Gaskell Goes to Gokyo

^{PART 1 of 3 | Contributing Partner Anton Gaskell (@gaskellgoes on Instagram) talks us through the decision, the drive, and doing it. Anton is an adventurer, an explorer, and business multi-hyphenate.}

Escaping the Noise: This Was the Move

When you say you’re hiking in Nepal, the default question is always the same: Everest Base Camp? And honestly, it makes perfect sense. Everest is the icon. The symbol. The pilgrimage. Even if you don’t care about mountains, you still know Everest. As a hiker, chasing that story feels almost mandatory — walk the same path as legends, stand beneath the tallest mountain on the planet.

But the thing is: I live in Manila.

And Manila isn’t just a city — it’s a megapolis in the most overwhelming sense of the word. It’s noise, heat, crowds, cars, horns, malls, deadlines, construction, chaos, and the kind of traffic that chips away at your soul if you’re not careful. Every day is overstimulation. Every day feels like death by a thousand tiny decisions before lunch.

Which route avoids traffic?
How do I soften this email?
What am I ordering on Grab this time?
What even counts as “business casual” anymore?

The last thing I wanted was to escape to the Himalayas only to end up on the trail version of EDSA — a human centipede of hikers shuffling up a ridge, small talk echoing at 4,000 meters.

And just to be clear:
I get why people go to Everest Base Camp. Some of my closest friends have done it and absolutely loved the entire experience. It’s iconic for a reason. And I fully intend to make that pilgrimage myself one day.

It just wasn’t what I wanted at that particular moment.

When I think about what I really wanted, it goes back to what I felt on the Tour du Mont Blanc. That quiet. That strange, intimate peace you only get when it’s just you on a mountain. That freedom to meander along as you see fit. No chatter, no rush, no pressure to outpace a crowd just to avoid getting stuck at the next bottleneck. I wanted that kind of space again. And, if I’m being honest, I wanted a little bit of that good fear too — the kind where you know you’re mostly safe, but there’s just enough uncertainty that you have to rely on yourself. That little space where you think: If something goes wrong, I’ll figure it out.

That’s what I was looking for. So I chose Gokyo.

Into the Quiet Alone

Most people treat the Gokyo route as a side quest after EBC — something you tack on if you have an extra five days. But taken on its own, it’s a different experience: calmer, emptier, slower, and far more personal. After Namche, the trail peels away from the Everest highway and slips into a valley that feels like a secret. Forests thin into yak pastures, pastures dissolve into boulder fields capped with snow.

And that was all I wanted — a beautiful, straightforward hike that felt manageable. I’d never been above 2,500 meters before, and I wasn’t bringing a guide.

A lot of hikers go without guides anyway. It gives you the freedom to experience things first-hand: the uncertainty, the decisions, the ability to adjust your pace without coordinating with anyone. And there’s comfort in knowing that, at the end of the day, it’s still just a hike. I’m not jumping off a cliff or diving into an underwater cavern. A hike is, in principle, just a long walk. You might get lost, you might get tired, but you’ll be fine. That balance — a little fear, a lot of autonomy — is exactly what keeps me going alone.

So what does it feel like?
It feels like a return to that childhood sense of adventure — stepping into something unknown without anyone narrating the world for you. There’s something appealing about slinging on a backpack and just going — a simple there-and-back-again journey. It’s scary in the way childhood adventures are scary: you don’t know what’s ahead, but some part of you assumes you’ll be fine because stories like this only end one way. It’s freeing to just be, untethered, walking into a landscape with no commentary track, no schedule, no expectations.

Snow, Altitude, and the Beauty of Almost

Then came the curveball.

I landed in Nepal one week after one of the worst blizzards in recent memory — 50 deaths — during a season that was supposed to be stable. Instead of a firm trail, I was crunching through snow I had zero training for. Snow at altitude is another universe. You go from Disney to dismay really quickly. It’s fun the way ball pits are fun — great for a minute, but not the whole day.

Four days in — across Sherpa villages, suspension bridges, icy ridges, and moraine fields — I turned a corner and froze.

Gokyo Lake.

A turquoise mirror sitting in a white, silent valley. Behind it: Gokyo Ri, the summit I’d hike the next day.

Gokyo Ri sits at around 5,357 meters — roughly a 600-meter ascent from the village. At that height, you’re working with half the oxygen you’d get at sea level. You instantly feel like a two-pack-a-day smoker. Your legs are heavy. Move too fast and you’re heaving. Your heart spikes. It’s jarring at first, but you learn to take more breaks… and there’s no better place to stop and look around than the Himalayas.

You get two choices for Gokyo Ri:
sunrise at 3 a.m., or sunset at 3 p.m.
I chose sunset.
I’ll always choose sunset.

I always hated the analogy that I’m going to Nepal to “find myself” or change my life. That’s not what hiking is for me.

What it’s about is the way up.

“A man is happiest when he is one day away from accomplishing his dream — close enough to see the view, but not there yet.”

That’s the part that keeps me coming back. That narrow window where everything still feels possible and nothing is finished. Where your goal is close enough to taste but hasn’t become a memory yet. The cold, the fatigue, the excitement… and those prayer flags at the summit, waving in the wind — not celebrating, just waiting.