The towering cliffs loomed above, my destination obscured from view. The cool, damp air carried only the faint rustle of prayer flags.
Perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, 3,000 feet above the Paro Valley, the iconic Bhutanese site of Tiger’s Nest, or Taktsang Monastery, usually commands attention with its striking silhouette. Hidden in a veil of clouds, the monastery had seemingly vanished into thin air.
I prepared to start the climb, accompanied only by my guide – not another person in sight. I wondered if it was possible to have this all to myself, which added an extra layer of anticipation to what had already been building in the months leading up to my trip.
I’d promised myself that I would build my strength and fitness to prepare me for this trek, but as things often do, time crept up on me. I attempted the climb within 24 hours of landing in Bhutan and although I indulged in the breakfast of champions, my stomach hadn’t adjusted to the time zone. There I was, physically unprepared but mentally ready, in the place I had dreamed of being for so many years. The time was now, mist or no mist.
With no visible route on the sheer mountain above, the ascent felt disorienting at first. I settled into a rhythm, with only the occasional boulder interrupting my pace. The trail alternated between steep inclines and, thankfully, some brief flatter stretches. My destination remained hidden, shrouded in mist and uncertainty. Each set of 20 steps driven by the promise of the unseen monastery and the need to catch my breath.
Every now and then my guide would hand me a small parcel, neatly wrapped in greaseproof paper and tied with string, each one identical to the last. He’d giggle and say, “This will get you up there.” He was right. Each package contained a homemade energy bar, loaded with nuts and dried fruit – dense and satisfying.
I quickly realised the backpack he’d carried for hours wasn’t for his own use. It was well-stocked with fuel for me. Each time I started to falter, he’d appear, his grin as constant as the mountain mist around us. He offered parcel after parcel and a silent nod. His quiet, steady support became as vital as the air itself, moving me forward step by step towards the cafe – my newly chosen final destination.
My head told me I shouldn’t finish here, that I ought to push further. One look at his backpack, which sagged under the diminished supply of bars and I knew it wasn’t stocked for the whole journey with me.
I heard a shriek of laughter. Six women came around the corner, an unlikely group if ever there was one. Some were dressed in sensible trekking gear, others in flip-flops. They exuded a carefree energy; their chatter and laughter lifted my mood. I greeted them with a quick hello and a smile. They responded with a wave before they charged ahead, as multiple flip-flops slapped against the imposing rocky trail. That was the moment I knew I couldn’t stop; I had to reach the monastery. There was no way I’d let myself be outpaced by flip-flops.
The fatigue that weighed me down, lifted. With a newfound determination, I pushed forward with barely a pause to catch my breath. I caught up with them just as I reached the cafe. The announcement of its name, painted boldly on a wooden sign, filled me with elation. I was in need of a cup of tea.
It felt surreal to hear the hum of chattering voices after the stillness of the trail. I was overwhelmed by the sight before me: a bustling hive of activity. Dozens of people were seated on wooden chairs or outside on benches, sipping tea, sharing stories and laughing. The air was thick with the energy of those who had, like me, made it that far.
I paused for a moment to take it all in. Groups of people posed for photos against a backdrop of mist and grey rock, their smiles determined despite the underwhelming view. I couldn’t resist joining them.
I could almost hear their silent wish to blow the clouds away, to reveal the magnificent Tiger’s Nest that hung above them. The mountains didn’t cooperate and the sky remained stubbornly opaque. The disappointment was palpable, but no one seemed ready to let it dampen their spirits.
I could have turned back and returned with nothing more than the memory of an obscured view, but the choice was easy. I tightened the straps on my backpack and set off again, each step now fuelled by a quiet resolve. If the mountain mist wasn’t going to part and reveal the monastery from afar, I was going to get close enough to touch it.
Eventually, the deep red of Taktsang appeared through the mist, coming in and out of view as I ventured closer. Just when it seemed within reach, I faced a steep descent before the final climb. Carefully, I made my way down the slick stone stairs and crossed a bridge over a waterfall roaring below.
I finally reached the threshold. The intricate woodwork and golden rooftops of Taktsang loomed above. My exhaustion melted away and I was met with a profound sense of peace. I stepped inside, grinning, ready to embrace what lay ahead.
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