Kuari Pass Trek: A Journey Beyond the Summit

The Kuari Pass Trek in Uttarakhand has long been hailed for its grandeur—the majestic Himalayas stretching across the horizon, the serenity of oak forests, and the vast meadows that unfold before your eyes. The sight of Mt. Nanda Devi, so rare and beautiful, never fails to captivate the soul. Every day on the trail feels like a fresh adventure, a story waiting to unfold, making this trek unforgettable.

October vs. January: A Tale of Two Treks

I’ve walked the Kuari Pass trail twice now. The first time, in October, I pushed through the challenges— sleepless nights, mild AMS, and the altitude—without hesitation. I completed the entire trek with confidence. The summit, though tough, felt like a natural destination. It was just what you did when you trekked, and I did it.

But January? That was different. Same path, yet an entirely different journey. This time, the cold dropped to a bone-chilling -20°C, but that wasn’t the real struggle. The real shift happened inside me. The summit no longer seemed like the goal. This trek was less about reaching the peak and more about confronting my own expectations, about finding the strength to step back.

A Choice That Shaped Everything

Summiting has always been my focus. It was always the endgame—the goal that defined the trek. No matter what, you pushed through.

Then, summit day came in January. I woke up ready, until just before the final push when my period arrived. Suddenly, I was standing at a crossroads: should I power through and summit, or listen to my body? I’d pushed through pain before—I knew I could do it again. But did I really want to?

For the first time, I chose to stop. Not because I couldn’t summit, but because I questioned the “why” of it all. The trail offered little cover—no large rocks, no dense trees—and I knew that my constant bathroom breaks would make things more difficult. Plus, the cramps and heavy bleeding on the first two days would make it harder to keep up. If I pushed through, I might make myself sick, and the last day would be even harder. I could endure one day of discomfort, but would I regret it?

I imagined myself reflecting after the trek. If I pushed through and felt miserable on the summit, would I still feel proud? I realized that if I forced myself, I’d spend the entire time just wishing for it to end. And that’s not how I wanted my trek to be remembered.

It was a strange feeling—almost like betraying everything I’d believed about trekking. I felt weak, unworthy. It didn’t help that I was the least fit in my group. Athletes and fitness enthusiasts surrounded me, all of them powering through effortlessly while I struggled to keep up on even the easy days.

I cried. Not because of physical exhaustion, but because of the vulnerability that washed over me. It was hard to admit that sometimes, you have to choose something other than summiting. The hardest part wasn’t the trek; it was allowing myself the grace to stop.

Strength in Vulnerability

My trek leader was incredible. She was the first woman to lead a trek I’d joined, and her presence was empowering. She saw me—not as weak or less, but as someone who needed to prioritize her well-being. She didn’t make me feel bad for choosing not to summit. Instead, she made me feel understood.

On the trail, I spent hours alone, simply absorbing the vastness of the mountains around me. The silence, both comforting and unnerving, allowed me to reflect deeply. Without the summit in sight, I realized I didn’t need it. I discovered a different kind of strength—the kind that comes from choosing yourself.

A Small Gesture with Big Impact

Before the trek, I had packed sweet boxes—Mysore Pak—for the kitchen team, the unsung heroes who work tirelessly at every camp. They don’t trek with us, but they provide everything we need—hot food, clean tents, warm water. We thank them, but how often do we give back?

The smiles I received when I handed over the sweet boxes left a lasting impression. The kitchen team’s gratitude was palpable, a simple yet profound exchange that reminded me how small acts of kindness can make the biggest difference.

Solving an Old Puzzle

Sleep on treks has always been a challenge for me. With sinusitis, shoulder pain, and claustrophobia, my nights are often filled with anxiety and restless tossing. I would wake up in panic, convinced I was suffocating in my sleeping bag. The sensation of the bag pressing against my face in the darkness often left me gasping for air.

But this time, I tried something different. I approached my anxiety step by step. When panic began to rise, I reminded myself to breathe deeply. I kept the red light of my headlamp on, offering me a sense of safety. If the suffocating sensation returned, I’d unzip the bag just enough to breathe in the cool night air. This ritual—breathing, reassuring myself, slowly learning to let go—worked. For the first time, I slept. Not perfectly, but peacefully enough to feel a sense of accomplishment.

And then, my husband pointed out something I hadn’t realized: this was the first winter trek where I didn’t get cold or sick. Despite the frigid temperatures, I had remained healthy. No frostbite. No AMS. Just me, standing strong in the cold.

The Sweetness of the Journey

The sweetness of these memories lingers, not just from the Mysore Pak, but from the lessons that stay with me long after the trek has ended. The mountains, the people, the quiet choices—they all remain etched in my heart.

One day, the names of these treks and the faces I’ve met will blur. But I hope I never forget this feeling—the sacred, inexplicable connection to the mountains, to myself, and to the kindness that often goes unnoticed.

For now, I pause. Not because I’ve lost the desire to summit, but because I’ve realized that the journey itself matters. The moments in between—the choices, the gestures, the realizations—those are what stay with us the longest. And those are the moments worth treasuring.