Bold tracks and Bagpacks

 I climbed a mountain, but the higher I went, the more I realized— the real ascent was inside me. Between Arusha’s blur and Moshi’s song, I shed politeness like an old skin. Strangers became philosophers, altitude turned us into children of honesty. At Gilman’s Point, my body staged a rebellion. Not defeat— but wisdom, whispering: Sometimes, you conquer by turning back. Now, off the trail, I feel the same altitude rising in my mind. Detachment, visions ahead of their time, synchronicities dancing like hidden guides. I ask: Am I rewired, or simply awake? Books speak through me— Jung’s shadows, Marcus’s stillness, Gibran’s fire. Each word a river, each page a mirror. I crave solitude— mountains, hills, silence— because only in aloneness do the voices in me sing instead of scream. And I want it all— joy and grief, birth and death, music and silence, truth so raw it cuts through pretense. For life is a construct, a stream of passing waters, and I...

  The Journey Begins: A Bus, A Book, and a Breath of Relief Before I even set foot on the mountain, a man on our bus to Tanzania summed it up perfectly: “For once, I feel a sigh of relief — no pressure of work, no pressure of family, no pressure of hiking… just me, existing.” He spoke for me too. Because Kilimanjaro isn’t just a mountain. It’s a pilgrimage. Armed with Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet (which I devoured faster than I expected), I watched Arusha blur past the window, Moshi welcome us warmly, and the first communal songs of the mountain melt away the awkwardness of strangers. That night, we weren’t just hikers. We were family-in-the-making. Day One & Two: Pole Pole (Slowly, Slowly) They say pole pole in Tanzania. Slowly, slowly. And they mean it. Our first day was a test of patience more than endurance. We napped in the sun, swapped stories, laughed, and waited until nearly 4PM to actually start hiking. But stepping into camp after that first 8 kil...

  Two months ago, I picked up a book whose very cover felt like a secret invitation — Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. Not the kind of book you read curled up neatly with a cup of tea, but the kind you carry into the wind, the kind that stains your fingers with soil and your heart with truth. It’s a wild book. Humbling, arousing, reclaiming. It shakes you until the dust of everyone else’s expectations falls away, until you can see the shape of yourself again — woman, wife, sister, daughter, friend, dreamer, doer. I didn’t just read it; I trekked through it. And fittingly, I ended its final chapters on a trail — Mt.Kinangop, North Mutarakwa Trail. The Trail Begins The morning air was sharp, like it had been poured straight from a glacier. Clouds hung low, brushing the tops of the ridges. My boots sank slightly into the wet earth, releasing the smell of moss and memory. Twenty-eight kilometres stretched ahead — a long brown ribbon winding between hil...