The Himalayas have always been a quiet and steady presence in the background of India, solid, unmoving and mostly inaccessible. I had read somewhere that more than seventy percent of the Himalayan range cannot be reached by ordinary travelers. That idea stayed with me. It made the mountains feel both distant and protected. Over time, I realized I wanted to see a part of that world, not for excitement but to understand what it felt like to be in such a place. Eventually, this led me to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute in Darjeeling. I had known the name for years, but it took me a long time to decide that I wanted to train there.
When I arrived in Darjeeling on March 3, 2019, the town felt familiar even though it was my first time there. The narrow roads, the cool breeze, the tea gardens and the slow rhythm of the streets made the place feel older than it actually was. I walked toward the institute through the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park, which holds rare Himalayan fauna such as the red panda and the extremely rare Himalayan snow leopard.
Approaching the HMI gate, I sensed a completely different atmosphere. The buildings were simple, but the discipline around them was obvious. It looked more like a military training base than a civilian school. I realized then that my upcoming month here was definitely not going to be casual or easy. The principal and vice principal were retired Air Force officers, and many instructors had served or trained at the High Altitude Warfare School (HAWS) in Gulmarg, Kashmir. This is the same place where United States soldiers received training before their deployment in Afghanistan. I had read about that institution before, mostly in articles about soldiers preparing for extreme terrains. Seeing those instructors in person made me understand that this course demanded seriousness.
We were placed in rooms of five. My roommates were from different states, and everyone seemed excited on the first day. We exchanged basic introductions, talked about our backgrounds, and joked about the month ahead. At the same time, I wondered quietly how many of us would make it to the end. The thought was not negative. It simply felt realistic after seeing the nature of the place.
Our schedule started early every morning. The first fall in happened before sunrise, and the cold air made it hard for me to be fully awake. Soon after, we ran uphill past other military stations. I realized how unprepared my body was for that kind of routine. During the runs, people did not talk much. We were mostly focused on breathing and keeping pace. It did not feel competitive. It simply felt necessary.
After the morning workouts, we attended theoretical classes inside a lecture room well equipped with projectors, covering subjects like geology, weather systems, rope techniques, equipment use, high altitude physiology and emergency procedures. I found myself paying more attention than I usually do. The instructors explained everything with a sense of practicality that made even simple details important. After lunch came practical sessions that included ropework, knot tying drills and time on the indoor climbing wall. The training ramped up gradually, and I noticed the difference in my body and mind within a few days.
Around the fifth day, a few trainees dropped out. One of them had become a friend during the initial days. When he told me he was leaving, I tried to convince him to stay, but it was clear he had made his decision. Watching him leave reminded me that not all of us had come with the same expectations. Soon afterward, we were divided into rope teams. I was assigned to rope nine. It did not mean much at first, but over time those rope teams shaped the way we worked and supported each other.
One of our early tests was a trek to Tiger Hill carrying twelve kilogram backpacks. The hill did not look intimidating, but the weight made every step harder. The instructors later increased the load to twenty kilograms. I noticed differences in how people reacted. Some who looked physically stronger struggled more with endurance. Others who looked quieter or leaner kept moving steadily. I found myself somewhere in the middle, tired but still able to continue.
Training at Tenzing Rock became an important part of the routine. The rock face was not huge, but it offered enough variety for different climbing techniques. We practiced rappelling, anchoring and basic rescue. What caught my attention was how trust formed among us without any formal effort. One day I was casually talking to someone during lunch, and a few days later I was hanging from a rope secured by the same person. These interactions felt natural, not emotional or dramatic, simply part of the environment we were in.
After the initial two weeks, the remaining trainees were given the green signal for the field training phase. The institute arranged a convoy to take us to Yuksom, a small village at the base of the mountains. The ride felt long, but the village itself appeared quiet and welcoming. Yuksom had a simple structure with houses scattered around, small shops, and a backdrop of hills that seemed to rise steadily behind everything. In Yuksom, we learned tent pitching and field cooking. We also practiced first aid, which felt more important in that setting than it had in the classroom.
I began noticing something interesting during these sessions. The people who depended mainly on physical strength started to slow down. The altitude and continuous movement affected everyone differently. I realized that endurance was less about strength and more about staying consistent. That small understanding helped me keep my pace steady.
The nights at Yuksom were memorable in a practical sense. Strong winds sometimes knocked down tents, and we had to get out and fix them. I remember one night standing outside, holding onto a rope while the wind pushed against the tent fabric. It was not inspirational or dramatic. It was simply something that needed to be done. But in moments like those, I found myself paying attention to things I usually ignored, such as the sound of the wind, the cold seeping through my gloves or the way the tent pole bent under pressure.
From Yuksom, we trekked to Tshoka. The path was steep in places, and we stopped often to catch our breath. The instructors occasionally gave misleading time estimates, but after a while, I understood it was meant to keep us moving. Tshoka had basic wooden huts where we spent the night. The meals, which included rice, dal, vegetables and sometimes meat, tasted better than usual simply because we were hungry.
The acclimatization routine continued as expected. On the first night at any new altitude, we climbed to a higher point and returned to sleep at a lower height. It was not physically demanding, and it was enjoyable to see nice views from the mountain tops.
The trek toward the base camp took us through changing terrain. Trees became shorter, the air became colder and the landscape started opening up. Crossing the final pass before the base camp felt like entering a different environment altogether. The tree line ended, and the base camp appeared as a small settlement in a wide, open valley.
The base camp at fourteen thousand three hundred feet was simple but well equipped with all necessities. It had tents, cooking stations, medical facilities and solar panels. An army doctor was with us throughout the trek to attend to any medical emergencies. Nearby, an advanced base camp stood higher up the valley and was used for more advanced courses.
Our days at base camp followed a steady routine. We woke early, layered up, checked our gear, warmed our shoelaces which stood up frozen like stiff ropes in the cold and prepared our crampons. The walk to the glacier edge took around thirty minutes.
Once we stepped onto the glacier, the environment felt different. The ice looked bright under the sun, but it was hard and unforgiving. We practiced ice climbing, crevasse rescue and ice arrest. The cold was sharp, and even with multiple layers, it made its way through the clothing. I remember feeling my fingers go numb during a long demonstration.
Rappelling on ice was particularly tricky. A few trainees injured themselves with their crampons. My own crampon came loose and fell on the very first day. When I looked up, my instructor gave a small shake of his head. There was no scolding or drama. It was simply an acknowledgement that I needed to be more careful. That moment stayed with me as a reminder of how easily a small oversight could turn into a bigger problem on ice.
By the end of the week, everyone looked tired. The long days, the cold and the thin air affected us differently. But there was also a sense that we had adjusted, even if only slightly. Our final major task was the height gain climb to around eighteen thousand feet. We woke up at three in the morning. The darkness outside the tent made it hard to gauge how cold it really was. I stepped out into the open, and the air felt thin right away.
We started the climb with our headlamps creating small circles of light in front of us. The pace was steady. At some point, I stopped thinking about the summit and concentrated on each step. When the peak finally appeared, I saw my instructor already standing there. He gave me his hand for the final pull to the top and said, “Congratulations, you made it.” It felt calming.
The view from the top was quiet and peaceful. Snow covered peaks stretched around us, catching the early sunlight. I just stood there, catching my breath and feeling the silence. I was even happier that all eight people from my rope team arrived after me one by one. We took photographs and celebrated on the summit.
That evening at base camp, we had a Bada Khana. It was not planned and came as a surprise. A Bada Khana is essentially a special meal prepared in a generous and celebratory way, often with food that feels richer and more comforting than usual. After the long day, it felt almost like a small festival. The return trek to Darjeeling took three days. During the walk back, I noticed how much we had changed physically. Our faces were leaner, our skin was sunburned and our beards were overgrown and unshaven. First time tourists might easily have mistaken us for looking like the Yeti, the abominable Himalayan snowman.
Back at the institute, we had our graduation ceremony, attended by a regional army commander. It felt formal but not strict. Afterward, we shared a meal and talked about different parts of the training. As I listened to others describe their experiences, I realized that the course had affected each of us differently, but in small and noticeable ways.
For me, the biggest change was not in the climbing skills, though I learned a lot. It was in the way I noticed things. The mountains did not teach through dramatic lessons. They taught me through slow and steady exposure. I paid more attention to my breath, to the weather, to the way equipment behaved and to how small decisions mattered.
The motto of the institute, which says “May you climb from peak to peak,” stayed with me long after the course ended. I began to understand that it was not only about climbing mountain summits. It was also about developing the endurance to face any challenge, whether personal or professional, with steadiness and patience. Institutes like HMI are shaping young people in this way, giving them skills, discipline and a mindset that stays useful far beyond the mountains.
“May you climb from peak to peak.”
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