The Brownie Summit!

 

The Himalayas are indifferent to your plans. They sit there, ancient and massive, while your own skeleton decides to stage a mutiny. I had chosen to travel to Nepal despite troubles with my wellness. The first day was a whirlwind tour across the various UNESCO world heritage sites in Kathmandu. I had promptly uploaded some pics and videos on social media. 

"Are you in Nepal?" the screen chirped. A dear friend had messaged seeing the Boudhanatha video; he didn’t know my plans. 

"Yes!"

"Any plans to trek?"

The question stung. "Not this year," I replied. I didn't mention how much pain I was in lest he rubbed me hard about growing old. I just gave them the casualty list: back, foot, ankle. The holy trinity of trekking disasters.

My friend, never one to miss a chance to twist the knife, suggested my injuries were a karmic revenge for traveling solo. I responded with a string of digital profanities. He laughed it off, but I was already drafting my comeback, however weak it sounded. I told him I’d be back next year for the heavy hitters. I was going big: ABC or EBC - Annapurna or Everest Base Camp. 

"I’m doing DBC while we speak!", he fired back.

I blinked. I’ve read the maps. I know the circuits. But DBC? I searched for a technical acronym, expecting some obscure, hardcore ridge. "What’s that now?"

"Hahaha! Death By Chocolate! 🤣🤣"

I looked at my phone, then down at my taped-up ankle. There I was, nursing a bruised ego unable to currently conquer the world's highest base camps, while he was summiting a mountain of ice cream and brownie bits. I could only grimace!