There’s a moment I return to often—not because it was dramatic, but because it stripped me of every idea I had about strength.
The Bhrigu Lake trek wasn’t supposed to be hard.
The trail notes called it “moderate.” No death-defying ledges. No ice patches. Just a soft, promising trail through pine forests and wide-open meadows. I packed light—on gear and on expectations.
But altitude doesn’t care what you pack.
Somewhere after the first climb, my breath tightened. Not tired-tight. Something-is-off tight. My legs dragged. My thoughts looped. Everyone else moved with rhythm. I, meanwhile, moved with doubt.
I did what I usually do when things start to fray—tighten the straps, smile a bit harder, don’t let anyone see you struggling. I wasn’t scared of collapsing. I was scared of being seen when I did.
But the mountain doesn’t care how you look.
And neither does your body.
The Mist Knew Before I Did
By late afternoon, the trail led us into thick mist. The kind that makes you quiet. Rain clouds had swallowed the meadows whole. Every footstep landed with a wet hush. Visibility: maybe five steps ahead.
Then the fog began to lift.
First slowly, then suddenly—like the mountain was parting a curtain just for us. Out of the white came motion. A herd. Strong legs. Glistening coats. Thick manes.
Wild horses.
Not running. Not grazing. Just walking—like they were born of the mountain, stitched from its breath. There were maybe a dozen of them, emerging in slow motion across an emerald meadow that shimmered like it had just been unwrapped.
I stopped.
Something inside me did too. There was nothing performative about their presence. They didn’t care who we were. They weren’t impressed. They weren’t afraid. They just were.
And for the first time that day, so was I.
What Cracked Open on the Climb
By the time we reached the final stretch toward the lake, I was spent. No tears. Just quiet collapse. Not defeat, but surrender.
I stopped trying to “manage” the trek.
I let it carry me instead.
My breath was still heavy. My shoulders sore. But the pretending had fallen off somewhere along the ridge, and in its place was something I hadn’t expected: relief. Not because the trail got easier. But because I stopped resisting it.
When we finally returned to camp after summit day, I dropped into my tent and passed out for an hour. Altitude had hit me hard—nausea, pounding head, the full package. And still, underneath all of that, I felt strangely clear. Like the mountain had squeezed something out of me that I didn’t need to carry anymore.
The Yaks Came With the Evening Light
After that short, exhausted nap, I crawled out of the tent for tea—still dazed, a little hungover from the altitude. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden glaze over the campsite. I took my cup and stood outside, half-awake.
And that’s when we saw them.
Yaks. Large, regal, grazing at a distance—slow-moving shadows against the green. One of them started walking toward camp, closer than expected. He looked different, heavier-coated, deeper eyes. “Different breed,” our guide said. More wild, more majestic.
Snowy, our camp dog, went charging toward them in full protector mode, barking like he could take them down. The yak stood its ground for a second—completely unbothered—then turned away without haste.
It didn’t feel like a wildlife sighting.
It felt like a visit.
And again, something shifted.
The same way the horses had emerged from the mist earlier that day, these yaks showed up in stillness, just when I’d let my guard down. As if the mountain was slowly introducing me to its real residents, one layer at a time.
Not when I was climbing.
Not when I was trying.
But when I was finally quiet enough to notice.
What the Mountain Gave Me
That yak’s gaze has stayed with me longer than the lake. Longer than the summit. Longer than the climb itself.
It reminded me that I didn’t have to prove anything. Not to the group. Not to the guide. Not even to the mountain.
I just had to move honestly.
One step. Then another.
Then another.
Because here’s what I know now:
You don’t climb a mountain to conquer it.
You climb it to remember how small you are.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the mountain lets you pass—
Not because you were strong.
But because you were finally real.
And that—more than any summit—is what stays with you.
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