Mountains, I have always believed, have a way of calling to people. Some hear it as a whisper, a soft pull on their very soul, while others hear it like a storm impossible to be ignored. For me, it was somewhere in between: a longing that has grown over the years until I can no longer pretend not to hear it.
So, I set off armed with only a backpack, a pair of sturdy boots, and a heart primed for adventure through the untamed Himalayan wilderness. It was not only about reaching that destination; it was more about letting oneself go into the wilderness and finding something inside that had been lost over the din of everyday life.
The Himalayas are not just a mountain chain; they are alive. They are merciless; they test you, break you, and, if you are lucky, build you back into something even stronger. I had read about the torturous trails, unpredictable weather, and isolation one feels standing on the edge of a snow-covered ridge with no other earth, just the sky above and an abyss underneath. That was book knowledge, but my experience was something else.
Where Silence Speaks Louder Than Words
The first few days were torturous. The incline was steep, and my legs were aching; breathing was a war due to the altitude. One moment, I felt my backpack stuffed with essentials was a burden I had taken on willingly. Step by step, however, the world as I had known it began to dissolve away. There was no sound of honking cars, nor was there an intrusion of buzzing notifications—only the whisper of wind through the valleys and the faint gurgle of a river slicing through rocks.
The Himalayas are a chapter unto themselves: The way they change while one ascends, dense pine forests emanating vast meadows full of wildflowers. Far away were the snow-capped peaks that appeared to be even more intimidating and equally awe-inspiring. And here in between lay silence, that silence that enables you to hear yourself, that silence that strips you of distraction and forces you into an unrestricted confrontation with your thoughts.
It was terrifying and liberating at the same time.
The nights were different, for the skies glittered before me in ways I had never seen. And now, unacquainted with city lights, the stars were breathing on the horizon. The Milky Way was not just a distant smear but a glowing river of cosmic dust. As in my tent, lying and gazing up into infinity, I felt small and yet held onto something eternal.
Encounters With Wild
That evening, as I camped beside a glacial lake, my eye caught movement on the horizon. On a cliff’s edge stood a Bharal (Himalayan blue sheep) with metal-like composure, gazing straight ahead as though carved from the very rock that gave it a home. We locked our eyes for a moment: It was a moment of unspoken acknowledgement that it was its land, and I was just passing through.
The wilderness in the Himalayas is raw, wild, and untamed. With every passing moment, a reminder strikes that this is not one of the places where man has come to rule. Nature runs this place; we are guests here. Such an idea sends chills down the spine.
One night, I woke up to the sound of a snow leopard. The sound was, well, so primordial it gave me goosebumps. I was wrapped in pretty much all the wool clothing I had inside my tent, but at that moment, I felt so vulnerable. Yet, I felt so alive. Never did the city make me feel so alive.
The Village at the Edge of the World
The next thing I noticed on my way down from the high-altitude trails was a small village squeezed between two towering peaks. It was a place suspended in time, stone houses with wooden roofs, fluttering prayer flags, and an old man sitting outside his house, carving something.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A bridge,” he replied simply.
But I looked around and saw no river, no valley to cross. “A bridge to where?”
He smiled, with eyes twinkling with tranquil wisdom: “To wherever it’s needed.”
I didn’t press further. Mountain folks have a way of saying things that stick to your mind long after the conversation has ended.
I spent a day in the village, witnessing life unfold at a different pace. Women gathered around a fire, weaving wool into warm blankets. Children ran barefoot, laughter reverberating down the valley. There was no hurry about anyone, no rush onto the next thing. Life was happening at its own sweet pace—beautifully.
Losing Myself, Finding More
The last leg of my trek was the hardest. The ground had turned against me; my body was completely spent. But something had changed in me. I was no longer walking toward a place; I was walking just for the sake of the journey. The pain, the fatigue, the solitude—all of it was part of it.
And then, on the last ridge before going back into the valleys below, I turned for one last look at the mountains. They stood there, as timeless and unmoving as ever, indifferent to my plight but somehow woven into my becoming.
I had come to the Himalayas hoping for adventure, clarity, perhaps even salvation. What I found was something infinitely bigger.
I found the type of silence that screams the loudest.
I found land that time has not touched.
I found myself.
And as I made my way back toward Home, I knew that a part of me would forever remain with the mountains. For once you hear the wild call, you can never really turn back.
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