I walk slowly, carefully. Each step is purposeful – I apply the full area of my sole for maximum grip, and I do a sideways zigzag downhill to lessen the steepness of my descent. The path is muddy and has patches of green slime on it. Without total focus, I could slip and go tumbling down. There can be no moment to take in the glistening green leaves and the dapple of mellow sunlight that softly illuminate the chilled forest air, nor the wet, sap-soaked bark that provides a dark, earthy contrast. There is no desire to do so anyway, for we have trudged along, since early morning, for four hours now, and our minds and senses are dulled by throbbing legs, aching shoulders and cavernous stomachs.

There is a rustle somewhere close. I scan the forest furiously, but can make out nothing save greens, grays and browns. There follows a cracking of soft stems and the tearing of leaves, and then the thick, dull thuds of hooves. A shack becomes visible in a patch in the middle of dense forest, with half a dozen buffalo munching away at a pile of foliage nearby. A sweet, warm smell wafts towards us, presumably from the shack. This will be a good place for a rest and some food, we decide, hoping that we will be welcome.

We scrape through the undergrowth, which scratches our shins and wets the lower halves of our trousers, and arrive at the shack. It is built out of branches and vines harvested from the surrounding woods, and thatched with a thick layer of foliage. There is a large opening that serves as a window in one of its three walls, with a plastic sheet that serves as its screen. The paraphernalia of domestic life – pots, pans, plates, boxes – lie on the hard packed mud floor along the walls, and there is a stack of dry timber in one corner. In another corner of the shack sit two children – a girl and a boy, both under ten – and their mother, on a straw mat laid on a wooden bed. Near the entrance squats the father, a densely bearded man who stirs a pool of thick, boiling milk in a large iron wok over a bright, crackling wood fire. The kids’ eyes seem to light up when they see us, and they nearly jump from the bed in excitement.

We are greeted with wide smiles and offered the bed to rest on, while the mother shifts to a plank on the floor. The family, we learn, are permanent forest dwellers who move from one shack to another every few months when their buffalo run out of pasture. The milk bubbles away, releasing its rich, comforting aroma, slowly reducing to a creamy, sweetened mush called khuwa, which a porter from a village three hills yonder – our destination – will later carry to the market in Banepa, where we started from. The man, his face red from the heat of his fireside station, brings out a small tub containing the fruit of his morning’s efforts and, spooning out large, ivory dollops into two steel bowls, insists we have some. This kind offer is music to our ears, and in my famished state, I devour the sweet, dense mass, paying little heed to its delectable richness. A few mouthfuls of curried chickpeas – again our hosts’ charity – and many gulps of near-freezing water later, my belly is happily occupied, and we are on our way.

There are birds overhead that chatter and sing as they fly from branch to branch with a brisk whoosh. From someplace deep within the forest, cicadas send out wave upon relentless wave of an ancient, strident chorus. The blood that beats against my temples, however, feels more deafening. It is a clock that lets me know with each passing beat that darkness has crept one step deeper into the forest, while there is still a long way to go. A whole afternoon has passed, and the hills all around now have tops that glow like fire from the farewell rays of the sun, while below they are cloaked in deepening darkness. The path twists and turns still, like it has all day, but shows no sign of leaving the forest, which grows more sinister by the second. The soles of my feet burn and my calves quiver from exhaustion, but I dare not rest even for the tiniest moment, for my imagination fills in what deep shadows hide.

Night descends as swiftly as a falcon in a dive. The forest might as well be a deep abyss where primal fears awaken in the blackness. Dread hangs in the air, making trees and rocks take ghoulish forms. Our destination – some pinpricks of light on a distant hill –tantalizes. We will not make it there tonight.

A contingency plan will now have to be made for safe shelter overnight. Lacking tents and sleeping bags, we are ill-equipped to sleep under the skies even if we were able to put aside our fears. The thin lunar crescent that floats over the murky outline of a faraway hill casts a dim light that fails to reveal any shed or dwelling such as the one we encountered earlier in the day. The distant roar of a stream reaches us from somewhere below. We set out to find a path that will descend to its bank, deciding that our best hope of safety and contact with someone – anyone – lies along it.

We climb down a narrow gully that has footholds carved into it uneasy stretches apart. The voice of the rushing current grows louder with every step. Luck shines on us brighter than the pale moonlight – we see a tiny hut that sits astride a sprightly downhill torrent that joins the stream a small distance away. It is more than we could have hoped for. The loud rumble of stone grinding on stone tells us that the hut houses a mill driven by the force of the torrent to make flour out of grain. A few minutes into our approach, a small, yellow fire bursts into life just outside the hut. I stop dead in my tracks, in awe and disbelief. It seems miraculous – it is only an illusion perhaps – until the light of the fire casts human silhouettes, and an indistinct yet clearly human chatter carries through the ceaseless splashing hum of the stream to us, confirming the reality of this welcome happenstance. We are filled with relief, which, in its quiet way, is perhaps the most satisfying of all emotions.

Ten minutes later we are face to face with three men in their forties who are seated on smooth, rounded rocks around a fire that swells as it eagerly devours dead wood. With a wave of their arms, they summon us into their small circle of light and warmth on the sandy shore of a crashing stream that sparkles a murky silver under the endless black blanket that engulfs the world. From a small sack they pull out ears of corn and a meager amount of tiny fish and shrimp, which they have ensnared in their fishing nets in the evening, and set about roasting them over the fire. A large pitcher of a mildly alcoholic cornmeal brew is passed around, and a few swigs of the thick, grainy beverage immediately invigorates my drained self. We are handed steaming ears of corn, charred on the outside but juicy inside, and a small fistful of the aquatic haul, which we accept with honest gratitude.
As I bite mouthfuls of corn off the cob, I look into the white heart of the fire that cracks and hisses as it tears apart the timber it rises from. Its flames leap and dance in shades of yellow and orange as they release solar energy hidden deep within the wood and fling it at our faces, arms and legs, which find the searing heat surprisingly comforting. Within these tumultuous flames, I see many travelers, separated by immense distances and unimaginable timescales. Some march across the savanna under the scorching east African sun; some are huddled close together as they find their way across the vast, unforgivingly cold tundra; some stand in their creaky log rafts, looking across a desolate expanse of blue ocean in the hope of finding land. Their journeys of uncertainty and hope are my heritage, and today I have walked in their ancient footsteps. Around me are strange faces whose features flicker with the dance of the firelight. We have converged here from different paths and we will part ways tomorrow, but tonight we share one sliver of our journeys, and have forever become part of each others’ life stories. By sharing their fire and their food, these men have performed the simplest act of generosity, but in doing so, they have uncovered an ancestral thread that underlies the whole of culture and the human spirit. Tomorrow when I reach my destination on that dark, distant hill, I will know that it was the sweet, creamy khuwa offered by the forest-dwelling family, and this meal of hearty cornmeal brew and roasted corn that got me there.

A loud pop and a rising flurry of sparks from deep within the fire awaken me from my trance. All around us is the cold, dark slumber of nature, which at this hour looks hostile and unsympathetic. Above, thousands of stars shimmer like distant campfires in a deep, black celestial ocean. I look around and across our own campfire – our small bastion against the unstoppable, timeless forces that surround us – at my fellow travelers in the night, and nod, in humble thanks.