The first thing we noticed in Wayanad wasn’t the view. It was the air.

Somewhere along those winding, green-lined roads, we rolled down the car windows and my 7 year old took a deep breath. “It tastes like trees!” she declared. My 9 year old had his face pressed to the glass, eyes tracing the endless carpet of green hills climbing toward misty peaks.

After months of choking city dust and impatient honks, this stretch of the Western Ghats, UNESCO-protected and unapologetically wild, felt like a giant exhale. We’d booked a stay at Sterling Vythiri Wayanad, and the moment we arrived, the kids were off exploring every corner. Safe to say, they were more impressed by the resort’s winding paths and quirky corners than by the idea of unpacking.

Day 1 – Warming Up to the Wild

Saturday started with the song of the Malabar whistling thrush outside our window, the kind of alarm clock no one complains about.

After breakfast, we made a beeline for Pookode Lake, just 10 minutes away. The heart-shaped lake is hemmed in by forest, and the water seemed to mirror the clouds above. The kids laughed as the pedal boat rocked under us, pointing out kingfishers darting for fish. Half an hour passed in what felt like five minutes.

Later, at Lakkidi View Point, we stood 700 meters above sea level, watching clouds tumble into the valleys. My daughter cupped her hands to catch mist, insisting she saw “elephant-shaped” clouds. We sipped masala chai from a tea stall that somehow made the already-cool air feel crisper.

That evening, we wandered through a spice plantation. Cardamom, pepper, vanilla, the scents came in waves. The guide handed the kids fresh cardamom pods, showing them how to crack them open. Watching their noses wrinkle in curiosity, I realised these unplanned detours are the moments that stick.

Day 2 – A Little Sweat, A Lot of Wonder

Sunday was for adventure. Trekking with kids means striking a delicate balance, enough challenge to keep it exciting, not so much that it ends in meltdowns. Chembra Peak was our pick, though we aimed for the famous heart-shaped lake, not the summit.

The trail felt like a scavenger hunt. Our guide pointed out rare wildflowers and the shadowy movements of Malabar giant squirrels overhead. When one paused long enough for us to see its copper-and-black coat glinting in the light, my son whispered, “It’s like a fairy tale squirrel,” as if speaking too loudly might make it vanish.

From there, we traded hiking boots for a jeep at Muthanga Wildlife Sanctuary. We didn’t see elephants this time, but spotted deer grazed lazily in the grass, and a monitor lizard basked in the sun like it owned the place. Our self-appointed “bird expert” flipped through his field guide as we passed flocks of parakeets and drongos.

The safari route’s bamboo groves formed archways overhead, the kind that makes everyone instinctively lower their voice. Sometimes nature tells you to hush without saying a word.

Day 3 – Waterfalls and Treehouses

Monday’s main event was Soochipara Falls, a three-tiered cascade that starts with a gentle forest walk and ends with a full-throated roar of water. We reached the viewing spot, the mist instantly cooling our skin.

While the kids skipped stones in the calmer pools, I spotted tiny rainbows hanging in the spray. The climb back up was sweaty work, but each pause offered another glimpse of the falls through the leaves.

Our final stop was a treehouse on a riverside. No overnight stay, just an afternoon of climbing bamboo ladders and pretending to be explorers surveying “our kingdom.” The farmer’s wife appeared with still-warm banana chips and sweet jaggery tea, the kind of simple hospitality that lodges itself in memory.

That night, the packing was slow. My daughter asked, “Can we come back when the monsoon makes the waterfalls bigger?” Her brother added, “And maybe stay long enough to see real elephants?”

In just three days, we’d swapped screens for streams, traffic for treetops, and our usual schedule for something unhurried. Wayanad hadn’t shouted for our attention, it had whispered, and we’d leaned in.

And when we’re ready to taste that tree-flavoured air again, the Western Ghats will still be there, waiting.