When I signed up for the Thadiyandamol trek with the Idam group, I believed it was a “short” one. Only later did I discover that “short” meant fourteen kilometers. By then, it was too late to retreat — or so I thought.
At 4 a.m., the alarm pierced the silence. I pushed aside the blanket, and winter rushed in like an uninvited guest. The cold wrapped itself around me so completely that I immediately made a firm decision: I was not going anywhere. I slipped back under the blanket.
Then Shanu called.
“Are you ready?”
Strangely, I was. Or perhaps I could be. Within minutes, I stepped back into the cold, woke my siblings in the next room, and somehow gathered myself enough to reach Meenangadi (Wayanad) before dawn.
The traveler arrived at five. Ranjith and Subhashettan jumped out into the biting air as if it were nothing. I, on the other hand, shivered my way inside the vehicle. Around ten or fifteen others were already seated, laughing and chatting as though this early morning chill was merely decorative. I wanted to join them, to dissolve my hesitation in their warmth, but the cold reduced me to silence. I curled up and drifted back to sleep.
The road stretched ahead for nearly four hours. We paused to fill petrol. We stopped at the iron bridge in Mananthavady (Wayanad) for tea and food. I remember black tea warming my hands, the sweetness of unniyappam from a roadside shop, fragments of conversation, and the comforting rhythm of sleep in between. Each time I opened my eyes, I wondered whether I had overestimated myself.
But then it was breakfast time. Bread. Egg. A spoonful of kappa with fish curry. Tea again. Strength returned in small, humble portions.
By around 9:30, we reached the base of Thadiyandamol in Karnataka. Names were entered in a register, phone numbers noted, entry forms filled. With that simple act of writing, we committed ourselves to the mountain.
The trail welcomed us with a carpet of fallen leaves — yellow, green, even hints of purple. They reminded me of the postcards my friend Lin Savia sends from Switzerland. The wind lifted a few and brushed them against my face, as if blessing the journey.
Soon the cold softened into sunlight. One by one, sweaters and shawls found their way into our backpacks. Layers shed, both outside and within.
I began to know the people around me — not in dramatic ways, but through small kindnesses. Apples sliced and shared by Anoop’s wife. A tiffin box lent by Kunjumon. Biscuits passed around without ceremony. Somewhere between the bites and the banter, strangers turned into companions.
The climb was deceptive. Many hills pretended to be the summit. Each time we thought we had arrived, another rise appeared ahead. Yet the real peak waited patiently, visible in the distance, calling us onward.
Poet Madhusudhanan Nair kept repeating, “One step, one step to reach the top.” And that became our rhythm.
When we finally stood at the summit, the reward unfolded in every direction — a full 360-degree embrace of sky and land. Endless green. Stretches of yellow. Rolling hills dissolving into horizon. It felt like standing at the edge of something ancient and immeasurable.
In that vastness, I remembered the words of Balachandran Chullikkad:
“On the rock of this moment, we build the temple of time…
In this gaze, we see life.
What is our meaning other than us?”
Up there, the lines did not feel like poetry. They felt like truth.
No photograph could hold what the eyes witnessed. I thought of Kolukkumalai. Of Chembra. Of Pakshipathalam. Each mountain carries its own silence, its own language. Thadiyanramol spoke in wind.
There was no shade on the open top — not even the shadow of a crow’s wing. We searched and finally found a vine-like shelter to sit and eat. Food packets opened. Laughter resumed. Inside that small patch of coolness, we forgot the sun blazing just beyond.
After lunch, I handed a copy of my book to Rajeshettan — a quiet exchange, witnessed by fellow travelers and the sky itself. A few photographs followed, proof that we had stood there, though the memory needed no proof.
Then came the descent.
Strangely, going down felt harder than climbing up. Knees trembled. Steps required caution. But the mountain sent a breeze with every stride, cooling and steadying us. We walked along paths carved by countless others before us — rocks polished smooth, tree roots worn gentle by time and footsteps.
KGS once said that the ocean feels vast simply by seeing it. Likewise, these paths must have grown vast by walking.
And so we walked — step by step — carrying back not just tired muscles, but something quieter and deeper: the knowledge that some journeys begin with hesitation, pass through doubt, and end in wonder.
Dhanya Indu
