Four Perspectives, One Destination: Surabhi’s Family Adventure to Spiti with Thrillophilia
Planning family vacations has always been my job. Over the years, I had become the unofficial travel agent for the Shivkumar household. My parents, my brother and I love travelling, but agreeing on a destination is a Herculean task. My mother prefers serene towns with good food, Dad likes historical sites, my brother thrives on adventure, and I just want a break from Delhi’s chaos.
This year, as we debated potential destinations, Spiti popped up unexpectedly during a random internet search. Something about its rugged landscapes, monasteries clinging to cliffs, and serene high-altitude lakes appealed to me. After some convincing, and bribing my brother with promises of adventure, we packed our bags and set out for a road trip into the heart of Himachal Pradesh.
Winding Roads and Apple Orchards
The first leg of the journey had us leaving behind the bustling cityscape as we drove towards Narkanda. The roads wound upwards, lined with pine trees that seemed to reach for the heavens. Dad, who had taken the wheel, was humming an old Kishore Kumar tune, while my brother fiddled with the playlist, trying to convince him to give newer music a chance.
Narkanda welcomed us with its cool breeze and orchards that stretched as far as the eye could see. We stopped at a small roadside café where the owner, an elderly man with twinkling eyes, proudly showed us his apple orchard.
“Try this,” he said, plucking a ruby-red apple and handing it to Mom. She took a bite and her expression softened into a smile.
“It is sweeter than anything you get in the markets,” she admitted.
That evening, we wandered through the orchards and soaked in the simplicity of life here. My brother, ever the city boy, was fascinated, “How do people live so peacefully in places like this?”
“Maybe because they know what matters,” Dad replied.
The Last Village and Endless Stories
From Narkanda, we travelled deeper into Himachal, passing through twisted roads carved into cliffs. The Sutlej River flowed alongside and was a constant companion as we drove to Chitkul, the last inhabited village in India near the Indo-China border. It was everything I had imagined- Wooden houses with slate roofs lined the landscape, and the Baspa River flowed gently by. As the sun dipped below the mountains, we gathered around a bonfire at our campsite.
The warmth of the fire loosened everyone’s discomfort. Fellow travellers began to share their stories, but it was Dad who stole the show.
“You know,” he began, his voice carrying over the crackling fire, “these mountains are witnesses to lifetimes. They have seen people come and go, dreams rise and fall. And they keep standing, unshaken.”
“Spoken like a philosopher,” my brother teased, earning a laugh from everyone.
The night felt timeless as we listened, laughed, and gazed at the stars, which seemed closer and brighter than ever before.
In the Heart of Spiti
The landscape changed dramatically as we entered Spiti Valley. The greenery gave way to barren moon-like terrain. It was magically beautiful and felt like we had stepped on a different planet.
Kaza greeted us with fluttering prayer flags and warm smiles. Our first stop here was Key Monastery located high on a hill overlooking the valley. Inside, the air was filled with the sound of monks chanting. The rhythmic hum seemed to touch something deep within as if the very walls of the monastery were alive with centuries of devotion.
“Feel that?” I asked my brother as we stepped outside.
He nodded. “Time does not exist here. Just peace.”
Later, we visited Hikkim, home to the highest post office in the world. Mom was the first to grab a postcard and begin writing. “This one is for the future me,” she declared, addressing it to herself. “So I can remember this feeling years from now.”
“Do not forget to tell future you how bossy present you are,” my brother joked while dodging a playful smack.
The Moon’s Mirror
The journey to Chandratal was as thrilling as it was nerve-wracking. With sheer drops on one side, the narrow roads tested Dad’s driving skills and our collective patience. By the time we reached the starting point for the trek to the lake, we were exhausted. But as we rounded the final bend, all fatigue melted away.
Chandratal lay before us, shimmering in the late afternoon light. Its crescent shape perfectly mirrored the sky above. We sat by the shore and admired its spectacular beauty.
“This feels unreal,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.
Sitting nearby, Dad said, “It is the kind of place that reminds you how small you are and how vast the world is.”
That night, we camped under a canopy of stars. The cold bit at our fingers and toes, but none of us wanted to retreat into the tents. The Milky Way stretched above us in all its glory and reminded us of the infinite.
My brother is usually a chatterbox, but that day, he was unusually quiet. “It is so peaceful here," he finally said.
The Road Back Home
As we began our descent towards Manali the next morning, the return to civilization felt bittersweet. Solang Valley provided a burst of adventure, with my brother convincing Mom to try paragliding. She was terrified at first, but the exhilaration on her face as she landed was priceless.
“Looks like you have got some daredevil in you after all,” Dad teased, earning a victorious smile from her.
Read More: Thrillophilia Spiti Reviews