Pindari Glacier, Bageshwar, Uttarakhand, India. Video credit: Author

I call the mountains my home. If I could be anywhere in the world, I’d choose to go back there and spend some time. Any moment in the mountains becomes quality time by default.

Peace. Tranquillity. Stillness…

These aren’t just words — they become experiences when you see the lush green forests, walk into mist-soaked trails, feel the evening breeze on your face, or just watch clouds drift lazily across the peaks.

It takes me back to where I grew up — climbing trees, running up and down hills, playing until dusk. The sky felt bluer there, the nights deeper. From many places, you could spot the Milky Way without even trying.

When that kind of beauty surrounds you, questions naturally rise:
How? Why? What for?

In other words, Purpose.

Everywhere you look, nature feels picture-perfect — the epitome of art and craftsmanship. And you can’t help but wonder: who is the creator of all this magic, and why is it created in the first place?

That’s not the kind of question you can ask while stuck in traffic, horns blaring, or when someone’s trying to get ahead of you for no reason. But in the silence of the Himalayas, you come closer to understanding yourself and your raison d’être.

Your purpose in life is to find your purpose and give your whole heart and soul to it.

— Gautama Buddha

On my recent expedition to Pindari Glacier — where the Pindar River begins its journey and the magnificent peaks, including Nanda Devi, Nanda Kot, Nanda Khat, amongst others, silently guard the valley — that question echoed within me louder than ever.

So come along — and see how the mountains answered the biggest question of my life.

Questions Before the Expedition

Coming down from Zero Point, Pindari Glacier. Image credit: Author

After more than a decade in the 9–5, I wanted to invest my spare time into building something meaningful — something that aligned with my purpose.

Thanks to my corporate experience, I have grown comfortable with writing. My day job revolves around analysis, presentations, and crafting insights for leadership — helping them make informed decisions.

So naturally, writing seemed like the obvious choice.

But then there is my love for adventure — hiking, trekking, exploring. Being outdoors always gives me clarity. And with that, another thought crept in: maybe I should start a vlog?

I’ve always been fascinated by stories like Heinrich Harrer’s — the mountaineer, Olympic ski champion, and author of Seven Years in Tibet. His journey across the Himalayas into Tibet and his encounter with the Dalai Lama remain among the most remarkable travel accounts ever written.

It is not for me to encourage disobedience, but if some of you need advice on how to do it, I would gladly give it.

— Heinrich Harrer, Royal Geographical Society (2002), from Seven Years in Tibet

Later, as YouTube grew, I found myself drawn to Rick Steves’ Europe series — I love the simplicity of his narration and how vividly he portrays these fantastic places.

During the pandemic, I stumbled upon Ronnie and Barty, a couple from the state of Himachal, India, who share beautiful stories of mountain travel and living.

So I stood at a crossroads:
A travel vlog or a blog (or both).

Although my conscience kept whispering “blog,” there was a certain void I was trying to fill with something else — or perhaps it was just my ignorance waiting for clarity.

Until this expedition.

The Expedition

The trek between Dwali and Phurkia remains laden with Rhododendron forests of different hues. You’ll feel as if you’re in a wonderland. Image credit: Author

Crossing the final snow bed before reaching Pindari Glacier. Thanks to Arjun Danu, our guide, for filming this. Video credit: Author

The Observation

Mount Baljuri, Panwali Dwar and Nanda Khat (left to right) as seen from Phurkia → Pindari Glacier Zero Point route. Image credit: Author

As we drew closer to the glacier, the silence deepened — now we began to feel that we had wandered far into the wild.

Nobody else was around. No network. Just the sound of the Pindar River — and the quiet hum of the forest.

Somewhere in that stillness, something began to shift.

I realised that throughout the journey, I had been living behind the lens. Every moment had to be framed; every angle checked. It was so tempting to capture everything — as if the trail would lose its meaning if I didn’t record it.

But instead of soaking in the silence of the forest or the crunch of snow beneath my boots, I found myself worrying about battery life and whether my shots were good enough.

When we spotted a monal flying past us in surreal colours — or when a bear crossed a distant slope, or a herd of tahrs appeared on a ridge — those should have been moments of awe.

Instead, I caught myself thinking:
Oh, I missed that shot on camera.

The mountains were right there — alive in their stillness — but I was slipping away from them. I was seeing the trail, yet not really experiencing it.

We were carrying about 20 kilos of gear on our backs, but somehow, this small camera began to feel like the heaviest thing I had brought along. It wasn’t just the weight — it was the burden of distraction, of being everywhere but in the moment.

Clarity at the Summit

Pindari Glacier — a view from Zero Point. Image credit: Author

After reaching Zero Point, I finally set the camera aside. It was such a beautiful view that anything else lost its meaning. I sat down, breathing, absorbing, and listening to the sounds of nature.

The snow was quiet, yet the river roared.

A duality of nature, each expressed in its own way — one silent and still, the other full of sound and motion — each following its own nature and purpose.

Then I observed this:
The snow cannot be loud, and the river cannot be quiet.

And in that moment, I learned my lesson: I don’t have to be two people at the same time. I need to be what I am — what is inside.

I saw it as clean as snow and as clear as water — writing.

A man who wears two watches never knows the correct time.

— Segal’s Law

Vlogging isn’t for me. And I have good reasons for that:

• • I’m no good at filming, and editing feels even harder. Even stitching short clips together is a personal trouble.
  • Writing, on the other hand, comes naturally — it fits into my rhythm. A few quiet hours with myself work just fine.

On the way back, I didn’t film a single frame — and I can tell you for sure, it felt so liberating.

Sometimes we try to fill the void with too many things, but at some point, we have to choose the one that truly matters. In my case, it was writing.

If you’ve ever faced a question like this, give yourself the space to explore both paths. In the end, your conscience will guide you toward the right one.

That’s what happened to me. And that’s what I’m doing right now — sharing this story with you here, on Medium, and on my personal blog, manmohanjoshi.com.

P.S. Anyway, I’ve stitched some of the clips together — after all, it took a lot of hard work. Here’s our journey in a few frames.

Reaching Pindari Glacier Zero Point, Bageshwar, Uttarakhand, India. Video credit: Author

References:

Harrer, H. (2005). Seven Years in Tibet. (Original work published 1953). Harper Perennial