I just came back from the hardest, but most spectacular trek I've ever been to, and there's no better way to end this long spell of blogging dormancy with a post on one of the tallest peaks in South India, standing tall at almost 5800 feet above sea level, Kumara Parvatha.
Of all the peaks of the Western Ghats I've been blessed to visit, none has seemed more daunting and impossible, but more beautiful and majestic than Kumara Parvatha. I had decided to join my friends on the trek only an hour and a half before the train journey to Subrahmanya, the town located on the foothills of the mountain. I stuffed a few clothes, a towel, an umbrella and my headphones, and ran toward the bus stop, and we caught the next bus to Mangalore. We left for Subrahmanya late at night after a horrendous delay at Mangalore's railway station, reached in the wee hours of the morning and spent the night at a lodge near the temple. The next day, a brilliant sunshine and the sacrilegious chaos of devotees greeted us. After a scrumptious breakfast of Masala Dosa, Upma and some coffee, we bought a few more essential supplies like glucose powder, fruits and chocolates, and by 9 AM, we were on our way. A tiny, meandering asphalt road just behind the temple premises lead us to the start of the trek, some 1.2 kilometers from the town. There it was, an innocuous, three foot tall metallic gate painted in green and yellow. Beside it was a notice board confirming the starting point of the trek. A dense canopy beyond the gate looked frightening. I had heard stories about this trek ever since I started the chapter of my life on this side of the Ghats, and here I was, right in front of the gate, about to embark on one of the greatest adventures of my life, and I felt like turning around on my toes and sprinting back to town. Fortunately, friends make things like these a lot less daunting. I took a few steps forward and before I knew it I was already deep inside the forest. I looked back and I couldn't see the gate. It was six kilometers of tropical, murky, humid forests ahead of us. Luckily, the trail was riddled with tiny pebbles and slightly bigger boulders, and losing sight of the path ahead was impossible. About two hours into the trek, we stopped by near a waterfall for a drink, and that's when the trek was put into perspective. Apart from all the accolades the Ghats receive from all over the world, including a UNESCO World Heritage Site tag, there's one problem with this place I've had an issue with since my childhood and have a deep, and scathing hatred for. Leeches. Leeches everywhere. They seem to spring out of no where, it's just ridiculous. One moment you may seem like nothing's wrong with your shoe but a few seconds later there are five or six of these diabolical freaks of nature crawling their way in, through your shoes and socks, piercing your thick skinned legs, and sucking on your blood. When I was twelve I remember seeing four unnaturally large leeches clinging on to my blood-stained feet on another trek in nearby Coorg, and that image flashes before me every time I see leeches. Somehow with great skill I managed to expertly flick them off of my shoes using twigs dangling from a nearby branch. We then decided to quicken our pace, though the trail got steeper and and more jagged. With every step our feet got heavier, our breath thinned down and beads of sweat trickled down our foreheads and into our eyes, burning them. But fear kept us going.
Finally, after three hours of climbing out of the infernal forest, I could see the light. A dazzling blue sky and blinding sunshine tore through the canopy and a vast, green, lush valley welcomed us. After another hour of walking on a grassy trail with a slight ascent, we reached Bhattaru Mane (translates to Bhat's house), a trekker's rest stop. I've never eaten a meal that tasted better than that lunch in his place, after such an exhausting three hours. We then washed our faces, filled our water bottles, freshened up and resumed trekking. The weather was kinder now, thanks to the altitude, almost 2300 feet from above sea level, compared to where we started, which was 300 feet. The mountain was now visible, though clouds smothered its peak, and naturally, we stopped a few times for some pictures. From now on, the trek was steeper, as if it wasn't steep enough, and the trail was even rockier than before, but the views behind us were breathtaking. As every hour passed, we got closer to the peak, At one point, when we looked behind us, there were these gigantic, monstrous monsoon clouds, looming not so far away, making its way toward us and the peak at an alarming pace. Like an enormous blue whale, a few hundred feet away, swimming toward you, somewhere in the depths of the Arctic. It was a spectacular scene, one I will never forget.
After three and a half hours, we reached the peak of Shesha Parvatha, a sister peak of Kumara Parvatha. The peak is perched on top of a cliff so steep, the drop was probably a 1000 feet straight down. Everything was visible within a fifty kilometer radius, and the views were spectacular. An entire layer of clouds were beneath us, like a scene one would observe when looking out of an aircraft. We only had a few minutes for photographs, when those huge monsoon clouds rolled in and reduced our visibility to possibly 20 meters at best. We then climbed down from Shesha Parvatha, retracing our path, and after about half an hour, reached a spot ideal for pitching a tent. It was flat, relatively smooth, and there weren't any steep slopes in the nearby vicinity. So by about 5.30 PM, we halted our trek, pitched our tents and snuggled inside for some well deserved rest. After passing around snacks like chips and cookies, and exchanging a few horror stories, we decided to lay down and rest our eyes. Things were put into perspective once again when the heavens opened up and it started pouring down heavily, a few hours before midnight. I had never been so frightened in all my life and I didn't think I'd make it till next morning. What if the rain washed the tents down the cliff? What if the incessant wind blew our tents away? What if an elephant or a tiger (perfectly credible examples of the fauna associated with the mountain) attacked us from the nearby forest? We were the only trekkers who had pitched their tents near the peak that night, and the nearest help was almost a two hour trek downhill. We even had plans of going back down the next morning as the trek uphill would get harder if the trail was slick and slippery. To make matters worse, freezing rainwater started seeping through chinks in the tent's fabric, making it almost impossible to sleep. I was wide awake until after midnight when, as fate would have it, the clouds dispelled as quickly as they had arrived, and it became quiet once again. I convinced myself that everything was alright, and all my friends were asleep. So I closed my eyes, curled up and managed to get a decent sleep.
I was chilled to the bone next morning. It was probably seven or eight degrees outside, the clouds had cleared and a magnificent sunrise was on offer. We quickly readied ourselves, packing only essentials like water and some snacks in a bag, zipped up our tents and started the climb up. We reached Shesha Parvatha, again, and stopped for a few more pictures, again. The clouds caressed the peak of Kumara Parvatha, slowly rolling down and away beside a steep cliff. The only thing between the peak we were on and Kumara Parvatha was almost an hour of an uphill forest. A much denser forest than before. And forests meant leeches. Big ones. We did the only thing we knew - run. We sprinted across boulders, tree roots, a wet and slippery forest floor smothered with moist leaves, maybe a few snakes and plenty of leeches. I had my twig ready once again, in case those suckers did manage to climb on, and boy was it handy. My friend did get bit in between his fingers though, and it was a nasty wound, with blood all over his palm. At the end of the nightmarish forest was a steep rock face. We managed to manouevre past it by holding on to shrubs on the side and circling about the face, After that, we found a steep boulder path taking us to a point just before the peak. The last hundred meters was only slightly steep, similar to walking up a ramp, with every step more tiring than the last. The peak was now clearly in our sights, and it was just like walking up a stairway to heaven.
Finally, we made it. We were on top of Kumara Parvatha and had just completed what many consider to be the hardest trek in southern India. It was a glorious morning. There were smaller peaks and petite hills as far as the eye could see, when looking northward and southward. This was obviously the western Ghats. Clouds covered most of the flat coastal plains, almost five and a half thousand feet below us, in the west, and the lush green valleys of Coorg, forming the edge of the remarkably elevated Deccan plateau, lay in the east. We sat down, clicked a few pictures, took in the sights, and lay down on the grass. I looked up at the skies, looking back over what we had achieved. The metaphor of life being like a mountain to climb sadly didn't escape me, and at the risk of sounding didactic and preachy, I guess there really is no mountain too tall. When I saw this beast of a mountain way back in Bhattaru Mane, some three thousand feet below, I didn't think I'd be able to climb it, and yet, here I was. The biggest reward we received for climbing up was the view from the top, and the memories we made in the process. It was totally worth it. I closed my eyes and smiled. I was happy.
Of all the peaks of the Western Ghats I've been blessed to visit, none has seemed more daunting and impossible, but more beautiful and majestic than Kumara Parvatha. I had decided to join my friends on the trek only an hour and a half before the train journey to Subrahmanya, the town located on the foothills of the mountain. I stuffed a few clothes, a towel, an umbrella and my headphones, and ran toward the bus stop, and we caught the next bus to Mangalore. We left for Subrahmanya late at night after a horrendous delay at Mangalore's railway station, reached in the wee hours of the morning and spent the night at a lodge near the temple. The next day, a brilliant sunshine and the sacrilegious chaos of devotees greeted us. After a scrumptious breakfast of Masala Dosa, Upma and some coffee, we bought a few more essential supplies like glucose powder, fruits and chocolates, and by 9 AM, we were on our way. A tiny, meandering asphalt road just behind the temple premises lead us to the start of the trek, some 1.2 kilometers from the town. There it was, an innocuous, three foot tall metallic gate painted in green and yellow. Beside it was a notice board confirming the starting point of the trek. A dense canopy beyond the gate looked frightening. I had heard stories about this trek ever since I started the chapter of my life on this side of the Ghats, and here I was, right in front of the gate, about to embark on one of the greatest adventures of my life, and I felt like turning around on my toes and sprinting back to town. Fortunately, friends make things like these a lot less daunting. I took a few steps forward and before I knew it I was already deep inside the forest. I looked back and I couldn't see the gate. It was six kilometers of tropical, murky, humid forests ahead of us. Luckily, the trail was riddled with tiny pebbles and slightly bigger boulders, and losing sight of the path ahead was impossible. About two hours into the trek, we stopped by near a waterfall for a drink, and that's when the trek was put into perspective. Apart from all the accolades the Ghats receive from all over the world, including a UNESCO World Heritage Site tag, there's one problem with this place I've had an issue with since my childhood and have a deep, and scathing hatred for. Leeches. Leeches everywhere. They seem to spring out of no where, it's just ridiculous. One moment you may seem like nothing's wrong with your shoe but a few seconds later there are five or six of these diabolical freaks of nature crawling their way in, through your shoes and socks, piercing your thick skinned legs, and sucking on your blood. When I was twelve I remember seeing four unnaturally large leeches clinging on to my blood-stained feet on another trek in nearby Coorg, and that image flashes before me every time I see leeches. Somehow with great skill I managed to expertly flick them off of my shoes using twigs dangling from a nearby branch. We then decided to quicken our pace, though the trail got steeper and and more jagged. With every step our feet got heavier, our breath thinned down and beads of sweat trickled down our foreheads and into our eyes, burning them. But fear kept us going.
Finally, after three hours of climbing out of the infernal forest, I could see the light. A dazzling blue sky and blinding sunshine tore through the canopy and a vast, green, lush valley welcomed us. After another hour of walking on a grassy trail with a slight ascent, we reached Bhattaru Mane (translates to Bhat's house), a trekker's rest stop. I've never eaten a meal that tasted better than that lunch in his place, after such an exhausting three hours. We then washed our faces, filled our water bottles, freshened up and resumed trekking. The weather was kinder now, thanks to the altitude, almost 2300 feet from above sea level, compared to where we started, which was 300 feet. The mountain was now visible, though clouds smothered its peak, and naturally, we stopped a few times for some pictures. From now on, the trek was steeper, as if it wasn't steep enough, and the trail was even rockier than before, but the views behind us were breathtaking. As every hour passed, we got closer to the peak, At one point, when we looked behind us, there were these gigantic, monstrous monsoon clouds, looming not so far away, making its way toward us and the peak at an alarming pace. Like an enormous blue whale, a few hundred feet away, swimming toward you, somewhere in the depths of the Arctic. It was a spectacular scene, one I will never forget.
After three and a half hours, we reached the peak of Shesha Parvatha, a sister peak of Kumara Parvatha. The peak is perched on top of a cliff so steep, the drop was probably a 1000 feet straight down. Everything was visible within a fifty kilometer radius, and the views were spectacular. An entire layer of clouds were beneath us, like a scene one would observe when looking out of an aircraft. We only had a few minutes for photographs, when those huge monsoon clouds rolled in and reduced our visibility to possibly 20 meters at best. We then climbed down from Shesha Parvatha, retracing our path, and after about half an hour, reached a spot ideal for pitching a tent. It was flat, relatively smooth, and there weren't any steep slopes in the nearby vicinity. So by about 5.30 PM, we halted our trek, pitched our tents and snuggled inside for some well deserved rest. After passing around snacks like chips and cookies, and exchanging a few horror stories, we decided to lay down and rest our eyes. Things were put into perspective once again when the heavens opened up and it started pouring down heavily, a few hours before midnight. I had never been so frightened in all my life and I didn't think I'd make it till next morning. What if the rain washed the tents down the cliff? What if the incessant wind blew our tents away? What if an elephant or a tiger (perfectly credible examples of the fauna associated with the mountain) attacked us from the nearby forest? We were the only trekkers who had pitched their tents near the peak that night, and the nearest help was almost a two hour trek downhill. We even had plans of going back down the next morning as the trek uphill would get harder if the trail was slick and slippery. To make matters worse, freezing rainwater started seeping through chinks in the tent's fabric, making it almost impossible to sleep. I was wide awake until after midnight when, as fate would have it, the clouds dispelled as quickly as they had arrived, and it became quiet once again. I convinced myself that everything was alright, and all my friends were asleep. So I closed my eyes, curled up and managed to get a decent sleep.
I was chilled to the bone next morning. It was probably seven or eight degrees outside, the clouds had cleared and a magnificent sunrise was on offer. We quickly readied ourselves, packing only essentials like water and some snacks in a bag, zipped up our tents and started the climb up. We reached Shesha Parvatha, again, and stopped for a few more pictures, again. The clouds caressed the peak of Kumara Parvatha, slowly rolling down and away beside a steep cliff. The only thing between the peak we were on and Kumara Parvatha was almost an hour of an uphill forest. A much denser forest than before. And forests meant leeches. Big ones. We did the only thing we knew - run. We sprinted across boulders, tree roots, a wet and slippery forest floor smothered with moist leaves, maybe a few snakes and plenty of leeches. I had my twig ready once again, in case those suckers did manage to climb on, and boy was it handy. My friend did get bit in between his fingers though, and it was a nasty wound, with blood all over his palm. At the end of the nightmarish forest was a steep rock face. We managed to manouevre past it by holding on to shrubs on the side and circling about the face, After that, we found a steep boulder path taking us to a point just before the peak. The last hundred meters was only slightly steep, similar to walking up a ramp, with every step more tiring than the last. The peak was now clearly in our sights, and it was just like walking up a stairway to heaven.
Finally, we made it. We were on top of Kumara Parvatha and had just completed what many consider to be the hardest trek in southern India. It was a glorious morning. There were smaller peaks and petite hills as far as the eye could see, when looking northward and southward. This was obviously the western Ghats. Clouds covered most of the flat coastal plains, almost five and a half thousand feet below us, in the west, and the lush green valleys of Coorg, forming the edge of the remarkably elevated Deccan plateau, lay in the east. We sat down, clicked a few pictures, took in the sights, and lay down on the grass. I looked up at the skies, looking back over what we had achieved. The metaphor of life being like a mountain to climb sadly didn't escape me, and at the risk of sounding didactic and preachy, I guess there really is no mountain too tall. When I saw this beast of a mountain way back in Bhattaru Mane, some three thousand feet below, I didn't think I'd be able to climb it, and yet, here I was. The biggest reward we received for climbing up was the view from the top, and the memories we made in the process. It was totally worth it. I closed my eyes and smiled. I was happy.
