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I’m not accustomed to being followed by royalty, but then I’d never before visited Bhutan. While I was on a trek to Jomolhari, Bhutan’s most sacred summit, King Jigme Singye Wangchuck strode in my footsteps as he travelled to meet subjects in remote corners of his Himalayan kingdom.

The king’s realm is no ordinary place. Almost all of Bhutan is mountainous and over 70% is densely forested. Furious rivers sourced in the high Himalaya carve ever deeper ravines through the landscape. Following the royal example and walking is the best, and often the only, way to reach isolated settlements and experience the real soul of this pristine and little-explored land.

Driving to the trailhead we pass the legendary Taktshang Goemba (Tiger’s Nest Monastery) clinging impossibly to a sheer granite cliff almost a kilometre above the Paro valley. Beneath the imposing ruins of Drukgyel Dzong (a fortified monastery typical of those built at strategic locations throughout Bhutan) we meet the trekking crew and watch our seven packhorses being heavily laden with equipment and supplies stuffed into bamboo baskets.

We set off north along the Paro river, following an ancient trade route to Tibet. We pass occasional shingle-roofed farmhouses and women working small fields. The valley is densely forested and lush; a light autumn snowfall dusts distant high peaks. Towering poles of Bhuddist prayer flags and chortens (stone monuments containing religious relics and sometimes prayer wheels) speckle colour and texture over a landscape otherwise dominated by the thundering river and forests of blue pine.

The trappings of civilisation fade rapidly. We cross the boisterous river on sturdy platforms of wooden logs and wobbly suspension bridges. For two days we follow a trail through conifer and mixed broad leaf forest. The ground is muddy and we frequently have to hop between rocks. The days are long and arduous and we seem to descend as much as we climb. Our mood lightens considerably during a pause for tea at the tiny hamlet of Shingkhrab where we meet two delightful children who are totally absorbed by our guidebooks.

Shortly afterwards our route diverges from that to be taken by the king. We previously met groups of workers spreading boulders to even the rocky track for the royal visit. We fear for the state of the path not being so repaired. As we expect, we’re soon rock-hopping again over a muddy and uneven trail. Afternoon rain proves a blessing as it focuses our minds on just walking and reaching our destination: a meadow raised high above the river at Thangthangka. We make straight for the dining tent where we drink several cups of tea and devour a plate of biscuits.

At the camp we’re sharing a crude stone shelter with a group of gregarious doctors collecting medicinal herbs only found in Bhutan’s high meadows. Their horseman builds a log fire in the centre of the shelter, which becomes particularly precious as the rain starts up again and the temperature plummets.

Our horses graze freely around our tents. I’m listening to their jingling bells and energetic grazing early next morning when Karma, our guide, urges me to get up. I reluctantly emerge from my sleeping bag to see Karma pointing up the valley. “Jomolhari,” he grins. “It’s a rare sight and it won’t last long.” In the distance, the snow-covered sacred peak is clearly visible through a gap in the clouds, its white flank sparkling like a diamond in the morning sun. I snap a quick photo before, in an instant, the mountain retreats once more behind cloud.

Having caught a glimpse, albeit fleeting, of our hallowed destination, we set off that morning with gusto. For the first time our path starts to climb steeply. After two hours’ rock hopping the forest starts to yield to scrub and eventually meadow as we emerge above the treeline.

We hack our way through areas of undergrowth to maintain the correct Buddhist etiquette of passing clockwise around all chortens and mani walls (elongated chortens inscribed with mantras). High up on steep hillsides we see our first yaks, further evidence if we needed it that we were gaining altitude. We follow an enormous bull yak across a bridge and reach Takethang, the first of the herders’ villages on our route.

Waving from a farmhouse window is Dorji, our assistant cook. He has carried a lunch of noodle soup which we consume sitting around a stove burning logs and dried yak dung. Surfacing from my second bowl of noodles, I look around the darkened room. An altar dominates one corner, typical of homes in this most devout country. A mound of chillies is drying on the floor. Strings of yak cheese hang from the wall. Villagers depend heavily on their yaks: wool for clothing and constructing shelters; butter, cheese and meat for food and to trade for grain.

Our host reflects that the snow has arrived early in the mountains this year. We take note as we thank her and continue uphill. By early afternoon we arrive at Jangothang: Jomolhari basecamp at 4,080 metres. A ruined dzong towers over the camp from a rocky outcrop, coloured prayer flags spanning its forlorn walls. Local villagers, some hand spinning yak wool, are preparing a raised clearing for the royal visit. A side valley leads to the Jomolhari glacier which glistens in the afternoon sun. Then, as we watch speechless, the clouds separate and Jomolhari unveils her summit to us in all its magnificence. A rare tribute indeed. Walking the correct way around chortens has paid off.

At 7,314 metres, Jomolhari isn’t Bhutan’s highest peak although as the throne of Jomo, goddess of all peaks, it is the most sacred. Jomolhari was a famous landmark on early Everest expeditions and George Leigh Mallory described it as “astounding and magnificent”. Like all Bhutanese summits over 6,000 metres, each regarded as the abode of deity, mountaineering is strictly forbidden.

With a new team of horses we cross the Paro river and climb steeply into the Tshophu valley, for the first time escaping the roar of the river. Behind us rises the elegant snow-covered peak of Jichu Drakye, Jomolhari’s junior sister. Before us rocky outcrops cap the gently sloping sides of the lush, tranquil valley, interrupted by occasional scree slopes. Simple stone and earth huts sunken into the ground provide cosy shelters for herders. Their yaks share these high, sunny pastures with blue sheep and plump marmots. Large trout are temptingly visible in the clear still waters of a mountain lake. We came in search of Jomolhari and may have found Shangri-la as well.

We climb higher through the idyllic valley past bright alpine flowers clinging to the rocky terrain. After three hours’ ascent we glimpse our first pass in the distance. Our horses are tiny dots making their way up a thin ridge. Dorji brings us a timely flask of tea before a final trudge takes us to the 4,890 metre Bongta-la pass. Prayer flags flutter on the bleak summit and we leave stone offerings at a small chorten.

Spending only a short time at the summit, we bound down into the Yaksa valley. The terrain is initially scree, mellowing into rolling green hills before finally plunging almost a kilometre down a steep face to a rushing river. We pass another waterside site being prepared for the royal party as we make our way to camp, tonight in a large open meadow.

Druba lights a blazing fire around which we chat until late. The sky is disappointingly cloudy and we’re denied the spectacular celestial show we had expected at this altitude and isolation. Undeterred, we drink tea and watch as showers of sparks fly skyward into the dark Himalayan night.

I once again wake to a dawn serenade of jingling horsebells, like the peel of church chimes calling the devout to worship. There is little time to warm up this morning and we’re straight away climbing out of the steep valley, through rhododendron forests and passing occasional yak herder huts. Within sight of the next pass we stop for a tasty protein boost of peanuts and cashews. We follow the distant progress of our horses as they make their way up the steep switchbacks to the pass.

All too soon it’s our turn. The Thongbu-la pass at 4,520 metres is lower than yesterday’s but the long slog somehow feels tougher. The prayer flags marking the summit never look that high but it takes an inordinate time to reach them. We finally reach the serene summit and once again offer stones at the chorten. Maybe our offerings weren’t enough but this second high is soon to be followed by our gloomiest low.

We descend past yaks and hardy mountain goats. We watch as a herdsgirl drives yaks with a slingshot, which she does very accurately judging by the way the animals jump. We eventually splash and squelch our way into a mire of a camp at Thongbu Shong where the kitchen has been set up inside a stone hut - seemingly the only firm patch of land in the area.

These bleak surroundings at 4,180 metres are the least promising of the entire journey. I’m already cold and tired from the walk and persistent afternoon rain adds an enveloping damp. We have no fire. A chilly wind penetrates the walls of the shelter and rain drips through a hole in the ceiling. Even Karma admits it is unexpectedly cold for the time of year.

Happily things look up after a few hours. Dorji clambers onto the roof and covers the hole with a plastic sheet. Local herders deliver wood and Druba gets to work building a fire, whispering Buddhist mantras as he chops logs. The wood is damp, however, and we have to work hard blowing and fanning the kindling with pan lids before we finally hear the welcome crackles of the nascent fire.

We drink cupfuls of tea, followed by whisky and rum to warm ourselves. Having conquered the high passes depravity reigns and I throw cigarettes into the party. The smell of browning onions soon fills the shelter as our cook Kelzang starts to prepare dinner. From not being able to get much worse things very soon can’t get much better.

Karma and the crew have been eating “high voltage” Bhutanese dishes which use chillies as a vegetable rather than a spice. I cautiously try some. In the high altitude cold, such “voltage”-laden food is both appetising and energising, as is Himalayan butter tea.

Next morning I emerge from my tent to a narrow shaft of sunlight piercing the chilly dawn haze. The grazing yaks are totally obscured by mist although we can hear their bells and the cries of the herders. The previous evening lifted our spirits but I’m not sorry to leave this sodden camp, even to walk uphill again.

We crest a hillock and descend back into the Paro valley. Our horses overtake and we follow them down a precipitous, narrow path. We’re able to appreciate the skill of the horseman as he cajoles and manoeuvres the jingling caravan down the treacherous plunge back into the forest. The horses lose their footing often on the tight, rocky track and their loads regularly have to be re-tied. Mountain hawk eagles circle high above. One and a half vertical kilometres below we can just make out our destination in the valley.

After the damp and mud of the previous evening, our final camp, once more beside the roar of the Paro river, is one of the best. Tonight we’re once again sitting around a warming fire, replete after a mountain feast. We’re back below 3,000 metres and a jog down our first day’s route will bring us back to the trailhead.

A friendly local dog, a yak dog cross, has joined us as we share tea and beer late into the evening. One by one my friends retire until I’m left alone with my thoughts and the dog. Looking up I muse at another paucity of stars. As the dog curls up beside me and another shower of sparks soars into the night I reflect that this is a minor complaint. Stars or no stars this brief glimpse of Bhutanese wilderness has undoubtedly been a royal experience.

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