Onward and Upward and Inward

“Arrey Sambhal ke!”(Hey, be careful!) I heard the guide shout. Except, it was just one second too late. My shoe caught on a rock and I slid down the slope, the terrifying act happening so quickly that I didn’t even register it. 

And I’m glad that the slope was gentle and my slide ended with falling in soft sand and that this story has a happy ending. Because the mountains, for me, have always felt like home. Ever since I was a young child, seeing the magnificent Western Ghats out of my window, I’ve dreamed of being there, of looking down from the summit. 

Of course, as I grew older, I learnt that trekking is much more than just being on top and looking at the world where cars look like ants. I mean, one can do that on a decently elevated bridge just as well.

I had bundled myself up in raincoats and precariously traversed mossy forts. I walked for hours with sweat trickling down my back from both the beating sun and the narrow path. I experienced that the distance from the base to the summit isn’t just one of altitude, because the person who reaches the summit is rarely the same one who started climbing. At one point, for any trekker, the journey has ceased to be physical and has become a metaphysical journey inward. 

Onward and Upward to Uttarakhand

The Himalayas hold a special place in the heart of every Indian. As the mountain range that houses some of the tallest peaks in the world, the Himalayas are climatically, geologically, and culturally significant for South Asian countries like India, Nepal and Bhutan. They stretch over states and countries, their form differing everywhere. Trekking in different parts of the Himalayas will present equally diverse experiences. From seeing my aunt’s photo albums, reading cozy travelogues and dogged memoirs, I had dreamed of seeing those magnificent peaks in real life. When I was finished with my last year of school, at 16, I decided to make my dream a reality. I went to the Chandrakhani pass in Himachal Pradesh, and, since I enjoyed that trek, I decided to try again, this time in a different place. 

Uttarakhand, known as Devbhoomi, or the land of Gods, is a state to the North of India, given that nickname for its heavenly beauty and religious significance due to quite a few coveted pilgrimage centers in the state. Har-ki-dun is a hanging valley located in the Garhwal Himalayas in Uttarakhand. It is known for alpine forests, snow-capped peaks, and Bugyal or high-altitude vegetation. 

Our journey started from my hometown, Pune, with a 32-hour train ride in the blistering heat of late May. Five out of the ten days were spent commuting, 2 and a half days one way. However, I enjoyed the commute almost as much as the trek. Because, after all, trekking is a journey, and enjoying only half of it wouldn’t be fair.

From Delhi to Dehradun

And after a quick break for lunch when we reached Delhi, we boarded a bus for even more traveling–to one of my favourite cities in India, Dehradun, the capital city of Uttarakhand. Nestled among the foothills of the Himalayas, it ends the plains almost poetically with a rise into the Shivalik ranges, the lowermost range of the Himalayas. This rise didn’t stop until we reached Sankri, a small, quaint village about 10 hours away from Dehra. It is the last place with internet connection and cellular range before finally surrendering to the mountains.

As we made the ten hour drive, passing Mussoorie, a famous tourist spot, I was reminded of my visit with my family there. As the afternoon sun beat down on us, we stopped to splash around in the Yamuna river, and within the hour, we were going past Yamunotri, its glacial origin which was also a pilgrimage centre. Soon, most civilization ceased to exist and the only sign of people living this high were the vehicles and sign posts. I was frantically texting my goodbyes to my friends, equally excited and terrified by the idea of a week without cellular connection. 

The next day dawned fresh and bright as I woke up to a cheesy Bollywood song, and woke up my roommates, packed up the clothes I had laid out to dry, and reported downstairs. I took in a deep breath of fresh mountain air and sat back until we got to the final drop-off point of the trek. 

The Banks of the Supin River

When trekking, it felt like we were going in circles, with only the sounds of the Supin river there to guide us. We were walking alongside the river, in the opposite direction of its flow. Whenever the forests cleared, rows of peaks would be visible again, sandwiched between the river and the sky. I felt insignificant, so small in front of the towering cliffs and dense pines. I asked myself, “Who am I?” So many times, and each time, ended up with a new question rather than the answer. And it was true. I was but a little speck to these magnificent rocks. Yet, they felt like home to me.

Through paths wide and narrow, through mud and rocks and sun and rain, slowly and steadily, we reached the first camp. I put my bags down and did some simple stretches, a habit that would help me in the long run. We played games in the common area, but I left early, and, sitting on a rock with the notes app on my phone, did some much-needed introspection. 

The next day presented a murky and dark side, with my pink shoes rapidly turning brown in the first five minutes. A mule splashed onto my raincoat, and my hands and shoulders were rapidly stiffening. With all of this, my mood began to darken and sour, as did the clouds on the horizon. I plodded on glumly. Until finally, the sun came out. My shoulders still hurt, my raincoat was still dirty, and I was still tired, but I had a decent amount of tea in me, and my mental fatigue vanished. It was almost like the sun had brought back the vibrancy in my world, made me feel cheerful and burned away the clouds of hopelessness dancing over me. I could shrug off the teasing as we arrived at a clearing and had lunch.

Later, I bounded forward, trying to get ahead when the rain made an appearance and stopped me in my tracks. I was trying to hold myself together, what with my torn raincoat, wet hair, low visibility, and a bad mood. I didn’t understand how people could be so chipper without the sun. For all that I waxed poetic about the darkness, the sun was an integral part of why I kept moving forward. I didn’t appreciate the scenery as much I should have, and I didn’t take many photos. Soon, my speed decreased enough for others to be concerned. My head spun, and I was leaning on rocks as I walked. Our trek leader coaxed and cajoled me: there’s a tea stall there, just a few minutes, come on, you’ll get to relax there.

Tea Oasis

That tea stall was a safe haven in the midst of the chaos of the rain, and the older couple who helped me almost seemed otherworldly. With warm coffee in my stomach, and after being decently warmed up by the fire, I felt like I could do anything. Getting to the next camp didn’t feel so daunting. I reached the camp, changed my wet clothes and wet socks, and ran outside for a steaming hot cup of soup. I was almost in tears after the roller coaster of emotions I had felt that day, and curled up in front of the fire without a word, watching the sparks fly from the dried pine wood and grass. I answered many, many questions about my eventful afternoon, but went back after dinner and promptly fell asleep. 

I thanked every deity I could think of that the day of our summit attempt was dry and sunny. I skipped ahead, chattering with my friends about stories and poems and the future. My backpack felt light on my shoulders, and my mood had improved as well. It was a good day. Our chattering soon stopped, however, when we saw the Swargarohini group of peaks in the distance. My jaw hit the floor as I slid on my snow goggles and quickened my pace to reach the valley faster. Finally, our destination became visible.

Upward and Inward: Some Reflections on the Supin River

The Supin river, which we experienced as a roaring force at the start of the trek, was considerably calmer. As if it still held the potential to rage and roar, but it wasn’t actualised yet. It hadn’t experienced streams and waterfalls joining it, it hadn’t seen the wide valleys and taken over them. Isn’t that what life is like? We rage, until we discover ourselves. Go against the grain, in the opposite direction of the flow, till we finally discover who we are in our purest form. Yes, the things that influence us, change us, and the people we meet along the way definitely make up an important part of who we are, but how often do we go back to our roots? How often do we stop to think?

The valley in the distance, a breathtaking expanse of peaks and Bugyal and flowing water, grew closer and closer until we were in it, and at that point, it felt like all of our hard work had paid off. I dropped my bag and laid down on a rock.

Reaching this point had seemed so daunting, the distance too great. When I sat down there, the aches and pains stopped, almost as if to admire the beauty. I felt rejuvenated, refreshed. And even I, the writer that I am, couldn’t find any words to describe the breathtaking beauty I saw in front of me. I tried to capture it on camera, I took goofy selfies with friends, even a few photos and videos with the whole group. But nothing could truly capture my feelings. Not a camera, not a phone, not a notebook. 

Time to Head Back

Soon, it was time to head back. Over the course of the descent, the weather was clear and we covered the required distance in approximately two-thirds of the time we took during the ascent. With both days of the descent having my favourite dishes for lunch and dinner, I was in high spirits. Back at camp, I took to socialising, because I had realised by then that if I wanted memories to write about, I needed to make them myself. We sat around the campfire, and told stories, legends. I definitely did not get nervous when I heard one that had apparently taken place on my regular commute route and it said that the road went around in circles at night with no end. After hearing that story, I have changed my commute route.

We sang deep into the night, our songs still ringing in the air as we went to sleep before the final day of the trek.

The last day of the trek was clear as well, and before I knew, we were back at the point where the jeeps had dropped us off. It was also my first experience travelling on the top of a jeep, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, even if I was blue in the face with swearing and trying to balance myself on my hands. 

The thought of going back home wasn’t appealing, but the prospect of the 10 hour bus ride cheered me up instead of daunting me. I brought local produce and syrups, prayer flags, bandanas, a striped shawl and a ton of memories home with me. I had my first experience of calculating money for a group, socialising and finding friends. These days were going to stay with me for the rest of the year, revitalising and re-energising me.

Thoughts of Home

As I settled in for my last night, for the first time in nine days, I thought of home. I thought of my bunk bed, my window and table. I thought of the Sahyadri mountains that I see from my window, and how they had inspired me to make the journey to the Himalayas. I thought about my roots, about how my life has always been steeped with the chaos of bustling urban life, and how much I enjoyed it. I dreamt of the mountains as I slept, but I began to connect all of the parts of me. And just because I loved the mountains didn’t mean that I wasn’t overjoyed when the train pulled into my city and I saw my dad’s smiling face, ready to pick me up. 

Every time the memories began to fade, I looked at the prayer flags hung up on my wall. At the t-shirt and cap we all got for reaching the summit, and the photos I took. People can take me out of the mountains, but they’ll never succeed in taking the mountains out of me.