Mountain goat in training: A cautionary tale
The chapter that did not make it
This is one of those chapters that got voted off the island. Not because it lacked heart, drama, or breathtaking views (it has all three), but because someone had to make room for slightly more grown-up insights. Consider this the deleted scene: sweaty, fearful, and slightly winded—but determined to be heard.
It did not make it into Accidentally Wise, my book of essays on curiosity, chaos, and unexpected insights. But it happened. And some experiences—especially the ones that involve altitude, panic, and an alarming number of goats—deserve their moment in the sun.
Which brings us to this little misadventure.
I have built a quiet reputation over the years, if one can call refusing to jump off high surfaces a reputation. My physical adventures, varied and occasionally brave, share a common thread: they all happen firmly at ground level. With one humiliating exception — the year I bungee-jumped because I thought peer pressure was a myth. Spoiler: it is not.
People who know me associate me with running long distances in straight lines, not launching myself off cliffs or doing anything that requires a harness. So when my friends at SaaSBoomi announced an offsite in Meghalaya, I said yes immediately, imagining myself gliding along quiet trails, outrunning goats, possibly even bonding with some judgmental hill cattle. It was only later, when I bothered to read beyond the first line of the agenda, that I realized this "offsite" involved hiking. On mountains. The kind of terrain where you can drop your phone and hear it clatter for several centuries before it hits anything solid.
The problem is not hiking. The problem is that on a scale of 1 to 10, my fear of heights registers somewhere around 47.
By the time it dawned on me, it was too late to back out without faking an urgent call from the Prime Minister’s Office, which felt slightly excessive, even by my standards.
Share your fears like party favors
Most normal adults would quietly endure their fear and pretend to be brave. I, naturally, did the opposite. I announced to everyone — friends, organizers, mountain guides, random cows — that I was afraid of heights.
This did two useful things:
It prepared them to expect spectacular levels of panic from me, and
It made them feel responsible for keeping me from ending up in an unfortunate viral video titled "Man Regrets Life Choices on Cliff Edge."
I highly recommend this approach. When you are dangling over a rocky ledge hyperventilating into your backpack, it is nice to have a small army of people casually pretending you are "doing great."
Prepare like you are packing for chaos
While others packed light for our hiking adventure, I treated it like a NASA mission. A mountaineering friend helped me pick the right gear. (Mostly items designed to prevent major embarrassment or involuntary sliding.)
He also shared survival tips like:
● "Trust your shoes."
● "Do not look down."
● "Seriously, do not look down."
Physical conditioning, mental preparation, and gear selection are critical. Without them, the mountains do not care how many inspirational quotes you have read. They will humble you faster than you can say, "I thought this would be easier."
Visualize or vaporize (Emotionally, not literally)
I spent a portion of my childhood in the hills and decided to weaponize those distant memories. I visualized sunny climbs, sure-footed adventures, and general survival.
Visualization is powerful. I recommend it over blind panic. When your brain screams "This is a terrible idea," it helps to have a mental slideshow of imaginary victories ready to counter the noise.
Commit or stay home
You cannot do mountain hikes with half a heart and one foot still yearning for Netflix. Every fiber of your being has to commit.
I made a mental list of situations where I might experience extreme regret (which, admittedly, was a long list), and told myself I would ask for help before attempting anything remotely heroic.
The mountains do not reward misplaced bravery. They reward humility, sensible footwear, and good snacks.
Respect the mountains (and gravity)
At no point did I think, "This would be a good place to do a handstand for Instagram." That is because one moment of silliness can turn you into a campfire story faster than you can say, "Oops."
My fear of heights made me extra cautious, and caution kept me upright. I listened to guides. I learned from more experienced hikers. I treated every slippery rock like a shady character in a bad movie.
One step at a time
I will not lie to you: I am not suddenly a mountain goat. I do not crave the call of rocky cliffs or dream of hiking Everest.
But I climbed that hill. I managed the dizzy spells, the nervous breathing, the tiny meltdowns.
One step at a time.
One breath at a time.
One mountain at a time.
That is how you chip away at fear — with tiny, stubborn steps until the thing that scared you shrinks, just a little, in your mind.
It is not glamorous, and there are no medals. But there is a quiet, fierce joy in surviving yourself.
And in the end, is that not the best kind of adventure?