For the third time that night, I tripped over a tree root. Covered in grime and weakened by hunger and thirst, I fumbled my way through the darkness that felt like the pit of a well. As I gathered myself together, a rustle in a nearby bush sent a chill down my spine. Paranormal beings are beyond my realm of belief, but becoming the dinner of a leopard was never part of the plan. I cursed myself for the series of bad decisions that had culminated in this misadventure.

Lost on a mountain without a flashlight, I was trying to retrace the steps back from a monastery atop it. 

It was hard not to get lost in a reverie at Paro Taktsang. The chants of the monks reverberated around the rooms, butter lamps flickered with a mystic glow, and the sun streamed in through ornate windows streaking the wooden floor in a desperate attempt to touch the holy idols.

By the time the retreating daylight snapped me back to reality, there was little hope of reaching the base before the sun took its final plunge. It set sooner than expected, retreating behind the surrounding mountains and leaving me stranded at three thousand feet of darkness.

While the pitch-black night impaired my vision, my other senses heightened. In the silence, I heard every sound distinct and clear – my footsteps, the chirping of crickets, the rustle of dried leaves as I stepped on them, and the gurgling of a stream somewhere in the distance. A heady smell filled the air, woody like pine and reminiscent of nutmegs, that reminded me of the rhododendrons I had encountered during the ascent earlier that day.

Five hours and countless steps later, I was getting closer to the sound of water when something in the bush moved. Fear of a life-threatening ambush replaced my hope of finding civilization. I stood locked in fear, unable to move or scream, as my assailant inched forward. But instead of pouncing, the creature landed a wet lick on my hand and merely wagged its tail.

Reba, the mountain dog, offered to show me the way and led me to her master Tenzing, who was searching for me after word got out about a missing trekker. That night Tenzing and his wife welcomed me into their humble abode like I was a long-lost friend.

“Reba likes to escort the travelers for reasons of his own,” explained Tenzing, while I patted my furry friend’s head, “That’s why we call him by that name. In Tibetan and Dzongkha, Re Ba means hope.”

Being lost in that forest of Bhutan gave me a renewed appreciation for the simple comforts of life I often failed to be grateful for – like the roof over my head or the simple plate of red rice and Ema Datshi offered to me.

As I lay on the bed that night, thoughts showered my mind like a cloudburst. If Reba had not found me, I wondered if I could have spent the night in the dark forest, or struck stones to create fire, or satiated my hunger by foraging or hunting. Reba, like his name, was a manifestation of hope for me. As exhaustion took over, I finally fell asleep on a bed that felt as soft as gossamer.