at US$9,800 per person on a twin-sharing basis. This includes full-board accommodation at MLN lodges along the trail, two nights in a tent at Everest Base Camp, helicopter flights, and domestic flights between Kathmandu and Lukla.

It is recommended to spend a couple of nights in Kathmandu before and after the trek. But really, any excuse to check in to The Dwarika’s Hotel (from US$446 a night) is a good one. This legendary property began in the 1950s as a 10-room guesthouse to support its founder’s efforts to preserve traditional Newari wood carving. As atmospheric as it gets, the property has since expanded to 72 spacious rooms and suites, all individually designed with Nepali design motifs, original artworks, and handmade terra-cotta-tiled floors. The grounds are a haven of calm, with tranquil courtyards, a serene pool, and several dining venues—most notably Krishnarpan, the hotel’s signature Nepalese restaurant.

This article originally appeared in the August/September 2025 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“To the Edge of Everest”). Buy a single issue or subscribe here.

Everest Bound: Luxury Meets Adventure in the Himalayas