We negotiated with a jeep and piled in. It was to be a 12 km drive to Kalpetta and another 15 or so to the starting point of our trek, at Rs 10 per km. We reached Kalpetta soon enough and drove on towards Mepadi. It was here that, misguided by an ambiguous road sign and an unhelpful pedestrian of whom we enquired, we took a wrong turn. It took several km for us to discover our mistake, turn back, and retrace our steps (or wheels?) all the way to Mepadi. The right road, we found, was a narrow, inconspicuous lane that disappeared downward away from town. After a very short stretch, we came to a barrier and the guard pointed us to a sign board in Malayalam. Rajeev and Saishree acted as translators: we needed a forest permit. It was now close to 10 a.m. and we were almost frantic to be on the hill. Rajeev was sent out to exercise his persuasive skills and returned shortly, reporting success.

The road led through coffee plantations with a valley on one side and hills in the distance. At last, after a 7 km winding drive, we were dropped at, literally, the end of the road. Here was another barrier, and from there, a pathway leading around the hill to a white watchtower. We all hoisted our backpacks (unpacked and repacked when we were partly awake in the room earlier this morning), heavier now with three litres of water each, and set off down the path.

From the watchtower, the path headed upwards over the hill. Soon we were all gasping and panting, though the sun was not quite at its worst yet, and the tall grasses and trees offered a measure of protection. The path was thoroughly overgrown and we were constantly pushing rough grasses and thorny branches aside to force our way through – but all along, the path was clearly present, leading ever upwards. We climbed for over an hour, before we reached the first shoulder, where the undergrowth climbed down somewhat and we could enjoy the vista. Already, the watchtower was a distant speck, standing out in the low greenery of the hill slope.

We stopped for a few minutes, then carried on up the hill. A km and a half to the lake, we had been told at the watchtower. It certainly seemed like more than that. The path crossed over the hill in front of us at the lowest point, a saddle between two crests. Then there was a long gently sloping stretch, with a small lake off to the right. This was not the lake we would camp at, though for a while I was worried that it might be. Worried, because it was small and dank and not very pretty at all, and, moreover, there was no flat ground next to it where we could camp. In fact, it seemed to be a bit marshy around it. The path skirted it and went on. There was another steep climb, that went muddily alongside a tiny spring for part of the way. We could see the crest at the top of this climb, but our view beyond was blocked by the same crest. What lay beyond that crest? More crests? A meadow? A lake? We didn’t know, but each of us was silently hoping it would be the lake – the lake we sought, which would be our campsite and our stopping point for the day.

Luckily, it was, though you couldn’t see it right away. The path snaked its way through more grasses, not so steeply uphill now, but following the contours of the hill. The true peak of the hill was visible now, high above us and we were still gaping despairingly at it when suddenly the lake appeared just a little below us. We staggered down to it and dropped our loads thankfully.

It is not a very large lake, but it isn’t tiny either. Rajeev stripped to shorts and waded in without a pause. The rest of us sprawled on the rock that formed a convenient beach. We dug into our packs for sandwiches, cake, fruit and a cocktail of white rum and Sprite, which we sipped out of the bottom part of a sawn off mineral water bottle called Bindu (hence, drinking out of Bindu’s bottom).

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the shady grove of trees, not far from the lake. Around 3.45 p.m., when the sun grew a little less fierce, Rajeev and I set off up the facing slope, to head for the peak. We climbed for 40 minutes and were rewarded periodically with breathtaking views. The lower slopes rolled at our feet like a luxurious golf course of 36 holes. The lake shimmered in the distance, like a designer swimming pool. The facing hill, across the valley on our left, seemed just a little lower than our own peak, but just as grand. A deep saddle gave a glimpse of plains far to the west. And on the east, we could trace almost our entire path up. It was a satisfying feeling at having gained so much altitude in one long, lazy day.

We stopped short of the peak – the final ascent looked absolutely frightening and no clear path was discernible. My fear of heights, always unpredictable, had surfaced with unexpected vigour. Without regret, we turned our backs to the peak and started down.