It had been four long years since I last set foot in Nepal. My previous visits had been driven by duty — volunteer work, rebuilding schools and supporting communities devastated by the 2015 earthquake.

While those trips were deeply fulfilling, they left little time for myself or for the dream I had long harbored: to photograph the majestic Himalayas and the wild beauty of Nepal’s elusive creatures.

This year, I made a promise to myself. This journey would be different. It would be about reconnecting with the land that raised me and finally following my heart’s calling as a photographer.

The time I went is particularly good for wildlife viewing — especially for spotting the Bengal tiger.

I set o? on a journey to Upper Mustang, known as the “Forbidden Kingdom.” Upper Mustang is a remote and culturally rich region, once closed o? to the outside world until 1992. It boasts stark, desert-like landscapes, ancient monasteries and a Tibetan-influenced heritage that feels timeless.

Our first day of travel involved a grueling 14-hour drive through Nepal’s rugged mountain roads. By nightfall, we reached Tatopani, where I was just 15 when I first passed through Tatopani as a trekking porter.

Standing beside that same river today, I felt the weight of time. The river hadn’t changed — but I had. That boy, driven by survival, had become a man seeking to document the soul of his homeland.

The next morning, I rented an electric vehicle and headed toward Lo Manthang. By midday, we reached Jomsom, where I had to switch to a gasoline-powered vehicle due to the lack of charging stations.

I walked through the village’s ancient alleyways. Locals spoke Tibetan, and unsure of their comfort with photography, I chose to observe rather than intrude. I noticed something new — modernity had arrived. Traditional stone homes now stood beside concrete buildings. Children holding smartphones ran through alleyways where monks once chanted ancient mantras. Lo Manthang stood at a fragile crossroads: between preserving its past and embracing the future.

The next day, we traveled to the Korala border, where Nepal meets China. We descended the same road we had taken to Mustang, arriving late at night in Naudanda.

We drove 13 hours to Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha.

We found a modest hotel and settled in. That night, I faced a different kind of discomfort — not from the road or the weather, but from mosquitoes. Hundreds of them swarmed the bathroom and the bed. The air conditioning and fans barely worked, and though I wasn’t afraid of mosquito bites, talk of dengue fever made me cautious.

My wife, worried, urged me to leave Lumbini and return to Kathmandu. And with a heavy heart, I canceled my long-awaited visit to Bardiya National Park. The dream of photographing the Bengal tiger — the very heart of this journey — slipped from my grasp. It was the hardest decision I had to make.

Yet, my dream is not over. I will return. The tiger still waits — and so do I.

Jay Tamang is a Marin photographer. His work can be seen at tamangphotography.com. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.