Apprehensions of a First-time Trekker

by Atri Kundu (India)

A leap into the unknown India

I stepped out of the rickety public bus and stood amidst a breathtaking panorama of the mighty Himalayas. Far down at the basecamp, colorful flags fluttered in a gentle breeze. The same cold breeze that kissed my cheeks and made my knees feel loose. I gulped back my apprehensions, my terrible phobia of heights, and my fear of the unknown. My next steps took me down winding steps into my basecamp. I was greeted by the camp leader and assigned a tent into which I walked in quietly. It was only when I’d dropped the rucksack that I really breathed in the pure air of Kasol. I looked beyond the tents where the mountains towered high and beyond which, hidden in the clouds, was my destination - Sar Pass - a daunting challenge at 13,800 feet. Over the next two days, I went along with the eighty-four others of our batch on the morning exercises and acclimatization hikes. Were they enough to prepare me for what lay ahead? I would soon find out. Till then, it was my leap into the unknown. And I took it nevertheless. *** The day our trek began, we sang our National Anthem in a chorus, instilling pride and passion in our hearts, our visions soared and we felt hot to trot. The 9km trek to a hamlet called Grahan took us uphill and down muddy slopes, over trembling log bridges and through a thick shade of pine and deodar. Rain played a spoilsport in the last lap, but the team made camp with happy faces. Day 2’s 6km stretch to Padri village was supposed to be less exhausting and more fun than the previous day. And it would have been if a debilitating fever didn’t add an extra hundred pounds weight on my shoulders. Once in the tent, I took medicine and the conscious city-dweller in me wondered how bad the fever was. Today’s only consolation, there had been no rain. Destiny had a laugh and past midnight, a steady pattering of rain mixed with human commotion woke me up. Took me a moment to realize that the ground beneath me was not hard and stable anymore. I sat up inside my sleeping bag with a start. Freezing rainwater had invaded our tent and slithered beneath the heatlon sheets. The fourteen occupants huddled together in the only dry patch in a corner, grabbing on to their semi-wet rucksacks, half-sleepy and half-scared-to-death. Hours ticked away, the rain intensified, and as we thought of going out to seek help, we found the green meadow lost under a slippery and dangerous blanket of ice. “This is a cloudburst, the kind that brings landslides and flash floods,” someone said and the lone torch beaming inside the tent blinked. Overthinking passed turns, experienced trekkers shared their most dangerous chapters, and fear got the better of the inexperienced ones. That night, I doubted if I was really ready. If my blind leap was really the right choice. When sunlight beckoned on the next day, we gathered with trembling feet and salvaged our belongings from the freezing wet dumps. Today was an 11km stretch up to Mingthach, the toughest lap of the trek, made tougher by last night’s downpour and my gripping fear of heights. I paused while strapping on my rucksack, should I turn back? *** I buried my trekking pole deep into the snow and leaned my weight on it. I was panting hard, taking in whatever scarce oxygen that was available, and I looked up and around. An unblemished white sea that merges with the blue dome behind some staggering Himalayan peaks welcomed me. I stood at 13,800 feet. I stood two steps from the summit of Sar Pass. On that moment, I remembered how close I was to my breaking point. So close to questioning whether my leap into the unknown was the right thing to do. Tears threatened to flood me as I finally got my answer. A leap of faith can take us anywhere, but at least, it takes us somewhere. Then I realized how difficult the climb down would be. Not because of any cloudburst, fever, or vertigo, but because it would be heartbreaking and nostalgic.