A Lonely Trek Through McLeod Ganj...
|By Aayushi Jain|
The journey began at an ordinary trailhead in the suburb of Dharamshala in Kangra district of Himachal Pradesh, India, It was early July, and the morning sun was very pleasant in this part of the country. I heave up a 14kg Backpack onto my shoulders, paused for a photo, and started walking.
The plan was to trek from McLeod Ganj to Triund which has a steep ascent of over 1,100 meters, it is well-compensated by refreshing walks amongst oak trees, and there is no dearth of eating options on the way. It is a 6.6km path through the Rockies and has the height of 2,827 m. Most of the trail is easy to trek (read on, there is more about this trek), but the air is thin, the danger of lightning strikes is severe, and nighttime temperatures often dip below freezing.
I informed my family about trekking along Triund track, but I had other plans as well, and it was to track multiple treks of longer duration here, namely Indrahar Pass, Minkiani Pass, Kareri Lake and all the way to Kuarsi Pass and Mani-Mahesh. I was trekking alone for the very first time and literally fought with my father to consent me for this trip. I wasn’t sure if I could do it: the longest I’d ever been in the wilderness was a two-night trip near Goa, at Dudh Sagar waterfall and I’d never backpacked solo. I also had a fear of heights.
But I craved an escape from the daily grind of work and life. Since my mother passed away 6 months ago, I’d been unable to shake a sense of emotional emptiness. And though I liked computer science a lot, I wasn’t sure I had chosen the right career.
I read a lot on the internet about people getting over their grief and other addictions by going for a long hike. I figured out that, I, too, might find solace in the wilderness.
So I gave my semester exams (I knew I was going to flunk in most of them) started reading a lot on tips on long-distance hiking, borrowed kindle for books from a friend, and shopped for tracking gear. I bought a tiny green colour tent, a sleeping bag, a new backpack, and a pair of trekking shoes. I packed food with lots of dehydration meals, energy bars to sustain along the trail.
Just before I was leaving home my father started getting words of wisdom from patriarchal relatives for never letting me go on this trek and that I would get a lot of tanning, that I am fair and beautiful and anyone can hurt me (Read rape me) as if women with dark skin (I feel terrible when someone says s/he is not fair, literally boils my blood) don’t get raped. And one of my cousin who sexually assaulted almost all my cousin sisters including me advised my father that: I think she is nuts. She is grown up, and it is too unsafe for Girls to do Traveling alone, he asked my father to accompany me in the wilderness to protect me from wild animals and God knows what all crap my father was told to brainwash him.
And there came this beautiful angel in life, my brother got married to her(lucky him), she helped me to shop, sports innerwear, a pepper spray, a pocket knife, and only thing she questioned me was, 'but won’t you get lonely?'
It was a good question—one that many friends had asked as well.
We are becoming increasingly isolated, and I’m no exception. Just before I turned 17, my mother succumbed to cancer and went to god’s house. Not to say I was alone: I had plenty of friends, a caring significant other, and a wonderful brother. I ran into acquaintances almost every time I went to Delhi, and my work at the British counsel had made me a minor celebrity. But making plans around other people’s packed schedules was often a challenge. And as friends got through college, the pleasant one-on-one conversations I used to share with them, the kinds of conversations where you talk about your life’s challenges together and go home feeling loved—became rare.
It seemed reasonable to assume that trekking alone for 5 days, in areas with no cell phone reception and few other hikers might leave me lonelier than ever, but loneliness and being alone are two different things. During the five days I spent on the trail, I felt less lonely than I have in years.
At home and in college I anticipated regular social interaction. So if someone turned down a movie invitation, or I failed to make plans on a Saturday night, I felt lonely. Smiling selfies that friends posted on Facebook generated a sense of envy. And when peers ate lunch boxes packed by their mothers, when they visited with their parents, the emptiness inside me ached. I wished I could show my mother how much I have transformed after she left me. I missed her stalwart encouragement, and the cards she used to send just to say, I love you.
On the trail, it was different. I knew I was going to be alone, and I wanted to be alone, to have some space to think. I felt no pressure to make any time-based plans about the track, and no self-pity about being myself. On the contrary: I treasured the solitude. I woke up when I wanted to, walked at my own pace, and took breaks when my body demanded, walked at my own pace, and camped when I was tired. In the mornings I woke between 5 am and 6 am and savoured the silence as I watched the red glow of dawn inch it's way over the horizon. And as I walked along with oak trees, met beautiful Tibetan people gazing at elegant peaks, I felt emotionally stronger.
I gazed upon in every direction, mountains rose serenely into the evening light. I thought of my mother and cried quietly, realizing how much she would have loved this spot. I let the tears flow freely, knowing no one was watching. They were tears of sadness, but also tears of gratitude. It seemed so very right to be there, in that beautiful moment, by myself. I was grateful that no one else was around.
Back in the real world, it had been hard to mourn my mother’s death. With so many people around, I felt compelled to appear strong, capable of accepting my loss and moving on. Now, alone in the Mountains, I finally had the space to grieve.
Of course, I did encounter other people, both on the trail and in the night time, my encounters with these people, though often momentary, were unexpectedly rich.
My first day on the trail, I came across a man with grey hair. He told me he was a professional hiker, and only had 1,2000rs to his name. He planned to eat mostly peanut butter and energy bars on the trail because they were cheap.
When our conversation came to end he said “Hey, Be safe, if you need anything then don’t hesitate to ask me. I never met him again—we must have hiked at different speeds but those words by him remained with me on the trail. If something went wrong, you knew someone would be there to lend a hand.
One morning, after a night particularly like the monsoon, dense fog masked whatever views there might have been. If the sun didn’t come out, I’d have to set up a soaking tent, my sleeping bag got wet, and I’d have no way of staying warm. Eventually, I came upon a group of fellow hikers. They sat around a campfire, their wet shoes set up around the fire ring.
All along the trail, conversation flowed easily as we were all sad about the bad weather and broken gear, and joked about the characters we’d met: a fellow hiker not liked any of the arrangements made by the hiking academy, another who stole a bag of chips, another fellow who was from the USA narrated us stories of her one night stands, I laughed harder than I’d laughed in years and felt no signs of estrogen triggering inside asking me for some physical needs, or any signs of my body asking me for yummy food, I never felt like I should wear the right kind of clothes or get myself a shampoo in hairs. I lived on as if no one is judging me.
But there was another reason this experience was so fulfilling: distractions were nonexistent. There were no calls, emails, social networks, text messages to interrupt us; no one was worrying about places they had to be, or things they had to do tomorrow. Some hikers didn’t even bring their cell phones on the trail. And I listened—really listened—to what others had to say. What my true self wanted from life.
A little over five days I was at the end of the trail. I’d made it. A quiet sense of accomplishment went through my spine. I felt calm, tranquil, fulfilled.
The trail had been brutal, difficult, and painful at times. It had tested and wound up me, and I would sometimes wonder why I was putting myself through it. But it had-Filled me inside, my anxiety over my future almost faded, and crucially—for the first time since my mother’s death, I was not lonely.
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