A place so vast, it leaves no room to hide from yourself.
The air felt thinner than my thoughts.
Somewhere between silence and snowfall, Spiti stopped being a destination and became a mirror.
“Why Spiti?” was a question I kept hearing.
I didn’t always have a clear answer, just a feeling.
I’ve been restless ever since I was a kid, never really someone who could stay in one place for too long. I remember being 14, staring at a picture of snowcapped mountains labeled Spiti, and quietly promising myself that someday, I’ll go there.
Somewhere between building a career and building a life, I forgot that promise.
It slipped into the background, like I had reduced my own dream to a side story.
Two years after my first solo trip, I finally found the courage again.
It still felt terrifying, uncertain, exciting all at once. The long roads, the unpredictable terrain… it made me hesitate.
But sometimes, all it takes is one person to remind you of who you were.
For me, that was my best friend. And just like that, the journey began….
PART I: Julley, Spiti!
It began with hesitation; a circle of strangers, exchanging names we wouldn’t remember yet, pretending comfort where there was none. Ten days together felt like a long commitment to unfamiliar faces.
But journeys have a strange way of dissolving distance.
By the time we reached Chandigarh, the silence had softened. Conversations found their way in. Laughter followed soon after. Not quite friends yet but no longer strangers either.
The road to Shimla didn’t feel like a transition. It felt like an ignition.
Windows down, music up; we sang like no one was listening, even though everyone was. Off-key, loud, completely unfiltered. The kind of chaos that feels like freedom.
By the time we reached, exhaustion hit all at once.
But that night, I stepped out into the quiet. A small lounge. A vast sky.
The stars, the moon, the scattered city lights felt oddly familiar.
I was shivering, but somewhere between the cold and the stillness, there was warmth.
Not comfort. Not home. But something close enough.
The next morning carried a different energy.
Fresh. Expectant.
This was the day the mountains stopped being distant visuals and became something we were inside of.
As we drove deeper, Lahaul and Spiti began unfolding raw, vast, almost indifferent to our presence. And somewhere along the winding roads, we danced through the turns… quite literally feeling every twist and turning it into a twist of fate.
That’s when we met Sonam Bhai, our guide, our constant, our unexpected anchor. Cheerful, effortlessly funny, the kind of person who’d tease you endlessly and still show up when it mattered. Some people just belong to the mountains. He was one of them.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped for chai.
A small place by the river. Rain slowly settled in. And a dog that decided I was his person for the evening.
He leaned into the cuddles like he’d known me forever.
I didn’t question it. Some connections don’t ask for context.
That night took an unexpected turn.
A ten-minute walk through darkness led us to music, laughter, and somehow, garba in the middle of the mountains. Strangers again, but this time we were bound by rhythm.
Between catching our breath and sniffing Kapoor like survival depended on it, we danced.
Layers came off. Walls did too.
For a moment, it didn’t matter where we were. Navratri had found us anyway.
Morning arrived quietly but the mountains didn’t.
Kinnaur Kailash stood before us, vast and unmoving, its presence almost unsettling. The kind of sight that doesn’t just impress you; it silences you.
Sleep had been shallow, broken into fragments. I woke up at 6:30, like my body had surrendered to the rhythm of the place.
Photos were taken. Breakfast was devoured. But something had already shifted.
Kalpa brought softness.
At a small café tucked into the hills, we met Taashi, a child who didn’t just smile, she practically radiated it. There was something untouched about her joy. Effortless. Pure.
Like the mountains hadn’t changed her. Or maybe she belonged to them more than we ever could.
At Khab Sangam, two rivers meet.
The Spiti & the Sutlej
Together, they didn’t clash. They were balanced.
It felt like a reminder that chaos and calm don’t cancel each other out.
They coexist.
By the time we reached Gue Monastery, the altitude had started speaking.
My steps slowed. My breath felt heavier. The group moved ahead while I stayed back, caught between effort and exhaustion. I didn’t enter the monastery.
Instead, I sat outside, speaking to a police officer posted there, someone far from home, yet oddly grounded in that isolation. There was a different kind of stillness in that conversation.
Sometimes, you don’t need to step inside sacred places to feel something shift.
That night, the sky took over again.
No city lights. No distractions. Just an open ground and a sky full of stars that felt almost unreal. The camera struggled. The cold intensified.
But we stayed.
Because some moments aren’t meant to be captured perfectly but to be just experienced fully.
The next day carried us towards Kaza.
The roads ran alongside the Spiti River, like a quiet companion guiding us through. At one point, we stopped. Others listened to the river.
I didn’t. I stepped into it. Drank from it.
Let it hit my face like it had something to prove.
It shocked me awake. Not just physically.
Dhankar followed, quiet, elevated, watching over everything beneath it.
At Dhankar, while we waited outside, a foreigner passed by looking for the restroom. We tried asking for help; once, twice; but she walked past like she hadn’t heard us.
And one of us casually said, “Dafhod che aayiya.”
There was a pause and then we all just burst out laughing.
The monastery stood there, calm and observant. I stayed outside again.
And it was enough.
Kaza felt alive in a different way.
Food that warmed us thenthuk, momos, endless mango slices (and a tiramisu I’d rather forget). Markets buzzing, people bargaining, lungs adjusting to thinner air.
It was chaotic. But a softer chaos.
The days that followed blended movement with stillness.
Langza’s quiet Buddha.
Hikkim’s closed post office, plans interrupted, expectations paused.
Komic’s vast openness, where the air felt almost too pure.
And Chicham, unexpectedly, the most memorable.
Sitting inside an old, renovated bus, eating Siddu and Maggi, surrounded by strangers who didn’t feel like strangers anymore.
There was nothing extraordinary about it. And yet, it stayed.
Somewhere along these days, the mountains stopped feeling external.
They weren’t just landscapes anymore.
They were experiences. Reactions. Reflections.
The vastness didn’t just surround us, it started settling within us.
Our last night in Kaza was quieter.
We wrote postcards we never sent. I wrote one to my parents. And one… to my 14-year-old self.
I still carry it in the front pocket of my rucksack.
Not as a memory. But as a reminder.
Because somewhere between the chaos, the laughter, the exhaustion, and the silence.
Spiti had already begun its work.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But slowly, subtly, like something too vast to understand in a single moment.
Must Read: Mountain Lover? Visit the Spiti Little Tibet Valley – Travellers of India
Author Bio:
Nishita Rawat
I’m a solo traveller who finds joy in getting lost, discovering hidden places, and sharing conversations with people from different cultures. For me, travel is about people as much as places. Every journey teaches me something new, and every person I meet adds a new perspective to my story. I write to inspire others to travel a little slower and experience destinations beyond the guidebooks. I hope to encourage people to see the world with curiosity.
