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If you’ve already dreamt of standing at Everest base camp, there’s an even bigger adventure waiting for you in the Khumbu region. It is dubbed the Everest three-pass trek, and it is fast becoming one of the most talked about routes among serious trekkers visiting Nepal. This is no simple trek to Everest base camp and back; this is a round of the whole of the Khumbu, covering not one but three high mountain passes, Kongma La, Cho La, and Renjo La, all over 5,300 meters.

That’s a long haul! 18 days. Thousands of meters of climbing. But for those who want to visit the genuine Everest region rather than the postcard one, it’s hard to beat. See complete details, dates and pricing for this route with All Himalayan Treks at www.allhimalayantreks.com or go straight to the trip site here: allhimalayantreks.com/trips/everest-three-passes-trek.

Why trekkers prefer this over regular EBC trek

The path that most people take to get to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. It is the same path that almost all trekkers follow via air route. Fly into Lukla, and hike through Namche and Tengboche to reach Everest base camp. From there, climb Kala Patthar for the famous picture at dawn, and then go back the same way you came. People love this walk, and there's a good reason for that.

But if you have the time, health, and guts for something more exciting, the three-pass trekking route adds a whole second act to everything great about Everest Base Camp. Like everyone else, you start at the bottom and make your way to Everest base camp and Kala Patthar. Then you cross Cho La Pass and enter the beautiful Gokyo Valley. You then go past the huge Ngozumpa Glacier, which is Nepal's longest glacier, and finally you cross Renjo La for one last, unforgettable view of Everest from the far side of the valley.

You get all that a conventional Everest base camp trip offers, plus the high passes, the Gokyo Lakes, and a far more intimate glimpse of the Khumbu region that most trekkers miss.

What the route looks like in reality

You’ll start in Kathmandu, then fly into Lukla or, in the busy spring and autumn months, drive to Manthali/Ramechhap first and take a short flight from there, as Kathmandu’s domestic airport gets clogged during peak season. It’s a peaceful few days walking from Lukla via Phakding and up to Namche Bazaar, the vibrant Sherpa town where everyone pauses to acclimatize.

The trail continues, climbing steeply via Tengboche, the region’s most important Buddhist monastery, and on to Dingboche, where a second acclimatisation day is factored in. Then things get serious. You move off to Chhukung and cross Kongma La, the highest of the three crossings, before descending into Everest base camp proper.

You arrive at Everest base camp, walk to Kala Patthar at sunrise, then follow the trail to Dzongla, crossing Cho La Pass into Gokyo. You spend two nights in Gokyo, giving you time to climb Gokyo Ri and enjoy one of the best mountain panoramas in the entire Himalaya: Everest, Lhotse, Nuptse, Makalu, and Cho Oyu, all in one frame.

Finally you pass Renjo La and descend through Lungden and Thame (home hamlet of a number of notable Everest climbers) and return to Namche and Lukla to fly home. 

Almost all seasoned guides, including the team at All Himalayan Treks, suggest adding two additional buffer days to the conclusion of your Nepal tour plan. Lukla flights are weather dependent, and delays are more common than most travellers imagine.

Is the three passes trek for you?

Let’s be honest, this is no beginner's trek. The normal Everest Base Camp treks are already considered to be moderately tough; the three-pass trek is an extra step up. Most days you’re looking at five to eight hours of trekking, with two gruelling eight-to-nine-hour days on the actual pass crossings. You don’t require sophisticated climbing equipment, but a reasonable level of fitness and some experience of hiking can greatly enhance your enjoyment.

The key aspect to plan for is altitude. Thus the plan has two complete acclimatisation days, one in Namche Bazaar and one in Dingboche, and a gentle elevation profile to allow your body time to acclimatise. Most Nepal treks to the Everest region require trekking with a qualified guide and porter, which also adds a layer of safety in terms of altitude monitoring and emergency backup.

Best time to visit Mount Everest

The best time to go on this trek is in the spring (March to early June) and autumn (mid-September to November) when the sky is clearest and the views of the mountain are sharpest, like with other Everest Base Camp hikes. The most steady weather is in the fall, and the lower trail is full of blooming rhododendrons in the spring. Winter is manageable if you can handle the cold, and the July–August monsoon is better avoided altogether, rain and poor visibility aside.

What you will need to plan

This trek, like other Nepal itineraries in the Everest region, includes stays in hotels in Kathmandu and teahouse lodges along the way. Most regular meals are covered once you are walking. You’ll want permits for Sagarmatha National Park and the adjacent rural municipality, as well as a TIMS card. A competent local operator will organize these for you in advance. This is not optional; considering the high altitudes involved, you need high-altitude evacuation coverage in your travel insurance.

Ready to go beyond EBC?

If you have done your research on Everest base camp treks and are looking for something greater, the Everest Three Pass Trek route might be just what you are searching for. No doubt it’s rough. But it offers a side of the Everest region that most travelers never see.

For detailed itineraries, pricing, and more Nepal tours, visit All Himalayan Treks or directly visit the Everest Three Passes Trek.

Sanjeev Upretee’s ‘Samrachanatmak Labhansha’ (Structural Dividend) is a powerful book that forces one to pause and reflect. A book rooted in the critical self-examination of the author, it urges readers to do the same. Upretee challenges the concept of the ‘self-made man’—a bedrock of modern individualism and central to the American Dream since the nineteenth century—by arguing that those who reach the top of the ladder have been able to do so rarely through individual merit alone. Their journeys are often invisibly shaped at the helm of systemic privileges embedded within the social structures into which they are born and through which they move. 

Unlike many books that move readers, the real impact of this book begins after one reaches the final page. It is during those moments when someone makes a choice, takes a decision, passes a comment, or embraces the boastful ego of having achieved so much on their own. The concepts put forward in this book are not the kind that can be absorbed in a single reading. They linger, resurface, and demand renewed engagement at different phases of one’s life, revealing a different layer of meaning. In each rereading, the book offers new insights as our lives, responsibilities, and social positions evolve.

At the heart of the book is Upretee’s attempt to develop a new vocabulary. Building on Johan Galtung’s idea of Structural Violence, he argues that while the concept helps in explaining inequality, exclusion, and deprivation, it is masked from questioning the advantages that social structures systematically provide to certain individuals and groups. Upretee then introduces Structural Dividend, which are the benefits that individuals and groups gain just from having advantageous positions within existing social structure. These dividends extend from material resources to education, healthcare, social networks, language, confidence, cultural capital, habits, behavioral norms, and personality development. And as these benefits are embedded into the social fabric, those who possess them often mistake structural advantage for personal merit.

Throughout the book, Upretee examines the idea of structural dividend from multiple perspectives, drawing on his own lived experiences as well as incidents that have occurred in Nepali society in recent years. Discussing the murder of Dalit youths in Rukum, he illustrates how members of the Dalit community have historically been denied the benefits and opportunities that others receive through social structures. Similarly, his discussion of Prem Prasad Acharya, who immolated himself in front of the Parliament building in Baneshwor, brings to light how structural inequalities can leave individuals feeling excluded and powerless. The case of Ganesh Nepali, too, reflects a similar absence of structural support and opportunity.

These cases invite readers to look beyond individual success or failure and to consider the broader social systems that shape people’s lives. More importantly, they leave us with an uncomfortable but necessary question: Do we possess structural sensitivity?

Upretee then proposes moving beyond critical consciousness to self-critical consciousness. Critical consciousness teaches us to question institutions, dominant narratives, and systems of power. It encourages us to ask difficult questions, to seek out what has been omitted, and to examine social realities from multiple perspectives. It is outward looking. Self-critical consciousness, on the other hand, redirects those questions inward. It pushes us to question not only unjust systems but also our own location within them. It requires us to examine our privileges, opportunities, assumptions, and the ways we may have unknowingly contributed to reproducing inequality. 

Even those of us who think we are progressive or open-minded might have contributed to reproducing inequality within the system through structural insensitivity, which Upretee defines as an inability to recognize the challenges and hindrances faced by those who are systemically disadvantaged and marginalized. Even such individuals may perpetuate the oppressive system blinded to the invisible network of privilege that has shaped their own lives as it stems from never having had to question the advantages one takes for granted. And this confrontation is unsettling for most of us.  This book invites us to rethink not only how inequality is produced but also how privilege is normalized and defended. 

To extend Upretee’s argument further, we can apply the lens of self-critical consciousness not only to our position within socioeconomic structures but also to our position as a species. If self-critical consciousness asks us to examine the privileges that shape our social lives, it can similarly ask us to question the privileges conferred upon us by our status as human beings. Humans occupy a disproportionately powerful position within the Earth’s ecological systems. We transform landscapes and appropriate other species as resources. We draw and redraw the lines to determine which environments are preserved or destroyed. And we increasingly use technological advancement to alter planetary processes themselves. Yet, since these privileges are so deeply embedded in human life, we rarely perceive them as privileges at all. We experience them as natural entitlements.

Rachel Carson describes nature as “the part of the world that man did not make.” Her definition stimulates an unsettling question: how much of what humans did not make have we nevertheless claimed the authority to control, transform, and destroy? The question becomes even more urgent when considered alongside the long history of human exemptionalism. Human exemptionalism is the assumption that human beings occupy a fundamentally separate and superior position from the rest of the world. 

Whether sustained through religious worldviews that place humans at the apex of creation or through secular notions of human mastery, exemptionalism has helped produce a worldview in which the more-than-human world is primarily understood as resource, property, or instrument. Forests become timber. Rivers become sources of energy. Animals become commodities. Land becomes territory available for extraction and development. The consequences of such a worldview can be visible in ecological degradation, habitat destruction, species extinction, and the accelerating disruption of planetary systems.

William Blake famously stated, “The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.” Seen through Upretee’s framework, the problem is far beyond the notion that humans exploit nature; it is that our structural insensitivity makes us unable to see the conditions of the other-than-human beings and systems upon which our existence depends. Just as structural dividend can become invisible to those who benefit from it, the privileges of being human can make the interests, vulnerabilities, challenges, and forms of agency of other-than-human beings difficult for us to recognize. We do not generally perceive the forest as a community of living beings whose existence has value beyond its usefulness to us. Nor do we experience a river’s destruction as the loss of a world with its own material histories and relations. Our position within the human-centered structure of the world shapes what we are able—and often willing—to perceive. So, extending self-critical consciousness beyond the social requires an ecological self-critique. It needs an evaluation of how our species’ privileged position has conditioned our assumptions about what counts as life, whose suffering matters, whose agency is recognized, and what we consider ourselves entitled to take. Such an evaluation forces us to situate our human needs within the larger web of relations that makes human existence possible. 

In this sense, Upretee’s call to recognize structural dividends can become an invitation to recognize the species-level dividends of being human and consequently to confront the structural insensitivity that those dividends may produce toward the more-than-human world. We could shift course by not blindly following others and instead harboring self-critical ecological consciousness.

Nepal is a divine land where every short journey takes you from modern life to breathtaking wilderness. This Himalayan nation is home to myriad beautiful places that are still unexplored. If every hidden destination in Nepal were discovered, the country would truly become a necklace of sparkling diamonds.

Hidden Lake is one of those shining gems. It is a pristine destination, offering spectacular views of the awe-inspiring Himalayan ranges. This time, we are traveling to the Hidden Lake in the Annapurna region. This is not an ordinary journey; it is a voyage to discover a hidden paradise that is still untouched and unknown to the world. It is a journey to experience the beauty of mountains up close.

Hidden Lake is a newly identified trekking destination in Nepal's Annapurna region. The trail leads to a pristine alpine lake known as the Hidden Lake, offering trekkers a peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of city life. The trail also takes adventurers to the Annapurna South Base Camp, one of the popular trekking destinations in Nepal and around the world.    

The trek to the lake begins from Ghandruk, a popular Gurung village in Kaski district. Perched at an altitude of 4,270 meters, this lake is undeniably a hidden jewel, along with a largely untouched trail.

Besides the stunning lake, the trek offers spectacular Himalayan views from five scenic viewpoints, including Mulde View Point and Ponde Kharka. The trek can be completed in five to six days, making it a great option for trekkers looking for a short yet rewarding adventure.

The itinerary we followed during the trek was as follows:

Day 1

We traveled overnight by bus from Kathmandu to Pokhara before taking a jeep to Melache via Ghandruk, the starting point of our trek.

Day 2

We started our trek and reached Chuile after around 20 minutes of walking. Compared to Ghandruk, we found Chuile much more peaceful and tranquil. After enjoying a delicious lunch, we continued our journey.

The trail was steep from the beginning. Though much of the route passed through forest, it was well marked and easy to follow. We then reached Meshar, where we found a tea house. We stopped there for a short break, enjoying tea with the majestic views of Annapurna South (7,219 meters, 5th highest peak in Annapurna range) before continuing our trek.

After about an hour of steep climbing, we reached Iseru, where we found another tea house. The place also offers accommodation for trekkers arriving from Tadapani. From Iseru, it took us another hour of uphill walking to reach Dobato (3,550 metres), our destination for the day.

By the time we arrived, the temperature had started to drop, so we ordered tea to warm ourselves. Although we were exhausted after the whole day of trekking, all our fatigue disappeared by watching the view of the setting sun turning Mt Dhaulagiri, Annapurna South, and Hiunchuli into a golden spectacle.

Day 3

We woke up early in the morning and headed toward Mulde View Point. Situated at an altitude of 3,637 meters, Mulde View Point is a secluded paradise in the Annapurna Conservation Area which offers 360-degree panoramic view of Himalayas including Mt Dhaulagiri, Nilgiri, Hiunchuli, Annapurna South and Machapuchhare, Gangapurna, Lamjung Himal, and the entire Annapurna range.

The sunrise and panoramic views of Annapurna South from Mulde View Point were mesmerizing. Standing at an altitude 427 meter higher than Poon Hill (another popular trekking destination in the Annapurna region), the viewpoint offers a breathtaking panorama of the Himalayan ranges. Mulde View Point, also known as Mulde View Park, has several viewpoints, each offering a different view of the mountains.

After returning from Dobato, we had breakfast before heading toward Ponde Kharka (4060m). Although the distance was not very long, the steep climb and high altitude made the trek difficult and challenging and it took us nearly five hours to reach Ponde Kharka, another highlight of the trek. At least 16 districts can be seen on a clear day from Ponde Kharka.

From here, we enjoyed spectacular views of Tadapani, Ghandruk, Mardi Himal Base Camp trail, Badal Danda, High Camp, and the iconic fishtail-shaped Mt Machhapuchhre. 

Day 4

It took us nearly two hours to reach Hidden Lake from Ponde Kharka. The two-hour walk was really challenging, maybe because of the high altitude and rocky trail. The more we walked ahead, the closer we could see the closer view of Mt Annapurna and Mt Machepuchhare.  

Finally, we reached the Hidden Lake. Situated at an altitude of 4,270 meters, the lake is locally known as Tridevi Taal and lies beneath the towering Annapurna South.

According to our guide, local people worship at the Barahadevi Temple, located near the lake, and a fair is held every year during Janai Purnima. The guide also said that there is no external source of water to the lake, making it even more fascinating. Not just the captivating view of the lake, the vibe and energy of that place was peaceful, serene and deeply spiritual.

After trekking for about 45 minutes along the narrow trail from Hidden Lake, we reached Maramche. From there, we enjoyed a stunning close-up view of Annapurna South and witnessed a different face of Mt Machhapuchhre.

Day 5

We woke up early to witness the last sunrise of our journey. After descending for about two hours along the tough trail and crossing a suspension bridge, we reached Ngerbo.

Here, we learned that we were the first guests at the newly built hotel near the bridge, making the voyage even more memorable.

After walking uphill and downhill for several hours, we reached Tribung, another viewpoint of the trek. We stopped there for lunch before continuing our descent to Chhomrong and then to Jhinu.

At Jhinu, some of our friends enjoyed a relaxing bath in the natural hot spring, while others chose to rest at the hotel.

Day 6

We took a jeep from Jhinu to Pokhara and then to Kathmandu.

Conclusion: We would highly recommend this trek to those looking for real adventure away from crowds. It would be a perfect place for the trekkers who love mountains and lakes and want to dip-dive into nature. The journey is challenging but every step is rewarding and takes you to another world. However, this trek is not for beginners because of its steep terrain and high altitude.

The survival of humans and animals has always stayed intertwined. That’s the scenario handed down to us for generations—for ages. As time passed, the world turned overcrowded, both for Homo sapiens and the denizens of the wild.

The wildlife had to bear the brunt to an extreme extent, though. The so-called civilized bipeds encroached upon their habitat. They usurped what was theirs and made them defenseless and vulnerable—even endangered. Several species, to say the least, became extinct in the bargain.

Insecurity and fear

In the early ages, humans were in a constant state of insecurity and fear of wild animals. With the inroads of civilization, the human-animal-relation situation took a dramatic shift, though. Today, wild animals seem more afraid of humans. The predators, too, appear to dread the earthlings and shun proximity to them.

Startling news hit the press when the University of Oxford’s Wildlife Conservation Research Unit reported to Discovery News that fear of humans among wildlife had become an alarming issue in the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park in Botswana, Africa. It further stated that the fearless “Kings of the jungle,” the lions in the park, lived in a ‘landscape of fear’ because of threats posed by human intervention.

That made a lasting impression on the new offspring of the lion family, through their mother and other pride members, and they learned to fear humans as they grew up, the wildlife scientists reported.

The anecdote

The ‘fear of humans’ phenomenon among the animals from the wild somehow seemed to connect with a hilarious anecdote I am going to relate here, which took place several years ago when four of my friends from Dharan, East Nepal, went fishing. The quartet, excited as they were, as usual, seemed to make a fuss over their fishing tackle and gear—what to pack up and what to forget.

The next day, they started early. They caught a bus for West Kusaha, Chatara, where the Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve is situated.  After acquiring a fishing permit for the day, the foursome headed for the river bank.

Established in 1976, Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve, a floodplain of the Sapta Koshi River, comprises 175 square km of grasslands and wetlands and spans Sunsari, Saptari, and Udaypur districts. The government designated the reserve as a Ramsar Site in 1987.

Without losing a moment, the gang spread out and started casting their spoons from the river bank. The Sapta Koshi, Nepal’s largest river system, stretched out in all its glory. Their main quarry for that morning was the Golden Mahseer (Tor putitora), and if that failed, they would not mind settling for a Goonch (catfish) or two—if luck favored them at all.

Spoon fishing

Spoons are lures used for fishing worldwide and in Nepal, too—a favorite of the Dharan anglers. Easy to use: all you’ve got to do is cast your spoon, wait a few seconds for your metal bait to reach the bottom, then retrieve. The idea is to dupe the fish with the spoon, which spins on its way back when the line is drawn in, mimicking a small live fish. The resident fish take them for real and go for a bite—and get hooked.

Not lucky all the time

For two hours at a stretch, the fishers followed a routine cast-and-retrieve like the rhythmic ticking of a clock. They worked the river up and down several times—a tiring job indeed. No catches, not even a feeble bite, came their way, though. That’s what it’s like with fishing—you are not always lucky.

The March morning sun was up, and the anglers felt the heat permeating with each passing minute. The midday heat in Terai in March can turn sizzling.  The group decided it was time to take a short break and gathered on a small knoll close to a stretch of elephant grass that colonized the river sandbanks in patches.

“Hey guys, I’ve to evacuate my bowels,” said one friend and headed for the nearest patch of tall grass. The rest of the group started unpacking their lunches. Hardly had they finished eating when a figure broke cover from the dense grasses and dashed towards the seated group, yelling at the top of his voice. He was none other than their pal. He bounded towards his friends with fright written all over his face as if there was no tomorrow for him.

The group seated on the knoll watched dumbstruck; they witnessed not one but two bizarre scenes happening in the same breath. The moment their friend bolted, in a blink of an eye, a large black Arna, a wild water buffalo (Bubalus arnee) carrying a pair of formidable-looking horns, crashed through the tall grasses. It galloped like lightning, in clear sight, in the opposite direction, crossed a small clearing, and disappeared into a pocket of tall grasses.

Water buffaloes are large, powerful animals weighing close to 1,000 kg. Koshi Tappu is renowned for them. They are categorized as endangered on the IUCN Red List. Within seconds, it re-entered another dense patch of tall grass and disappeared. The angler-group observed the poor animal looked equally frightened as their mate, if not more.

Frightened buffalo

The group bent double, slapped their thighs, and shrieked with laughter. They watched their shell-shocked panting friend holding his still unfastened and unzipped pants. It took him some time before he could regain his breath and recount what had happened.

“I squatted facing the thickset grasses towards the river,” he began. “Moments later, a rustling sounded. It stopped unawares, though. But a few seconds later, I heard it again. It felt as if something was coming my way. At first, I thought you guys were up to your little pranks again, like always.”

“There it stood, barely 5 ft. away, his large bulging eyes boring balefully into mine. Time froze. I almost fainted. Suddenly, the buffalo gave a loud grunt and a snort. The next thing I knew, I was going hell for leather, yelling at the top of my voice. The rest, you guys saw,” he finished with a gasp.

The Asiatic wild water buffaloes can be very dangerous. Cases of Arna attacks in Koshi Tappu areas are commonplace and frequently reported by park officials. Such incidents occur when villagers go to the riverbanks to collect fodder, dead logs, and wood debris.

Koshi Tappu has the world’s second-largest population of Arnas, amongst India, Bhutan, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Cambodia, and Thailand. My friend had a close call—scared out of his wits. But by the looks of things, it appeared the other way round to me as I wrapped up the ‘man versus the wild’ story. To recapitulate, it seemed he gave the poor buffalo the fright of his life—instead.

At the end of the day: “Wild Animals Fear Human Voices More Than a Lion's Growl, “writes Amy Jones for a website called Species Unite.

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