I want to see the world. Follow a map to its edges, and keep going. Forgo the plans. Trust my instincts. Let curiosity be my guide. I want to change hemispheres. Sleep with unfamiliar stars and let the journey unfold before me.

I do, I really do. Although I started to question it as the thunder clouds rolled in, I challenged it as the lightning illuminated the sky and then, when we realised we had lost our way up the mountain, I wanted to rip up the map and go back home for a cup of tea.

You see I was taking part in what turned out to be the most gruelling 48 hour trek of my life – to the high altitude lake of Ala-Kol in Kyrgyzstan. And, carefully folded up in a waterproof folder in the depth of my soaking wet bag, was a single sheet of A4 paper that carried a pledge with the words above written on it.

It is the manifesto of Maptia, a new organisation which plans to help people create their own personal maps of the world, and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to sign it. And, by a rather strange coincidence, I used to wait on tables with one of the founders of the group… almost proof that the world is small and I can follow it to its edges.

So, off we set on our two day trek from Karakol in Kyrgyzstan to lake Ala-Kol, equipped with a hired tent, roll mats, sleeping bags and everything. The sun was shining.

Check out my bag. At least 20 kilos we think.*

And the boys carried a few bits too.

We strolled along a raging river, surrounded by lush green hills dotted with horses and cows, and after about four hours or so, stopped for a tuna, cheese, bread and biscuit lunch that we felt quite proud of.

Wiping the crumbs from our mouths, we set off again (with Matty’s bag two whole tuna-tins lighter). It was here we began the ascent. Over the two days we were to climb (and then drop) 2,000 metres, reaching a maximum altitude of 3,900 metres.

Inevitably the higher we climbed, the shorter of breath we became. I staged plenty of: “Wow, look at this scenery,” stops so I could catch my breath.

And it was pretty spectacular.

But it was after about seven hours of trekking (three hours of climbing), when we were on the side of a bare, rocky mountain, that the drizzle started. At first it was just a smattering of inoffensive rain drops, not worth shaking an umbrella at, but they soon started to fall harder and faster.

Lunch felt a long time away, Matty’s feet had begun to resemble something of a dead person’s (take note: bring waterproof shoes for this trekking malarkey), and as the temperature dropped dramatically, I lost all sensation in my fingers.

We looked up to the rocks above us that we still had to climb, blinking away the freezing raindrops from our eyelashes. I put my white fingers under my armpits in a desperate attempt to warm them up, and even The Mongoose (aka Mountain Boy) seemed to jump from rock to rock with less enthusiasm.

I’m not sure what came first, the huge clap of thunder or the four small words from the Mongoose’s mouth: “We’ve lost the track.” Both filled me with an immense sense of dread and a strong urge to cry.

The rain turned into hail and as I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head tighter to shield my face from the hard pellets of ice falling from the sky, Mongoose ran up a few different rocks in a bid to find some red painted stones that might indicate we were back on track. He would return to us, shake his head and try another route.

Headlines ran through my head. None of them were good. I tried to focus my efforts on warming my hands up instead.

And just as I found a small piece of grass, jutting out form the mountain that may just have served as a campsite for the night, I heard, “I’ve found it, the track is this way.”

The Mongoose was standing at the base of a steep, gravelly route up the mountain with solid rock to his right that he was gripping onto. We still had a way to go. An hour to be precise – although I didn’t know it at that point.

I gave my hands one last rub and began the steep ascent to the sound and light show of the Gods above us, muttering darkly under my breath. I don’t remember the detail. Only that my feet went numb, the peak felt endless, the thunder got louder and the rain got heavier.

And then suddenly I had reached the top and the lake came into view. And the rain stopped.

And it stopped long enough for us to take this picture, get our tent up, and get dinner going on the stove.

These chilli super noodles tasted better than anything I’ve had in a long time. Yes, we even chopped up frankfurters for a bit of protein. Get us.

And as we layered up in our remaining dry clothes and huddled in the huge (and now slightly wet) goose down sleeping bags we’d* hauled up the hill, the rain and thunder began again. Our tent was one of those odd ones where the metal roads are on the outside of the canvas, making for a perfect lightning conductor.

While we slept the rain fell heavily and the wind blew furiously – but somehow, in the morning we were all still there. But so was the rain. We woke to a fearsome storm that appeared to have got angrier as the night progressed.

So we sat in our little tent, waiting for it to pass. By this stage I had written the entire front page of our tragic demise. The boys handed me my Kindle and told me to be quiet.

They ventured out to inspect the situation when the rain quietened.

There is a lake beyond that mist I promise.

Eventually at about 10.30am we made a run for it. The rain had eased a little so I strapped socks to my hands and with an air of (perhaps dampened) determination we left the comfort of the tent.

We had our final climb of the trek to complete from 3,500 metres (the height of the lake) to 3,900 metres across the lake and over the mountain behind it – before beginning a long descent.

(Me and Matty having a morning pep talk).

Then, just as we turned a corner, which revealed the rest of the previously hidden lake, the sun came out.

And as it shone down on the lake below us, illuminating the icy glacier behind it, it was as if it also opened my eyes for the first time since the rain had begun. It was stunning, it was beautiful, it was so isolated and rugged and I was incredibly privileged to see it.

The Mongoose turned around and grinned. “Nobody said it was going to be easy,” he said with a wink.

No, travelling a map to its edges is not meant to be easy, I thought as I unfolded my Maptia manifesto. But it’s going to be beautiful.

*That isn’t really my bag, that’s Matty’s (although it does contain a lot of my stuff). I might have carried a 7kg day pack instead… for reasons discussed here. Oh, and for the record (because this blog speaks only the truth), Clinique moisturiser is an essential trekking item.

It’s not very often you hear your boyfriend skidding down a sheer rock face.

I couldn’t look down, I was loosely gripped to the mountain myself and one false move could result in me tumbling down on top of him. Instead I gripped harder and yelled something nervously. I can’t remember what.

The Mongoose was below me and I heard him skid down to Matty, who it transpired was holding on by one rock. Somehow he managed to pull himself back on track and then it was my turn to try and shift my sweaty right hand onto another rock.

But I didn’t know how to move. The only two stable stones to my right held my right foot and right leg in place, while my left foot and hand refused to leave the comfort of their sturdy stones.

“Delia, move your left foot to where your right foot is and your right to the red stone to your right,” I heard the Mongoose instruct me.

It was like playing a really bad game of high-altitude, vertical Twister. But the mat was made of gravelly rock and it was constantly moving. Mini avalanches cascaded down the mountain below us with every unsure-footed step we took.

None of us could lose this game. We had to stay ‘in’ until the top. And so we continued to clamber (refusing to look down) – and a few times the Mongoose just sort of pulled me across grip-less sections.

Until suddenly we were at the top and the gravel beneath our feet turned into a more secure grass. We span in circles, we hugged furiously – and then we saw the clear, easy track to our right that we should have taken for this eight-hour trek. Mongoose muttered something about going back to orientation school.

But it was ok because we were in the Valley of Flowers, Kyrgzstan and it was BEAUTIFUL. Bizarrely, perhaps even more beautiful for the arduous route we had taken.

That’s me with the graze to prove it. (Yes, I’m wearing pyjama shorts on my head. That’s what happens when you forget to take a hat travelling).

And we were just about to eat the best packed lunch EVER. Mothers across the globe – take note: this is what a packed lunch should look like:

For the record it contained: A cheese sandwich, a salami sandwich, a hard boiled egg, a bag of cooked chips (yes, my friends I had egg and chips in a packed lunch), two pancakes, a delicious pasty filled with spiced mince meat and onions, a bag of nuts, raisins and sweets, a Milky Way, a cucumber, a tomato and a fruit drink.

That’s me with my egg and chips.

Oh, and some wonderful biscuits that tasted just like Rich Teas but looked much happier.

And then, sitting in this glorious spot with the sun beating down on my shoulders, it dawned on me just how much my life revolves around food. There I was in some of the most stunning scenery we have seen on the trip so far, and I was photographing smiley-faced-biscuits – and raving about a packed lunch.

That box of goodies had given everything a slightly rose-tinted filter (a bit like I was looking at the world through a cool Instagram filter). With that in my bag I could climb any mountain, reach any star, run at any flock of sheep (this might have happened – I blame the biscuits), I was invincible.

And so we scoffed our fabulous packed lunch at our fabulous picnic spot and then climbed another two peaks before heading back down to our yurt stay for dinner.

And I knew dinner was going to be great. As a significant addendum to my recent rant at Central Asian food, the grub in Kyrgzstan is bloody good. Clearly influenced by its Chinese neighbours, the traditional Central Asian dish of laghman (noodles, bland sauce, and unidentifiable pieces of fatty meat) has been transformed into a delicious tangy tomato dish, ladled with roasted vegetables and chunks of tender meat.

Plus, on every table salt and pepper shakers are joined by a delicious chilli and garlic paste that has the ability to make even the blandest dish come to life.

But in Kyrgzstan the food isn’t bland. This, my friends, is the flavour island in a bland ocean of slop and oil.

And some of the best food we’ve had in here so far has been at this fairly remote Yurt Stay in Valley of the Flowers, just 40 minutes or so away from Karakol. It was the folk here that whipped us up the fabulous packed lunch and where we were returning for dinner.

And if anything will get me back down almost 1,000 metres altitude in just one and a half hours it is this:

A delicious stew of vegetables, potatoes and tender beef steak cooked in a rich, spicy tomato sauce with a huge bowl of tomato-pasta soup on the side. Oh, and warm freshly baked crunchy bread on the side – and more happy biscuits.

And that is why I know tomorrow is going to be another great trekking day. I’ll be starting it with rice pudding (a common breakfast in Kyrgzstan – yet another reason to love this beautiful country), continuing it with another packed lunch and finishing it with a scrumptious hot meal back at the yurt stay.

And then I shall brush my teeth under the stars and dream about walking up salami and cheese mountains with cucumber rocks. I blame the biscuits.