Walking along the Marsyangdi, on the Tangje side where the half a century old monastries are carved into the foot of the summits. The wind pushes against the fabric of my clothes. Its roar overwhelming my ears. Next to the sounds of the angry wind, the torrent of the Marsyangdi is but a whisper. My fingers have swollen. The cold and perhaps dehydration have led me to bloat, and my rings are becoming uncomfortably tight. As I contemplate each rock that I have to tread on, careful not to slip, trying to keep pace, trying to remain motivated and focused on finding these sheep that Mukhiya is so desperate to find. He guaranteed them and I think he'll be greatly disappointed if he didn't share a sight of them with me.

Mukhiya's decided to move off the trail that runs along the river, and take the route the follows the contours of Gangapurna's base. We are going up again. He thinks the sheep might have found a place to rest for the night. His determination is contagious. I pretend I feel no frustration. He's moving faster now because we're running out of light. He's sure-footed on the trail. But of course, this is where he grew up and where his people have come to become one with the land.

In 1973, zoologist George Schaller trekked these slopes in the height of winter, accompanied by porters who had no shoes and had their faces wrapped with a cloth to shield their eyes from snow glare. They'd chosen winter to find the snow leopard, an elusive and solitary mountain cat that preys on the ungulates that have become so nimble upon these sheer cliffs.

Here we are thirty-five years later, and going by the journal and book by Schallers travel companion Peter Matthiessen, these Blue Sheep have always remained elusive regardless of how developed this trail has become over the decades. They were rare to begin with, and their life remains a mystery that's guarded by a seemingly hostile, yet paradoxically placid environment.

Muhkyia begins to sing. I start to feel sorry for myself. Because I'm hungry and I'm cold, and while he's motivated by the potential of finding Blue Sheep in the scree slopes ahead, I'm discouraged by the knowledge of how far we have trekked from Manang.

My guide clambers uphill over the boulders. The rocks are large, loose, and smooth, polished by ice, wind and time. Eventually, these formidable boulders will disintegrate into palm-sized pebbles, roll down the slopes, and be swept away by the Marsyangdi to build a new land down river.

"Over there! I see them!" Mukhiya is full of life. "There by the horses!" I squint into the horizon. In winter all is dull and gray. The grass is the colour of dried wheat husks and the land appears monotonous. I turn to Mukhiya with one of my eyebrows raised, suggesting, "Are you kidding me?" "I don't see them." I say. He gestures towards a rock wall, possibly 500m away and mutters, "They're there by the wall. Two of them. Let's go!" I turn by back to the view and begin to follow the trail back down. "No, we go this way." Mukhiya urges. He always prefers the scenic route.

As we descend the slope, the earth becomes one of boulders again. Mukhyia's nickname in his village is Snowmonkey. When he was 13 years old he managed to cross a pass previously thought impassable during winter. This pass in the Annapurna region, is today named after him. His agility and trust in the land are visible. Like the Maoris in New Zealand, there is no "man and his land". The two are inseparable. Coming together. One and the same.

My eyes are trained on the rocks, and I glance intermittently at the horizon before me. "There!" Mukhiya hollers. I stop to squint and catch my breath. The height of the dried winter grass is about knee height. I see a shadow moving amongst the blades. "I see them!" But what I really see are shapes. I can't yet make out the features of a sheep. I follow the moving silhouette. I begin to see a rump - bright white. And a tail, darker-coloured. Then I see another. There are two. A female and her calf. Grazing together.

Though they are called Blue Sheep, Scheller in his 1973 visit described them as "aberrant goats with sheep-like affinities." Much of their behaviour is similar to that of goats. Scheller believed that Blue Sheep are a divergent species from goats from which sheep eventually evolved from.

I take aim with my camera and fire off a few shots. They are still far away but I'm nervous that they might suddenly take flight and then I'll forever regret not allowing myself to take a bad photo of them. As we approach, the two totter up yet another scree slope, they were heading into the deeper recesses into the foot of the slopes, but they see Mukhiya ahead of them and decide to run out and around the slope, for a moment, they are silhouetted against the blue sky, and for the first time, I manage to behold their majestic form. Mother and child turn to look at us a last time before turning around onto the east-facing slope. When Mukhiya and I manage to get around, we look up at the edge where the scree begins and where the rock face ends, but they are gone. “They’re looking for a place to sleep now.”

We turn our eyes upward to appreciate the formidable rock face. This is where a snow leopard hunts. Photos can hardly present the esteem that these rock walls reap. Upon its face, there is not a route cut by humans. This will be no woodcutter’s trail. Man may tame the forests that surround it and chip off the slanted slopes at its foot, but is face intimidates all but the animals that it shelters.

“Look!” Mukhiya sees something. “A family!” He comes to stand next to me and points a finger at the wall, right in front of my view but up and to the left.

The small looked like they were about to turn down for the evening. With fore legs bent inward, they settled down on a ledge guarded by a precarious cliff. The large female turns to look towards us, alerted by our presence. I’m awed.

I’ve seen wild sheep and goats in the Italian Alps before, but the environment didn’t appear quite as aggressive. Though smaller than their Western cousins, these Blue Sheep didn’t appear any less proficient in this alpine habitat.

The large female stands up onto her feet. Her eyes fixed on the both of us. She begins to walk to the northern face of the cliff and I’m allowed to witness the surefootedness that makes living on these slopes possible. A minor miscalculation could lead to a 30-meter drop into the rocky slopes below. If it survived the fall, it would be assured that it would not escape life-threatening injury. A broken leg or hemorrhage would mean an eventual death.

With three juveniles on her tail, the large female leaps, jumps and trots along the narrow ledges. He youngsters follow her lead without any less confidence. Although an ungulate, the posture that leads into a leap over a gap in the rock face resembles that of a cat – poised and contracted, eyes forward and neck fixed in the direction at which wants to go. Its powerful hind legs propel it over the gap. The smaller ones choose to jump into the gap and up again instead of going over it. At least they’re not foolhardy. Their smaller bodies and shorter legs might not be ready to take them across these gaps, better to choose a more conservative route.

The four of them walk up to the edge of the cliff, once again silhouetted against the sky. The female turns to look at us again and then turns away to the west-facing slope and disappear.

Mukhiya and I are all smiles. I’m stoked. Once again, all my whines become unwarranted. The trek was worth it and my body feels no more pain. Nature’s energy has once again restored me.