Steps Through the Clouds: Rachita’s Trekking Journey to Hampta Pass with Thrillophilia
I wanted a moment of silence for myself as meetings, responsibilities, and messages kept piling up and days blurred into each other. One evening, I was having a cup of coffee, and that is when I decided to do something about it.
So, I opened my tab and typed: “Treks in Himachal.”
Besides looking for a break, I was looking for myself.
That is when I came across the Hampta Pass Trek that promised raw beauty and shifting landscapes. With just one click on Thrillophilia, the plan began to take shape. Their itinerary was clear and the team sounded reliable. Before I could talk myself out of it, I had a booking confirmation in my inbox.
“I am going alone,” I told my sister that night.
She blinked. “Are you sure?”
I was. For the first time in a long time, I was.
Into the Pine-Scented Silence
Manali welcomed me with fresh air and the smell of pines. Our small trekking group met near the base camp. A mix of strangers carried their own stories but were bonded by a common goal: to walk through nature’s untouched heart.
After a short drive up to Jobra, we began our first part of the trek to Chika, situated at about 10,100 feet. I will never forget the strange sense of calm while walking past grazing cattle, open meadows, wooden huts, and mountain streams. The weight of my backpack reminded me I was far from home, but the weight on my heart was beginning to lift.
At the campsite, our trek leader briefed us while the support team handed out warm plates of dal chawal. Everything felt grounded and pure. As I lay inside my shared dome tent while wrapped in a sleeping bag, the stars blinked above me.
It was so peaceful there with just the soft rustle of wind and the comfort of knowing I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Walking Into Wilderness
We left Chika after breakfast and started our 5-hour trek to Balu Ka Ghera at 11,900 feet. The terrain became tougher. Boulders and slippery mud tried to shake my confidence, but each step I took reminded me of my own strength.
There were moments of silence where I walked behind the group and let the rhythm of my breath guide me. The valley opened up with wildflowers on either side, and the Rani Nallah River kept us company.
At one point, our trek leader walked up beside me.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “I did not know I needed this. The silence… it is healing something I could not name.”
He smiled. “That is why the mountains are magic. They do not fix you. They remind you that you were whole all along.”
The temperature dropped that night, and our tents flapped in the wind. Huddled together with a warm plate of Rajma Chawal, I looked around at the strangers who had begun to feel like companions.
Touching the Sky at Hampta Pass
This was the day I was both excited for and terrified of: crossing the Hampta Pass at 14,100 feet. We began before dawn, and our headlamps cast halos in the dark as we climbed.
The trail was steep. At times, the oxygen felt thinner. My legs ached, and my breath felt short. There were patches where we had to walk through the snow while carefully planting each step. But oh - the views!
Glaciers sparkled under the morning sun, and when we finally reached the Pass, I stood there frozen from emotion. The clouds moved beneath us, and the entire Pir Panjal range in the distance looked magical.
I found a quiet spot, sat down, and just stared.
I thought of everything I had left behind: the pressure and the endless race. Up here, none of it mattered. I whispered a quiet thank you to the mountains and myself.
The descent to Siagoru at 12,900 feet was easier, but I did not want the feeling to fade. That night, our tents were surrounded by snow, and I slept with joy in my heart.
Descent and a Dream Lake
The next morning, we began our final trek down to Chatru at 11,000 feet. The landscape had shifted dramatically from barren and dusty hills to green valleys. It was as if we had entered a new world.
Our feet were tired and our knees sore, but the reward was a drive to the mystical Chandratal Lake. The road was rough and the journey was bumpy, but the moment we reached the lake, everything else faded.
Chandratal Lake was still, blue, and reflected the sky. It reflected every emotion I could not say out loud.
I walked to its edge, took off my shoes, and dipped my fingers into the freezing water. It was a promise to myself to let go and live fully.
We camped under a galaxy of stars that night and soaked into the sound of the wind whispering through the valley.
A Tunnel and a Return Changed
We drove back to Manali via the Atal Tunnel. As the vehicle wound through the curves and the silence of the mountains grew distant, something inside me shifted.
I had started this journey feeling lost, unsure, and tired. But somewhere between Jobra and Chandratal, I found my own resilience.
The trek was tough, the nights were cold, and the trails were definitely unpredictable. But it reminded me that I could carry my own weight.
As we neared civilization, my phone lit up with notifications. I smiled, but this time, I did not rush to respond.
Because the mountain had taught me something important: The world can wait. But your peace cannot!
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