Cloud Forest Paths

In Jibhi the fog does not block the view. The fog is the view.

We walked the same forest path three times in three weathers, and it was three different forests. In rain it smelled of iron and moss. In mist the deodars became rumours of trees. And in the one hour of sun, the whole slope steamed like bread out of an oven.

The waterfall lanes above the village are short walks with long effects. Moss thickens on the north face of every trunk; streams appear, take a few steps with you, and leave without saying where.

One morning we climbed the stone path to Chehni Kothi, the tower that has stood over its village for centuries, timber and stone laced together, leaning very slightly, like a tall relative listening. Children played cricket against its base. A god lives upstairs. Both facts were treated as normal, because both are.

At the homestay, dinner was whatever the garden had agreed to that week, and the owner's mother inspected our wet socks with open disapproval and put them by the fire herself.

Local truth: in cloud season, locals plan by the fog's schedule, not the clock's. Morning walks, afternoon fires. Adopt it and the weather stops being an obstacle and becomes the itinerary.

July to September for the full drowned-green effect; leeches are the entry fee, salt is the ticket. March for flowers, October for clarity.

I stopped waiting for the mist to lift. That was the day the valley decided I could stay.