In the Silence of the Himalayas: A Road Trip to Niti Valley

There’s something deeply poetic about silence in the mountains. And when that silence is only broken by the crunch of gravel under your tyres—not the roar of an engine—you realize you’re experiencing the Himalayas in a completely different way. This is the story of my road trip to Niti Valley in Uttarakhand, behind the wheel of my Mahindra BE 6

Taking an EV Where Few Dare

Niti Valley isn’t your usual weekend getaway. Tucked close to the Indo-Tibetan border, it’s one of the last inhabited villages of India—raw, remote, and breathtakingly beautiful. Naturally, the idea of taking an electric vehicle there raised eyebrows.
“Charging stations?”“Range anxiety?”“Mountain terrain?”
But that was exactly the thrill of it.

I started my trip at 4 A.M from my in-laws place at Rishikesh with my wife and my brother in law and the boot fully loaded.
There’s a unique charm to starting a road trip that early. No traffic. No noise. Just you, your thoughts, and the faint promise of adventure waiting somewhere in the mountains.
Joshimath was the target for the day—roughly 250 kilometers away—and the planned halt before pushing further into the remote terrain of Niti Valley.
I took my first stop at Dhari Devi Temple also known as the Guardian Deity of Uttrakhand and protector of Char Dham.About this temple, it is said that to make way for the 330 MW Srinagar Hydroelectric Project, the idol was moved from its original "mool sthan" (ancient seat) to a raised platform & Within hours of the move, a catastrophic cloudburst hit the region, leading to the devastating Kedarnath floods.



Carrying that quiet sense of reverence and a silent prayer for safe passage through the mountains, I eased back behind the wheel and continued onward.

By around 10 A.M., hunger began to set in, and we decided to halt for breakfast at GMVN Kaleshwar.The stop turned out to be strategically ideal. The location hosts a 60 kW DC fast charger operated by Statiq, priced reasonably at Rs 12.99/kwh.Having covered roughly 180 kilometres from our starting point, we arrived with 57% SOC. That was more than sufficient to comfortably make it to Joshimath.

But I opted for a short top-up, less out of necessity, more as a hedge against the unknown stretches that lay ahead. Little did I know that my food break was going to take more time than what my car needed and before I could finish my food, my car was already at 100% SOC.
After finishing breakfast, I resumed the journey and reached Badagaon at around 2:30 P.M., where I decided to halt for the night and booked an Airbnb. I still had 70% SOC with me when I reached here which I felt was more than sufficient for me to travel places that I intended to.



The stay, however, came with a final test—a 30-minute uphill trek from the road. The climb was steep and unforgiving, leaving us short of breath within minutes. But as is often the case in the mountains, the effort made sense the moment we arrived.
The house, set against the vast stillness of the landscape, made the entire climb worthwhile.




We had planned to push for Niti Valley the following morning. From our stay near Joshimath, it was another 70 kilometres—steep, high-altitude driving that would demand both time and clear conditions.
By evening, however, the mountains began to shift mood. Clouds gathered quickly, swallowing the distant peaks, and soon the stillness gave way to thunderstorms rolling across the valley.
Our host watched the sky for a while before saying, almost matter-of-factly, “If this continues till morning, you won’t be able to make it to Niti.”
In mountains, plans are never entirely yours to keep.
Inside, we waited quietly, hoping the weather would turn in our favour. In the mountains, there’s a certain humility that sets in—you plan, but you also accept.
By morning, the skies had cleared. The storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, open stillness. It felt like the mountains had made their decision.
We were ready. By 9:30 A.M., we were back in the car, setting out once again—this time towards Niti Valley. I knew this would be a demanding stretch. Barely 10–15 kilometres into the drive, all network coverage disappears, and with it, any immediate sense of connectivity.
Beyond that point, there are no shops, no settlements—often not even another vehicle in sight. It’s just the road, the terrain, and your own judgement guiding you forward.I found myself constantly adjusting the regeneration settings—switching to L0 on uphill sections to avoid unnecessary resistance, and relying on one-pedal driving on the descents to recover as much energy as possible.
In terrain like this, efficiency isn’t just about range—it becomes part of how you drive, almost instinctively.
Soon, the road reminded us who was in control. A section ahead had been partially washed away by a landslide—the corner eroded, the remaining track reduced to a stretch of wet, red mud.I stopped for a moment to assess the situation. The surface looked unstable, with very little margin for error. As a precaution, I switched the car to Ice Mode to minimise wheel slip and kept my inputs measured.The approach had to be deliberate—no sudden throttle, no corrections. Just a light foot on the accelerator and steady progression. The car responded predictably, finding grip where it mattered and moving through the patch without fuss.It was the kind of moment that tests both machine and mindset. There was hesitation in the car—understandably so—but I trusted the vehicle and stayed committed to the line.
We made it across.
Not long after, we came across a small roadside shop and decided to stop for a quick meal. There was no certainty of finding anything further ahead, and it felt like a sensible pause.



It turned out to be the right decision. Beyond that point, the road grew quieter and more isolated. The few structures we did come across were all shut—no shops, no movement, no signs of life.At the same stop, we met a couple of Army personnel who were taking a break. In conversation, they advised us to complete the stretch as early as possible—the weather in these parts, they said, can change with little warning.



It wasn’t long before we saw exactly what they meant. As we moved closer to Niti Valley, the sunlight began to fade. Clouds rolled in quickly, covering the peaks, and the temperature dropped noticeably.
Within minutes, the landscape had transformed. What was clear and open just a while ago now felt heavy and uncertain—like it could turn to snowfall at any moment.

And then, almost without announcement, we were there.Niti Valley didn’t arrive with spectacle—it revealed itself quietly. A cluster of homes set against a vast, unforgiving landscape. No crowds, no movement—just a stillness that felt absolute.The road, which had demanded so much till this point, simply eased into the valley and stopped asking questions.We stepped out, and the silence was immediate. No engines, no voices—just the wind moving through the mountains. It felt less like reaching a destination and more like entering a space that exists on its own terms.Standing there, it was hard not to think about the journey—the early start from Rishikesh, the steady climb past Joshimath, the uncertainty of weather, terrain, and range.
And yet, the car had brought us here without drama. Quietly. Almost in harmony with the surroundings.



One thing that stood out on this stretch was how quickly the range began to drop—far more than I had anticipated.
At around 70% SOC, the car was indicating a range of 304 kilometres. But by the time I reached Niti Valley, after covering roughly 70 kilometres, I was down to 34% with 138 kilometres of indicated range remaining.
It was a stark reminder that in terrain like this, range estimates are only a reference. Continuous elevation gain, low temperatures, and demanding road conditions all take their toll.
About 100–200 metres beyond Niti Valley, we reached an Army checkpost—the final point of access for civilians. Beyond this, entry is permitted only with prior approval from the SDM at Joshimath.
We had secured the necessary permissions in advance and presented them to the personnel on duty. After noting down our details, they allowed us to proceed.
From there on, the terrain turned markedly harsher. This was easily among the most demanding sections I had driven. Loose stones could be seen dislodging from the slopes above, and the condition of the road made it clear—this was an active landslide zone.
There was no room for distraction. Every metre required attention, and every decision had to be deliberate.

The road ahead led further towards the Indo-Tibetan border, but by then, both the weather and the car’s SOC were beginning to weigh on my mind.
In just about 5 kilometres, I saw a disproportionate drop—nearly 30 kilometres of indicated range and around 2% of battery gone. It was a clear signal of how demanding the terrain had become.
A part of me wanted to keep going, to see how far the road would take us. But the more practical side took over. We still had to make it back to Badagaon, and this entire stretch was a complete no-network zone.Out there, pushing limits isn’t always the right call. Sometimes, knowing when to turn back is just as important as making it that far.
By then, snowfall had also begun. I found a safe spot along the road, parked the car, and stepped out for a moment.It felt important to pause—not just for photographs, but to take in where we were. The landscape had turned quieter, softer under the falling snow, yet no less imposing.After a few minutes, we got back in and began the return journey, choosing caution over distance.



I was noticeably less concerned on the return. The downhill sections meant I could recover a fair amount of energy through regeneration, and the drive felt more predictable.
By the time I reached Badagaon, the car was at 40% state of charge with an indicated range of approximately 195 kilometres.
In effect, the round trip of nearly 150 kilometres had consumed about 30% of the battery. Considering the terrain, elevation changes, and conditions, the efficiency was reassuring.
In the mountains, numbers don’t always behave the way they do on paper.
After returning, I decided to head towards Joshimath and stop at the GMVN facility to top up the battery using the ElectriFi charger installed there.
The plan, however, didn’t go smoothly. The charger repeatedly failed to initiate due to an over-voltage issue. After spending nearly half an hour troubleshooting, I realised there was a solution within the vehicle settings. Switching the charging current to “low” allowed the session to finally begin.It was a relatively expensive unit, priced at ₹20.99 per kWh, but given the location, options were limited. I added roughly 15% charge—just enough to stay comfortable—and then headed back to the Airbnb.

The next morning, before beginning our return to Rishikesh, we decided to visit Bhavishya Badri Temple.Located roughly 15 kilometres from our Airbnb, the temple sits at an elevation of around 9,000 feet.It is said that in the future (bhavishya), when the current route to Badrinath Temple becomes inaccessible— due to natural changes—the worship of Lord Vishnu will shift here. This temple is believed to be the future seat of Badrinath.



I reached Rishikesh with around 79% SOC and around 490 kms of estimated range, dropped my brother-in-law before heading back to Delhi.



Looking back, the journey had tested both the machine and the mindset—uncertain weather, unpredictable terrain, and long stretches without support. Yet, through it all, the car remained composed and dependable.
It had already earned my confidence on a long road trip to Goa last September. But this drive, through the far reaches of the Himalayas, was a different kind of test—one that demanded far more than just distance.
And in meeting that challenge without fuss, it didn’t just get me to the destination—it quietly reaffirmed what it was capable of.