THE TREK THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

It began like all ordinary things do—quietly, without announcement.

One evening, as the office lights dimmed and screens began to shut one by one, a colleague turned to me and said, almost casually, “Come with us for a trek.” A trek. The word meant nothing to me then. No images of mountains, no sense of distance, no understanding of what it demands or what it gives. It was just a word—light, harmless, almost forgettable.

And yet, something in me said yes.

That same evening, we found ourselves walking into the YHAI office in Ahmedabad. It felt like stepping into a place filled with stories I had not yet lived. Walls spoke of mountains. Brochures carried glimpses of distant valleys. Names of places I had never heard of suddenly felt like invitations. We asked questions—endless questions.

Which trek is best?

How difficult is it?

What should we expect?

The volunteer smiled, as if he had seen this curiosity a thousand times before. And then we chose it.

Har Ki Doon.

I didn’t know then that I wasn’t choosing a trek. I was choosing a turning point.

Days passed quickly, and before I could fully understand what I had signed up for, I found myself standing at Kalupur railway station in Ahmedabad. It was crowded, noisy, alive—like every other station. But for me, something felt different. I was standing there with four colleagues, bags packed, hearts uncertain, boarding a train that would take us far away from everything familiar.

The train moved. And with it, something within me began to shift.

The first day in the mountains felt like a celebration. Everything was beautiful—the air felt lighter, the sky seemed closer, and laughter came easily. It felt like a holiday, like something easy and joyful. But the mountains do not reveal their truth all at once.

On the second day, during an acclimatization walk, my body resisted. Each step felt heavier than the last. My breath grew uneven, and slowly, I fell behind. For the first time, I realized something simple, yet profound:

I had not prepared for this. And life, like the mountains, does not slow down for the unprepared.

That day, I didn’t just struggle—I understood.

By the third day, the trek had truly begun. The path wound through forests and small villages—places untouched by urgency. Time moved differently there. People smiled more easily. Life felt… simpler. We met villagers along the way from Oslo. At one point, we even played cricket with them—laughing, shouting, forgetting entirely where we came from. Later, in conversation, one of them said something that stayed with me: “We don’t get newspapers here. We don’t know about current events. We only follow two religions, i.e., Pandavas and Kauravas.” We have not heard of Hindu, Christian, or Muslim.

 

I was taken aback. In a world where we divide ourselves endlessly—by religion, by identity, by belief—here were people who saw life through stories, not labels.

I visited their Duryodhana temple. It was small, clean, and carried a quiet dignity. Standing there, I felt something unfamiliar—a kind of stillness.

After some days of trekking, I reached Kalkatiyadhar Camp. Tired, but somehow content. That night, we stood in a circle and played a simple game—dodging the ball. It was nothing extraordinary. And yet, it was everything. Strangers laughed together like old friends. There were no roles, no designations, no distances. Just people. Just joy. Somewhere along the way, we had become more than a group. We had become a family.

And then came the day that would change everything.

The trek from Kalkatiyadhar Camp to Har Ki Doon.

It began gently, almost deceptively. Then the rain came. At first, it was manageable. Then heavier. Then relentless. Soon, even with raincoats, I was drenched. The cold seeped in quietly, settling into my bones. And then, without warning, the rain turned into hail. Ice struck against my body, sharp and unforgiving. One by one, the others moved ahead. Faster. Stronger. And I… fell behind.

Silence surrounded me. No voices. No footsteps. No familiar faces.

Just the sound of my breathing… and the storm. My legs began to fail me. They felt numb, disconnected, as if they no longer belonged to me. I tried to walk, but they refused. So I dragged them. With my hands, I pulled one leg forward, then the other. Step by step. Struggle by struggle. Thoughts filled my mind—loud, relentless:

Why did I come here?

I could have stayed home… comfortable… safe… watching Netflix… eating chocolates… living easily…

The path seemed endless. The destination invisible. For a moment, I felt defeated.

And then… I reached the top. I stopped. I couldn’t go any further.

My body had nothing left to give. And just when I thought I had reached my limit…

The rain stopped. There was a sudden stillness.

I looked down. And in that moment, the world changed.

Before me lay the valley of Har Ki Doon.

It stretched out like a dream—vast, untouched, breathtaking. Colorful tents stood quietly, as if waiting for me. A stream flowed beside them, clear and alive. And in the distance, white horses ran freely, wild and beautiful.

It didn’t feel real. It felt… divine. Then I looked up. And saw a rainbow.

Clear. Perfect. Every color alive. And above it… another.

Two rainbows, painted across the sky as if the universe itself had decided to reveal its beauty.

 

In that moment, something within me broke… and healed at the same time.

The pain disappeared.

The exhaustion faded.

The cold no longer mattered.

I felt light……. Alive. ……. Grateful.

I whispered softly, “Thank you, God… for bringing me here.”

And I understood. Truly understood. No comfort in the world—no screen, no sweetness, no easy pleasure—could ever match this moment. This raw, overwhelming, indescribable beauty. For this… I would walk through every storm again.

That day, I did not just reach Har Ki Doon. I found something far more important.

A deeper connection……. A quiet strength…………A new way of seeing life.

And somewhere between that storm… and that rainbow… I got hooked.

Not in a way that traps you—but in a way that sets you free. Trekking became my escape, my therapy, my prayer. Every year, I find myself longing for that same feeling—that same high of standing in front of nature, small yet complete, lost yet found. It calls me back… again and again. And I go. Because once you have felt it…you can never forget it.

What began as a casual “yes” after office hours…became a lifelong journey. And today, with a full heart, I say—I don’t just go for treks…I return to them.

I am, and always will be, a part of the YHAI family.

About the Author

Roopa Nair, a former Camp Leader, Co-Director, and Field Director with the Youth Hostels Association of India (YHAI), now gives back through volunteering the same joy she once experienced as a trekker.

She currently serves as Secretary, Goa State Branch, Co-Chairperson of IT Committee and National Council Member, YHAI.