How it all began?
The idea of trekking Sandakphu had been sitting quietly in the background of my life for almost a year. It wasn’t loud or pressing, just something that made my heart flutter every time I thought about it. I first heard about it at the end of my last trek, from Ankit. And ever since, it lingered. The prep had started months ago with strength training, early morning runs, and the usual gym hustle. Tickets were booked, trek slots confirmed, bags slowly getting filled up; but somehow, it still hadn’t sunk in.
And then one chilly morning in Darjeeling, it did.
There was something strangely poetic about how it all came together. Darjeeling, with its lazy charm, misty lanes, the overdose of chai, and clouds that felt like they were resting on your shoulders. It wrapped me in this bubble of nostalgia even before the climb had begun. That day before the trek was full of jittery energy. Raj and I were balancing between bursts of excitement and a quiet nervousness. Our bags were overstuffed, and our hearts were probably underprepared. We ran around picking up last-minute things like moisturiser, chapsticks, woollen socks, and another fleece layer (pretending like those would be enough to hold everything we were feeling).
And somewhere under all of that excitement was a tiny voice carrying the fear from my last trek. That trauma still lingered. More than anything, I was manifesting a happy, healthy trek this time. One where my body didn’t give up on me.
The drive to Sepi felt like the first real shift. As the car wound its way up the hills, we met a few fellow trekkers. Strangers for now. Conversations started easy, then drifted into silence. Phones slipped out of network, and just like that, the outside world began to fade.
Sepi felt like a soft landing. The wooden tea house, the warmth of the fire, the quiet buzz of people getting ready. It all felt oddly familiar, like a place you haven’t been to before but somehow already know. We had our health checks and the briefings and exchanged quick intros. And then came the challenge of falling asleep while butterflies were cartwheeling in my stomach.
The next morning, I stepped out and paused. The sky was glowing. That kind of sunrise that makes you stop mid-sentence and just watch. I clutched my tea, let the warmth settle into my fingers, and took a moment. This wasn’t a holiday. This was something I’d been slowly moving toward.
Quietly, steadily. And now, it was here.
Also, I have to say! One of the most unexpected highlights so far was the stunning homes scattered across the hills. Bright, colourful, and full of character. Every single one felt like a little postcard. I found myself quietly collecting them in my mind, like tiny bookmarks from a place I already didn’t want to leave.
So far has just been the beginning. The real journey started when our boots hit the trail, when the forest closed in around us, and when strangers slowly started feeling like something more. What came next was a mix of misty mornings, aching legs, shared silences, and the kind of magic only the mountains know how to offer. And trust me, you will want to hear all of it.
Into the woods, and beyond
Our real journey began on Day 2 of the trek – a 14 km walk from Sepi to Samanden. It took us about 7 to 8 hours to cover the trail, slowly rising from 6,400 feet to 7,760 feet. That stretch eased us in. It felt like the mountains were gently opening their arms, letting us in slowly. We passed shaded forests, mossy stones, trickling streams, and little pockets of sunshine that poured down like confetti. That was the day my body found its rhythm and my heart slowly started syncing with the trail.
The trail from Sepi welcomed us gently. It felt like the mountains were easing us in, offering soft ground under our boots, a canopy of trees overhead, and a quiet that settled in as soon as we took our first steps. The mist stayed low, swirling around our ankles like it was guiding us forward. With each passing minute, the sounds of the world faded away, replaced by birdsong, leaves crunching softly, and the rhythmic sound of our own breath.
We passed tiny hamlets tucked into the hillside. Wooden houses leaned into the slopes, painted in soft pastels and deep greens. Prayer flags flapped above doorways, and sleepy dogs stretched lazily in the sun. At one turn, a child peeked out of a window, smiled, and ducked away. It felt like walking through a painting that kept shifting every few minutes.
I could feel my body slowly settling into the trail. The initial hesitation, the slight stiffness in my legs, the chatter in my head-all of it began to melt away. My mind, usually restless, finally began to soften. There was something sacred about that forest. The way light poured through the trees in broken beams, the way roots twisted like art across the path. Each turn felt like it was holding a secret.
Raj and I often found ourselves walking alone, in long, comfortable silences. There was something meditative about those stretches. We didn’t need to talk. Just walking beside each other, breathing in sync, was enough. Those moments felt full-like nothing was missing.
Then came the bamboo forest. Taller. Denser. Deeper.
The world suddenly felt quieter, like we had entered a temple. Everything was green-an almost surreal, rich kind of green. Our voices lowered without even realizing it. We stopped for lunch in a small open patch surrounded by tall shoots of bamboo. Our bags lay in a lazy circle. Fingers numb from the cold, soup warming our insides, laughter starting to bubble.
At some point, I looked around and realised I had been walking completely alone for a while. No footsteps ahead, no whispers behind. Just me, and the steady rhythm of my feet. And strangely, I wasn’t scared. I felt… held. By the forest. By the quiet. By something I couldn’t name.
And then we reached Samanden – our stop for the night at 7,760 feet after what felt like an endlessly unfolding forest walk. It was the perfect close to Day 2.
It was like stepping into a dream. Wide meadows, colourful rooftops, a stream somewhere in the distance. The sky had turned a soft pink, and clouds started rolling in like they had choreographed the moment just for us.
That evening, something shifted
We all gathered in the dining tent-some strangers still, some slowly warming up. But something about that night melted all the walls. We passed around warm plates of food, played silly games, and laughed the kind of laughs that make your stomach hurt. We teased, we shared, we opened up without realising it.
One of them always had a little too much trail mix and offered it around like it was a love language. One of them carried a tiny speaker, playing in the lowest volume and became our unofficial DJ! Playing mountain music that somehow matched the mood of every trail. Another who swore by starting every morning with stretches and sun salutations, and had us all half-bending in the cold. And then there was someone who could never stop picking wildflowers along the path, tucking them into everyone’s backpacks like secret little gifts. It was a mix of chaos, charm, and comfort. We were from different cities, different worlds even-but in that tent, over dal and rice, we started becoming something more than just a group.
Later that night, I found myself wrapped in a blanket, sitting outside the tea house, watching stars slowly fill the sky. The kind of stars you can’t see from cities. The kind that remind you how small you are, and yet how deeply connected everything is.
And around me were these people-some talking, some quiet, all wrapped in the same kind of wonder. Just a day ago, we were strangers. Now, something was growing between us. Something honest.
Of Mountains, Moments & Magic
The next morning, we started early. The trail ahead was steeper, the air thinner, and the silence even louder. But the stillness was beautiful. There was something about the quiet that morning that made every crunch of a boot and every inhale feel sacred. We knew we were heading somewhere special.
As we climbed, we began seeing the shift in terrain. The trees thinned. The winds got sharper. And slowly, the distant snow lines came into view. There were moments when the mountains opened up so suddenly, it took our breath away. The vastness. The hush. The sheer scale of it all. I kept pausing, not because I was tired, but because I couldn’t stop staring.
Day 3 took us from Samanden to Molley – a 10 km trail that gradually but consistently took us higher. We climbed from 7,760 feet to 11,220 feet across seven hours of stunning forest terrain. The air got noticeably thinner, and the mist much thicker. By the time we reached Molley, we could barely see three steps ahead of us. It felt like we were walking through clouds, our shadows lost in the white.
Molley felt tucked away in the middle of nothing and everything. That evening, we were greeted by the Sashastra Seema Bal officers for a routine ID check – a quiet reminder of the borders we were gently brushing past. Dinner was piping hot momos, and I genuinely don’t remember a meal hitting quite like that. The cold outside bit at every edge of us, but inside, we were warm – full, grateful, and huddled close.
We tucked ourselves in early, layering up, preparing for what would be one of the most magical mornings of the trek.
The next morning at Sabargram, we left our heavier backpacks behind, slung on just our daypacks, and set off early toward Phalut. The plan was simple: time it just right so we could catch the first rays falling on Kanchenjunga. The heart of the Sleeping Buddha silhouette.
The “Sleeping Buddha” is what the Kanchenjunga range is lovingly called when viewed from the Sandakphu trail. Its many peaks come together to resemble a reclining Buddha, serene and still. Peaks like Kumbhakarna, Rathong, Kabru, and Mt. Pandim form the contours of his body, with Kanchenjunga itself at the heart. Watching it from the Singalila Ridge, where the trek unfolds, is like seeing a sacred painting in motion. And spiritually, the image of the reclining Buddha also signifies the moment of Nirvana, of transcendence and peace.
The sky slowly turned from indigo to gold as we found our spots, hushed and breathless, watching that painting come to life.
We had been told that if we were lucky, we might see the Sleeping Buddha. But what we saw that day was beyond luck. As the sky turned from deep indigo to gold, there he was. Sleeping Buddha, stretched across the horizon in all his glory.
I didn’t say a word. None of us did. We just stood there, eyes wide, hearts full. That moment didn’t need words.
The final stretch to Phalut was not easy. It wasn’t the steepest part, but it was definitely the quietest. My body felt heavy. My thoughts quieter than ever. The group had stretched out, and for the last one and a half kilometres, it was just me. I whispered to myself-“Fifty more steps.” Then again. And again. That rhythm, those tiny goals, were the only thing keeping me going.
And then I saw him.
Raj was already at the summit. Standing there like a silhouette. In that moment, he wasn’t just my person. He was my summit. The reason I kept going. I didn’t think. I just ran.
Just beyond that ridge, as we caught our breath and took it all in, we saw it-our very first glimpse of Everest. That moment hit differently. There was something incredibly grounding and yet wildly elevating about standing there, wind in my face, the sky bursting open, and seeing Everest for the first time. I was the happiest I had been on the entire trek. Truly, deeply, fully happy.
We didn’t need to talk, again. We just sat, side by side, eating dry fruits, sandwiches, watching the world stretch far and wide.
Coming down, carrying more
After soaking in Phalut and all its stillness, we began our return journey to Sabargram. The same path, but somehow entirely different. It was still early morning, and the light had shifted again, this time soft and honey-like. We were walking back with something extra, not weight, but wonder. The trail was long, 8.5 km in total, but quieter now. The group naturally fell into their own paces, and soon, I found myself alone for the last stretch.
We walked back to Sabargram in near silence, our boots pressing soft imprints on the earth we had just crossed hours ago. That evening, there was no grand sunset – just a thick mist that wrapped around our tents and blurred everything more than three steps ahead. The world outside had vanished into white, but inside our tents, we felt tired and content at the same time. That night, curled in our sleeping bags, we were quieter than usual. Maybe because we were full. Or maybe because we knew the trail was slowly beginning to turn toward goodbye.
Day 5 took us to Aal. It was a 13 km stretch and the trail was open, rolling, sometimes steep but never harsh. The climb was steady – from 11,450 to 11,570 feet – but it was the kind of trail that allows your body to settle while your mind quietly wanders. We shared trail snacks, stories, songs, and the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. The group, by now, had become a bubble of warmth. We looked out for each other without needing to say it.
The landscape had changed. There were more rhododendrons, more sudden openings that offered panoramic views of valleys below. At one point, we spotted a yak in the distance and stood there like children, pointing and gasping.
When we reached Aal, it felt remote and raw. There was barely a signal. Just wind, space, and a tiny cluster of homes that made up our resting point. We didn’t need much. We just needed sleep.
The Gentle Summit of Sandakphu
The name ‘Sandakphu’ had echoed in our minds throughout the trek, and today, it was finally within reach. We departed from Aal, embarking on a 10 km journey towards Gurdum, with Sandakphu as the midpoint.
Contrary to expectations, the ascent to Sandakphu wasn’t a dramatic climb. It was a gentle 50-meter rise, almost symbolic in its subtlety. There were no triumphant shouts or celebratory gestures—just quiet smiles, soft tears, and heartfelt hugs. We lingered at the summit, absorbing the moment. The absence of crowds made it feel like a personal achievement, a quiet culmination of our journey.
Descending towards Gurdum, the trail transformed. We entered dense forests, the path becoming steeper and more challenging. The mist enveloped us, and visibility dropped to near zero. Each step required caution, but the camaraderie kept our spirits high.Before that last walk, the evening at Gurdum turned out to be unexpectedly joyful. Just food, music, stories. Someone played music from their phone. We hummed along, laughed until we cried, and shared pieces of ourselves that we hadn’t shared before. And the next morning, right before we began walking, we danced our hearts out to local music — uninhibited, full of energy, like we were pouring every last bit of ourselves into that final moment. We came into this trek as strangers. But that night, we were a family. One made not by blood, but by blisters, trail mix, silly songs, and all the moments in between.
And finally, Day 7. Our last walk. From Gurdum to Sepi – just 4 km. It took us around three hours. But it felt longer. Not physically, but emotionally. Every rustling leaf, every chirping bird, every soft bend in the trail felt like the mountain gently letting us go.
Leaving the mountains was the hardest part. Not because the journey wasn’t complete, but because some part of me wanted to hold on a little longer. To the people. The silences. The air. The simplicity. That last morning, we packed up slowly-half-heartedly even. We tried to joke around, to keep it light. But underneath it all was the shared knowing that it was time to return. We took one final group photo, blurry and chaotic, like most of our memories. Hugs were longer. Smiles, softer. And then one by one, we boarded our vehicles, boots muddy and hearts full. As the road curved away from the trail, I looked back one last time. The mountains stood still, as they always do. But something had shifted. Not out there, but within.
Sandakphu wasn’t just a place on the map. It became a part of me. And I know now-with all certainty-that I’ll carry this one, always. Something had changed. Something had opened. And I knew, without a doubt, that this one was going to stay with me forever.
I came to Sandakphu looking for mountains. What I found was presence. Peace. Strength. Stillness. And people-wildly warm, deeply real people-who will always be part of this memory.
The mountains gave us more than views. They gave us each other.