I left my husband and kids at home to go trekking with my dad. It changed our relationship

I race to Dad’s door and bang loudly. “Quick, come and see!”

The laces on my hiking boots are undone and I trip as I turn, grabbing the wall for stability. Ducking into my room, I pat down my sheets in search of my phone. Outside, the mist has lifted from the teahouse we’re staying at in Chisapani, Nepal, the thin morning air revealing the sight we’ve travelled 10,000 kilometres to see: the Himalayas.

The author and her father during their trip to Nepal.

I step onto the wide terrace that adjoins my modest room. The valley is brimming with crisp air and a chorus of unfamiliar bird song. My eyes are locked on that set of momentous peaks – the place I had dreamed about for so long. I am finally here. I hand my phone to our guide to take a picture of me and Dad grinning, attempting to immortalise the moment.

For decades, I had been desperate to visit Nepal to see the world’s tallest mountains for myself. Earlier this year, I convinced my 70-something father to join me in ticking off a long-standing item on both our bucket lists.

When I told friends about the trip and my choice of travel companion, most of them reacted the same way: “Oh my god, I could never travel with my dad!” They couldn’t wrap their heads around the fact I wasn’t going with my husband. The truth was, I didn’t want to wait until our kids were old enough to either come with us or be left behind.

Dad and I have a steady, uncomplicated relationship, despite living several hours’ drive apart. After a lot of childhood camping trips involving pit toilets, I knew he wouldn’t be worried about rustic accommodation or a degree of discomfort. Despite being in his eighth decade, he’s still an active man who’s happiest showing my daughters how to bodysurf, or helping me lay pavers in the backyard.

But what would we talk about for 10 days? When our family gets together, Dad leaves the deep chats to Mum, my sister and me while he catches up on rugby scores from the couch. And when it’s just me and him, our conversations usually revolve around golf, superannuation, his granddaughters, and more golf. Were we going to run out of things to say before we even hit the tarmac?

I thought I was capturing Nepal’s iconic sights. I didn’t realise the real value of those photos had nothing to do with what was in the frame.

On our way to Chisapani, we’d explored Kathmandu, where I was immediately swept up in trying to absorb the city’s iconic experiences. Temples and motorbikes crowded the streets, prayer flags snapped in the wind and rooftop hideaways let us survey all the colour and chaos crammed in against the mountain backdrop.

My phone started filling with photos, Dad becoming my enthusiastic cameraman as I asked him to film me spinning prayer wheels or strolling through Durbar Square. He took his time, making sure the light and composition were just right. “Did you get it?” I’d ask self-consciously. “Nah,” he’d say in his thick ocker accent. “Go back. Let’s take a few more just in case.”

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We asked the few other tourists around to take photos of us together. “Father, daughter?” they’d ask curiously as we smiled and nodded. I thought I was capturing Nepal’s iconic sights. I didn’t realise the real value of those photos had nothing to do with what was in the frame.

After each day of exploring, Dad would leave the door to his room open, a gentle invitation for me to come in after I’d showered and video-called my husband and girls. We mostly stayed in ancient hotels I’d chosen for their intricate timber carvings and authentic atmosphere, and which had survived many earthquakes.

Before collapsing into a chair, I’d make us both a cup of delicate black tea, served in copper cups, and with the heady scent of incense wafting through the unglazed windows, Dad and I would start poring over the hundreds of photos we’d taken that day.

With our gaze on something rather than each other, we’d talk openly about the day’s experiences, share editing tips and discuss which moments were worthy of the photo albums we were both planning. Without meaning to, we created a small daily ritual that acted as a catalyst for a free flow of stories, opinions and experiences.

When I look back at the photo from that morning in Chisapani, it makes me laugh. It’s taken from the wrong angle, and Dad and I are all double chins, wild hair and puffy eyes. The peaks that took my breath away in real life? Barely a ripple on the horizon. But what I notice most is how Dad is pulling me in tight for a bear hug, tickling my side to make me laugh like he did when I was eight years old.

I might have gone to Nepal to see the Himalayas, but what I brought home was so much bigger.

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