“Namaste, and welcome to the trail!” I call out to each new group I guide up to Everest Base Camp. There’s something magical about watching their expressions as they step onto this sacred path. It reminds me of my own first trek up these mountains, feeling both excited and small under Everest’s towering peak. Now, after years of guiding, I’ve learned the little things that make a big difference in these mountains. Each step holds a story, and each story, a lesson.

I remember a young trekker from France who was excited to climb fast, pushing ahead without resting. “Bistari, bistari,” I reminded him, the Nepali way of saying, “Slowly, slowly.” In the mountains, rushing is never a good idea, I told him. “The mountain will wait for you, but you must be patient with it.” But he was young and eager, and, after a few hours, I found him sitting by the side of the trail, his face pale and his breathing heavy. Altitude sickness had caught him early. As he sat, sipping water to recover, I explained how altitude sickness—“the silent mountain sickness”—could affect anyone, no matter how strong or fit they felt. “This mountain is not like others; here, even your breath needs to learn patience.”

One of the first lessons I learned as a guide was to respect the mountain’s pace, and I always encourage my trekkers to do the same. “In these mountains, there’s an old saying: ‘The slower you go, the faster you’ll reach.’” We stayed a night in Namche Bazaar, the village where I encourage every trekker to pause and acclimatize. The bustling Sherpa town is a gift to trekkers, with narrow alleys, bright prayer flags, and the rhythm of Tibetan horns echoing from the monasteries. It’s also the best place to let your lungs and spirit adjust to the thin air.

A couple from Germany joined us for dinner at a tea house in Namche, where we all gathered around a wood-burning stove, warming our hands over cups of hot tea and plates of dal bhat. Dal bhat is more than food here; it’s our strength, our “24-hour power.” I watched as they took their first bite, and their eyes lit up, surprised by the simple, hearty flavors. Over dinner, I reminded everyone to drink plenty of water—even if they didn’t feel thirsty. “Pani khau,” I said with a smile, which means, “Drink water.” The dry air and high altitude can sap your body’s moisture quickly, and staying hydrated is one of the best ways to keep altitude sickness at bay.

The next morning, as we climbed higher, the German couple was amazed at the sight of the colorful prayer flags fluttering in the wind. “These flags carry our prayers to the heavens,” I told them. Each flag represents compassion, strength, and wisdom, I explained, flapping gently as if alive with the mountain’s own breath. For Sherpas, Everest is “Chomolungma”—the Mother Goddess of the Earth, and these trails are sacred to us. It is our way of life, and showing respect to the land and its traditions is one way we honor the spirits of these mountains.

We made our way to Tengboche Monastery, where monks live and chant prayers. I often stop here with my trekkers to let them feel the peace that comes from the monks’ chants and the fluttering prayer flags. Sometimes, I say, it feels as though the mountains themselves are whispering their wisdom to us.

Every trek, I remind my group about packing wisely, sharing the story of an American trekker from a few years back. He had brought a fancy jacket, but it wasn’t built for the cold winds above 4,000 meters. That night, huddled in a small lodge, he couldn’t stop shivering, even with the warmth of a tea house blanket and several cups of chai. I ended up lending him my extra down jacket for the rest of the trek. He thanked me profusely, and I smiled, saying, “The mountain doesn’t care if your jacket is fancy or new; it only cares if it’s warm.” It’s true—layers are everything here, and a good down jacket, thermal base layers, and waterproof gear are more valuable than any fancy trekking clothes.

As we continued up the trail, stopping occasionally to rest or take photos, one of the trekkers asked about the lives of the porters. I was happy to share, as I started my journey on these trails as a porter myself. Most porters come from mountain villages, carrying loads of 30 kilos or more, often wearing only basic clothes and flip-flops. “They are the unsung heroes of Everest,” I told my group, sharing how, in the early days, my own father had been a porter. We have a deep respect for them because they carry more than gear; they carry the dreams of trekkers.

The mental challenges of the trek are something I’ve seen time and again. One trekker, a woman from Canada, felt defeated as we neared Gorak Shep. She kept asking if we were close, and I could see she was losing faith. “Dhairya rakhnus,” I encouraged her, “Have patience.” The mountain has a way of testing everyone, but if you stay strong and focus on the journey, you’ll find a peace here unlike anything else. I’ve seen people break down in tears at the sight of Everest, not from exhaustion, but from gratitude and awe.

Near the final stretch, we approached the towering Khumbu Icefall, a place where Everest’s power is on full display. I could see the group’s excitement, and I reminded them of the basics. “Remember, it’s not about speed; it’s about each steady step.” I told them to take a deep breath, close their eyes for a moment, and listen to the sound of the wind, the mountain’s own voice.

When we finally reached Everest Base Camp, the group fell silent, taking in the magnitude of the mountain before us. Some of them had faced altitude sickness, others had struggled with blisters or sore muscles, but every one of them had arrived safely. I watched them stand there, eyes wide and smiles breaking through the exhaustion. In that moment, I felt the same pride I feel with every group—a quiet joy knowing they had respected the mountain and trusted in the spirit of these trails.

As we began the journey back, I turned to the group and said, “The mountain has blessed you now. Go with that memory, and tell your story.” It is a gift to be in the Himalayas, and a gift even more precious to share with others.