19 states. 40+ treks. One trail at a time.
“The trail teaches you that getting lost is not failure. It is just the part of the map nobody writes down.”
I never set out to count states. Counting came later, on a long train ride home, when I tried to list the places my boots had actually touched and realised the number had quietly crossed nineteen. Somewhere along the way the hobby became a habit, the habit became a discipline, and the discipline became the thing that kept me sane between everything else life demanded. Forty-odd treks. Mountains and deserts. Pre-dawn starts and monsoon mud. A few genuinely frightening hours when the trail vanished and the only honest option was to stop, breathe, and think clearly instead of panicking.
This is not a tidy guidebook. It is a chronicle, state by state, of what India taught me one region at a time, and what I have tried to pass on to the dozens of nervous first-timers I have walked beside. If you are looking for the version of travel where everything goes to plan, this is the wrong page. If you want the version where you get lost, get scared, learn something real, and come back stronger, keep reading.
How This Whole Thing Started
My first trek was unremarkable in every way except that it changed everything. Wrong shoes, too much in my bag, no idea how to pace a climb. I was exhausted within the first hour and quietly certain I would turn back. I did not. By the time I reached the top, something had shifted. It was not the view, though the view was good. It was the discovery that the gap between what I thought I could do and what I could actually do was much wider than I had believed. I have spent nineteen states chasing that gap ever since.
Over the years the solo walks turned into something else: leading. Newcomers started asking to come along, and I found that teaching a beginner to read a slope, place their feet on rock, or stay calm when the weather turns was its own kind of summit. I have led many first-timers on their first real trek and their first rock climb. Watching someone realise they are braver than they thought never gets old.
The State-by-State Chronicle
Here is the journey the way I remember it, region by region. Each state gave me something different, a different kind of terrain, a different kind of lesson, a different kind of scare.
The Mountains of the North
Jammu & Kashmir. This is where trekking stops being a hobby and becomes something close to reverence. The high meadows and alpine lakes here humble you in the best way. I learned the hard discipline of altitude here, that you respect the mountain’s pace, not your own ambition, or it will quietly remind you who is in charge.
Himachal Pradesh. If the Himalayas have a classroom, this is it. From gentle valley walks to lung-burning high passes, Himachal taught me how to read weather windows and how fast a clear sky can turn. Some of my most memorable night treks happened here, head-torch on, the whole world narrowed to the small circle of light at my feet.
Uttarakhand. The spiritual heart of Himalayan trekking, and the place I lost the trail for the first time in serious terrain. I learned that day that the moment you feel lost is the moment to stop moving, not speed up. Panic walks you deeper into trouble. Stillness and a clear head walk you back out.
Punjab. Not a trekking state in the obvious sense, but the flatlands and the rhythm of rural Punjab taught me about endurance of a different kind, the long, patient walk rather than the dramatic climb. Some lessons come on level ground.
Haryana. The Aravalli fringes here gave me accessible weekend escapes and a reminder that you do not always need a Himalaya to clear your head. Sometimes a short scramble close to the city is exactly enough.
Chandigarh. More a launchpad than a destination, but a beautiful, orderly base for heading into the hills. Every long expedition needs a place to gather yourself before the wild begins.
Delhi. The capital was rarely the trek itself, but it was the great connector, the railway and road hub from which a hundred journeys north and south began. I have a soft spot for the cities that send you onward.
The Deserts and Plains of the West
Rajasthan. The desert taught me a respect I did not have before. I lost my bearings once in open sand, where there are no reassuring landmarks and the horizon lies to you. The desert does not forgive the careless the way a forest might. Water discipline, navigation, and humility, all learned the hard way here.
Gujarat. From the white expanse of the Rann to the hills of the Gir landscape, Gujarat stretched my idea of what trekking terrain could be. The salt desert at night, under a full moon, remains one of the strangest and most beautiful walks of my life.
Daman. A small coastal pause, more sea breeze than summit, but every long trekking life needs its quiet interludes. Daman was a place to let the body recover and the mind wander.
Diu. Coastal cliffs and quiet shorelines. Diu reminded me that adventure is not only vertical. Walking a wild coast at dawn carries its own kind of solitude and reward.
The Western Ghats and the Coast
Maharashtra. If I had to name my trekking home, it might be here. The Sahyadris are made for monsoon trekking, and the monsoon treks of Maharashtra are where I took some of my biggest risks and learned my sharpest lessons. Slick rock, roaring waterfalls, fort ruins wrapped in cloud. Beautiful and genuinely dangerous in equal measure, and the place I most carefully train beginners before the rains.
Goa. Beyond the beaches everyone knows, Goa’s interior hills and spice-country trails surprised me. A gentler kind of trekking, green and humid, perfect for easing a nervous first-timer into the idea that they can do this.
Karnataka. The Western Ghats here are a paradise of ridgelines and coffee-country climbs. Some of my most satisfying multi-day treks happened on these green, rolling heights. Karnataka is where I refined how I teach rock climbing fundamentals to newcomers.
Kerala. Misty, layered, impossibly green. The high ranges of Kerala taught me patience with the weather, since the mist here can erase a trail in minutes. I learned to trust preparation over visibility, and to be comfortable walking blind when the cloud came down.
The Deccan and the South
Tamil Nadu. The hill ranges of the south gave me cool, fragrant climbs and a completely different ecosystem to read. Trekking here is a lesson in how varied a single country can be, from northern snow to southern shola forest in one lifetime of walking.
Telangana. The rocky plateaus and ancient boulder fields here are an under-rated playground, especially for bouldering and rock work. I spent good days here teaching grip, balance, and the quiet art of trusting your feet on stone.
Andhra Pradesh. From the Eastern Ghats to dramatic canyon country, Andhra gave me terrain I did not expect and trails far quieter than the famous ones. Some of the best adventures are on the routes nobody has heard of.
The Heartland and the East
Madhya Pradesh. The heart of the country, all plateaus, ravines, and forest. Madhya Pradesh trekking is wild in a less crowded way, and I had some of my most genuinely remote walks here, the kind where you go hours without seeing another soul.
Jharkhand. Forested hills and waterfalls, rugged and refreshingly untouched. Jharkhand reminded me that the well-known trails are a tiny fraction of what is out there, and that the unmarked path often gives the most.
West Bengal. From the tea-carpeted slopes near the eastern Himalayas to quieter forest country, Bengal offered range I did not anticipate. The northern hills here are a worthy rival to anything further west.
Bihar. Ancient hills with a deep sense of history under your boots. Trekking in Bihar is as much about walking through time as terrain, and it closed my map of the east with something unexpectedly moving.
What 40+ Treks Actually Taught Me
Strip away the scenery and the lessons are surprisingly consistent, whether the ground is snow, sand, rock, or mud.
Getting lost is not the disaster it feels like. I have lost the trail in mountains, in desert, and in unfamiliar country, and every single time the answer was the same: stop, stay calm, and think before you move. The fear is loud, but the clear head is louder if you let it be. More people get into real trouble by hurrying while panicked than by being lost in the first place.
Risk is to be respected, not chased. I have taken big risks, and the ones I am proud of were calculated, not reckless. There is a meaningful difference between pushing your limit and ignoring your judgment. The mountain is always there next season. You want to be too.
Preparation beats bravado. Every scare I have had traces back to a corner cut somewhere, the weather I did not check, the water I did not carry, the daylight I overestimated. Brave is good. Prepared is what gets you home.
Leading others changes you. Once you are responsible for a nervous beginner on a rock face, your relationship with risk matures fast. Teaching forced me to become better, calmer, and more deliberate than I ever was walking alone.
If You Are Just Starting Out
To everyone who has ever told me they would love to trek but could never do it, I have heard that exact sentence from people who went on to climb things that frightened them and loved it. Start small and close to home. Get the boots right before anything else. Walk with someone who has done it before. Build your endurance slowly and your confidence will follow on its own. And when the trail gets hard, remember that the gap between what you think you can do and what you can actually do is almost always wider than you believe.
Nineteen states in, I am nowhere near finished. The map still has blank spaces, the boots still fit, and somewhere out there is a trail I have not lost yet. I hope to see some of you on it.
“You do not conquer a mountain. You just earn the right to stand on it for a while, and then you walk back down a little more yourself.”
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