Shripad’s Dayara Bugyal Snow Trek with His Grandson and Thrillophilia

It started one morning when my 15-year-old grandson, Param, was flipping through a travel blog on his tablet. He stopped at a photo of a group of trekkers across a snow meadow, surrounded by white-capped mountains under a blazing blue sky.

“Grandpa,” he said, “would you ever want to do something like this?”

I looked up from my tea. “Trek in the snow?”

He nodded. “Never.”

It was one of those rare moments when time seemed to slow. I saw in his eyes something both curious and sincere. And I felt a quiet wish that had perhaps been there for years. To walk a trail for the story of it. And what better way than with Param, whose world was still opening, and who wanted to share it with me?

The Road to Raithal

In March 2025, we left behind the plains of Dehradun and drove into the winding arms of Uttarakhand. The road carried us closer to a small village called Raithal, situated above Uttarkashi.

Param sat by the window while counting waterfalls and pointing out monkeys swinging through the trees. I mostly listened to the road, his excitement, and the soft rustle of something new beginning.

We reached Raithal by late afternoon. The village was quiet, with terraced fields, wooden homes, and snow-tipped mountains in the far distance. The homestay was simple but welcoming. We were greeted by our trek guides, Ashish and Kapil Rawat.

Ashish looked at me curiously. “First snow trek?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And first one with him,” I added, nodding towards Param.

Kapil laughed. “Then it is already a special one.”

That evening, Param and I sat outside under the stars. The village slept early, and the hills felt close and hushed. I remember saying to myself, “What a peaceful place to begin an adventure.”

The Walk to Gui Through the Forest

The next morning, we began our climb to the Gui campsite under a bright sun and clear skies. The path wound through oak forests, where sunlight dripped through the leaves. The air was so fresh that it filled our chests with a strange joy.

I took steady steps while pacing myself. Param was walking ahead and paused only to capture mushrooms, tree bark, and distant peaks with his camera.  

“Are you tired, Grandpa?” he called back once.

“Not yet,” I smiled.

Ashish walked beside me for much of the trail. We spoke little, but I liked his steady and thoughtful presence. “You are doing well,” he said once. “Most people stop more often.”

“It is the eagerness in my heart,” I replied.

By midday, we emerged from the forest into an open stretch of Gui. A perfect alpine meadow surrounded by white giants. Tents were already set, and a mild breeze carried the scent of pine and smoke from the campfire being built.

That evening, we took an acclimatisation walk nearby. The snowline was visible now, and the sky had turned a soft purple. 

As we lay in our tent that night, Param whispered, “I did not know the world could be this quiet.”

“It is,” I said. “It just waits for us to listen.”

The White World of Dayara Bugyal

The morning of the third day of the trek felt like waking up to nature’s paradise. The world outside was glazed with frost, and our breath puffed like steam. After a delicious breakfast, we began our climb to Dayara Bugyal.

The trail started gently but began to rise. With every step, snow appeared first in patches, and then as a blanket. Trees grew denser, and the air thinned.

Param was excited. However, I moved more slowly because I wanted to remember every footstep. Snow crunched beneath my boots, and a deep silence surrounded us.

Then we reached Dayara Bugyal in its full glory. A meadow of snow stretched endlessly beneath a sapphire sky, surrounded by peaks wearing white crowns.

Param stood still. “Grandpa,” he said softly, “we are walking on clouds.”

We moved slowly through the snow. Ashish pointed out the Dodital range in the distance. Kapil taught us how to spot animal tracks in the snow.

The final stretch to Dayara Top was steeper. My legs burned, and my breath came in clouds. But then I heard Param’s joyful and encouraging voice again.

“You can do it, Grandpa! Almost there!”

And I did. One slow step at a time. When I reached the top, he hugged me fiercely.

“We made it,” he said.

“No,” I corrected, “you made me make it.”

From the top, all the struggle melted. The view of the mountains and snowfields was worth a thousand lifetimes. We stood there for what felt like an hour and soaked in the atmosphere.

Before we left, Param took a photo of me holding a handful of snow. 

The Long Goodbye

That night, the stars seemed closer to Gui, and the campfire glowed. I sat beside Param, both of us wrapped in woollens and gratitude.

The next morning, we began our descent to Raithal. The walk felt easier now, almost like we were gliding downhill. The trees, the wind, and the trail seemed familiar now.

Kapil walked with me part of the way. “Sir,” he said, “people say trekking is about reaching a summit. But it is about discovering how far the heart can go.”

I nodded. “And sometimes, it goes wherever the young lead it.”

By afternoon, we reached Raithal. Our driver was waiting. Param fell asleep in the backseat shortly after we began the return to Dehradun. I sat quietly and watched the trees thin, the hills roll back into plains, and the mountains disappear behind us.

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