Ah, the enchantment of an early morning trek, where the allure of breathtaking sunrises collides with the harsh reality of sore muscles and aching limbs. As I hobbled back from my latest foray into the great outdoors, I couldn't help but ponder whether my fondness for trekking was a recurring dance of "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, and fool me every time someone announces the next trek."
It all began innocently enough. The day before, I drove down to Ravi’s place. The winter evening at JLT unfolded beautifully – cold and pleasant. In the words of my fellow trekker (name withheld for obvious reasons), “nalla alcoholic weather!” Succumbing to the atmosphere, Ravi and I delved into discussions about weather, women, and work over a few well-brewed beverages. By 11 PM, two thoughts were dueling in my head: sleep now and rise at 3 AM for the long drive to RAK, or stay awake until early morning and venture out at 3 AM. Despite the sensible option being glaringly obvious, my brain opted for a third alternative, and I found myself lying down by only midnight, waiting for sleep that never arrived.
At 2.30 AM, bleary-eyed, I woke up to find Ravi sleeping, the sun yet to rise, and the birds contemplating the merits of waking up so early. With one eye open and the other closed, I succumbed to the call of panoramic views and the communion with nature. My pre-dawn alarm rang out.
As I stepped out, the road lay bare and barren, with the occasional passing cab seeming to float above the tarmac. I shook my head – I needed a chai.
The 1.5-hour drive to the starting point passed on autopilot, with loud music aiding my battle against drowsiness. The sky remained unchanged as I pulled into the spot where others would gather, only to find none. I was early, surrounded by total darkness.
Another 20 minutes passed before I saw another human, and then, the rest trickled in. My first winter trek was about to commence after a considerable hiatus.
The initial steps up the winding trail filled my lungs with crisp mountain air, making me feel on top of the world. However, a couple of hours later, I found myself questioning life choices with each agonizing step. My once-reliable legs rebelled against the uphill climb's tyranny, sweat poured down my face, and desert shrubs with thorns bullied my ankles. The lazy-ass sky still lay sleeping on its belly above us.
Two and a half hours into the trek, most fellow hikers decided to call it a day. We were on the most grueling and ironically named trek in the UAE, aptly titled "The Stairway to Heaven." (Surely, there must be some logical criteria for naming treks, I thought.)
As I descended from my latest uphill escapade, my uncooperative noodle legs, served as a stark reminder that they were not built for such early morning acrobatics. In the hushed whispers of one nursing aching limbs, I vowed, "No more trekking for me," declaring my resolve to a few mountain goats witnessing my triumphant descent into soreness.
On the way back, I rolled over smooth rocks, winced at sharp ones, and climbed over bigger ones. At each resting point, we huddled together through shared misery, bonding as fellow trekkers.
I was back at Ravi’s place by 4 PM, nursing sore muscles and a cup of chai, contemplating the insanity of it all. My hiking boots awaited by the door, but I lacked the energy to drive back home. After a hot shower, I settled into the comfort of a thick blanket, thinking whether to engage in Ravi's discussion on the three W's we left unfinished.
But something didn’t feel alright.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone, my fingers danced across the screen, and the familiar voice on the other end greeted me with a chipper, "Hello?"
Taking a deep breath, my sore muscles staging a final protest, I blurted out, "So, when's the next trek?"
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