Yoga on Top of the World

On a yoga trek in Nepal, the author discovers that reaching the summit isn't the ultimate reward.

By Kristin Barendsen

I raise my arms above my head, saluting the off-kilter tower of Ama Dablam and the first beams of sunlight playing over its summit. The mist in the valley is beginning to burn off, revealing snowy peaks all around us. "Breathe in the fresh oxygen," our yoga teacher Lianne Kershaw says. The air has a different quality at 12,500 feet—pure, effervescent. The wind blows my yoga mat against my legs, and I secure it at the corners with my hiking boots. I let my mind rest on the sound of the wind as we hang in a delicious Uttanasana. Feeling my hamstrings protest and surrender after four days of trekking, I think, it doesn't get better than this.

As we raise our arms again to the sky, I understand like never before what it means to salute the sun. My body is a mountain in Downward Dog, the river as we flow through Chaturanga and Upward-Facing Dog. Folding inward and expanding, I give thanks for being part of this landscape.

I've joined 10 other Westerners for a "yoga trek" in the Khumbu region of Nepal, reign of the world's highest mountain. Over the course of two weeks, we'll hike from 9,000 to 18,000 feet and back, practicing yoga every day. Our studio is the Himalayan trail, whether sun or wind or fog.

Today we're practicing in the yak pasture behind our lodge in Khumjung, the village that boasts the world's highest bakery. Lianne instructs us to move to the stone wall that frames the pasture. "Finding a relatively dung-free area," she says in her soothing British accent, "let's open into Right Angle Pose." I put my boots on loosely. Behind the wall, two children are watching us, giggling behind their hands. Although they look poor by American standards—dusty, snotty, barefoot—their easy laughter suggests that poverty has a different definition here.

I bend forward, focusing on the exhalation, but consider breaking out of the pose when I hear galloping hooves behind me. I turn to see two yak calves running at full clip, headed straight for us. I could jump the wall, but it's just stacked rocks, too unstable for a good foothold. Do yaks charge? I wonder. At the last second, they veer away, missing us by 10 feet. The children squeal and run down the trail.

In just four days of yoga in the great outdoors, we've encountered dogs that run away with yoga straps, crowds of villagers who stare and spit, Japanese tourists who snap photos of us in Warrior I. Each session, it strikes me what a different experience it is to do yoga out in the world rather than within a studio's four walls.

During our breakfast of omelets and Indian bread, Gyan, our guide, describes the trail we will take today. "Mostly up," he says, giggling when he sees us grimace. We are headed to the Tengboche monastery, the most influential of some 260 Buddhist monasteries in the area. We're hoping to see its Rinpoche, one of the highest-ranking lamas in Nepal.

First we must descend to the Dudh Kosi, a river that finds its source in Everest's melting glacier. La NiÒa has brought Nepal the hottest season on record, and the whole country is suffering a drought that has killed crops and dried the trail to layers of dust we kick up as we walk. It is late April, with the promise of monsoon rains two months away.

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