Life’s greatest adventures often start with a notification. For me, it was an email I received during a particularly dull lecture in Germany. As the professor droned on about something I’d already forgotten, my phone buzzed. Sneaking a glance, I read the subject line:
“Congratulations! You’re accepted into the Basic Mountaineering Course at the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, Darjeeling.”
I nearly dropped my phone. After over a year of sending applications into what felt like a void, I’d finally been chosen.
Since childhood, I have been fascinated by mountains, and now I was about to embark on a journey deep into them, exploring some of the most remote regions of the Himalayas.
Arrival in Darjeeling: The Gateway to Himalayan Mountaineering
March 3, 2019, marked the start of my journey. After a long flight to India and a winding road trip through the hill tracts, I arrived in Darjeeling, a charming hill station in West Bengal. Known for its world-famous tea and panoramic views of the Himalayas, Darjeeling had a magical quality.
HMI itself was nestled in the hills near the Darjeeling Zoo, home to rare Himalayan wildlife like the elusive red panda and the snow leopard.
The Basic Mountaineering Course (BMC) I was about to undertake is a rigorous month-long program. It wasn’t just training; it was a boot camp, complete with military precision and discipline, headed by both active and retired officials of the Indian armed forces.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the challenges ahead, but I had come this far. There was no turning back now.
Starting the Basic Mountaineering Course: What to Expect at HMI
Every morning started with a military-style “fall in!” If you were late, the penalty was 100 push-ups—no excuses. It didn’t take long for me to understand the reason behind this discipline. Our instructors were from the prestigious High Altitude Warfare School (HAWS) in northern India, a renowned training ground for high-altitude combat. Even U.S. soldiers trained here before their deployments to Afghanistan.
As the days went by, a sense of nervousness began to creep in, knowing the intensity of the training and the expertise of those leading us.
Trainees came from all over the country and even from abroad. I remember having a conversation in German with one of them. My teammates included muscular, beefy guys who looked like giants compared to me and spent most of their time in the gym. And then there was me—lean and visibly weaker, standing among them. Naturally, I had every reason to feel concerned!
The first two weeks were a combination of classroom sessions and physical conditioning. The theory lessons covered topics such as geology, weather patterns, and survival techniques.
Meanwhile, we were sent on long treks through hilly terrain—sometimes passing through tea gardens and even climbing to the top of Tiger Hill. Gradually, the weight of the loads on our backs was systematically increased to build our endurance.
Interestingly, I noticed that the muscular, gym-focused individuals were the first to drop out of the course. It became clear that in mountaineering, sheer muscle strength is not enough—endurance, stamina, and overall physical conditioning are what truly matter. The ability to keep going, even when every step feels heavier than the last, far outweighs the size of your muscles in the mountains.
The rock climbing and ropecraft training took place on Tenzing Rock, a towering slab of granite that seemed to laugh at my lack of upper-body strength. The instructors casually demonstrated how to rappel down its face, making it look as easy as sliding down a playground slide. Then it was my turn.
As I stood at the top, harnessed in and sweating despite the cool air, the instructor barked, “Trust the rope!”. Sure, Trusting a thin piece of nylon to keep me alive sounded perfectly reasonable. My first rappel was less “graceful descent” and more “uncoordinated crash landing” but, at least, I managed to make it to the bottom in one piece.
Exploring Kanchenjunga National Park: A 15-Day Trek Through the Himalayas
After two weeks of grueling preparation, we set out on a 15-day trek through Kanchenjunga National Park. The park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, famous for its untouched beauty.
We started at Yuksom, a picturesque village at the foothills of the Himalayas. From there, we ascended through misty forests, crossed suspension bridges swaying precariously over roaring rivers, and camped in remote villages like Tshoka. The scenery was stunning enough to make you forget your aching feet—for about five minutes.
The nights in Kanchenjunga National Park brought a different kind of magic. We would gather around campfires, huddling for warmth and sharing stories. There was something about the shared suffering of steep climbs and cold nights that brought us closer together. The food prepared by the cooks on our team kept our spirits high. With hearty meat dishes every day and delightful desserts, they left no room for criticism.
We laughed about the absurdity of our situation—like how the “basic” in Basic Mountaineering Course felt like a cruel joke. One trainee joked that they’d rather face an avalanche than another uphill trek. By the end of the trek, we were less a group of strangers and more a mismatched family, bonded by blisters and bad jokes.
When we finally reached HMI Base Camp, it was like stepping into another world. Nestled in a valley surrounded by towering peaks, the camp was a cluster of simple huts and tents set against the backdrop of the Rathong Glacier. The air was crisp, and the silence was broken only by the occasional roar of avalanches in the distance.
Despite its remote location, the base camp had its share of quirky comforts. There were solar-powered lights that worked when the weather allowed, huts for trainees (dubbed TISCO Huts, courtesy of Tata), and even a research hut originally built to study the legendary Yeti. Yes, —the abominable snowman had his own headquarters here once upon a time.
Exhausted, we dumped our backpacks and took a moment to soak it all in. The journey to base camp had been brutal, but standing there, surrounded by some of the highest peaks on Earth, it all felt worth it.
Glacier Training at Rathong Glacier: Mastering Ice Climbing and Crevasse Rescue
Every morning, we bundled up in layers of clothing, strapped on crampons (After heating up the shoelaces which stood up like snakes frozen in the cold), and grabbed our ice axes. The trek to the training site felt quite serene—until we reached the glacier’s edge, where the real challenge began. The sessions covered all the essentials: ice climbing, crevasse rescue, and ice arrest. Each one seemed custom-designed to push us out of our comfort zones and straight into survival mode.
One by one, we rappelled down the cliff, struggling to maintain our balance. Several teammates had already been injured by the crampons, and when mine came loose and fell off, my worst fear became reality. I looked up and saw my instructor shaking his head in dismay.
The glacier itself was a paradox—beautiful yet unforgiving. The ice sparkled like a field of diamonds under the sun, but as soon as the wind kicked up, it felt like the glacier was trying to freeze the very will to live out of you. The cold cut through every layer, and no amount of gloves or thermal gear could save you from the numbing bite of the wind.
By the end of the week, we were all physically battered, emotionally drained, and frozen to the core—but there was an undeniable sense of achievement. Conquering the glacier wasn’t just about mastering the technical skills; it was about surviving an environment that seemed to exist solely to remind us how small and fragile we really are. But at least we were still standing—or, in my case, mostly standing, with a lot of help from my ice axe.
The Ultimate Test: Climbing Rhenock Peak and Reaching the Summit
The ultimate test was upon us: the climb to Rhenock Peak, a towering 18,000-foot beast that had been looming over us throughout our training. We’d been building toward this moment, both eager and terrified at the same time.
Hearing the whistles from our instructors at around 3:00 am in the morning, we dragged ourselves out of our sleeping bags, squinting in the dark like confused zombies and set off well before sunrise, our headlamps casting narrow beams of light on the snow-covered path ahead. The air grew thinner with every step, and breathing felt like we were sucking on air from a straw.
I won’t lie—there were moments when I seriously wondered if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. The higher we climbed, the heavier the air felt, and the more my body screamed for mercy.
My lungs burned with every breath, and I considered faking an injury for a helicopter rescue. But then I looked around at the barren landscape and the sheer cliffs, and figured the helicopter would probably just hover overhead, take one look at the mess I was in, and fly off to find a more competent victim.
Then, after a few grueling hours of roping up, finally, the summit came into view. It wasn’t so much a “moment of triumph” as it was a relief that I wasn’t about to die in a mountain pass. But as I pushed myself through the last few steps, something changed. The exhaustion, the pain, and the frustration melted away, and I stood there at the top, absolutely wrecked, but somehow more alive than I had ever felt.
And that view—wow. Snow-capped peaks stretched as far as the eye could see, all bathed in a soft golden light from the rising sun. For a moment, I just stood there, taking it all in, feeling incredibly small yet incredibly powerful at the same time.
The mountain hadn’t just given me a view—it had given me something much more valuable: a new sense of belief in myself.
Reflections on My Himalayan Mountaineering Journey: Lessons Learned and Future Plans
As I packed my gear to leave HMI, I couldn’t help but reflect on the journey—not as a triumphant conqueror, but as someone who had truly embraced the challenges and lessons it brought.
I came to the Himalayas seeking adventure, and I certainly found it. Freezing temperatures, steep climbs, and the ever-present risk of injury were daily reminders of the cost of extreme pursuits. The heavy backpacks—carrying up to 15 kilograms—took a toll on my spine, leaving me with a permanent injury. Yet, despite this, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
The physical pain and exhaustion revealed the true rewards: the sense of accomplishment, the beauty of the mountains, and the bonds developed through shared struggles. The hardships made the triumphs even sweeter, and though my body was battered, my appreciation for the journey was deeper than ever.
While I’ve had enough of extreme mountaineering, my love for the mountains remains unchanged. But, my approach to them has shifted. I no longer feel the need to summit every peak. Admiring them from the ground—where I could still feel my feet—has become far more fulfilling. The mountains still call to me, but I no longer need to conquer them to feel their majesty.
The journey at HMI taught me more than just mountaineering. It taught me resilience, discipline, and the value of community. But more than anything, it taught me to respect the mountains not as something to conquer, but as something to be humbled by.
As for those planning their next advanced courses, I wish them the best of luck. For me, I’ve realized that life is about balance—prioritizing my happiness and the well-being of those I love. What’s the point of climbing mountains if you can’t enjoy the view with the ones who matter most?
“May you climb from peak to peak.”
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