Dayara Bugyal: The Trek That Started Everything

I Couldn't Run One Kilometer

Before this trek, I couldn't run one kilometer. Not slowly. Not with breaks. I couldn't do it at all.

Then I found myself on a forest trail in the Himalayas, rain hammering down, lungs burning, legs screaming. My shoes were soaked through. The path had turned into a stream. Every breath felt like paying a toll. The group was ahead. I was falling behind.

What am I doing here?

The question came with every step. But somewhere between the gasping and the rain, I kept walking. Not because the answer became clear. Because the only way out was forward.

Dayara Bugyal gave me something I didn't expect. Not confidence. Not fitness. A first step toward becoming someone who shows up for hard things.

How I Ended Up Here

I got into trekking because of my friends.

Ayush and Sabu had been doing this for years. They're not my brothers by blood, but close enough. We've been through a lot together.

Ayush would come back from treks with stories, photos, and a calm I couldn't explain. When he said he was going to Dayara Bugyal with a group, he asked if I wanted to join.

I said yes before I could talk myself out of it.

Six of us were going. They'd trekked before. They knew what to pack, what to expect, how to train. I had none of that. I had a borrowed backpack, cheap rain gear, and blind optimism.

We booked with Indiahikes. September 2024. End of monsoon season.

People warned me. Monsoon treks are brutal. You'll walk through rain the whole time. Are you sure you're ready?

I wasn't ready. I went anyway.

Looking back, it might be the best decision I ever made.

The Beginning: Raithal

The drive from Dehradun to Raithal takes nine hours. Nine hours of winding roads, hairpin turns, and views that make you forget your fear.

I pressed my face to the window like a kid. I'd never seen mountains like this. Not close. Not real. The scale was disorienting. Everything I knew felt small.

We reached Raithal in the evening. The Indiahikes basecamp sat in a small village, surrounded by hills that vanished into clouds. Mt. Srikanth stood in the distance, half-hidden, watching.

That night we met the group. Strangers from different cities and different lives, gathered for the same reason. We didn't know each other yet. In a few days, we'd feel like family.

I barely slept. Nervous energy. Rain on the tent. The knowledge that tomorrow, it would begin.

Into the Forest

The first day broke me.

From Raithal, the trail climbs right away. No warm-up. No gentle start. Just steep, relentless ascent through oak and rhododendron.

Within an hour, I was struggling. My lungs weren't used to this. My legs weren't used to this. The altitude, barely 8,000 feet, already felt thinner. Less forgiving.

Then the rain came.

Not a drizzle. A monsoon downpour. The kind that soaks through everything in minutes. The trail turned to mud, then to streams. Every step became a negotiation.

I huffed. I puffed. I stopped every few minutes to catch my breath while the group moved ahead.

This is impossible. I can't do this.

But I kept walking. Not because I was brave. Because I didn't have another option. The only way out was through.

Four and a half kilometers. Five hours. When we reached Gui campsite, I collapsed into the dining tent, soaked and wrecked.

But I was still there. My body had done something I didn't believe it could do.

That was the first lesson. Your body can do more than your mind allows.

Walking Through Storms

Monsoon trekking is its own discipline.

Everything is wet. Your clothes. Your bag. Your boots. The inside of your tent. You wake up damp and go to sleep damp. There's no escaping it.

The forest drips all day. Mist threads through the trees like smoke. The trails are streams. You don't walk so much as wade.

At first, it felt miserable. I wanted sun. I wanted dry socks. I wanted the postcard version of trekking.

But somewhere around day two, I stopped fighting it.

The rain stopped being an obstacle. It became the backdrop. The rhythm. The sound that made everything else go quiet.

When you're picking your way through mud and water, you can't think about work. You can't rehearse tomorrow. You can only focus on the next step. The next rock. The next breath.

The monsoon forced me into the present. There was no room for anything else.

The Forest Gives Way

Between Chilapada and the meadows, the world changes.

One moment you're in thick forest, branches brushing your shoulders, ground soft with fallen needles. Then the trees stop.

And you step into open sky.

The grasslands roll out in every direction, like waves that froze mid-motion. And in the distance, breaking through cloud, the mountains show up.

Bandarpoonch. Kala Nag. Srikanth. Draupadi Ka Danda. The Gangotri range, massive and white, standing at the edge of the world.

I stopped walking. I had to.

This was what I came for, even if I didn't know it until then.

Dayara Bugyal felt unreal. Meadows at 11,000 feet, wide enough to swallow your sense of scale. No trees. No buildings. Just grass, sky, and peaks.

I stood there, still breathing hard, and understood why people do this.

Not for fitness. Not for photos. For views like this. For places most people never see.

Summit Day

Day four is the big one. Chilapada to Dayara Top, then down to Nayata.

We started early. The weather had been rough the whole trek, and that morning the clouds hung low and thick. We couldn't see twenty feet ahead.

The climb to Dayara Top at 11,830 feet was steady. Not technical. Just relentless. My lungs still burned. My legs still complained. But by then I knew they would keep going.

At the top, we were inside a cloud. White in every direction. No view. No mountains. Just mist, wind, and the quiet sound of our own breathing.

Some people were disappointed. I wasn't.

I'd made it. My first summit. The highest I'd ever been.

Then, for maybe five minutes, the clouds split.

The Gangotri range appeared. Snow peaks lit by diffused light, huge and silent, closer than seemed possible. Bandarpoonch, the monkey's tail, towering over everything.

I didn't take a photo. I just looked.

Some moments are better without a camera.

The People Who Carried Me

I didn't do this trek alone. I couldn't have.

Ayush and Sabu walked with me on the hard parts, matching my pace when I fell behind. They'd done this many times, but they never made me feel like a burden. That's what chosen family does. They don't keep score.

The rest of the group kept me going. They waited at rest points. They shared snacks. They made jokes when the rain wouldn't let up and everything felt heavy.

The Indiahikes group became family. We were strangers in Raithal. By Gui, we were sharing meals and stories. By Chilapada, we were pulling each other through the mud. By the end, we'd become friends.

That's what the mountains do. You don't have energy for performance at 10,000 feet. What's left is just you.

The people you walk with matter. Not because they carry your bag. Because they remind you why you're walking at all.

Coming Back Down

The descent is strange.

You walk the same trail, through the same forest, but you aren't the same. The trees feel familiar now. You know the rocks. You recognize the turns.

When we returned to Raithal, the Indiahikes team was waiting. There's a tradition: a standing ovation for every trekker who comes back. Cheers and claps as you walk through the arch.

I didn't feel like I'd earned it. I'd struggled the whole way. I'd been the slowest. I'd questioned everything.

But I'd finished.

The drive back to Dehradun felt like coming back from another world. My phone woke up. Messages poured in. The noise of normal life rushed back.

But something had shifted. I wanted to go back.

What It Started

Before Dayara Bugyal, I couldn't run one kilometer.

After, I wanted to go back.

Not because I'd conquered anything. I hadn't. The mountains don't get conquered. They just let you visit.

But I learned something about myself. My body could do more than I thought. My mind could push further than I believed. And I liked being in the mountains more than I expected.

This trek didn't turn me into a trekker overnight. But it started something. More trails followed. Harder climbs. Longer distances. Eventually, Goechala.

But it started here. In the rain. On a muddy trail in Uttarakhand. Huffing and puffing and wondering what I was doing.

You don't become someone by preparing perfectly. You become someone by starting.

What the Mountains Taught Me

I've thought about this trek a lot since. Here's what it left behind.

Start before you're ready. I wasn't fit or prepared. I went anyway. The readiness came from doing, not waiting.

Struggle isn't failure. I struggled every day. I kept walking. Struggle was the price of admission.

The people matter more than the path. I remember the views. I remember the people more. Ayush. Sabu. The group we trekked with.

Nature doesn't wait for you. The rain fell whether I was ready or not. The mountains stood whether I could see them or not. Life keeps moving. You move with it.

First steps matter. This was a beginner trek. Six days. 21 kilometers. Easy-moderate. It got me hooked on trekking.

If You're Thinking About It

Maybe you're reading this and wondering if you could do it.

If you're not fit enough. If you're too old or too young or too scared. If you've never done anything like this.

I was all of those things.

Go anyway.

Don't wait until you feel ready. Don't train for six months before you let yourself try. Don't let the voice in your head decide this isn't for people like you.

Find a trek. Book it. Show up.

The mountains don't care about your resume. They don't care how fast you walk or how many times you stop. They just ask you to come.

And if you do, you'll see what all the fuss is about.

The Trek Ended. Something Began.

I remember the last morning.

The rain had stopped. For the first time all trek, the sky was clear. The mountains stood sharp against blue. No clouds. No mist. Just rock and snow and light.

I stood outside the tent at Raithal, looking at the hills I'd walked through. The forest. The meadows somewhere beyond. Dayara Top, invisible from here but fixed in my mind.

I didn't know it then, but that was the start of a new part of my life.

One I'd keep coming back to.

Trek Details

• Duration: 6 days
• Difficulty: Easy-Moderate
• Highest point: Dayara Top, 11,830 ft
• Total distance: 21 km
• Season: Late September 2024 (monsoon)
• Starting point: Raithal, Uttarakhand
• Key campsites: Gui, Chilapada, Nayata
• Highlights: Vast alpine meadows, Gangotri range views, dense oak-rhododendron forests
• Organizer: Indiahikes

I couldn't run one kilometer. I walked twenty-one. And I've been walking ever since.