"Jiam jiam" was the second Nepali phrase that I learned. The first was the all-important "Namaste" which literally means something like "I salute the god in you", and is used as a general greeting. "Jiam jiam" means "Let's go", or in trekking terms "Let's go climb another mountain." During the trek, it was the call that roused us from the breakfast table every morning to begin the day's walking. I was trekking as part of a small-group tour which would also take us to Bakhtapur, Bandipur, Pokhara and Chitwan National Park - but when our group met for dinner on our first night together, it was the prospect of walking through the Himalayan foothills that generated the most excitement.

The Helambu circuit follows a roughly oval-shaped loop starting and finishing at the village of Sundarijal, about an hour's drive north of Kathmandu. Compared to the more famous Annapurna and Everest Base Camp treks, it's a bit of a lightweight; it takes only one week to walk the standard route, and the maximum altitude is just over 3,600m. For my first experience of trekking in the Himalayas, this suited me fine - there is a relatively low risk of altitude sickness, and there's no need to bother with bulky down jackets, 4-season sleeping bags and all the rest of that extreme cold-weather gear. The route follows trails through inhabited regions of the Himalayan foothills, so there is plenty of simple accommodation along the way.

On day 1 of the trek we all assembled at the trail-head: our 9-strong tour group, 3 guides and 4 porters. Each tourist carried a daypack weighing maybe 5 or 6 kilos; most of our luggage went with the porters, who each carried 3 large backpacks strapped together and supported by a strap around the forehead (and sometimes by one of the backpacks' waist straps). The trekking company I'm using enforces strict rules governing porter's working conditions, limiting the load each can carry to 30kg, but to us in the tour group this still seemed like an enormous burden. Our first day's trekking was to be a climb of about 1,150m to the village of Chisopani ("Cold water" in Nepali). Jiam jiam...

We started ascending through forests and small farming villages, and could look back to see the smog-haze of the Kathmandu valley growing more distant. The trek uses trails that connect local villages, and as our convoy plodded up the stone steps of the trail, people passed us carrying traditional dokos - the bamboo baskets with the forehead strap - piled high with wood or grasses. Soon, our group had spread out into a formation that would remain similar for the rest of the trek: a leading pack setting a strong pace at the front; a middle group who took things a bit easier and had time to stop and take photos; and the back markers. I switched between all three of these positions during the week of the trek. We reached Chisopani by mid-afternoon, hot and tired, and crashed out in the kitchen of our teahouse.

Teahouses are the most common form of accommodation on the Helambu circuit (and on many other treks). They range from quite comfortable hotels to small monasteries with basic rooms and facilities. Typically, the heart of the teahouse is the kitchen, and the focal point of the kitchen is the stove. As the cold of a mountain night started to close in, we would all gather to warm ourselves by the stove. Soon, the wood-smoke would prove too much for the narrow little chimney and would start to spill out into the room. The kitchen ceiling was blackened by many years' worth of soot. Our hosts would knock up dinner for about 15 people using one pot at a time over the fire. We soon got used to the standard trekking fare: rice and noodle dishes such as chow mein, fried rice, and the ubiquitous dal bhat - dal soup, potato curry and rice. More interesting were the Tibetan momos, steamed or fried dumpings stuffed with meat or vegetables. The Tibetan bread, fried in artery-clogging quantities of oil, proved to be a favourite at breakfast. Garlic was used liberally to spice up the food, since the Nepalis believe that it helps to prevent altitude sickness. None of us minded having garlic-breath. It helped to mask the musty, stale-sweaty smell of our clothes.

On the morning of day 2, the mists started to close in. The hills were shrouded in cloud, and a light rain began to fall. After climbing throughout the morning, the afternoon was a steep descent, and the path was becoming dangerously slippery. My sense of balance has never been that well-developed, and my distinguishing achievement over the whole trek was to fall over more times than anyone else in the group. My most impressive performance was during that descent on day 2 - a spectacular slide down a muddy slope which was only halted when my shin whacked into a protruding rock. The group walking behind me saw the skidmark, and were amazed that I had avoided multiple fractures. As it was becoming dark we reached the teahouse, which was a small monastery with a wind-powered prayer wheel in the central courtyard. It was still raining on the morning of day 3, but thankfully only half a day's walking was scheduled. I took things slowly to try and avoid falling on my arse yet again. We reached the village of Kutumsang damp and depressed, and Asok, our guide, made a mercy-dash to procure chocolate bars from the little shop in the village. Snickers bars! Our first chocolate for days! Spirits were suitably raised, despite the wriggling worm that emerged from one of the bars. (Mine was OK. Probably.) That night as I lay in bed, the rain increased to monsoon-strength and hammered off the corrugated iron roof. I stuffed in my ear-plugs and wondered if this was what trekking was really meant to be like.

When I woke on the morning of day 4, the first thing I noticed was that the room seemed unusually bright. Pulling back the thin curtains and looking out from my window, the sky above was clear and blue. Together with a few other early-risers from the trekking party, I walked ouside the teahouse to a ledge overlooking the valley. Below us were lush green hills that stretched into the distance, disappearing into a layer of mist and cloud. Above the cloud layers, the jagged, snowy peaks of the Himalayas seemed to be floating: Dorje Lakhpa, Phurb Chyachu, across to Melungtse with its peak at 7,181m. It was almost impossible to believe that the the mountains were connected to the earth. They were something other, ethereal, something completely detached from the mundane world over which they towered. We stood and watched the sunrise.

Day 4 was a long ascent in bright sunshine. Everyone seemed more energetic, brighter and more talkative. Although the air was cool, the effort of climbing quickly warmed us, and shorts and t-shirts were sufficient clothing. As we ascended steeply towards a pass at 3,640m, we could feel the air becoming thinner. We took smaller steps, breathed more heavily. Our hearts beat faster, even at rest. In the late afternoon we reached the teahouse at Tharepati (3,510m), and sat down in the kitchen for a well-earned beer. After one bottle of San Miguel I was wasted, but still managed to take a few photos of the clouds turning bright orange in the sunset. The teahouse proprietor showed us to our rooms, taking the trouble to remove the ferret that had hidden itself under one of the pillows. The teahouse was a simple wood and stone structure with very basic facilities - no running water and little electricity. It was cold, but the wood-burning stove made the kitchen pleasantly warm, and I managed to dry my sweat-soaked t-shirt by the fire. It ended up smelling of wood-smoke, which was probably an improvement over its previous odour.

Trekking is a good way to get to know people. It's somehow easier for the initial barriers to be broken down when everyone is tired, hungry, sweaty and smelly. All 9 people in the trekking group were travelling alone, which surprised me (I had expected that I'd be the only singleton among 4 couples). Many were planning to be away from home for several months, moving on from Nepal to India, or Australia, or Southeast Asia. After a hard day's walking, there was usually a lively atmosphere around the teahouse stove in the evenings, helped along by the effects of altitude and alcohol. Hari, our guide, became increasingly entertaining as he worked his way through his little bottles of Kukuri rum; most of the rest of us stuck to the beers, but we all sampled the local brew, Rakxi, which is distilled from rice and tastes like weak sake. Strangely, nobody seemed hung over in the mornings. Must have been the pure mountain air.

About an hour after we reached Tharepati, the porters arrived carrying our heavy bags. They looked exhausted, having spent the day hauling loads that would probably have crippled the rest of us. Western trekkers returning from Nepal love to tell stories about the legendary strength and endurance of the porters, and it's easy to forget that they can suffer the same aches, pains and fatigue as we do. As our guides kept reminding us, portering and guiding are vital sources of employment for many Nepalis, their wages are good compared to average salaries in the country, and the trekking company has a strict policy on porter's welfare. But as we watched them trudging the final half-mile up the path to Tharepati, it was still difficult to disguise our feelings of guilt.

On day 5, a long knee-jarring descent took us to Tarke Gyang. While we reclined on cushions in the kitchen waiting for the evening meal, a shamen was raising ghosts in the room next door. He would chant long, low mantras between refrains of drum beats and cymbals. Peering in through the open door of the room, I saw that the he wore the chain of small cymbals like a garland over his shoulder. After chanting, he would shake his body while hitting the drum, producing the eerie chorus of percussion. I learned that this ceremony was designed to wake the ghosts during the night, and in the morning offererings of food would be made. Although the people in the village were nominally Buddhist, it is often the case that in mountain regions Buddhist beliefs are merged with older, shamanistic traditions.

I slept too soundly that night to notice any ghosts, and was feeling refreshed during the morning's walk. The path was mostly flat, and I walked at the back of the group, often stopping to take photos and to admire the view over the valley and down to the Melamchi river. It was the sixth day of the trek, and after surviving for nearly a week on a diet of dal bhat and chow mein, more and more of our conversations came round to the subject of food. Everyone was getting cravings. I had an intense desire for a glass of red wine; others sought vegemite or pizza. Although we were greatly enjoying the scenery and the culture, we were also counting the hours until we got back to civilisation.

On day 7, a short hour's walk took us to the finishing point: the village of Melamchi Bazaar. Arriving for lunch, the teahouse menu promised all manner of delights from steak and chips to chicken enchilladas. Of course, there was a catch - the ingredients for these elaborate dishes would have to be bought specially from the local market. Lunch, therefore was dal bhat again, but we submitted our orders for the evening meal. A couple of hours later, as we played cards in the teahouse garden, a man returned from the village with a live chicken in each hand. We ate well that night.

For me, the trek was a fascinating mix of images, from glimpses of everyday life in the mountain villages, to grand views of the classic Himalayan panorama. The mountains were reluctant to reveal themselves at first, hiding behind clouds for a few days before finally emerging on that bright morning in Kutumsang. I know that many people, on seeing those peaks, have felt an overwhelming desire to climb to their summits. But this was one emotion that I did not feel, despite, or maybe because of, the sense of awe and the sublime that the mountains inspired. For me, they are best appreciated from a distance. I may return to Nepal and trek in the Himalayas again, but I will stay in the foothills.