ONE MORE STEP

mountaineering day

For more than twenty-five years, mountains have shaped the way I see the world. They have tested my endurance, humbled my spirit and reminded me that life’s greatest rewards are rarely found at the summit. They are found in the journey and in the people who share it.

Travel, for me, has never been about collecting destinations. It has always been about collecting perspectives.

Long before international trekking became part of my life, my husband, Shez and I spent countless weekends in Nathia Gali with our children, Nireen and Sameer and our parents, Rashida and Salim. The familiar trails of Mukshpuri and Miranjani became woven into our family’s story.

Those walks were never about reaching the summit first. They were about sharing conversations beneath towering pines, admiring carpets of daisies and watching clouds drift across distant valleys. Looking back, I realise those mountains gave us something far more valuable than beautiful photographs. They gave us time together.

Those early treks also awakened a lifelong curiosity. Beyond their beauty, mountains tell the story of the people who call them home. Every winding road carved into a cliff, every suspension bridge spanning a glacial river and every remote village speaks of resilience, ingenuity and an extraordinary ability to adapt.

That curiosity eventually led me to Japan. Mount Fuji possesses a elegance unlike anywhere else I have ever experienced. We began our ascent in darkness, joining a silent ribbon of headlamps stretching towards the summit. As the altitude increased, conversations faded and every step became more deliberate.

Then the horizon came alive. Standing above a sea of clouds as the first rays of sunlight painted the sky in gold and crimson remains one of the most unforgettable moments of my life. Around us stood people from every corner of the world, speaking different languages and carrying different stories. Yet, in that moment, none of those differences mattered. We were simply people, united by wonder.

Fuji reminded me that mountains have a remarkable way of dissolving the labels that often divide us. If Fuji inspired awe, Kilimanjaro demanded patience.

From the very first day, our guides repeated two simple words: pole pole - slowly, slowly. At first, it felt unnecessarily cautious. Within days, I understood why. The mountain rewards patience, not speed.

As we climbed through rainforest, moorland and alpine desert towards Africa’s highest summit, every step became a lesson in perseverance. Summit night tested us all. The air was thin, the cold relentless and every breath demanded determination. There were moments when my body wanted to stop, but the only way forward was one more step. When dawn finally broke over the African plains, exhaustion gave way to gratitude. Kilimanjaro taught me that meaningful progress is rarely dramatic. It is built quietly, patiently, one step at a time. That lesson stayed with me.

There is another mountain range that has always spoken to me in a different way. The Karakoram does not simply impress; it humbles.

While trekking to Rakaposhi Base Camp and Diran Glacier, I found myself surrounded by towering peaks, ancient glaciers, emerald meadows and rivers that seemed to carry centuries of stories. Standing beneath Rakaposhi’s immense wall of rock and ice, everyday worries suddenly felt insignificant. Yet what stayed with me most were the people. In some of Pakistan’s most remote communities, I encountered extraordinary warmth, resilience and generosity. Their hospitality reminded me that true wealth is measured not by possessions, but by kindness.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to the mountains. They strip life back to its essentials. They care nothing for titles, professions or status. On the trail, everyone is equal. The mountain asks the same of us all: respect the journey, care for one another and keep moving.

Nothing, however, prepared me for Peru. After several days of acclimatising in Cusco, our group of twelve Kolachi Trekkers from Pakistan, Canada and the United States set off from Kilometre 82 on the legendary Inca Trail. Some of us were old friends; others had only just met. Before long, we had become a team.

The first day lulled us into a false sense of confidence. The trail wound gently through the Sacred Valley, past ancient Incan ruins and alongside the Urubamba River. The scenery was spectacular and each evening our porters welcomed us with warm smiles, hot meals and remarkable efficiency. Then came Dead Woman’s Pass.

Nothing had prepared me for the relentless stone staircases. Rain made the ancient steps slippery, while the altitude made every breath harder. Gradually, conversation faded as each of us settled into our own rhythm.

One member of our group became too ill to continue. Another wondered whether they could make it. Yet no one focused solely on reaching the summit. Water bottles were shared. Snacks appeared from backpacks. Encouragement travelled constantly up and down the line and someone was always ready with an outstretched hand. By the time we reached the pass, I realised that the greatest achievement of the day was not standing at its highest point. It was the kindness that had carried us there, together.

The descent offered little relief. Endless stone steps punished our tired knees as darkness settled across the mountains. Throughout it all, our guides and porters remained calm, reassuring and unfailingly cheerful. Long before we reached Machu Picchu, they had earned our deepest admiration. They carried our tents, prepared every meal and anticipated every need with remarkable professionalism and humility. They reminded me that some of life’s greatest contributions are made quietly, without any expectation of recognition.

By the third day, fatigue had settled over the group. Every muscle ached, yet something unexpected happened. Laughter returned. Stories were shared. Jokes echoed along the trail. The climb did not become easier, but it somehow became lighter. Shared hardship has a remarkable way of turning companions into lifelong friends. Before dawn on the final morning, we waited patiently for the checkpoint gates to open before making our way towards the Sun Gate. One final obstacle, the infamous Gringo Killer steps, stood between us and our destination.

Then the clouds lifted. There it was.

Machu Picchu. For a few precious moments, no one spoke. The ancient citadel emerged from the mist exactly as generations of travellers had described it. Standing there, I felt something far greater than the satisfaction of completing a difficult trek. I felt gratitude: gratitude for the strength to keep going, gratitude for friends who had walked every step beside me, gratitude for our extraordinary guides and porters and gratitude for the privilege of reaching one of the world’s greatest wonders on foot, one step at a time.

Looking back now, I realise that every mountain has given me a different gift. Nathia Gali taught me that the best journeys are those shared with family. Mount Fuji reminded me that wonder speaks a universal language. Kilimanjaro showed me that patience is often the strongest form of determination. The Karakoram instilled humility and a deep respect for the people whose lives are shaped by its extraordinary landscapes. And the Inca Trail reaffirmed that we are capable of far more than we imagine, especially when we climb together.

Yet when I think about more than twenty-five years of trekking, I rarely remember the distances, the altitude or even the summits. Instead, I remember moments: watching Nireen and Sameer race ahead on the forest trails of Nathia Gali; the stillness before sunrise on Mount Fuji; repeating pole pole on Kilimanjaro when every step felt impossible; standing beneath the magnificent face of Rakaposhi; and laughing with my fellow Kolachi Trekkers after another seemingly endless flight of Incan steps, discovering that shared hardship has an extraordinary way of turning companions into lifelong friends. Those are the memories that endure.

The mountains have undoubtedly made me physically stronger but their greatest gift has been perspective. They have taught me to slow down in a world that celebrates speed, to embrace uncertainty with humility and to recognise that courage is rarely dramatic. More often, it is simply the willingness to take one more step. They have also changed the way I measure success and happiness.

Today, I admire mountains not only for their beauty but also for the people they have brought into my life. Some of my richest memories have little to do with the summits themselves. They are found in conversations along winding trails, shared meals after long days, a reassuring hand when the climb became difficult and the kindness of guides, porters and local communities who welcomed us with generosity.

Travel has shown me that while landscapes differ, the values that define us are remarkably universal. Whether in the villages of northern Pakistan, on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, in Japan or along the ancient paths of Peru, I have encountered the same qualities time and again: kindness, resilience, generosity and hope. Those encounters have become as memorable as the mountains themselves.

On this International Mountaineering Day, I celebrate not only the magnificent places I have been fortunate enough to explore, but also the people who made those journeys meaningful.

My husband, Shez, whose companionship has enriched every adventure. My children, Nireen and Sameer, who discovered their love of the outdoors on the trails of Nathia Gali. Our parents, whose encouragement and shared adventures nurtured that love from the very beginning. My fellow trekkers, who reminded me that friendship is often forged through shared challenges. And the countless guides, porters and mountain communities whose professionalism, generosity and resilience continue to inspire me.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that mountains are not places to be conquered. They are places that gently reshape us. Every summit eventually fades into the distance. Photographs are filed away. Boots grow worn. But the person who returns home is never quite the same as the one who set out.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift the mountains have given me: not a collection of summits, but a deeper appreciation of life’s simplest truths - to remain curious, to walk with humility, to value experiences over possessions and to cherish the people beside us. Because, in the end, the finest view is rarely from the top of a mountain. It is found in looking back with gratitude at those who shared the journey.

Ainee Shehzad is an educationist, scholar, Cambridge-certified trainer and an avid trekker with the Kolachi Trekkers. She can be reached at [email protected]