I never imagined I’d be planning a trek with people I’d never met.

It started with a WhatsApp group called “Weekend Explorers.” I joined on a whim while scrolling Instagram one night, and I found this link to someone’s story. “Looking for nature lovers for a monsoon hike near Udaipur,” it said. I clicked. I joined. That was it.

The group was a strange mix. I am a solo biker from Ahmedabad. I am a dentist from Jaipur. A couple of college students from Udaipur. I’m a freelancer who recently moved to the city, craving some connection that wasn’t over a screen. No one really knew anyone. But by Thursday, the plan was locked: meet at Balicha, hike a monsoon trail in the Aravalli hills, and maybe find a waterfall if the rain gods were kind.

We met outside the resort lobby with awkward hellos, uncertain smiles, and backpacks covered in plastic sheets. I half-expected someone to back out. No one did.

The first stretch was easy muddy paths flanked by neem and acacia trees. The air smelled of soaked earth and something sweet I couldn’t name. We walked in twos and threes, small talk bubbling: where are you from, what do you do, have you done this before?

I was just starting to relax when the trail turned uphill. The rain picked up. The mud got tricky. Someone slipped—then laughed. Then another. We stopped caring about how we looked. Someone offered a hand, and someone cracked a joke. Before long, we were all laughing like old friends.

And then we saw it—a narrow fall gushing through black rocks, surrounded by mist and moss. Not a soul around. It wasn’t on Google Maps. Someone yelled, and someone whooped. We took off our shoes. Cold water numbed our feet. We didn’t care.

There was no network up there. No reels. No hashtags. Just rain, rock, and raw, messy joy.

By the time we made it back down, soaked and starving, the resort staff had hot snacks waiting. Pakoras, steaming chai, and towels that smelt of lemongrass. We sat in the open-sided café, still dripping, still talking. The dentist told us how he once trekked in Ladakh in minus ten. The biker showed us a photo of his Royal Enfield stuck in slush. The college student talked about anxiety and how this was the first time she hadn’t checked her phone in hours.

That night, after a hot shower and dry clothes, some of us sat out under the covered deck. Rain tapped the roof like a rhythm. Someone played a soft playlist. Someone pulled out a speaker. And someone suggested that we do this again.

The next morning, a few of us tried yoga in the garden near the hillside. We weren’t good at it. We laughed through it. Then we had breakfast—warm poha, fruits, fresh juice—and planned nothing. For once, not having a plan felt good.

One of the resort staff asked us if we wanted to book spa sessions or try ziplining nearby. We were tempted. But we chose to stay in. Sit on beanbags. Talk. Share playlists. One of the students braided my hair. The dentist taught the biker how to play chess. It wasn’t the adventure we signed up for, but it was the connection we didn’t know we needed.

We left the next day with numbers saved, photos shared, and a promise to meet again. Maybe it was raining. Maybe it was the trail. Or maybe, when strangers walk through the wild together, they leave as something else entirely.

I joined the group for a trek. I left with five new friends. People who knew me were sweaty, tired, and barefaced. People cheered when I almost gave up on that slope. People who now send me “Where next?” texts every other week.

It wasn’t a luxury trip. It wasn’t a perfect plan. But somehow, it became one of my favorite weekends ever.

Sometimes, all you need is a trail, some rain, and strangers willing to walk beside you.