Madhankumar's Journey Across Hampta Pass
When I think back to my Hampta Pass trek, it feels less like a journey of days and more like a slow unfolding of nature’s secrets, each layer revealed only when I had earned it with my steps. I had travelled alone to Manali, carrying with me the thrill of anticipation, a nervous excitement, and the quiet hope that the mountains would have something to teach me.
The first morning, as we left Manali and made our way to Jobra, the air already carried a cool crispness. The trail started gently enough, winding through green meadows where cows grazed and wooden bridges stretched over lively streams. There was something almost deceptive about that ease. It felt like the mountains were testing us lightly at first, making sure we were paying attention. My legs were still fresh, and my mind brimmed with curiosity. By the time we reached Chika, the valley had wrapped me in a sense of calm that only wide open landscapes and the chatter of rivers can offer. Sleeping under the stars that night, I could hear the river’s rush close by, and for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without the noise of the world in my head.
The next day was longer, harder. The trek towards Balu Ka Ghera demanded more from us. The path rose steadily, and the Rani Nallah kept us company as we climbed. At times, we had to steady ourselves on slippery stones or wade carefully across patches where the water forced its way down. There were bursts of wildflowers that seemed to cheer us on, and then, suddenly, the green would fall away to reveal harsher rock, a sterner face of the mountain. I remember thinking how the trek mirrored life itself, where ease often gives way to effort and reward. By evening, as the sun dipped behind Hanuman Tibba, the sky turned into a painting of gold and crimson. We sat outside our tents, sharing simple food and laughter with strangers who were slowly becoming companions.
Crossing Hampta Pass on the third day was both the hardest and the most unforgettable part of the journey. We began early, our breaths clouding the cold air, each step heavier as the altitude rose. The wind seemed to come from every side, biting and unrelenting. The climb tested patience and resolve. My body felt leaden at times, my mind asking why I was doing this. Yet, when we finally stood at the top, everything stilled. Around me was a panorama that no picture could ever capture: snow stretching into the horizon, valleys dipping into silence, peaks glowing faintly under the morning sun. I felt small, utterly small, and at the same time, more alive than I had ever felt. Tears came unbidden, a mix of exhaustion and awe.
But the descent reminded me that the mountains always have the final say. A sudden slip on loose gravel had me stumble, and though nothing was hurt beyond pride, I realised how quickly a moment of carelessness could change everything. The trek leaders were calm, reassuring, and it was in that small scare that I truly appreciated their presence. Thrillophilia had arranged not just the logistics but also ensured the guidance we needed, and in that moment I was grateful for their quiet watchfulness. By the time we reached Shea Goru, surrounded by snowfields and stark beauty, I had forgotten the stumble, swept away instead by the solitude of that white valley.
The fourth day took us down to Chhatru, where the barren mountains of Lahaul greeted us. The contrast from where we had begun was astonishing. Gone were the green meadows and the comforting sound of rivers. In their place stood dry, rugged cliffs that seemed carved by centuries of silence. It felt like walking into another world altogether. From Chhatru, we took an excursion to Chandratal Lake. I had seen photographs before, but no photograph prepares you for that mirror of turquoise held in the embrace of mountains. The lake shimmered in the thin air, reflecting both the sky and the soul of those who gazed into it.
The last morning was bittersweet. We left Shea Goru early, making our way towards Manali once more. Passing through the Atal Tunnel felt like a sudden return to civilisation, a jarring reminder that the world of roads and buildings was waiting for us. Yet, within me, I carried the silence of those nights under starry skies and the rhythm of the mountains that had guided my steps.
What I loved most about Hampta Pass was how it never stopped surprising me. Every few hours, the scenery changed so completely that it felt like five treks woven into one. From forests and meadows to snow and deserts, it was a constant reminder that change is the only constant. The trek taught me resilience, patience, and above all, humility. In front of those towering peaks, human ambition feels both fragile and foolish, yet it is in striving to walk among them that we find our strength.
There were small challenges along the way, moments of doubt, and the fatigue that comes with pushing one’s limits. But there was also the joy of reaching a summit, the comfort of a warm meal at a campsite, and the quiet companionship of fellow trekkers sharing stories under the Milky Way. These are not just memories, they are lessons that remain etched within.
When I look back now, I realise the Hampta Pass trek was not simply about reaching from one point to another. It was about the journey itself, about listening to what the mountains whispered in their silence, about finding pieces of myself scattered along rivers, rocks, and trails. Thrillophilia had been the bridge that made this adventure possible, but it was the mountains that gave it meaning. And as I sit here recalling it all, I know this is not just a trek I completed, but a part of me that will never leave those high passes behind.
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