Unlike my earlier treks, this one felt different — special in its own effortless way. For once, I didn’t plan a thing. No obsessive research, no packing checklist pinned to the wall, no pre-trek jitters. Someone else had taken care of it all. I simply set my OOO message, stuck to my regular workouts, zipped my bag, and left for the Himalayas. I knew it would be an easier climb compared to my last two treks, but this time, I just wanted to go with the flow — to let the mountains lead, and me, simply follow.
The Road Less Comfortable
We were a family of six, joined by a handful of strangers at Dehradun — people whose names we barely knew that morning. But as the trail unfolded and the mountains embraced us, those boundaries quietly melted away. The Himalayas have a strange magic — they strip off layers of pretence and bring hearts closer in ways no network ever could. Someone passed around crisp Spiti apples, another offered mom-made date laddus, and soon there was an easy rhythm of sharing — food, stories, laughter, and comfortable silences. I’m usually an ambivert, happy to listen from the edges, but up there, even my quiet felt included — like I’d always belonged to this little mountain-made family.
The journey to the base camp set the tone for what lay ahead. Ten hours of winding ghats, narrow roads, and hairpin bends — where one wrong swerve could send you straight to the valley below. Our driver had nerves of steel; I, on the other hand, sat by the window, subtly shifting my weight every time the tyres kissed the edge — as if that tiny lean could keep us safe.
Amid those endless turns and shared gasps, we began to know each other better. Out of fourteen trekkers, six were family and the rest soon became part of it — a restless mountain biker who treated every slope like a race, a free-spirited nomad wandering the Himalayas for months, a curious Gen Z whose questions never paused, a cheerful Singaporean who knew more about Indian food than most of us, a lovely couple on their first trek together, and a couple of college buddies chasing perfect Insta shots (and maybe soulmates). By the time we reached the Sankri – base camp, we were no longer strangers — just a motley crew brought together by the call of the mountains.
Finding Rhythm at Campsite
Sankri is buzzing — a hub for nearly 28 trails. The temperature dipped sharply as the night fell, but excitement kept us warm. The trek briefing announced Day 1 would be a 3000-ft ascent in just 4–5 km — Sankri to Juda ka Talab. Translation: brace for a steep climb.
We started early, full of energy. I’ve always liked walking right behind the trek guide — not to lead, but to find my rhythm. Trekking, for me, is a quiet meditation in motion. This time, my all-time trek partner was right beside me, effortlessly matching pace. Her pre-trek training showed — strong, steady, smiling through every steep step. It was inspiring, and somehow made the climb feel a little lighter.
By mid-noon, we reached Juda ka Talab. At 9,000 ft, the lake lay like a mirror between the peaks, perfectly still, reflecting the sky and the mountains around it. The cold nipped at our faces, and our breaths came in clouds, but there was something peaceful in that icy quiet. We layered up, settled in the tents, and let ourselves soak in the sheer vastness. It wasn’t just a campsite; it was a moment — the kind that makes you stop thinking about steps and distances, and just be present with the mountains.
Dinner Chaos and Starry Nights
Dinner on treks is my favourite chaos. Imagine fourteen tired humans huddled in a tent, sharing daal-chawal, laughter, and conversations that swing wildly from bowel troubles to poetry. Outside, the sun would slowly sink behind the peaks, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, and the chill would creep in, making us pull our jackets tighter and sip hot tea like it was liquid gold.
And then, as night fell, the real magic began — the stars. Hundreds of them, twinkling like someone had sprinkled glitter across the sky. No streetlights, no smog, no urban hum — just the crisp night air and constellations so vivid you could almost touch them. There’s something humbling about that kind of quiet; in the city, you barely notice the sky. Up here, it makes every worry feel small and every conversation, every laugh, somehow more alive.
And, of course, there was our Himalayan husky, wandering near the tents, padding silently through the crisp night, occasionally scratching or shaking itself — a small, furry reminder that even the wilderness has its playful companions.
Every trekker had a story, a passion — someone wrote, someone sang, someone was chasing a dream. I’ve realized that treks are less about the summits and more about the souls you meet along the way… and the sky above that reminds you how wide and wild the world really is.
Mules, Human And Otherwise
Speaking of mules — we had more than one. The four-legged kind carried our heavy bags up the slopes, stoically trudging through mud, rocks, and steep inclines, while some of us silently judged ourselves for packing half our wardrobes “just in case.” A few guilt-ridden trekkers even promised, out loud and with solemn faces, that they would pack lighter next time — after seeing the burden on the mules’ backs.
And then there was our human mule — the mountain biker. He’d sprint ahead, squeeze through impossible shortcuts, and somehow beat even the guide to the front. We called him “the mule,” affectionately, of course. Behind him, me and my trek partner were laughing and panting, letting him take the glory of leading the way.
The combination of four-legged mules, our overpacked selves, and the human mule at the front made every climb feel like a chaotic game — tiring, hilarious, and strangely satisfying.
One evening, a fellow backpacker offered an impromptu session on “how to pack light.” He called himself an ultra-light packer — his backpack was half the size of ours, yet he had everything he needed. He unpacked, explained, and repacked — every item had a reason, nothing random. Watching him, it hit me: the lighter you pack, the easier the climb. And maybe… the lighter you live, the freer you feel.
And then there was Swargarohini — the majestic peak that kept playing peekaboo with us throughout the trek. On day one, it looked miles away, almost teasing us from behind the clouds. By day two, it was a little closer. By day three, it felt like it was following us! The locals say it’s the path the Pandavas took to heaven — and honestly, after those steep climbs, I could totally see why they never came back down. There’s something magical about watching that peak inch closer every day — like a quiet reminder that some journeys aren’t just about reaching the top, but about earning your view (and your plate of hot Maggi) one step at a time.
The Spirits of Pushtara
Day 3 brought us to Pushtara, and it was hands-down the toughest stretch of the trek. The trail twisted through snow-covered slopes, icy ridges, and sharp declines where even a small misstep could send someone tumbling down the mountain. Every step demanded focus, yet every glance rewarded us with surreal beauty — meadows sprinkled with wildflowers, sparkling waterfalls cascading down cliffs, dense forests, and stretches of pure, untouched snow. It felt like walking through the stages of a video game, each one more breathtaking than the last, and every challenge strangely addictive.
That night, the mountains had one more trick up their sleeve. One of the trek leaders casually warned, “Keep your voices low. Locals believe spirits roam around here.” That was enough for me — no stepping out of the tent until sunrise. No water, no toilet, no movement. I thought I had it all figured out… until our Himalayan husky had other plans.
Sleek, black, and impossibly majestic, the husky decided our tent porch was the perfect midnight nap spot. Each scratch of its back reverberated through the canvas, and with that ghost story fresh in mind, every sound felt like a supernatural warning. Around 3 a.m., the tent lurched violently — my trek partner screamed, jolting half the camp awake. Some suspected a snake, others whispered about landslides. In reality? Just our furry “spirit,” blissfully stretching and scratching, oblivious to the chaos it caused.
By morning, our Singaporean friend chuckled and said, “I was just waiting for the scream.” Apparently, he had seen the husky sneak in and was quietly betting on one of us panicking. We laughed — partly from relief, partly from sheer mountain madness. Pushtara had officially claimed its place in our hearts — the hardest climb, the most surreal scenery, and one of the funniest, most unforgettable nights of the trek.
The Ridge Walk and Reflections
Phulara Ridge is unlike any other trail — a 360° view of endless mountains, one ridge connecting two worlds. It’s like walking on the spine of the earth. The wind doesn’t just brush past; it speaks. The silence isn’t empty; it hums.
This trek, though rated “moderate,” had its own surprises — steep climbs, icy patches, and trails that made my knees protest and an excruciating a descend. But when you stand at that ridge, surrounded by peaks that seem to breathe, every ache disappears.
There were always tonnes of thoughts swirling in my head. Those long, solitary stretches often give you new perspectives. Every time I return from the mountains, I come back a little changed. This time, it was all about people — the lessons each carried, the effortless bonding, and the reminder that joy often hides in simplicity.
One of my friends teased me, saying, “First you blogged after returning from the Himalayas; now you climb just so you can blog.” I laughed, but maybe he’s right — sometimes I trek not just to see the mountains, but to see the story waiting to be written.
While many in our group sighed about missing the mountains, I, for a change, longed to get home — to see my boy smile, to curl up in my bed, to take that glorious hot shower. I realized I don’t trek to escape life; I trek to refuel for it. I love the mountains deeply, but I belong to the plains too — to my routines, my people, my responsibilities.
Because that’s what trekking really does — it resets your gratitude meter. After watching our ghat driver navigate deathly bends with calm precision, I stopped cribbing about Bangalore traffic. After seeing our kitchen staff wash vessels in icy streams, I silently thanked my running tap with Solar heater. After sharing daal in tin plates and sleeping under canvas roofs, I now savor my morning coffee a little more.
The mountains teach humility without saying a word. They strip away excess, ego, and hurry — leaving behind perspective. I don’t want to live in the mountains; I want the mountains to keep living in me. To keep me grounded, grateful, and quietly aware of how beautiful this ordinary life really is.
Signing off… until the mountains beckon me again and I go chasing trails (and stories) to unwind my mind some more.