editorial

On a trek in Himachal Pradesh, a novice climber discovers the meditative benefits of being in the mountains.
Chalo,” said our soft-spoken trail guide, Sushil, after a quick water break some 3,000 meters above sea level. “Let’s go.” My sister and I followed him, digging our hiking poles into the dirt path in front of us as he picked up pace.
We were two days into our four-day trek with a Dharamsala-based outfitter called Hill Hikers, making our way to a mountain pass in the Dhauladhar range of the Indian Himalayas. It had been ages since I last went backpacking, but a late-blooming (and somewhat embarrassing) obsession with K-pop had nudged me back into a fitness routine. In the lead-up to the trip, I committed myself to two short runs and two short HIIT workouts every week, energized by a soundtrack of experimental K-hip-hop by the likes of NCT 127. I haven’t felt this good about my body in a long time.
Beyond the physicality of the trek, I also hoped it would help pull me out of the rut I’d been stuck in for the better part of a year. Maybe the stress of the pandemic had finally taken its toll on me, or maybe I was in an existential crisis. What was certain though: I was unmotivated, going through the motions, and frequently running out of patience with my husband and two young children. Perhaps I could heal myself in the Himalayas.
We’d arrived in Dharamsala three days ago at the crack of dawn on an overnight bus from Chandigarh. Nestled in the verdant hills of the Kangra Valley, the compact city is the winter capital of Himachal Pradesh; perhaps more significantly, it has hosted Tibet’s government-in-exile since 1960. Our lodging was in McLeod Ganj, a hilltop suburb of narrow streets nicknamed Little Lhasa because of its large population of displaced Tibetans. The most famous of them, of course, is the 14th Dalai Lama, who resides in the modest Buddhist temple complex of Thekchen Choeling.
On our strolls around town, I learned that the number of Tibetan refugees in Dharamsala has dwindled over the last decade or so as more and more exiles migrate to the West for economic opportunities. The chatty Indian owner of a street-side convenience store told us, “My Tibetan childhood friends have all moved overseas. Only their parents are still here.” And while most of the Tibetans we met proved reticent, one shopkeeper, who fled here in the 1980s, confided he was worried about the future and would only remain in McLeod Ganj for as long as the Dalai Lama — now 88 years old — was alive. He was already making plans to join his son in the United States.
I didn’t find McLeod Ganj to be as touristy and congested as guidebooks make it out to be, even if the shops sell BTS T-shirts and Korean cup noodles alongside cheap trinkets and Tibetan bhoeso jackets. And the Tibet Museum is a must-see. But after two days, we were keen to get into the mountains.
By the time we reached camp on our second night, we were starting to feel the impact of the digital detox we had unknowingly signed up for far more than the lack of hot showers. There was barely any cellular service and in any case we needed to conserve our mobile batteries.
The first day had been manageable — a three-hour hike on a crisp June morning that took us past the tourist hordes at Bhagsu Nag Temple and its nearby waterfall. We traveled light, having left our backpacks at our hotel in McLeod Ganj, and reached the scenic campsite at Lower Triund just past noon. It was a tranquil spot — until throngs of boisterous young Indians arrived to pitch their tents.
<figure id="attachment_137908" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-137908" style="width: 900px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><img decoding="async" loading="lazy" class="wp-image-137908 size-full" src="https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/Dharamsala-Trekking.jpg" alt="Trekking toward the snow line beyond the summit of Triund." width="900" height="820" srcset="https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/Dharamsala-Trekking.jpg 900w, https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/Dharamsala-Trekking-300x273.jpg 300w, https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/Dharamsala-Trekking-768x700.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 900px) 100vw, 900px" /><figcaption id="caption-attachment-137908" class="wp-caption-text">Trekking toward the snow line beyond the summit of Triund. (Photo: Wee Ling Soh)</figcaption></figure>
On day two, the camping crowds were soon behind us, replaced by flocks of sheep and goats. As we climbed past the picturesque Triund summit along rocky ridges toward the snow line, the ascent felt like it would never end. But it was too early in the trek for trepidation to set in, so I focused on my steps (one step upward at a time) and my breathing (slow, deep, through the nose only), never mind if I was trailing behind.
The forbidding snowcapped peaks of the Dhauladhar range, sometimes shrouded in mist, towered before us by the time we made it to our campsite at 3,200 meters. There were a few other foreigners around, but mostly we had the mountain to ourselves. Over a simple dinner of dal chawal and achar pickles, Sushil and our 20-year-old porter Kartik informed us they were members of the Gaddi tribe, a semi-nomadic people who have herded goats and sheep in the Himalayas for centuries. Mountain tourism is changing their way of life. Many young Gaddi men, like Sushil, now earn a living as trekking guides, or run cafés in the mountains selling chai and hot meals.
Early on in the trek, Sushil had told us the third day would be the most challenging, with some 80-degree inclines in the last stretch. Now, without gadgets to distract me during our downtime, I was fighting off a growing anxiety about what lay ahead.
“Let’s get veg shago again if we survive,” my sister jokingly remarked in our tent. On our first night in McLeod Ganj, we had found ourselves among Tibetan diners in a cozy restaurant called Tashi Delek (a common greeting in Tibetan) and ordered what everyone was eating: shago, a spicy soup of mung bean vermicelli and vegetables, served in small, narrow-mouthed earthenware pots. The memory alone was nourishing.
We set off at half past four the next morning, putting on microspikes and fluorescent yellow gaiters when we reached the Laka Glacier. Sushil attached us all together with a safety rope. I trudged in the snow, struggling to catch my breath; there was more pressure to keep up in a rope team. Progress was slow now that we were on steep and icy slopes. Every so often, we’d slide down when our boots failed to get a good grip.
At 10 a.m., after climbing for over five hours, we were just 300 meters from the Indrahar Pass when we had to make the tough decision to abandon our summit push. By Sushil’s estimates, we would likely not make it to the 4,342-meter pass before noon, when alpine snow would start to melt and endanger our climb.
Despite our disappointment, it was a good call. We ended up pushing ourselves almost to our limits during the descent, rappelling, sliding, and running downhill while narrowly avoiding hidden crevasses. I had never been happier to be on level ground.
We also felt the satisfaction of having outdone ourselves as novice snow climbers, learning techniques on the fly, something I wouldn’t have dreamed of accomplishing at the beginning of the year. It felt good to know that I was in control and that I could do better next time.
I don’t meditate and am not usually a fan of uphill treks, yet it seems like mountain climbing might be the kind of mind-clearing meditation I need in my life right now. As long as I focus on the small things, I am capable of riding out any funk — and becoming a better version of myself on my own terms. In the end, I got to be at what felt like the top of the world by letting go, trusting my trekking guide, and reconnecting with myself in deep, controlled breaths, one step at a time.
Back in McLeod Ganj after the trek, my sister and I made our way to Tashi Delek for dinner. Having skipped lunch, we were especially famished. But as we stepped into the restaurant, the owners gestured to us they had closed for the evening. Oh well. I’d come a long way — I could wait one more day.
<figure id="attachment_136672" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-136672" style="width: 1200px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><img decoding="async" loading="lazy" class="wp-image-136672 size-full" src="https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/A-view-of-the-Dhauladhar-range-from-the-trail-to-Triund-Dharamsala.jpg" alt="A view of the Dhauladhar range from the trail to Triund." width="1200" height="800" srcset="https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/A-view-of-the-Dhauladhar-range-from-the-trail-to-Triund-Dharamsala.jpg 1200w, https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/A-view-of-the-Dhauladhar-range-from-the-trail-to-Triund-Dharamsala-300x200.jpg 300w, https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/A-view-of-the-Dhauladhar-range-from-the-trail-to-Triund-Dharamsala-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https://staging.destinasian.com/wp-content/uploads/A-view-of-the-Dhauladhar-range-from-the-trail-to-Triund-Dharamsala-768x512.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px" /><figcaption id="caption-attachment-136672" class="wp-caption-text">A view of the Dhauladhar range from the trail to Triund. (Photo: iStock/Andrei)</figcaption></figure>
WHAT TO DO 
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/hill_hikers/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Hill Hikers</a> 
Covering 35 kilometers of moderate to challenging terrain, Hill Hikers’ four-day Indrahar Pass Trek costs about US$120 per person. Shorter and longer itineraries are available.
This article originally appeared in the <a href="https://www.destinasian.com/magazine" target="_blank" rel="noopener" class="broken_link">December 2023/February 2024</a> print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“Steps in the Right Direction”).

A view of the Dhauladhar range from the trail to Triund.

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