I'd been dragging myself up the harsh mountain trails of Mustang in Northern Nepal for days. I cringed as barefoot Sherpas filed by with 40-kilo loads of porta-loos, dining tables and live chickens strapped to their backs. Even more dispiriting was the troop of well-heeled Americans trekking in their wake with near-empty daypacks on their shoulders. My 25-kilo rucksack felt like I was carrying an elephant up the steep slopes. Though I trod on higher moral ground carrying my own gear, my aching body wasn't strengthened by my spiritual transcendence.

The higher I went the weaker I got. By day three, I was dumping food and cooking gear. By day six, somewhere around 14,000 feet, I realised I was ill. By dawn on day eight I knew my body had crossed over the precipice of near breakdown to total collapse. I summoned the energy to break camp, but as I stumbled uphill I quickly became disoriented. A misty snow began to fall and within an hour I'd lost the trail. Eventually I fell in a heap, ready to die.

The memory of my rescue is vague. An elderly Tibetan woman and her granddaughter found me and somehow transported me to their small village. They set aside a corner in their one-room house and the old woman nursed me like a guardian angel.

She made me sip foul-smelling herbal remedies. Since I couldn't manage solid food, she boiled up a pot of barley porridge and spoon-fed me like a baby. When my fever rose she sponged me with damp cloths. When I had the chills she covered me in her blanket and went without, despite the freezing cold.

That night was the worst of my life. The fever raged and abated, my head pounded and my stomach churned. What made the situation particularly nightmarish was the lack of a loo in the village proper. To do my business I had to crawl out of my sleeping bag, open the creaky door, brace myself against the blast of freezing wind and make my way to a decrepit outhouse on the village edge.

As night progressed the unseasonable snowstorm worsened and the temperature continued to plummet. I feared if I did survive my trips to the loo I'd wake up with a frostbitten willie. On my third sortie I realised I'd never make it to the outhouse. I had to drop my drawers and shit in the village. I tried covering up the mess with a few rocks and staggered back inside.

In the morning I felt a bit better. Grandma brewed me some traditional yak butter tea to build up my strength. As I sipped the warm liquid, she very tactfully asked me if I'd shit in the village. I looked her in the eye and shook my head. "No, it wasn't me," I lied. She patted me on the brow and with a wry smile I'll never forget made me understand that I wasn't to do it again.

By midday the fever had returned. I vaguely remember a parade of villagers entering the small room to discuss my case. The local Buddhist priest came, said a prayer and lit some incense. I hoped he wasn't giving me my last rites. After much debate grandma arranged for me to be carried 10 km down the mountainside to a clinic staffed by a Dutch volunteer doctor. I have no memory of the leave-taking. I was completely delirious by then.

The young men carried me to the clinic as promised. Though the doctor could make no definitive diagnosis he did cure me. As soon as my condition began to improve his assistant accompanied me down to a less hostile elevation.

I never made it back to the village. I never found out its name or if it exists on a map. Worst of all, I never had the opportunity to say thank you.

I recovered. I continued my journey around Asia. I had a fantastic trip. I've had a fabulous life. And I owe it all to Grandma with the impish, loving smile. If only I could have found a way to repay her generosity. If only….