Dragged to the Valley of Gods: How I Survived Har Ki Dun Trek

Hiking: Expectation vs. My Sweaty Reality.

For a lot of people, hiking is like hitting a reset button. You know the vibe: escape the daily chaos, switch off your brain, touch some grass, and just… exist.

But for me? Nope.

There was no "finding myself" on that mountain. No deep thoughts or life-changing epiphanies. Just nonstop effort. To be honest, it felt less like a vacation and more like a punishment I paid for.

The Kidnapping. It started on a random morning walk with Anand (aka Andy) and Tejas (aka Teja). Out of nowhere, they announced we are planning a trek. And since I happened to be walking right next to them, they decided I was coming too. No discussion, no permission, no vote. Just like that, I was signed up.

This was back in June, targeting a September trip. For months, I just nodded along while Andy was way too hyped. Every week he’d call: "Let’s go, it’ll be fun!" Meanwhile, my brain was fighting a civil war—one side whispering "Yolo," the other screaming "NOOO."

But Andy’s persistence is a force of nature. The "Yes" eventually won.

The Destination: Har Ki Dun. We locked in Har Ki Dun, tucked away in Uttarakhand. It’s often called the Valley of Gods—and honestly? That name makes total sense once you’re standing there.

Imagine wide, rolling green meadows and ancient wooden villages that look straight out of a postcard (or a movie set). You’ve got rivers casually flowing right next to you as you walk, and massive mountains just vibing in the background. It is undeniably stunning.

The Verdict. Here’s the best part: You don’t need to be a hardcore athlete for this. If you can walk, complain a little, take "photo breaks" (aka catching your breath), and keep moving—you’re good.

It’s the ideal spot for first-timers, lazy trekkers (no judgment here), and anyone who wants that massive Himalayan experience without turning it into a survival mission.

When to go?

• April to June: Think lush greens, fresh vibes, and flowers everywhere.

• September to December: Crisp air, clear skies, autumn colors, and maybe some snow.

The Prep: Pretending We Knew What We Were Doing.

Preparing for Har Ki Dun isn’t as dramatic as people make it sound. This isn’t Everest. We didn't need oxygen cylinders or monk-level discipline—just some basic effort and a little common sense.

1. Fitness (The Bare Minimum Edition). If you can:

• Walk for 45–60 minutes without feeling like you’re dying.

• Climb stairs without stopping to "admire the view" every 5 steps.

Congrats. You’re halfway there. Ideally, you should jog or do some cardio a few weeks before. But let’s be real: most of us just promise to train, then show up relying entirely on adrenaline and regret.

2. Gear: Shoes > Everything. Clothing is negotiable. Shoes are not. Do not bring brand-new, fresh-out-of-the-box shoes unless blisters and pain are part of your personality. Break them in before you go.

3. Backpack Logic Rule of thumb: If you think you might need it—you probably won’t.

• Pack this: Warm layers (it gets cold fast), rain jacket (mountain weather loves drama), and snacks you actually like (energy bars get sad after Day 3).

• Ditch this: Extra jeans, "just in case" fashion outfits, and anything you’ll curse at while dragging it uphill.

4. The Decathlon Pilgrimage. Teja and I decided to go shopping way in advance. Naturally, we went to Decathlon. The security lady welcomed us with a very Indian Namaste—hands folded, almost like she knew we were first-timers about to buy way more useless stuff than necessary.

And we delivered. Teja and I bought the exact same shoes and the exact same hiking pants (different sizes, obviously—Teja is the slim one). We bought quick-dry tees and a bunch of accessories we definitely didn't need.

Meanwhile, Andy? Andy just decided to wear his regular track pants and rent shoes at the base camp. Smart guy. Less luggage, less stress, and clearly way more confidence than the rest of us.

5. Meds & Mental Prep. Since Andy is a doctor, he sent me a precise list of medicines. Since I am lazy, I forwarded that list to my pharmacy guy. By evening, the kit was at my door.

Efficiency level: Expert.

Mentally, you just need to prepare for three things:

1. Walking slower than your ego wants to.

2. Plans changing (because they will).

3. No Network. It feels scary for the first hour, and then oddly peaceful. By Day 2, you won’t even remember you own a phone.

6. Making it Official. We booked our flights (no turning back now) and, crucially, booked a personal trek guide. We didn't want the chaos of a massive group; we wanted flexibility and fewer whistles.

Families were informed (and told not to panic). Friends were informed (and told to hype us up).

And just like that, what started as a casual morning walk threat was now a locked-and-loaded plan. Next stop: Dehradun.

Day 1: The Endless Commute (Mumbai to Sankri).

It was always going to be a long day. The kind where your body is moving across the country, but your brain is still buffering in bed.

The Math (That Nobody Asked For)

• Flight (Mumbai → Dehradun): 2.5 hours.

• Airport Reality Tax: Double that time for check-in, security, walking, and waiting.

• Car (Dehradun → Sankri): 8 hours (on paper).

• Lunch + Chai + "Bio Breaks": A casual 2 hours.

• Total: A full-day commitment with zero cancellation policy.

The False Confidence. We started at 5:00 AM. Andy arranged a driver who heroically got us to the airport by 6:30 AM. We were awake, functioning, and dangerously optimistic.

Priority 1? Free food. We hit the lounge immediately. Because nothing says "preparing for a physical challenge" like stuffing yourself with complimentary breakfast.

Naturally, the universe balanced things out by delaying our 8:30 AM flight. When we finally boarded, Andy—channeling peak post-COVID vibes—asked for a face shield. Safety first, even if he looked like he was prepping for surgery.

The Road Trip: A Test of Friendship and Neck Muscles. We landed in Dehradun airport at 11:00 AM, grabbed our bags, and found our driver. No sightseeing. Straight to the car. At first, the drive is a lie wrapped in greenery. Flat roads. Smooth tarmac. Teja and I were chatting away in the 2nd row seat like we were on a European holiday, while Andy was fully engaged in an interrogation-level conversation with the driver.

Three hours in, we stopped for lunch. Good views, hot food. We genuinely thought, "Hey, this isn't so bad."

Cute.

The Twist (Literally). Post-lunch, the mountains arrived—and so did the turns. Sharp ones. Endless ones. The kind where your body stays in the car, but your soul leans dangerously toward the valley.

The conversation died instantly. One person grabbed the front seat handle. Another stared silently out the window, re-evaluating their life choices.

Then came the landslides. Our driver, completely unfazed, simply said: "Ye to hota rehta hai." (Translation: Relax, rocks falling is a lifestyle here.) Great. Love that energy.

As the road narrowed, the driver started overtaking on blind curves like it was a casual Sunday hobby. Meanwhile, I was doing mental math: "If the car slips… do I have time to scream, or should I just stay dignified?"

Arrival: Sankri. By evening, our necks were sore from the G-force, and our enthusiasm had been replaced by a grim silence. And then—Sankri.

Cold air. Quiet streets. Massive mountains. We stepped out with shaky legs—not from trekking, but from being folded into car seats like origami for 10 hours.

The Meet-Cute (Trek Edition). Before the chaos started, we finally met our guide (Sashank) face-to-face. He introduced us to the rest of our squad: Siddharth (aka Sid) and Amod. So now, it wasn't just the three of us. We were a team of five, all ready to question our fitness levels together.

We dumped our bags at a small homestay and headed straight for dinner. Simple dal, rice, sabzi. Honestly? It tasted like luxury.

By the time we hit the beds, sleep attacked instantly. Long journey, thin mountain air, and 8°C outside—the perfect combo for unconsciousness.

Day 1: Done. Trek status: Loading...

Day 2: The Actual Trek Begins (Sankri to Seema)

Technically, Day 2 was supposed to be a trek. In reality, it began with paperwork, poor decisions, and mild terror.

Step 1: The Point of No Return. Before we took a single step, our guide made one thing clear: this wasn’t a park. We were entering deep forest territory.

• No Network.

• No Shops.

• No "I'll just call my mom" option.

Basically, once we crossed that checkpoint, it was just us and our questionable life choices. Our guide registered our IDs (mostly so they’d know how many humans went in vs. how many came out). That’s when it hits you: "Okay… this is serious now."

Step 2: The Jeep Ride (A Series of Bad Decisions). To get to the starting point (Taluka), we had to take a jeep. We saw an open jeep. We saw the roof. We saw "Adventure." Without thinking twice (or even once), all three of us climbed onto the roof.

Sid joined us because, clearly, stupidity is contagious.

For the first 500 meters, life was great. Wind in our hair, mountains all around. Main Character Energy: Unlocked.

Then reality arrived. This wasn't a road. It was a suggestion of a path carved into a cliff.

• To our right: A narrow dirt track.

• To our left: A steep drop straight into the valley.

• The Mantra: "DO NOT look down. If you look down, you are dead."

• The Result: Naturally, we all looked down.

Just to add flavor, we hit a landslide that blocked the road. We had to hop off, carry our backpacks, tents, gas cylinders, and dignity across the debris, and load ourselves into another jeep. Everyone helped everyone. No complaints. Just quiet teamwork and a shared goal: Reach Taluka alive.

Step 3: Taluka (Where the Road Ends). We finally reached Taluka. It has that specific mountain village vibe—kids running around, locals chilling outside wooden homes, and the Supin River flowing loud enough to drown out city noise. No cafés. No distractions. Just the quiet realization that your phone is now an expensive paperweight.

We offloaded the heavy gear onto the khachars (the true MVPs of the mountain—a sturdy mix of horse and donkey). Our guide gave us the Golden Advice: "Don’t rush. Walk slow. And if you fall behind, shout."

Step 4: The Walk (Confidence vs. Reality). The trail started gently—almost suspiciously so. Wide paths, sunlight filtering through pine forests, wooden bridges... it was cinematic. For the first hour, we were energetic, clicking photos, and telling each other, "This is easy, yaar."

The mountains love that kind of confidence. Gradually, the incline started. Nothing brutal, but enough to remind you that altitude isn't free. Conversations died down. Breathing got louder. "Photo breaks" increased—mostly because we needed to disguise the fact that we were gasping for air.

The Reality Check. Lunch was a simple affair on some rocks (Dal-Chawal never tasted so good), but by 3 PM, the fatigue hit me like a truck. My legs were heavy. My pace dropped. Andy stayed back with me. Then Teja swapped in. The sun was setting, the woods were getting dark, and the risk of wild animals (or just tripping) was getting real.

We were far behind the group. Suddenly, out of the darkness, our khachar man appeared. He had come back for us. Without a word, he grabbed my bag: "Sir aap chalo, main le leta hoon." That small act of kindness? It meant everything.

End of Day 2: Cold, Cramped, Content. We stumbled into Seema in the dark. We couldn't see the village, just a few faint lights across the river. Tents were up. Dinner was ready. Vegetable Maggi. I don’t care what Michelin star food you’ve eaten—nothing beats hot Maggi when you’re freezing at 3°C.

The Sleeping Arrangement: Andy, Teja, and I squeezed into one tent. Sashank, Sid and Amod in another. It was basically human Tetris. If one person moved, the other two had to adjust. Comfort was optional. Warmth was negotiable.

We lay down, legs aching, minds calm, with the mountains quietly doing their thing outside.

Day 2: Done. Trek status: Real.

Day 3: The Climb (Seema to Kalkatiyadhar)

After a few hours of sleep (and I use the word sleep very loosely), we woke up to proper mountain cold. The kind where stepping out of your sleeping bag feels like a personal betrayal. Hands moved slowly. Legs took time to cooperate. Even my thoughts needed a warm-up.

The View: Worth the Wake-Up. By 6 AM, the sun was up, and for the first time, we could actually see where we were. We were at the Forest Rest House, the gateway to the Himalayas. Across the river sat Osla village, perched dramatically on the mountainside. It looked timeless—wooden houses stacked neatly, a temple standing guard, and smoke rising gently from chimneys. It was the kind of view that makes you forget, just for a second, that you have to walk away from it.

Morning Routine (Mountain Edition). Freshening up was quick. No baths—just brushing teeth, splashing freezing water on your face, and changing clothes. You learn quickly that hygiene here is less about "looking good" and more about "fresh inners and socks."

Tea arrived. Lifesaving.

Breakfast followed. Functional.

Then came the strategy meeting. Andy, Teja, and I looked at our backpacks. We looked at the mountain. We looked at each other. We made the executive decision: Hire the mules. We handed our bags to the khachars and paid extra. Some might call it laziness; I call it preserving my will to live. Pride can wait; knees come first.

The Trail: Straight Up, No Pleasantries. The trek started with a swinging bridge. Not terrifying, but cool enough to make you pause and think, "Okay, this is happening."

And then… The Climb. No gentle warmup. No "ease into it." Just straight up. Our guide looked at me, calm as a monk, and said: "Sir, this is the only steep climb for today. After this, it’s easy."

That sentence carried hope. (Spoiler: It was mostly true, but "easy" is a relative term). Breathing went from normal to very noticeable in minutes. Conversations died. Everyone slipped into silent trekking mode—boots on dirt, heavy breaths, and the occasional internal pep talk.

The good news?

Today wasn’t a long day. We had covered most of the distance the previous day.

The Forest & The "Flexing" River. I was slower than the group, so I told them to go ahead. The trail wound through dense pine and oak forests. It was shady, cool, and slightly eerie in a cinematic way. Sunlight filtered through in patches, making everything look like a movie set.

And the Supin River? Still there. Still flexing. It stayed with us deep in the valley—loud, constant, and reassuring. Like background music that never stops.

The Golden Rule of Trekking. The path was filled with twisted tree roots and random rocks. This stretch taught me the most important rule of the mountains:

• Look down while walking.

• Look up only when stopped. Try to do both, and you will faceplant.

Arrival: Kalkatiyadhar. By afternoon, we faced one final test: a narrow turn where only one person could walk at a time, with a steep valley dropping away beside you.

• Scary? Yes.

• Character-building? Definitely.

And then—Kalkatiyadhar opened up. A wide, open meadow. Mountains all around. Grasslands stretching endlessly. No village. No houses. Just tents, wind, and silence. Dropping here felt like winning a battle. My legs were shaky and my shoulders were sore, but the satisfaction was unreal.

Evening Vibes. As the sun dipped, the temperature crashed. Jackets came out. Our guide lit a fire. We gathered around it—music playing softly, rum making its rounds, and woodsmoke doing its best to keep us warm.

Dinner was warm, simple, and deeply comforting. After that, conversations faded. One by one, people crawled into their tents, listening to the wind outside and replaying the day in their heads.

The Night Struggle. Sleeping in a tent is... an experience. We lay there, fully exhausted but somehow wide awake. Every small sound outside felt louder than it should—the wind brushing against the fabric, the distant river, someone shifting in the next tent.

We tried everything. Changing positions. Pulling the bag tighter. Loosening it. Closing eyes extra hard (as if that helps). The cold had settled in properly. Every time one of us turned, the other two felt it—because personal space inside a tent is purely theoretical.

Eventually, we just… lay there. Quiet. Listening. Letting the mountains do their thing while we accepted that rest doesn’t always mean sleep. One thought finally settled in: "Yeah… this is why people do this."

And then, without warning, sleep finally showed up.

Day 3: Done.

Day 4: The Valley (Kalkatiyadhar to Har Ki Dun & Back)

This was The Day. The one you dream about while struggling uphill. The one people show photos of and casually say, "Totally worth it."

Morning: Mountain Luxury. We woke up to a calm, cold morning. The mist hung low, and the campsite felt suspended in time. Sleep had been decent (by tent standards), but the excitement did the real waking up.

Now, about the facilities:

• Andy finished his morning ritual behind Rock A.

• I went behind Rock B.

• Teja took Rock C.

Mountain luxury at its finest. Today was special. We were walking into the Har Ki Dun Valley. Backpacks were lighter—no tents, no heavy loads. Just water, snacks, jackets, and high expectations.

The Deceptive Trail. The trail starts surprisingly easy. Wide paths, gradual ascents, open views. For a brief moment, you think: "Wait, why did everyone say this trek is hard?" The mountains love that thought.

But the landscape here is different. Fewer dense trees, wider meadows, and small streams cutting across the path. You can’t walk fast here. The views constantly force you to stop. We took only one proper break at a waterfall to refill our bottles. The water was ice-cold and ridiculously fresh—the kind that makes you pause and appreciate how simple things hit differently at 11,000 feet.

We continued walking slowly. No rush. Plenty of time. Multiple breaks, endless photos, and a lot of chatter now that excitement had settled in.

The Reveal. And then... it happens. The trees thin out. The trail widens. And suddenly—you’re standing in Har Ki Dun Valley.

Massive open meadows stretch endlessly. Snow-capped peaks rise dramatically on all sides. The Supin River flows gently here, calm and steady, like it knows it belongs exactly where it is.

For a few moments, nobody spoke. Photos happened, of course—but slowly. You walk around aimlessly, unsure where to look first. This isn’t the kind of place that hits you instantly. It settles in slowly. You find a spot, sit down, take off your backpack, and just… exist.

The Celebration. This is why all the pain, the doubt, and the 5 AM alarms make sense. We didn't just smile. Andy, Teja, and I literally jumped around like kids who had just unlocked the final level of a video game.

We spent a long time there. Eating snacks that tasted way better than they should. Asking the guide about the peaks.

The Blessing. We spotted a Shivalinga. It’s one thing to see a temple in a city, but seeing the Shivalinga there, sitting quietly amidst those massive peaks, felt different. It grounded us. It’s not called the Valley of Gods for nothing. In that moment, surrounded by silence and snow, we felt genuinely blessed.

The Goodbye. Leaving was hard. Actually, it was heartbreaking. We were emotional. We desperately wanted to stay back—maybe just pitch a tent and live there for a while—but the mountains run on their own clock. Our guide gently reminded us that we had to return before darkness hit.

So, we took a few final photos—not just for social media, but for our own memories. Just a few frozen moments to prove to our future selves that, yes, we were actually here.

The Return. Leaving was hard. The walk back to Kalkatiyadhar started reluctantly. The same trail felt longer now. Descents hit muscles we didn’t even know existed. Conversations returned in bits—short, quiet, content.

Somewhere along the way, we turned around one last time. The valley was still there. Calm. Unbothered. Eternal. And it hit us: "This place will exist long after we leave—and that’s okay."

Evening: Job Done. Back at camp, the vibe was different. Lighter. We dropped our bags with satisfaction. Dinner tasted better. Laughter came quicker. There was no anxiety about the next day—just the calm happiness of having reached the goal.

As we crawled into our tents, muscles aching but minds peaceful, one thought stayed with us: "No picture will ever explain this… and that’s okay."

You don’t come to the mountains to explain them. You come to feel them.

Day 5: The Way Back (Kalkatiyadhar to Taluka)

Leaving Kalkatiyadhar felt strangely harder than reaching it. The mountains were the same. The trail was the same. But we weren’t.

The Post-Summit Blues. We woke up knowing the main event was behind us. We had seen the valley. We had stood there, felt it, lived it. Everything after this was technically just a commute back. But emotionally? Nobody was ready to check out.

Packing up tents was quieter than usual. No jokes. No rush. Just long looks at the mountains—as if we were trying to JPEG them into our brains permanently. We loaded the backpacks onto the khachars (still the single best financial decision of this trip), had one final tea, and started walking down.

The Descent: Gravity vs. Knees. Walking downhill should be easier. In theory. In reality, gravity hates your knees. Every step reminded us of the effort our bodies had put in over the last four days. But the trail felt familiar now. Comforting, even. We passed the same forests and bends, but the urgency to take photos was gone. We were just walking... absorbing.

A Detour Through Time: Osla. On the way up, we rushed past Osla. On the way down, we walked through it. Perched dramatically on the mountainside, Osla feels like a movie set from 100 years ago. Wooden houses stacked tightly, narrow stone paths, and an ancient temple standing like a silent guardian at the top.

The houses are built to survive brutal winters, and you can feel the history just by touching the wood. Kids peeked out curiously. Elders sat in the sun, offering effortless smiles. Osla teaches you something without trying:

• Life doesn’t need to be fast to be full.

• Simplicity isn’t a lack of something—it’s a choice.

• Warmth doesn’t come from heaters; it comes from people.

The Twist: When Things Got Real. Just before lunch, the mood shifted. Sid complained of severe knee pain. Within minutes, he couldn’t walk. He sat down on the trail, pain clearly written all over his face.

Amod, who was behind him, helped him limp to the lunch spot. Andy went into Doctor Mode. He checked the knee and confirmed the fear: A ligament tear. That meant one thing: Sid couldn’t walk normally anymore. And we were miles from the road. No mules available. No helicopter. Just us.

Without hesitation, Sid stood up. "I will walk." Amod instantly volunteered to stay back and support him. So we split up. Andy and Teja moved fast. The guide and I held a steady pace. Far behind, Sid and Amod walked slowly, one painful step at a time. That was friendship—raw, unspoken, unquestionable.

Taluka: Civilization & A Curveball. By late evening, civilization crept back in. Clearer trails. More people. We reached Taluka, expecting to hop into a jeep and head to a hotel in Sankri. Fate had other ideas.

A bridge ahead had collapsed due to ongoing work. Walking further in the dark was unsafe. We were stuck. Our guide managed to get us rooms at the Forest Rest House in Taluka. It wasn't the plan, but it was a roof.

The Long Night. Sid was in bad shape. The pain was severe, and he was sick through the night. Nobody slept properly. Every time he woke up, we were awake with him—helpless, worried, and just hoping the night would end. It was a stark reminder that the mountains are beautiful, but they don't care about your comfort.

The Takeaway. As we lay there, exhausted and worried, we realized we were heading back with:

• Fewer photos than planned.

• Dirtier clothes than expected.

• Memories heavier than our backpacks.

The mountains didn’t give us answers or change our lives overnight. They simply gave us space—to breathe, to struggle, to support each other, and to learn what truly matters. And honestly? That was more than enough.

Day 6: The Return to Noise (Taluka → Sankri → Mussoorie)

The day began at Taluka—slow, quiet, and heavy. Not because of tired legs (those were already numb to the pain), but because we knew this was the end. Taluka was the last checkpoint of raw trekking life. Roads began here. So did reality.

The Last Walk (and Sid’s VIP Ride). We left early. Since the bridge ahead was broken, our jeep couldn't reach us. We had to walk about 2 km to the pickup point.

• The Team: Sashank, Amod, Andy, Teja, and I walked.

• The VIP: Sid, given his knee situation, was mounted onto a khachar (mule). Honestly, he looked like a wounded war hero returning home.

The walk wasn’t difficult—wide paths, no brutal climbs, just a gentle stroll through the greenery. In no time, the broken bridge appeared, and on the other side, our chariot (a battered jeep) was waiting.

Sankri: The Circle Closes. We loaded ourselves into the jeep—bodies sore, hearts full, eyes still searching for mountains even as the road curved away. The drive back to Sankri felt shorter. Not because the road had changed, but because we had. The bends were familiar now. The deep valleys didn’t scare us anymore. Even the silence inside the vehicle felt comfortable.

Sankri appeared like an old friend. A place that once marked the start of our anxiety now felt grounding. We grabbed breakfast (hot food just tastes better after a trek) and said our goodbyes. The group split here—but for Andy, Teja, and me, the trip wasn’t quite over yet. Since we had finished the trek a day early (efficiency level: expert), we decided to take a detour.

Next stop: Mussoorie.

Known as the "Queen of the Hills," Mussoorie is a popular hill station in Uttarakhand, located about 35 kilometers from Dehradun. Perched at an average altitude of 2,000 meters in the Garhwal Himalayan foothills, it is famous for its colonial heritage, scenic viewpoints, and pleasant summer climate.

The Descent into Civilization. As the altitude dropped, so did the peace.

• Network bars: Returned.

• Phones: Buzzed back to life.

• Notifications: Flooded in.

And yet, none of it felt urgent. We made the mandatory "We are alive" calls home, and then ignored the rest. Somewhere along the way, trekking shoes were swapped for slippers, jackets were unzipped, and conversations shifted back to "normal" life.

Mussoorie: The Culture Shock. By the time Mussoorie appeared, it felt overwhelming. Bright lights. Honking cars. Tourists in clean clothes.

• From river sounds → to traffic noise.

• From stars → to streetlights.

• From "Namaste" → to "Excuse me."

Mussoorie gave us comfort—warm beds, proper bathrooms with actual plumbing, and food options that went beyond Maggi and Dal. We walked the Mall Road, surrounded by laughter and music. It was lively, sure... but it felt strangely distant. We were there, but our heads were still stuck somewhere between Osla and Kalkatiyadhar.

The Last Supper. We ate like we hadn't seen food in years. We hogged. We ordered everything. With our stomachs full, we headed back to the hotel.

That night, lying in a proper bed with a thick mattress, sleep came easily. But honestly? It didn’t feel as earned as it did inside a cramped tent at 3°C.

Day 6: The Slow Fade (Mussoorie to Dehradun)

Letting the mountains slowly loosen their grip. The drive from Mussoorie to Dehradun is short on Google Maps—but emotionally, it feels like the final step back into reality.

We left Mussoorie as the hill station was just waking up. Shops pulling up shutters. Tourists hunting for chai. The air was cool, but no longer biting. It was comfortable, which was suspicious.

The Descent. The road wound downward gently. With every turn, the mountains started to feel… distant. Not gone—just quieter. The forests thinned out. The bends got wider. Traffic increased. It’s strange how quickly things switch. Just 48 hours ago, the only sound was the river. Now? Horns. Conversations from passing cars. Network bars showing up at full strength, acting like they never left.

We mostly stared out of the window. Not for the views, but because we were mentally replaying the highlight reel:

• The freezing morning at Osla.

• The struggle to Kalkatiyadhar.

• The silence of Har Ki Dun.

• That one moment where quitting felt easier than moving.

Arrival: Dehradun. As Dehradun came into view, the valley flattened out. Buildings replaced trees. The Himalayas stood far behind us now, watching quietly like they always do. This drive didn’t feel like travel. It felt like closure.

We checked into Hotel JSR Continental by noon. A proper hotel. Thick mattresses. Room service. We spent the day "exploring" the city, which mostly meant eating good food and convincing our legs that they didn't need to climb anything tomorrow.

Day 7: Back to the Chaos (Dehradun to Mumbai)

Day 7 arrived quietly. No 5 AM alarms. No "pack your bags now" panic. Just the heavy understanding that this was the last page of the journey.

We left for the airport by noon. The drive felt routine, but every now and then, one of us would look out the window, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the hills.

The Airport Reality Check. At the airport, the world moved fast again. Check-ins. Security pat-downs. Boarding announcements. Screens flashing destinations. It felt strange—how easily the world functions without knowing what you’ve just been through. You feel like you’ve conquered a planet, but to everyone else, you’re just Seat 14B.

The Flight & The Shift. As the flight took off, the mountains slowly disappeared beneath the clouds. No dramatic goodbye. No final wave. Just a quiet fade-out. Somewhere at 30,000 feet, it hit us: The trek was over. Not just the place—but that version of us. The version that woke up to cold mornings, shared tiny tents, walked slowly, and depended on each other without question.

Hello, Mumbai. And then—Mumbai. Lights everywhere. Traffic visible from the air. Endless movement. The city welcomed us back exactly the way it always does—loud, fast, humid, and unapologetic.

Stepping out of the airport felt surreal.

• Clothes: Clean.

• Air: Warm.

• Phones: Buzzing nonstop.

• People: Rushing with purpose.

Mumbai hadn’t changed. But we had. The mountains didn’t make grand promises or dramatic transformations. They simply slowed us down long enough to remind us what mattered—friendship, patience, and the joy of moving one step at a time.

That night, sleeping in my own bed felt comfortable… but unfamiliar. No wind against the tent. No river in the background. No shared exhaustion.

Yet, somewhere between the noise and the ceiling fan, one thought stayed steady: You don’t leave the mountains behind. You just learn to carry them quietly back into everyday life.

And just like that, the journey ended. But the story? That stays.

Conclusion: What We Brought Back (Besides Dirty Laundry)

Looking back, Har Ki Dun wasn’t just a walk. It was a reset. We went looking for views, but standing there in the cold, we realized we were coming back with something else entirely. The mountains quietly taught us three things that city life often makes us forget:

1. Friendship (The Real Kind). You never leave a friend behind on the trail. In the city, "staying connected" means tagging someone in a meme or sending a text. Here, it meant slowing down when someone was tired. It meant waiting in the dark. It meant that when one of us got hurt, the rest of us adjusted the plan without a second thought. There is no network here, but the connection is stronger than 5G.

2. Space (Defining "Enough"). Even a small tent feels like enough when you’re happy. We spend so much time in the real world wanting more—bigger rooms, better cars, more stuff. Yet, squeezed into a tiny tent with three grown men, trying to play human Tetris just to fit in a sleeping bag, we were laughing. We didn't need luxury; we just needed warmth and company.

3. Help (The Kindness of Strangers). In the mountains, help always finds you when you need it. Whether it was the khachar man coming back for me when I was struggling in the dark, or Amod helping Sid walk down with an injured knee, help here isn't a transaction. It’s a reflex. People here don't ask "what's in it for me"—they just ask "are you okay?"

The Final Verdict. Will I do it again? My legs say absolutely not. My brain says maybe next year. But my heart? It’s already looking at dates.

If you’re thinking about it—just go. Let your friends drag you. Let the cold humble you. Let the lack of oxygen remind you that you're alive. You might hate the climb, but I promise: You will love the story.

Final Words from Wanderlust Foodies

We usually travel for the food, but this time, the mountains were the main course.

If there’s one thing this trip taught us, it’s that the best meal isn’t found in a fancy restaurant—it’s a bowl of hot Maggi eaten at 11,000 feet after your legs have almost given up.

If we (three reluctant, slightly lazy, and definitely over-packed friends) can make it to the Valley of Gods and back, so can you. The world is too big to see through a phone screen, and the best stories are found where the network ends.

So pack your bags, ignore the fear, and go find your mountain.

Until the next adventure (or the next meal), Keep Wandering, Keep Eating.