Quotes of the Day

There's nothing like rounding the corner of a Himalayan trail in the rain and finding your cook making a hot meal. Unless your cook is Sikkimese. Our cook-he never offered a name-made good tea and noodle soup. But the rest of his food was an appalling improvisation-exemplified by his signature deep-fried cheese-and-tomato-and-peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich.

The catering is never dull, and neither is the trekking. And while Sikkim is big on adventure, it's a thumbnail of a place, hemmed in by Nepal, China, Bhutan and India. In 1975, this Hobbit-sized realm-a cute 110 km by 60 km-was annexed by India. But borders here have always been vague, making the Sikkimese a loose mix of Himalayan peoples and of forest-dwelling Lepcha, the area's earliest inhabitants. Unlike other parts of the Himalayas, few in Sikkim make their homes in the inhospitable mountains. Tending yaks and planting rice on barren slopes is a morale-draining drag, and those tough enough to do it are seldom asked for papers. Sheer survival is their passport.

Trekkers, though, are scrupulously monitored. Much of Sikkim is forbidden to foreigners, and access to the rest is governed by permits. Our trek was a seven-day slog toward the Goecha La plateau to see the sun rise on the world's third highest mountain: the mighty, 8,586-meter Kanchenjunga. Apart from a guide, it required three permits. But even if it wasn't illegal, wandering alone is a brow-furrowing prospect, for trails quickly extend beyond the reach of telephones. Dialing air rescue in emergencies is not an option, which is why, by the time we started, staff outnumbered clients. At the Yuksom trailhead, Samten Bhutia, our guide, hired the cook, a cook's helper, two dzos (hirsute offspring of yaks and cows), and a herder to manage the beasts and their burdens.

As we climbed, energy for whining about food became a laughable luxury. The thin air sapped our strength, and it was enough to curl up early with a good book. The first two days of the trek were exhausting, as we ascended more than 2,200 meters. Vegetation dwindled from oaks and pines to oxygen-starved, dwarfish rhododendrons. To avoid altitude sickness, we began sleeping no more than 300 meters above the previous night's resting place. This meant some days of short treks simply to acclimatize. Hours were measured out with cups of tea and swapped books. At the Thangsing camp at 3,800 meters we fashioned a ball from plastic bags, turning a dull afternoon into an impromptu football match, with dzo droppings for goalposts. But a hard lesson was driven home: playing soccer at altitude results in vomiting and a skull-splitting headache.

On the final morning, Samten got lost. The river crossing wasn't where he thought it was. At 3:30 a.m., at -15°C and 4,185 meters above sea level, this wore our patience as thin as the available oxygen. So he told us to shine our headlamps on the river, and in the halogen glare pointed out a perilous course across black rocks. I teetered giddily at the last boulder, making a leap for the bank and landing in supine embarrassment.

Then it was up to a wide, boulder-strewn plateau-Goecha La. Peaks once distant now towered over us. Ahead was the primordial bulk of Kanchenjunga, glowing bluish at first, then a soft pink. A curtain of cloud swept across its face, and for a moment its peak was just visible before disappearing again.

We vanished too, speeding downhill toward a dubious breakfast. A snow rat poked its head out, hoping for a crumb. I broke the park's rules and tossed him a piece of cookie. Feeding anything that lives at this desolate height has to be good karma. So long as you're not offering a deep-fried sandwich.

• Daffyd Roderick
• Done Nepal? Then try Sikkim's breathless heights