Sunday, 9th November 2025
Its 8 pm and I am back home. Finally. Legs protesting every
step, shoulders still feeling the weight of the backpack, and all I wanted was
to collapse. But there it was – the diary, sitting on my desk, practically
demanding attention. Some days refuse to be filed away quietly. Some
experiences insist on being captured before they blur into memory. Today's trek
to Ghangad was one of those days.
Call of the winter
The monsoons have taken their curtain call, leaving behind a
lush green landscape ,clean and gleaming. October usually arrives with its
trademark heat, making you wonder if summer ever really left. But this year?
Different. October had few rain showers. The November mornings carried that
crisp bite, evenings draped themselves in coolness – unmistakable hints that
winter was sending its advance party. The perfect window to shake off the
post-monsoon lethargy and reclaim the mountains. And for that first winter
trek, Ghangad seemed to be calling.
The Dawn Brigade
Sunday. The day most people worship at the altar of their
beds, enjoying that sacred sleep-in. But at 6 am, our bus was already rolling
out of the city, cutting through air so cool and fresh it felt like a blessing.
The roads were gloriously empty – a rare gift in our perpetually buzzing world.
By 9:15 am, we'd arrived at Ekole village, the threshold to our adventure.
The route had been scenic in that understated way – past
Lonavala with its weekend crowds, the imposing INS Shivaji campus standing
proud, Bhushi dam holding back its waters, and Korigad fort looming in the
distance like an older sibling. Ghangad nestles near Tamhini ghat in Pune
district, part of a landscape that has witnessed centuries unfold.
Past Lonavala, the road transformed into something
altogether different. Sharp U-bends appeared one after another, each curve
tighter than the last, the kind that makes you grateful for skilled drivers and
good brakes. The bus leaned into each turn like a dancer, revealing new vistas
with every swing. And on both sides, the forest pressed in close – thick,
dense, almost impenetrable walls of green. Trees arched overhead in places,
creating natural tunnels where sunlight struggled to penetrate. It felt less like
driving through the landscape and more like being embraced by it, the forest
claiming the road as its own, generously allowing us passage through its realm.
Ghangad isn’t just a fort. It was a sentinel, a guardian of
the ancient trade routes that once pulsed with life, connecting the coastal
Konkan to Pune's plateau. Through landscape blessed with Sudhagad and Sarasgad,
winding through the Mulshi valley – merchants, soldiers, travellers, all passed
under Ghangad's watchful gaze. History isn't just something you read here; it's
something you walk through.
Lahu , our local host met us with that kind of genuine smile
that immediately makes you feel less like a stranger and more like family
returning home. His house was the definition of simple – earthen floors cool
beneath our feet, walls that had stood for generations, no pretence of modern
luxury. Yet it overflowed with something money can't buy: warmth, care, love
that fills spaces better than any furniture ever could.
The aroma hit us before we even entered – fresh poha,
fragrant and steaming, paired with chai so hot and perfect it could wake up
your soul. We sat, we ate, we laughed. Food tastes different when it's made
with such genuine hospitality, doesn't it?
Breakfast done, it was time for the ritual. Shoelaces pulled
tight, backpacks adjusted and readjusted until they sat just right, water
bottles checked. Eighteen of us formed a loose circle – quick introductions,
sharing names and cities, that nervous excitement that comes before every trek.
Then, as one, we turned toward the wilderness.
Where the Wild Things Are
The path led us Eastward initially, and there it was –
Ghangad, rising on our right flank toward the South. The shape strikes you
immediately: angular, blocky, almost geometric in a landscape of flowing
curves. "Ghan" – cube in Marathi. Whoever named this fort had an eye
for the obvious poetry in stone.
The Silence
And then it happened – that profound transformation that
every forest offers if you're willing to receive it. Our chattering voices
gradually softened, then faded entirely. In their place came a different kind
of music.
We could hear ourselves breathe – deep, steady, alive. The
wind moved through the canopy like a patient teacher, whispering secrets
through thousands of leaves. Cicadas sang their endless, hypnotic drone from
hidden stages in the green theatre surrounding us. And beneath it all, our
footsteps composed their own percussion: the crunch of leaves giving way, the
solid tap of boot on stone, the soft compression of earth accepting our weight.
In that profound quietude, with the forest speaking its
ancient language, we walked as grateful students, learning to listen.
Occasionally, the canopy parted just enough for sunlight to
pour through in golden shafts, illuminating the trail like nature's own
spotlight. Those moments felt almost sacred – light and shadow dancing
together, reminding you why you trek in the first place.
The Climb Begins
The trail's character shifted gradually, almost
imperceptibly at first, then with growing insistence. Upward. Always upward.
About thirty minutes into our forest meditation, we reached a small temple
dedicated to Goddess Garjai, nestled in the greenery like a secret being
shared. We gathered there, waiting for others, catching breath, sharing water.
A brief pause before the next chapter.
Threshold of Stone
Within minutes, we stood before the fort's Eastern entrance.
Crossing that threshold felt significant somehow – stepping from one world into
another. Beyond the gate, a flat area spread out with a cave carved into the
living rock, dark and cool and inviting.
But what stopped us in our tracks was the sight to our
right. Nature, in one of her more audacious moods, had created something
extraordinary: a massive boulder, somehow separated from the mother mountain
yet still resting against it, held in place by forces beyond easy
comprehension. The gap between them formed a dramatic crevice, open at both
ends, beckoning exploration. We filed that away mentally – the descent would
bring us back here.
For now, we turned left toward an iron ladder that rose
about twenty feet. The climb was straightforward, but what awaited at the top
demanded respect and caution. A narrow rock ledge, barely wider than a single
footfall, curved along the cliff face. One step at a time. One breath at a
time. No rush. No carelessness. Just focus.
Those careful steps delivered us to a place called
"Met" in Marathi – the fort's first defensive post. It was V-shaped,
a natural fortress within the fortress, offering commanding views of the
eastern approaches. Below us, the Mulshi forest rolled away in waves of green,
seemingly endless. And there, another geological wonder caught our eyes and
demanded photographs. We obliged, of course. How could we not?
The Final Push
We moved right, following the trail until we encountered a
section where time and weather had crumbled the steps into an obstacle course.
This required real attention – testing each foothold before committing weight,
finding handholds that felt solid, trusting ancient rock worn smooth by
countless seasons. About twenty-five feet of focused climbing, every member of
our group navigating it with care and success.
Sentinels and Summits
We made our way to a "Buruj" – one of the
watchtowers where guards once stood vigil through long nights, scanning
horizons for approaching threats. From this perch, the landscape revealed
itself in all its layered glory. You could almost hear the echoes of soldiers'
voices, the clank of weapons, the purposeful footsteps of men who called this
stone fortress home.
But the true summit still beckoned. The highest point on Ghangad stands marked by a flag post. The saffron flag danced fiercely in the wind, its bold color a living tribute to Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and the countless warriors who once defended these very stones with their lives. Standing there, you feel the weight and lightness of history simultaneously. Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and his warriors once stood on these same stones, looked out at these same mountains, breathed this same air. The wind carries their stories still, if you listen.
The view from here is nothing short of magnificent. Tail
Baila dominates the vista – that dramatic magmatic dyke with its twin rock
pinnacles soaring 200-250 feet into the sky, separated by a V-shaped chasm that
looks like the earth split open and then thought better of it. In the distance,
Sudhagad and Sarasgad stand like old friends, fellow guardians of this ancient
land.
Nearly noon now, but the breeze kept us cool, kept us
comfortable. Around us, the skeletal remains of old dwellings – mere stone
foundations now – whispered their stories. Families lived here once. Children
played. Meals were cooked. Life happened, in all its mundane and magnificent
glory, right here on this mountain.
We sat. We breathed. We absorbed. Some moments demand to be savoured
slowly.
Descent and Revelation
Gravity now our ally, we began working our way back down. Coming
down that broken rock patch required even more attention than going up.
Gravity, now working with us, could just as easily work against us with one
careless move. We moved slowly, deliberately. Each person testing footholds
before committing their weight, hands reaching for secure grips on the
weathered stone. "One at a time," someone called out, and we waited
patiently, watching each trekker navigate the twenty-five feet of crumbling
steps with focused concentration. The rock was smooth in places, worn by
centuries of monsoons and countless feet before ours. No rush. No bravado. Just
careful, mindful movement. When the last person made it down safely, there was
a collective exhale – that quiet satisfaction of respecting the mountain and
having the mountain let you pass.
Just beyond the ladder, we detoured to that intriguing
crevice we'd marked earlier. Entering that narrow gap between the separated
boulder and the mountain felt like stepping into the earth's own secret chamber
– cool, dim, magnificent in its scale and audacity. We explored, photographed, marvelled
at what time and geology can create when they collaborate.
Snacks came out. Water bottles made the rounds. We sat in
that unique space, resting muscles, refuelling bodies, but mostly just being
present with the wonder of it all.
After almost three hours under the sun's gaze, re-entering
the forest's embrace felt like slipping into cool water on a hot day. Pure
relief. Pure joy.
Where Memory Lives in Stone
Along our descent, we stopped at a small temple devoted to
Lord Shiva, tucked into the forest like a quiet place for meditation. But it
was what stood beside the temple that truly commanded attention:
"Virgals" – memorial stones carved with intricate detail, standing as
eternal witnesses to courage and sacrifice.
Shubham, our trek leader, became our translator for these
ancient texts written in stone. The bottom panel shows the warrior in life – a
man, a soldier, someone's son or brother. The middle section captures the
terrible beauty of battle, the moment of ultimate sacrifice. The upper panel
depicts his place in the heavens, earned through valour. And crowning it all –
the Sun and Moon, carved in stone, making a promise: as long as these celestial
bodies shine, so will the memory of this brave soul endure.
What profound poetry. What a fitting tribute. Standing
before these stones, separated from those warriors by centuries, you still feel
connected to them. Their courage, their sacrifice, their humanity – all
preserved in rock for generations yet unborn.
The Feast That Feeds the Soul
We reached the village around 2:30 pm, dusty and tired and
happy. After washing away the trail's residue, we gathered for what can only be
described as a feast made with love.
Bhakari – that rustic flatbread made from rice flour, baked
to perfection with those slightly charred edges that taste like heaven. Mataki
usal, lentils cooked until they were tender and fiery, making you reach for
more even as your tongue protested. Dal rice, that most comforting combination
known to Indian cuisine. Fresh salad bringing crunch and coolness. And thecha –
oh, that glorious hand-pounded blend of green chilies and garlic, spicy enough
to make your eyes water and delicious enough to make you not care.
We ate. We ate until we couldn't eat anymore. And just when
we thought the meal was complete, Lahu brought out the surprise: freshly
churned buttermilk, thick and creamy with little specks of butter floating like
tiny clouds. Cool, refreshing, nourishing in a way that goes beyond nutrition.
We rested after that, bellies full, hearts fuller. A casual
feedback session where everyone shared their favourite moments, their
gratitude, their joy. And then came the hard part – saying goodbye.
Lahu extended an invitation that we all wanted to accept
immediately: come back for overnight camping, explore the offbeat trails,
discover the hidden gems of this region. We promised we would. Some promises
you intend to keep.
Gratitude, Carried Home
This experience was made possible by people who care deeply
about what they do. Shubham Sawant, our leader, and Shreyas Ranade, our
co-leader, guided us with expertise and enthusiasm. The entire Trek Kshitiz
team from Dombivli – their dedication to trekking, wildlife conservation, and
Durga Sanvardhan (the restoration and preservation of our historical forts and
monuments) shines through in every detail. This wasn't just a well-organized
trek; it was an education, a journey through history and nature both.
And to my fellow trekkers – eighteen souls who started the
day as strangers and ended it as trail companions – thank you. For the
laughter, the shared silences, the helping hands on difficult sections, the
collective wonder at nature's artistry.
We dispersed with tired legs and recharged spirits, carrying
memories and a promise: we'll meet again where the trails lead, where the
mountains call, where the next adventure awaits.
Home Now
So here I am, diary filled, experience captured as best as
words allow. The exhaustion remains, but it's that good kind – the type that
comes from moving your body through beautiful spaces, from challenging
yourself, from living fully for a day.
Ghangad, you've left your mark. Until we meet again.
