One of our representatives will pick you up at the airport to accompany you to the hotel. Depending on the arrival time we will meet in the hotel for the briefing of the entire upper mustang trip itinerary.

First the 45 minutes flight towards Bhadrapur offers a beautiful view of mountains and valleys. After reaching Bhadrapur we will take Jeep toward Taplejung. After sometimes, we will reach Ilam the capital city of tea. The ways offer a beautiful view of the tea gardens. Today we will pass many hills and if the weather is nice there is view of the Kanchenjunga range on the way. After driving 9 hours we will reach Mitlung.

The trail winds alongside the Tamor River, where the elusive Ghoral might grace the path with its presence. Beyond Tapethok—where the wilderness truly begins—we’ll wander through fragrant cardamom fields, the air sweet with spice, as distant waterfalls cascade down emerald slopes. A bridge marks the transition, leading us to Sekathum, where the first whispers of Sherpa hospitality welcome the weary traveler.

Today, our path follows the whispering currents of the Ghunsa River, where waterfalls glisten like silver threads against the cliffs. The trail leads us deep into the embrace of the forest, dappled in shadow and light, before rising gently toward Amjilosa. With each step, the world unfolds—valleys stretch below, vast and verdant, as the mountains breathe around us. At journey’s end, Amjilosa awaits, a quiet haven where only tea houses stand, warm with the promise of rest and steaming cups beneath the endless sky.

The path today winds through a primordial tapestry of towering bamboo groves, ancient pines, and gnarled oaks, their branches draped with lichen. Rhododendrons burst in sporadic flashes of crimson and white, as if the forest itself is alive with hidden fire. All the while, the Ghunsa River murmurs beside us, its icy waters carving through the wilderness.

As we press deeper, the woods grow denser—the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine resin. Sunlight fractures through the canopy, casting shifting patterns on the moss-cloaked trail. At last, Gyabla emerges—a handful of weathered houses clinging to the mountainside, a fleeting outpost of human presence in the heart of the untamed. Here, the forest breathes close, and the mountains watch in silent dominion.

The morning begins beneath the cathedral canopy of old-growth forest, where shafts of light pierce through like golden spears. But the true revelation comes as we ascend toward Phale—the remnants of an old Tibetan camp—where the world abruptly transforms. At 3,000 meters, the air thins, and the flora shifts: twisted rhododendrons, their gnarled limbs heavy with blossoms, stand sentinel among stoic pines. The trail, now etched with spirituality, winds past weathered mani walls, their carved mantras humming with centuries of devotion, and chortens that seem to rise from the earth like silent prayers.

Then—Ghunsa. A cluster of sturdy Sherpa homes, their wooden beams darkened by time, clings to the valley. Potato fields terrace the slopes in emerald steps, and smoke curls from the chimneys of rustic lodges. Here, life moves to the rhythm of the high Himalayas. With barely 200 souls, the village is a living museum of resilience—where the clatter of yak bells and the murmur of ancient dialects tell stories no book could hold. Today, the mountains did not just show us their grandeur; they let us step, however briefly, into the world of those who call them home.

Dawn breaks crisp over Ghunsa as we prepare for our acclimatization climb—a necessary dance with altitude. The trail rises sharply behind the village, each switchback revealing ever-grander vistas: Ghunsa's clustered roofs and potato fields shrink below, while the valley unfurls like an ancient parchment, its folds carved by glacial hands.

The thin air bites at our lungs as we gain elevation. At the viewpoint, the high path to Selele Pass comes into focus—a serpentine line etched across scree slopes, beckoning toward higher realms. Here, the world opens in a breathtaking panorama: the valley plunges dramatically, framed by snow-capped sentinels that have stood watch for eons. This is no mere training walk—it's a communion with the mountains, preparing body and spirit for the trials ahead.

The march begins through silent corridors of ancient pine, their gnarled roots gripping the steep slopes like old men's fingers. Rhododendron sentinels stand draped in lichen, their twisted branches whispering of winters past. Beyond Ghunsa's last wooden smokehouse, civilization falls away—only the occasional stone teahouse breaks the wilderness, their chimneys puffing precious warmth into the thin air.

Then, the valley's grand reveal—a sudden parting of the forest curtain. The north face of Jannu (Khumbhakarna) erupts from the earth, a 3,000-meter tsunami of ice and black rock that steals the breath. The mountain doesn't simply stand; it looms, its seracs glinting like shattered glass against the azure sky.

Kambachen arrives as a rough-hewn reward. Here, where the moraine meets the sky, the full theater of giants unfolds—Jannu's fang-like summit, the sweeping ridges of Sapru, their glaciers groaning under the weight of millennia. The tea tastes of smoke and iron, the fire crackles with resinous pine, and the mountains... the mountains do not care that we are here

Khumbhakarna—known to climbers as Jannu—is not just a mountain. At 7,710 meters, its sheer granite west face is one of the most intimidating walls in the Himalayas. But before one can even dream of scaling it, the approach to its base camp is an expedition in itself. This is the tale of that journey—a test of endurance, patience, and raw connection with the wild.

The morning breaks crisp and clear, revealing a horizon jagged with ice and stone. With each step forward, the Himalayas unfold like pages of an ancient tome—their stories written in glaciers and crumbling rock.

The path ahead snakes through a realm of giants. To the east, the Kanchenjunga massif looms supreme, its five-headed crown glinting in the dawn light. But it is Jannu (Khumbhakarna) that commands attention—its sheer north face a fortress of blue ice and granite, daring climbers to even dream of an ascent.

The trail is alive with peril and wonder:

• A frozen waterfall glistens like a shattered mirror, its icicles dagger-sharp in the thin air.
• Fresh landslide scars mark the mountainside—a reminder that these peaks are still being carved by time and gravity.

As we climb higher, the panorama sharpens:

• Wedge Peak (6802m) rises like a blade, its ridges sharp enough to cut the wind.
• The twin summits of Nepal Peak and Twin Peak (7350m) stand shoulder-to-shoulder, guardians of the Lhonak Valley.
• Mera Peak, though dwarfed by its neighbors, gleams with an almost deceptive gentleness—a siren call for aspiring mountaineers.

By midday, we reach Lhonak—a barren outpost cradled by glaciers. Here, the world feels half-frozen in time. Turquoise icy lakes reflect the surrounding peaks, their surfaces cracked like old porcelain. The wind carries the groan of distant seracs calving.

The morning sun casts long shadows across our makeshift camp as we break our fast on strong black tea and tsampa. The air bites with each breath – a reminder that today we walk into the domain of giants.

With crampons biting into blue ice, we begin our traverse along the northern ridge of the glacier, a precarious path between heaven and earth. To our left, the glacier falls away into yawning crevasses, their depths humming with ancient cold. To our right, the mountains stand sentinel – Jannu's north face scowling down at us mere mortals daring to tread this frozen world.

We move deliberately, each step measured not just for safety but to drink in the impossible views:

• The Kanchenjunga massif reveals itself piece by piece, its five sacred summits wreathed in streaming snow plumes
• The glacier's surface tells stories of centuries past – pressure ridges like frozen waves, ice sculptures carved by katabatic winds

By midday, we reach our prize – the North Base Camp. Here, at the roof of the world, the full majesty of Northern Kanchenjunga reveals itself. The mountain doesn't simply stand – it hangs above us, its glacier a frozen waterfall of ice cascading from the summit. The air is so still we can hear the glacier's voice – the creak and groan of moving ice, the occasional thunder of a distant avalanche.

As the afternoon wanes, we turn back toward Lhonak, shadows stretching long across the glacier. The descent feels like leaving a sacred place – backs turned to the mountain, but its presence still heavy on our shoulders.

 After weeks of fighting gravity, today the mountain finally releases its grip. We turn our backs to the high snows and begin the long descent to Ghunsa – our knees singing hymns of gratitude with each downward step.

The trail unfolds like a reverse altimeter:

• 4,000m: The last stubborn patches of snow cling to shadowed hollows
• 3,700m: Rhododendron buds appear like crimson promises of warmer air
• 3,500m: The scent of damp earth returns – a fragrance forgotten during our time in the realm of ice

Yet the mountains refuse to let us go easily. With every switchback, the Kanchenjunga massif reveals new profiles – each more dramatic than the last. The perspective shifts like a rotating diorama:

• Jannu's fang-like summit now appears through gaps in the valley
• Wedge Peak's razor edge catches the morning light
• Distant Nepal Peak winks farewell through the gathering mist

By midday, the trail softens underfoot. The crunch of moraine gives way to the spongy give of alpine turf. We pass shepherds' huts, their stone walls moss-covered and ancient. The sound of running water becomes constant – no longer frozen in silence.

Ghunsa at dusk:

Woodsmoke curls above the slate roofs as we enter the last outpost of civilization. The air feels thick with oxygen, almost intoxicating after the thin atmosphere of the high camps. 

The morning in Ghunsa (3,475m) dawns with woodsmoke curling through frosted air. This Tibetan-style village, with its slate-roofed homes and intricately carved mani walls, marks civilization’s final stand before the wilderness reclaims the land. We shoulder our packs, heavier now with fresh supplies—potatoes, dried yak meat, and a precious block of butter for tea. The trail ahead to Amjilosa (2,308m) promises a brutal descent—over 1,100m lost in just 12km—through a valley forgotten by time.

The Descent Begins: Into the Gorge of Ghosts

Ghunsa to Phale (2,950m) | 3 hours

The path plunges immediately, zigzagging down a steep, forested ridge. The roar of the Ghunsa Khola grows louder, its milky glacial waters churning through a V-shaped gorge. The air thickens with moisture; moss swallows ancient boulders. Here, the remnants of old landslides lurk—some recent enough that fresh scars of dirt slice through the greenery.

At Phale, a cluster of abandoned herder huts leans precariously over the river. The only signs of life: a faded prayer flag and the distant clank of a goat bell. We pause on a lichen-crusted boulder, watching mist curl up from the valley below like steam from a cauldron.

Danger Points:

• Slippery Roots & Mud: The trail, rarely maintained, is a slick puzzle of exposed roots and black mud.
• Landslide Zones: Three sections require quick, careful footing over loose scree.

The Valley of Shadows: Phale to Gyabla (2,730m)

2.5 hours | Rhododendron Forests & Forgotten Shrines

The forest closes in—a tunnel of old-growth rhododendrons, their gnarled branches draped with beard lichen. Sunlight filters weakly through the canopy, dappling moss so thick it muffles footsteps. This is a place out of time:

• A crumbling chorten stands guard at a fork in the trail, its painted eyes weathered to ghostly smudges.
• The ruins of a 19th-century Tibetan trader’s outpost emerge from the undergrowth, stone walls half-swallowed by ferns.

At Gyabla (marked on some maps as "Phumpe"), a single teahouse appears like a mirage. The owner, a toothless Gurung woman, serves us tongba (millet beer) in wooden mugs. "Few come this way now," she says, pointing south. "The new trail to Taplejung is easier. This path is for ghosts and stubborn men."

The Final Plunge: Gyabla to Amjilosa

3 hours | 400m Descent | The River’s Edge

The trail becomes a narrow ledge carved into the valley wall, the Ghunsa Khola frothing below. In places, we crab-walk over sections where the path has crumbled into the abyss. The humidity rises; leeches appear on wet rocks, sensing warmth.

Then, abruptly, the valley widens. Amjilosa emerges—a handful of bamboo huts clinging to a terraced hillside. The air is heavy and warm, buzzing with cicadas. After weeks in the high cold, the scent of earth and fermenting rice is almost overwhelming.

Amjilosa at Dusk: A Place Between Worlds

The village is a liminal space—neither Tibetan nor lowland Nepali, but something in between. The people here are Limbu, their language a world away from the Sherpa dialects of Ghunsa. Chickens scratch in the dirt; a group of children stare at us with wide eyes.

From Jungle Mist to Motor Roads

The predawn chorus of cicadas and crowing roosters shakes us from sleep in Amjilosa (2,308m). The air hangs thick with moisture, our gear already damp from the night’s humidity. Today’s mission: descend through the last wild stretch of the Ghunsa Khola gorge to Sekathum, then surrender to the jarring embrace of a 4WD vehicle back to Taplejung. The transition from trekking to road travel feels like stepping through a portal between centuries.

Today’s mission: the grueling 8-hour drive to Bhadrapur, then a winged escape to Kathmandu. The transition from trekker to passenger feels like being spit out by the mountains into a world that moves too fast.

We will explore the historically and culturally rich Kathmandu Valley. Highlights include leisurely tours of Swayambhunath Temple (also known as Monkey Temple), Bauddhanath, Pashupatinath Temple, and Durbar Square. After several days in the mountains, we can soak in these iconic sites that represent the essence of Kathmandu and the heritage of Nepal.

Prior to your flight time you will be dropped to the airport.

Departures in the Himalaya are never clean breaks. The mountains release you gradually - first from their sight, then from their thin air, finally from your own bloodstream. We may be rolling toward airports and emails, but part of us remains frozen in place, waiting for the next call to climb.