The Trek: A Love Letter Written in Stone, Sky, and Spirit.

There are some places you plan to visit, and others you stumble upon by accident.
But a few places—very few—carry a divine calling, places that quietly rearrange something inside you without asking for permission. Tungnath, I discovered, belongs to this rare third category. It doesn’t scream for attention like the loud tourist guide outside Lal Quila; it simply stands in its ancient stillness, waiting for you to arrive—panting, doubting your life choices that led to this climb—and then rewards you with a view that feels like a blessing personally signed by Lord Shiva.

We had first visited Tungnath in September 2023.
A completely unplanned deviation from a Kedarnath–Badrinath trip, and, truth be told, I had little idea about the temple, its mythology, or even its fame as a trekking destination. Tungnath took my breath away—literally and metaphorically—and the altitude humbled both my lungs and my ego. We somehow made it to the temple after multiple stops, gasping for oxygen, but were blessed with a divine darshan. Chandrashila, however, remained an unfinished dream.

This time, when a close friend invited us for the trek again, we agreed instantly—perhaps a little too instantly, given how underprepared our trekking gear was. We packed in a hurry, loaded the SUV, and set off.
Theo, our pet dog, was the happiest of the lot, wagging his tail, sniffing every bag, jumping around to ensure he wasn’t being left behind, and finally settling on the second-row seat—head protruding out, soaking in the cool highway breeze like a seasoned road-trip veteran

Rudraprayag: A Stopover in Night, River, Silence

Himalayan journeys have their own predictable unpredictability:
winding roads, drivers overtaking trucks on blind bends as if in a death-defying dance, and your heart performing its own choreography of fear, awe, and serenity.

We stopped for the night at a roadside Airbnb in Rudraprayag—
a cold mountain night pierced occasionally by highway traffic on one side
and the loud, unseen river roaring somewhere in the darkness on the other.
Nature, when cloaked in darkness, can look forbidding.

But by morning, sunlight softly repainted the world:
a vast valley draped in green,
aloft with pine-scented air,
and the serene Alaknanda flowing through it like a hymn.

Kartik Swamy: The Prelude to a Deeper Conversation

Since both Kartik Swamy and Tungnath belong to the same spiritual arc of Garhwal—
from Kartikeya to Shiva, from devotion to absolution—
We decided to begin the journey with the Kartik Swamy trek.

A thousand steps carved through pine forests and whispered prayers led us to the shrine of Lord Kartikeya, the son of Shiva. The temple stands alone on a ridge, its bells swaying in the wind, offering a 360-degree embrace of the Himalayan sky.

Legend says that Kartikeya renounced worldly claims atop this very mountain—
choosing solitude, discipline, and tapasya over inheritance.
Up there, I felt as if the mountains were preparing me,
warming up my spirit for the larger conversation that awaited at Tungnath.

Theo, however, had his own mythological enthusiasm.
Tail held high, running ahead like a creature summoned by the gods,
his All-Wheel-Drive energy was far superior to my Rear-Wheel-Drive human form.
At one point, he launched himself after a group of monkeys,
jerking my knee along with him—leaving me limping for the rest of the trip.
A divine test, perhaps. Or just Theo being Theo.

The Tungnath Trek: A Love Letter Written in Stone, Sky, and Spirit

Chopta welcomed us with a silence that urban life has long forgotten.
We picked bamboo trekking sticks from a local shop, sipped hot tea,
bowed before Mahadev, and began the ascent.

The Tungnath trail is just 3.5 km—
But altitude has its own wicked sense of humour.

The path rises steadily, winding through tall deodars and rhododendrons,
opening now and then to views so stunning
that even the camera seems confused about where to look.
This is not a trek conquered by muscle alone.
It requires endurance, humility, and a small but significant amount of faith.

After nearly two and a half hours of uphill persuasion,
It happened—the moment every exhausted trekker waits for:
The first sight of the temple.

Small.
Ancient.
Perfectly in tune with the mountains.
As if the Himalayas themselves cradle it in their palms.

Tungnath, the highest Shiva temple in the world, does not proclaim spirituality,
it whispers it.
A gentle, timeless whisper that settles into your bones.

Although the temple was closed this season,
the pristine air, the melting sweat, and the whistling winds
turned the place into a cosmic intersection—
a point where nature, faith, and the weary human soul
sit down for a quiet conversation

Chandrashila: Where Breath Becomes Prayer

Of course, no trekker stops at Tungnath alone, I for sure, had a bigger dream.
Chandrashila—just another kilometre, another 600 feet—beckons from above
like an unfinished chapter.

The climb is steeper.
The wind sharper.
Your breathing louder.
But the reward, they say, is a panorama that can silence even arrogance.

Nanda Devi, Trishul, Chaukhamba, Kedar Dome—
all standing tall, as if they’ve appeared specifically for your arrival.

Last time, ego had defeated us.
This time, I climbed higher—700 metres more—
until the summit began to show its contours.
But dusk was settling, my knee was protesting,
Rashmi was waiting below at Tungnath,
and our guide, Bhagat, quietly mentioned that
“this forest is home to bears and leopards… and going down with a dog at night isn’t wise.”

Pragmatism won.
I decided to descend.
A little unfinished, perhaps—
but alive, safe, and wiser.

The Descent: Because All Good Things Come With Gravity

As I walked down, I realised something simple and profound:
every trek gives you two journeys—
one on the mountain,
and one within yourself.

Tungnath gifted me both.
Gently. Quietly. Completely.

Haridwar: A Final Cleansing of Miles and Mind

On the way back, we stopped briefly at Haridwar—
a pause, a punctuation mark at the end of a long Himalayan sentence.

The Ganga flowed there in her familiar, unhurried grace,
neither impressed by trekkers conquering mountains
nor troubled by pilgrims seeking forgiveness.
She simply flowed—
as she has for millennia—
carrying stories, sins, ambitions, and prayers
with the same quiet acceptance.

I stepped into the water,
cool, sharp, startling—
as if the river were reminding me
that the journey is never over
until you let something go.

In that moment,
with miles of mountains behind me
and the vast plains of life ahead,
The dip felt less like a ritual
and more like a conversation.
A cleansing not of the body
But of breath, thought, and burden.

Why Tungnath Stays With Me

Because it is not just a trek.
It is a pause.
A recalibration.
A reminder that whispers:

“Slow down.
Breathe.
Look around.
Life is happening outside the clinic,
outside the finances,
outside the noise.”

Some mountains you climb.
Others climb into you.
Tungnath, for me, was the latter, infusing within me just enough dose of aspiration to visit the divine abode of the lord Shiva, Mount Kailash, next year, God willing, of course.