Kumudha’s Sar Pass Trek: A Heartfelt Thrillophilia Review from the Himalayan Trails

Grahan. That was the word that echoed in my mind even before the trek began. A friend had once told me, "There is something about the pine forest before Grahan Village. It does not leave you." Back then, I had smiled, thinking it was just post-trek nostalgia speaking. But on June 7, 2022, standing with my four closest friends at the trailhead in Kasol, I caught that first waft of pine and suddenly understood what she meant.

I remember clutching the straps of my backpack and adjusting it with nervousness. Kumudha, I told myself, you are not here to conquer the mountain, you are here to meet it. The five of us had talked about this for years - escaping the digital buzz, the deadlines, and the boxed city life. Now it was real. And it all began under the tall and whispering trees leading to Grahan Village.

That initial stretch felt like a crossing. With each step into the forest, I could feel myself getting distant from city life. The static in my thoughts began to clear.

When the Forest Opened its Arms

The trail to Grahan Village was like stepping into a folktale. The sun poured through slits in the forest canopy, and the air was thick with the earthy perfume of rhododendrons. We did not speak much. Instead, we listened to the crunch of our boots on soil, to the wind stirring the leaves, and to the occasional laughter that bubbled up as one of us stumbled or paused to marvel at the impossible greenery around us.

Grahan itself felt timeless. A quiet village cradled in the hills, its wooden houses looked as if they had grown from the very earth. The children ran past us, barefoot and free, and an old woman smiled at us with such warmth that it felt like a blessing. We stayed in simple tents nearby, ate warm food under a billion stars, and for the first time in a long while, I slept without my mind racing.

There is something about mountain air that slows time. That evening in Grahan, we enjoyed a quiet meal, some old songs we hummed together, and the simple crackle of a bonfire was enough.

Climbing into the Clouds

As we climbed higher towards Mung Thach and then Nagaru, the terrain changed, and so did we. Trees gave way to open stretches, and every breath we took seemed to draw in more sky than air. The first glimpse of snow made all of us pause. There it was.

"Do you think we will make it to the top?" one of my friends asked.

"We did not come this far to turn back," I replied, but even as I said it, I was thinking of how light I felt despite the climb.

Nagaru tested us. The winds were sharp, and the altitude was dizzying. Even the smallest tasks felt monumental up there. Boiling water, tying shoelaces, zipping up jackets - everything slowed down. But there was also a strange beauty in this slowness. It forced us to be present in a way that life back home rarely allowed.

That night, tucked into our sleeping bags, I listened to the silence outside that was infinitely pure.

The Earth Touched the Sky in Sar Pass

The day we crossed Sar Pass will live with me forever. We rose before dawn, and our footsteps lit by headlamps and starlight. The snow beneath us was firm, crunching rhythmically with every step. With each upward push, the horizon stretched, wider and wilder. And then, we were there.

13,800 feet.

Sar Pass.

The world below was a painting. Valleys carved by time, peaks piercing clouds, the silence that was full - quite literally. I stood there, grateful and small beneath a vast sky.

We slid down the snow after that, laughing like children on an icy playground. The descent to Biskeri Thach was a blur of joy and sore knees. We made camp, huddled together, and shared stories we had never told each other before. The mountains have a way of peeling you open gently.

Return to the Grahan Village

From Biskeri Thach, we trekked down to Barshaini and, finally, to Kasol. But my heart tugged me back to Grahan. So, on our final day, I left the group for a couple of hours and walked back towards the edge of the village.

The same pines stood there, unchanged. But I had changed.

I sat under one of those trees, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. The scent of pine, the melody of wind brushing through branches, and the distant sound of a stream. They were memories now. Etched into me.

A local boy passed by with his sheep and smiled at me. "Wapas aana," he said.

I smiled back.

I will.

I stood up slowly, brushed the pine needles from my jacket, and looked one last time at the trail.

Read More: Thrillophilia Himachal Trek Reviews