Horse Poop Pesto

Climbing through a forest, check. Creepy priests who turned us all Hindu, check. Cooking pesto from a puddle of water with horse poop, check. The level 5 self-sufficient hike to Dodital was a walk in the park. A park with 15 km of uphill walking, rapids crossing, carrying 30kg bags, cooking in hail storms – and this wasn’t even the worst of it.

The trip started with the sweet smell of dew and the sound of a nearby river – ha! Just kidding. It started with Mr. Klein’s (AKA Mr. Climb, AKA the rizzlybear) out-of-tune melody of “Goo-ood morning, Woodstock students.” Woodstockers rushed and packed their bags, unpitched tents, made breakfast and started their voyage to their next (and what all of us thought was the final) destination – Dodital. The 15 km path to the spiritual lake of Dodital was long, curvy and full of hurdles.

The journey, however, was not so spiritual. At every twist, Woodstockers saw a tiny red Hindu flag which led to one optimistic individual (Jaiveer Singh Gurum) commenting, “We’re almost there guys, it’s the next turn – I can feel it in my bones.” (We hiked for 3 hours after that). After steep uphills and a supposed “almost leopard sighting,” we reached Dodital.

Our spiritual (creepy priest) journey

The ringing of ashram bells and the fresh smell of cow dung is a source of nostalgia c to everyone who sold their souls on that trip. After a Master-Chef session in the hail, the day finally came to an end. Some of us had to use the bathroom with bears at night (and not just the rizzly bear).

Not making horse poop pesto ….. yet

Though full of twists and turns, the journey was surprisingly eye opening. As a child my grandma used to tell me mythological stories about Ganesha getting his head chopped off by his dad, Shiva. We learned that Dodital was the spot where this happened which enhanced the spiritual journey we all longed for after IB anticipated grades.

After capturing photos for Mr Klein’s Tinder profile and bribing Ms. Martha to put in a good word for the Chem Kids, we marched down. Menda, on the other hand, was running, earning the nickname “Downhill Sherpa.” Once we reached camp, we had to snack on the Woodstock classic Creamy Carbonara Buldak. However, our meal was interrupted by a priest wrapped in an orange lungi, who approached the tents and asked to meet “white Indian boys,” (Jaiveer and Manav, obviously). After a 2 hour arthi, we were ready for our shaadi.com profiles. The bittersweet night concluded with pondering over relationship advice and old Woodstock memories – with, of course, Jaiveer suggesting we nuke the White House and Asha flaunting their 14 year old boy humor. Also, Menda made too much rice and had to carry it the rest of the trip.

Menda hogging rice

Dodital kids were given a taste of rock climbing the next day of this trek, grabbing onto rocks for dear life as we made our path through a forest. Seven hours later, after almost losing a member to river rapids, we reached a beautiful campsite with a pastel pink sky as the backdrop – and no water in sight. Except a small puddle of, you guessed it, horse poop water.

Enter Selma, who reached for her fancy American pesto in efforts to save dinner that day. No amount of pesto, though, could save the “earthy” taste of the pasta – but hey, it makes for a great anecdote when defining the Woodstock experience.