Srinagar, Nov. 2 -- Each summer, when the forests breathe green again and the air of Pir Panjal turns sharp with promise, I shoulder my rucksack and climb toward the high meadows. Trekking, for me, is not a sport. It is a return. In the stillness of the woods, the changing colors of sky and grass, in the soft cadence of my own footsteps on forgotten trails, I find a language older than words. I walk not to reach the heights but to hear them breathe. The mountains, like ancient witnesses, whisper truths that towns and cities forget. In late June this year, I left home with my comrades and reached Doodhpathri-the Valley of Milk. We parked our vehicle there, the gateway to the green meadows of Korag, Ashtar, and Chhanz. Our destination was K...