Some places live in your imagination long before you ever stand in front of them.

For me, Tibet was one of those places.

Seven Years in Tibet remains my favourite book — perhaps one of the most remarkable accounts ever written about exploration, resilience, and what happens when people keep moving against all odds.

If I’m honest, I watched the movie first.

Then curiosity led me to the book.

The film was only the beginning. The book draws you much deeper into the landscapes, hardships, and adventures of Heinrich Harrer’s journey across Tibet.

And somewhere along the way, I realised something unexpected:
I had spent my entire childhood living beside Tibet.

I’m from Pithoragarh district in Uttarakhand — the only district in India that borders both Nepal and Tibet (China).

The high valleys of Pithoragarh are home to Rung and Shauka communities who used to cross into Tibet each year, returning with stories, salt, wool, and fortunes earned through one of the world’s most demanding trading networks. Pandit Nain Singh Rawat — the legendary explorer, surveyor, and one of the great figures of Himalayan exploration — was amongst them.

Growing up, many of my friends from these communities shared stories of their grandfathers who spent months trading in Taklakot Mandi, the historic market town in western Tibet reached via Lipulekh Pass. Some families still own shops there — shuttered for years now due to geopolitical changes, waiting for the day trade returns.

Tibet was never truly distant.

It had always been there, quietly present in the background of life.

So one day, I decided to stop imagining it.

I wanted to go as far as I could — to the very edge of Tibet. Not by crossing into it, but by travelling deep into my home district and following the ancient route that once connected these mountains to the Tibetan Plateau via the Lipulekh Pass.

The distance from home wasn’t extraordinary.

The journey felt like one.

Let’s begin.

Part One : Into the Vyas Valley

Pithoragarh → Dharchula → Napalchu (Vyas Valley)

We reached Dharchula — the gateway to the high Himalayas.

It is the last major Indian border town before the road begins its gradual ascent into the remote valleys that lead towards Tibet. This is where travellers complete permit formalities and medical checks before heading deeper into the mountains.

Until Dharchula, the landscape still feels familiar. There are roads, villages, markets, rivers, and everything you would expect from a Himalayan town.

Beyond it, the mountains grow larger and steeper. Valleys narrow. The Kali River, which flows quietly through the town, becomes a different force altogether. As it plunges through deep gorges, its roar echoes across the mountainsides.

A short distance beyond Dharchula, the frontier landscape begins to unfold. This is the land of the three great valleys of eastern Pithoragarh — Vyas, Chaudans, and Darma — home to the Rung people and the ancient routes that once connected India with Tibet.

We reached Dharchula around 11 a.m. and continued towards our base for the expedition — the village of Napalchu in Vyas Valley. Nearby are the settlements of Gunji, Nabi, Rongkong, and Kuti, scattered across a high-altitude landscape at roughly 11,000 feet.

Until recently, reaching this part of the valley was an expedition in itself. There were no roads, and travellers had to make the entire journey on foot, carrying everything they needed. Today, the region is remarkably well-connected.

Each winter, as snow closes the high valleys, families descend to Dharchula with their livestock and belongings. When spring arrives, and the region becomes habitable, they return to their villages in the high Himalayas. Now that tourism is flourishing, many locals are extending their usual stays even during harsh winters.

By the time we arrived in Napalchu around 5 p.m., the roads, towns, and routines of everyday life felt far behind us.

Only mountains remained.

Napalchu → Om Parvat → Lipulekh Pass (India-China Border)

That evening, we returned to Napalchu after a day that felt both adventurous and deeply contemplative.

But the journey’s most anticipated destination still lay ahead.

The next morning, we set out for Lipulekh Pass — the historic gateway between India and Tibet. Whether we would reach it, however, depended entirely on weather conditions and military clearance.

The road first led us to Nabhidhang, the last major military outpost on the Indian side. At nearly 14,000 feet, Om Parvat dominates the landscape, its snow-covered face naturally forming what appears to be the sacred Hindu symbol “Om.”

Beyond Nabhidhang begins the final stretch to the frontier.

For centuries, traders crossed these mountains on their way to the markets of western Tibet, carrying grain, tea, cloth, and household goods from India, and returning with salt, wool, and other Tibetan goods.

What surprised me most was the landscape.

The familiar Himalayan scenery gradually disappeared, replaced by a vast, windswept, cold desert.

Silent.

Empty.

Ancient.

Lipulekh Pass itself lies only about 45 minutes from Nabhidhang, but before proceeding, military officers asked us to wait for around 30 minutes to acclimatise. We were about to climb from 14,000 feet to nearly 18,000 feet, and the altitude demands respect.

Then came the final ascent.

From a high ridge overlooking the Lipulekh valley, we could see the traditional Indian terminus of the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra. This is where pilgrims historically completed the Indian leg of the journey before being received by Chinese authorities and continuing into Tibet. I was told the onward route from there up to Mount Kailash is roughly 90 kilometres by road.

The distance to the summit point was only about 500 metres.

At about 18,000 feet, however, distance becomes irrelevant.

Every step feels earned.

The air is thin. Your pace slows. You stop thinking about the destination and focus only on the next breath, then the next step.

Finally, we reached the top.

Standing at the edge of India, we looked across the barren expanse of the Tibetan Plateau and saw it:
Mount Kailash.

Majestic, mystical, and magnificent.

For years, this view had existed only in photographs, stories, and imagination. Watching it with our naked eyes left us speechless.

The climb no longer mattered. Only gratitude remained.

As I stood there, I thought of the books and stories that had first sparked my fascination with Tibet, especially Seven Years in Tibet by Heinrich Harrer. Reading about these landscapes from the comfort of home is one thing. Standing among them is another.

The books, the stories, the old trade routes, the conversations with childhood friends, and the tales of Taklakot Mandi all seemed to converge in that moment.

With hearts full of gratitude and wonder, we began our descent, wrapped in a sense of fulfilment that is difficult to put into words.