On 8th February, I left Nagpur with a backpack that was heavier than it needed to be and expectations that were lighter than they should have been. Six days later, on 14th February, I returned with the opposite: a lighter bag and a much heavier understanding of myself.
The destination was Kedarkantha, a winter trek in Uttarakhand often described as “easy to moderate.” That phrase stayed with me while packing. It made me confident perhaps too confident.
The journey from Dehradun to Sankri was long and beautiful in a quiet way. Pine trees, winding roads, snow slowly appearing in patches. It was the kind of scenery that makes you stare out of the window without speaking. But it was also tiring. By the time we reached Sankri, I already felt far away from normal life. No noise, no routine, just cold air and mountains waiting.
I was part of a group, but not exactly part of it. Four trekkers from Gujarat were close friends. Two others from Mumbai knew each other. I was the only one who had arrived alone. Everyone was polite and decent, but they already had their comfort zones. Conversations flowed naturally just not around me. I like talking, but I also don’t force myself into spaces where I’m not sure I belong yet. So I mostly walked quietly. Observed. Listened. Thought.
The climb to Juda Ka Talab erased any illusion that this would be simple. The ascent was steep and relentless. Snow-covered sections demanded careful footing. My backpack overpacked with “just in case” items dug into my shoulders with every step. Winter trekking has a strange contradiction: you’re freezing when you stop, but while climbing you’re sweating so much that you question your life choices. At one point I was genuinely thinking, what am I doing here? Alone in the Himalayas, carrying unnecessary weight, surrounded by strangers.
Yet, beneath the exhaustion, something steadier remained. I started remembering how it was like being 18 and moving to London alone back in 2022. That transition had demanded emotional resilience. This was different physically harder but the same mental strength surfaced. Step by step, the climb became manageable.
Winter made everything sharper. The cold at Kedarkantha Base Camp was brutal somewhere around -10 to -15°C. Water bottles freezing. Food getting cold within minutes. Summit day started at 2 AM. That walk in the dark was probably the quietest I’ve ever been. Just headlamps, crunching snow, and controlled breathing. No unnecessary talking because no one had the energy.
After hours of steady climbing, we reached roughly 12,500 feet.
The summit was silent.
Snow-covered peaks stretched endlessly into the horizon. The sky felt closer than usual. In that stillness, I experienced a perspective shift that is difficult to articulate. The mountains did not celebrate our arrival; they simply existed. Vast, indifferent, magnificent. For a moment, every discomfort that led there felt justified.
The descent brought a surprising lightness. Without the constant upward strain, I could finally absorb the landscape more fully. Occasionally, we slid across snowy stretches, laughing briefly before regaining balance. My backpack felt lighter perhaps because I had adjusted to it, perhaps because something internal had shifted.
Our final night at Hargaon Base Camp remains my favorite memory. The campsite felt peaceful, almost reflective. After days of challenge, the quiet there felt earned. I found myself wishing I could pause time in that setting.
Looking back, the trek was not solely about reaching a summit. It was about confronting discomfort physical fatigue, social unfamiliarity, and self-doubt and continuing anyway. Going alone into an unfamiliar group forced me inward. The Himalayas amplified everything: the cold, the effort, the silence, and the beauty.
If someone asks whether Kedarkantha is “easy to moderate,” I would answer differently now. Difficulty depends less on the trail and more on preparation physical readiness, pack weight, and mental clarity. The mountains are consistent; it is we who fluctuate.
Those five days reminded me that growth does not always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it comes quietly, in the rhythm of careful footsteps on snow, in conversations you choose not to join, in moments when you decide to keep climbing despite doubt.
I left Nagpur seeking adventure.
I returned with something steadier which is perspective.