A view from the backpack

A toddler treks through Nepal

Gaia Grant

The Anapurna circuit in Nepal. Trekking for five to eight hours a day for almost two weeks, climbing to heights of 3000 metres and more, negotiating a variety of weather conditions.

The routes were planned for me, the daily schedule was fully organised, the accommodation was taken care of. And I was carried the whole way.

This is definitely the way to travel.

What was my secret? Being at an age where not too much was expected of me, and of a size and weight where it was possible to slip me into a backpack along with the sleeping bag and the thermals probably had something to do with it. As I was barely two years old, I couldn't exactly walk the whole way myself, could I! So I just had to accept my humble backpack perch.

Packing the backpack

All preparations were extremely last minute, but very thorough, thanks to my scouting dad and his "be prepared" motto.

Mum and dad had already taken me across India, and had decided on a whim that since Nepal was so close, we might as well all pop over for a quick visit. No trekking, mind you, just a little sightseeing, a bit of a cultural experience. Nothing too strenuous.

When we arrived I looked after mum and dad while they recovered from a bout of giardia, making sure they didn't allow themselves to wallow in their misery and spend too much time in bed. I ensured at least one of them was kept busy looking after me. It must have helped to take their minds off things and aid in their recovery, because before too long (although after seriously contemplating hijacking the next plane to take them home), the nature of our visit had changed from a simple afternoon foray into the forest, to a day hike up a pleasant hill, an overnight stay in an accessible mountain lodge, before eventually blowing out of all proportion and becoming a full-on two week expedition into the Himalayan wilds.

Do you think we were prepared for mountain conditions after packing for the tropics? Of course not. My wardrobe consisted of a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts and some light flimsy cotton trousers, with one light jacket. Never mind, said mum and dad. We can improvise. They did buy me a Nepalese woollen overcoat, and had a small rain poncho specially made up, so before long I was reasonably well equipped.

Mum and dad were constantly congratulating themselves in their foresight in buying a special child backpack designed especially for hiking. But they only had travel packs themselves, designed to look good in airport lounges rather than being particularly functional on the trail. A quick purchase later, and we were the proud owners of a top brand copy backpack at a fraction of the price. Another stop at a hire shop and we had sleeping bags as well.

The next problem was a logistical one. How were they going to carry me and my accessories along with the other essentials? After a few enquiries, we befriended the porter who had agreed to help carry our things. Babu was a quiet, friendly companion who shared the load. If we thought we were ill prepared for mountaineering, this guy was amazing. He wore thongs up all the mountain tracks as though they were specialist mountain boots, and carried a small backpack about the size of a preschool lunchbox on his front with a change of underwear, a spare shirt, and a light jacket - along with our oversized and overstuffed pack on his back.

Although, having just passed my second birthday, I was already maturing into a capable young lady - capable of reaching the toilet before soiling myself on most occasions, at least - I still hadn't mastered the art of controlling my bladder at night. That would mean mum and dad would have to carry a two week supply of nappies with them, and carry them out again once they had been used. No problem for me. I was quite happy not to have to think about toileting habits in the middle of the night. I just couldn't understand the sour faces and their incessant whining about it.

So what did mum and dad do? They decided it was time for me to get my act together. The first dry night, they refused to put a nappy on me again, and from then on I was made to sit on the toilet in the small hours. That was fine while we stayed in our cosy guest house with easily accessible en-suite. But I was not at all impressed when they wanted to cart me outside in the dark in the sub-zero mountain temperatures to expose my bottom and dangle it over a hole in the ground. They may have solved the nappy problem, but I was sure to get piles, or to suffer from extreme exposure. And there was the odd night or two when they didn't get to me in time, and we had to pack up our bags and leave in a hurry the next morning lest the house occupants discover that the strange drip into one of the ground floor rooms was a result of a deposit into my bed on an upper level from the night before.

So, with a day or two's preparation and armed with appropriate clothing, sleeping gear, carry packs, and assistance - and minus the nappies - we were all set to go on our way. Who knows where and who knows why. The logic of the whole exercise was well beyond me at this stage.

The backpack becomes mobile

Barely off their death beds, and having overworked and under-exercised for the few months before, mum and dad were not even in peak condition for a casual afternoon stroll. Nevertheless, they decided it was going to be "now, or never".

Up at dawn (they know I'll make them suffer if they wake me up before I'm ready, but they still insist on doing it regularly), and off to the starting point - Poon Hill. I'm thoroughly enjoying the first half-hour of this experience, the rhythm of travelling up stairs and the dramatically improving view at each step is, so, far, worth the effort. Mum and dad are dragging themselves up the hill, huffing and puffing at each step, moaning and groaning about what they're getting themselves into. I insist on doing some of the stair climbing, the not-so-subtle look of relief on mum's face as the pace slows down significantly totally eluding me.

At the top of the hill, and a few hours later, we stop for a good rest and some lunch at an eating house. This was to be the first of many hiking meals. Strange how a menu can sound exotic and exciting when you read it for the first time, and when post-illness and mid-trekking starvation suddenly hits. But all these eating places must have pilgrimages to a central meeting place where they can compare recipes to check that exactly the same ingredients are being used and everything is being cooked in exactly the same way - rather like the strict rules and regulations of the McDonald's franchise. Or else there's one central batch of sauce somewhere that everyone's dipping into. Luckily for me, though, the food is pretty bland and tasteless.

By dark we had settled into our accommodation for the night. I'd only been fed up for the last hour or two before. The first half-hour or so was great. The first few hours, even, were pleasant enough. But when I'd had enough, I'd had enough. I'd had my sleep in the backpack, I'd done my token amount of walking, I'd met some fellow travellers. Now I was ready to go "home" (which translates, in two-year-old traveller's language, to a place to sleep for the night.)

We had done plenty of camping together, so I wasn't too phased by the standard of our "lodge" for the night. Others might be put off by staying in minute wooden rooms about the size and composition of a fruit crate, though, with outdoor washrooms consisting of cold water buckets for washing in and holes for peeing in.

Taking in the view

Wow! At home, I was only just discovering the difference between my left shoe and my right shoe, having your sandwich with or without crusts, and now, suddenly, I was in a whole new world. New people, new ways of doing things, new scenery. New foods, new animals, a new language.

For a young child just encountering the egocentric phase of childhood, this whole experience was pretty mind blowing.

It took me a while to fathom the concept of a mountain, for starters. I had to constantly check exactly where the mountains were. As soon as I grasped the idea of mountains being snow-capped monoliths, the concept changed again. We were going up, down and around mountains. The mountains were directly below our feet and silhouetting the sky in the distance. We always had Mt Machapichu as a distinct reference point and close companion. Ever since my mountain discovery experience in Nepal, they have featured strongly in my story telling, particularly as places of immense mystery and potential exploration.

We also passed through a range of environments - trailing through wooded forests with colourful wildflowers, scrambling up stark rocky mountain slopes with loose stones and scree, winding around freshly farmed garden beds, creeping along elasticised suspension bridges with raging river waters visible between the cracks.

And of course the human environment was unique. In the mountains of "The Pool", as I fondly call the place (translates: "Nepal"), people lived in small houses clustered together on the side of hills or along a mountain ridge. None of the huge, distinctly segregated dwellings that I was accustomed to. None of the other features of a modern urban environment, either - no tall buildings and offices, shops or factories, no cars and trucks, no traffic lights - no roads even. People walked everywhere along dirt tracks and met all their neighbours en-route. The most advanced carrying aids were donkeys, which were covered in brightly woven rugs and readily identified from a distance by their constantly clanging bells. I took it upon myself to alert mum and dad to their imminent arrival whenever I heard them coming.

I would often encounter the warm, smiling faces of the local people eye to eye as they pondered the curiosities of my strange blonde hair and hi-tech backpack. I was well underway in mastering the complexities of the English language, and was perplexed by their strange brand of gobbledygook, but mum and dad would translate for me, going by any possible body language cues themselves. I noticed other children were carried on their parents' backs here, too. My mum and dad obviously weren't as clever as these people, though, because all they needed was a simple bit of cloth to carry their kids.

Then there were all the fine details. Mum and dad would definitely have missed all the intricacies of the environmental microcosm if I hadn't been there to alert them to these. In their rush to make it to the next destination for the night, they often failed to look down and around. When I was walking, however, I would leave no stone unturned, literally, and no flower unpicked. We all learnt a lot about Nepalese ants and moss, and local stick and stone varieties.

Backpack traveller highlight

This event was only really a highlight in hindsight. At the time, I would probably have labelled it as one of the worst days in my short, sweet life.

The original version goes something like this: the longest day of the trek - more than eight hours walking over the highest pass, getting heavily rained on through my special poncho and the rain easily bypassing a makeshift umbrella attached to the pack but being buffeted by the winds. The rain becomes snow, my toes are frozen and I have to bury my nose to stop it turning into an ice brick. My first direct experience with snow is less than enchanting. In a mad panic to try to make it down the last steep hill to the next village before we all turn to ice statues, mum and I go tobogganing down a mudslide. Mum is totally coated in mud from the backside down. Being on her back at this stage of the journey, I have a thick splattering of mud all over me. I am not at all impressed, and make sure everyone knows it - all the way to the lodge.

The nostalgic version is a little different: the most scenic and adventurous day of the trek. Gorgeous coloured trees and flowers, vast views. A little rain to cool us down as we walk, my first encounter with snow, and a fun slide down a mountainside, topped off by sitting by a cosy fire in the lodge, drinking hot chocolate and eating out first chocolate cake of the trek, and snuggling up in our sleeping bags for a deep, sound sleep.

Favourite backpack traveller games

There are plenty of things you can do to pass away the hours in a backpack. Here are some of the games I developed as we trekked:

First of all, insist that your mother carries you, especially if she has long hair. That way you can pull her hair, or, if she has tied it back in an attempt to keep it out of your way, practice undoing the clips or pulling out the ties. Earrings are always good play objects, too.

Another great game is "hide the hat". Your parents will undoubtedly want you to wear one of these, so it's great fun to hide it or even lose it just to get a good, exasperated reaction. Whoever is carrying you will not be able to see you, so it's easy to slip it off and down into the backpack somewhere or, preferably, off the edge of the nearest cliff. You can keep everyone occupied for hours, retracing their steps as they participate in the "hide the hat" game.

Keep changing your mind about whether you would rather be carried in the backpack or walking on your own. The process of putting you in and out is a fun physical exercise for you and your carers.

When you do decide to walk, take notice of every blade of grass, stick or stone. Through this activity, you can remind everyone that the end goal is not as important as the process of getting there, even if it does mean you'll arrive at the next destination well after dark.

Make sure you also engage in some running, especially along the edge of high precipices and between other groups of trekkers and their donkeys. Your parents will be stunned at your expertise in negotiating the difficult parts of the trek at high speeds, and they will again enjoy the exercise involved in chasing after you.

Don't eat too much at mealtimes, but instead wait until you're well into the trek before telling your parents you're hungry or thirsty. They'll keep promising the next food stop is just around the next corner, or it'll make them stop and start as they dig into their packs for those last morsels of food.

When you've had enough, indulge in a good whinge. You'll have everyone busy trying to think of novel ways to keep you happy. If your whingeing appears to be having little impact, you still have a very influential way to get attention - with a high-pitched scream. Where people had previously stopped in amazement to comment on how brave mum and dad were and what a wonderful experience it must be for you, their expressions will turn to scorn when they hear your screams. You can instantly wipe that smug look of pride off mum's and dad's faces and make them turn to pained embarrassment. I didn't need to use this strategy too often, but when I did it worked every time.

Gaia Grant www.tirian.com