LIVING IN NEW YORK, amid all the suffering the pandemic has brought here and abroad, I keep returning to a trip I took to the Himalayas. Fifteen years ago I hiked to the glacial source of the Ganges River, otherwise known as Gaumukh or “the cow’s mouth.” In this moment, that memory becomes refuge.

The journey to Gaumukh was one that I’d wanted to take since growing up in the urban center of Kolkata, where the once-glacial waters of the Ganges mixed with factory runoff and prayer offerings but still accommodated the ablutions of millions. You might go to the riverbank to sail on a boat for an evening date or dip in as part of any number of religious ceremonies. But there was no denying it: The river had been through city life, as we had, and come out much maligned.

When I was in my early 20s I finally set out to visit the source of the river. I was also on a romantic mission. My girlfriend, Elana, and I were traveling India together on a tight budget as a kind of litmus test of whether we were suited for long-term partnership. Getting to Gaumukh wasn’t easy. From Kolkata we took an overnight train to Delhi and then an express bus to Rishikesh. Then we booked another day’s trip on a jitney that kept breaking down only to be fixed each time by the conductor with what I imagined was a ballpoint pen and rubber band. Eventually, after a series of hairpin turns that took us up the mountain, we arrived at the gateway town of Gangotri, elevation 11,200 feet.

PEAK EXPERIENCE Sadhus, or holy men, trekking to the glacier at Gaumukh. From the gateway town of Gangotri, the hike to the glacier is 12 miles and a further elevation gain of 2,000 feet.

Photo: Alamy Stock Photo

To acclimate to the elevation, we wandered around town, marveling at how the river flowed vigorously in all directions. Later we met a Japanese man of indiscernible age who was hiking the Himalayas, hoping to encounter a snow leopard. He’d read Peter Matthiessen’s book and was searching for the elusive creature or maybe for that sense of wonder that invites itself in the proximity of snow-capped mountains.

Overnighting in a bare-bones hotel in Gangotri we shivered as the temperature fell to near freezing. Early the next morning, with a strong cup of chai, we set out with our new friend, having learned that it’s best to travel in groups. Every year there are landslides that make parts of the trek nearly impassable. The rains fall and change the shape of the glacier; the cow’s mouth shifts with each monsoon.

The hike to the glacier is 12 miles and a further elevation gain of 2,000 feet. The first part of the climb features vistas of the snow-covered peaks of the Bhagirathi mountains and fierce rapids. Our friend stopped to drink from the whitecaps, and I marveled at this. In Kolkata, we’d never drink from the faucet; instead, we’d pump water from a tube well into clay jugs, or boil if the well was running dry. This was a rule of traveling India—be wary of the water!—but after witnessing his enjoyment drinking the cool, clear water, here we were, filling our bottles straight from the source.

“We were traveling India together on a budget as a litmus test of whether we were suited for long-term partnership.”

The trek grew increasingly difficult as we neared the midway point. We found ourselves stumbling amid the loose, slippery rocks. On one of these bouldering passes a barefoot Sadhu began to silently accompany us. He was wearing an ocher robe and had wild knotted hair with ash smeared on his darkly tanned forehead. We hadn’t asked for his help, but he could see we were struggling. Without saying a word, he moved like a mountain goat, helping us through the narrow footpath to a view unlike any I’d ever seen—we stood under a startlingly clear sky facing two sister mountains that felt like portals to the end of the earth. That evening as we set camp in an ashram, I spotted a bharal—blue sheep—who wandered down to feast on wildflowers.

Reaching the glacier the next day we saw a group of pilgrims and sadhus testing the icy water. The cow’s mouth was there—if only you used your imagination—and as everyone else was toeing their way, our friend stripped to his boxers and plunged in. As he submerged himself up to his chest, he gave a shudder and closed his eyes, breathing his way into stillness. Even the sadhus stared with wonder. My girlfriend and I took one look at each other to see who’d follow first; we both jumped in.

These days, Elana—now my wife—and I are working from home while navigating the challenges of the pandemic and parenthood, but that experience has shaped us. Even today, remembering, we are grateful for the feeling that comes from venturing into wildness, diving in, and opening ourselves to the kindness of strangers.

—Jai Chakrabarti’s debut novel, ‘A Play for the End of the World,’ comes out on Sept. 7 (Knopf).