Setting the stage

Anaikatti, a serene forested region near Coimbatore border with Kerala was chosen to be the destination for the June month long ride.  Once registrations opened, responses poured in quickly, and soon we had a confirmed group of 20 riders — all set to hit the road on a Friday morning and return to Chennai by Sunday evening.

The route was chalked out with complete details of halts for refreshment, meals and fuel breaks Being a familiar trail for many of us, it offered one of those rare combinations: stretches to truly enjoy the ride and push the bikes a little, while soaking in the open roads.

However, there was one known challenge — the unforgiving mid-day stretch between Salem and Coimbatore. With hardly any tree cover and the sun bearing down, this part of the ride is a test of endurance.

Getting there  

The ride was kicked things off with our traditional early morning assembly at the Aladipattiyan Karupatti Coffee shop in Guduvancheri — the perfect place for that first jolt of caffeine and banter before the engines roar.

The ride was smooth and steady through the early hours. We stopped for breakfast at Aaryas in Ulundurpet, a familiar and reliable pitstop that served us mini tiffin and hot coffee.

Post breakfast, we hit the stretch toward Salem, a section that’s always been our favourite for it’s smooth tarmac and less traffic, which allowed everyone to open up a bit and enjoy the rhythm of the road.  

With the friendly banter on the comms over various topics, the ride was enjoyable and reached the lunch spot Café Udupi Ruchi at Avinashi, the outskirts of Coimbatore which is our buffer stop, strategically selected to bypass the dreaded Coimbatore city traffic — a decision made to preserve the rhythm and calm of the journey.

But of course, Google Maps had other plans. One group was thrown off course by constant rerouting from Maps, while the other — brimming with confidence — led us straight into what we were trying so hard to avoid. In no time, we were stuck in the thick of Coimbatore traffic, crawling forward at a snail’s pace under the scorching sun.

 

Some quick evasive manoeuvres and a bit of luck helped us weave our way through the chaos. Sughee kept the spirits up with a live commentary of Coimbatore’s landmarks as we passed them — turning a frustrating situation into an impromptu city tour.

Eventually, we arrived at Nirvana Holistic Living, our stay for the weekend in Anaikatti. Set against the backdrop of a small hill, the property had spacious rooms, ample parking, indoor games, and a refreshing swimming pool.

After a round of tea and hot onion pakoras, the riders finally got to unwind — some headed straight for the pool, while others settled into conversations that ranged from road stories to random nonsense. It was a well-earned pause, and the perfect setting to wrap up a long day on the saddle.

Silent Valley National Park 

The plan for Day 2 was to ride to Silent Valley National Park (Sairandhri), home to one of the last remaining tracts of undisturbed tropical moist evergreen rainforest in India. The national park core area is around 89.5 sqkm and a buffer zone of 148sqkm.

We picked up our packed breakfast and sandwiches from the resort before setting off. Though the distance to the park’s entry point was just 56 km, the condition of the roads made it feel much longer. Narrow, uneven, and riddled with potholes, the ride tested both our patience and suspension. It took us over an hour to cover the stretch.

Thankfully, we had made advance bookings, and upon arrival, were allotted a private bus exclusively for our group — a much-needed relief after the bumpy ride. The park doesn’t allow private vehicles beyond a certain point to preserve the ecosystem, and this arrangement allowed us to explore the forest interiors in comfort, while still being mindful of the protected environment.

 

Boulders, Bros & Biospheres

The bus ride into Silent Valley had barely begun when we were stopped just a few minutes in. At the forest entrance, we were informed that a tree had fallen across the road — but no worries, a forest department team was already clearing it.

So, we carried on. But when we reached the spot, it was more than just a tree. A massive boulder had also slipped from its perch and now sat stubbornly at the edge of the road, partially blocking the narrow path — clearly not part of the morning plan.

The fallen tree was quickly dispatched by the forest team with a chainsaw that worked through the trunk like a hot knife through butter. But the boulder? That was a different beast altogether.

 

Naturally, our boys got down to “assess” the situation — which, in rider terms, means stand around making jokes and taking photos before attempting any actual help.

“Let’s just lift it — maybe it just looks heavy.”

“Bro, get the jeep and we will tie it and drag that thing”

“Let’s flip the boulder like we do for dosa or omelette!”

Some even gave it a serious push, only to realize the boulder wasn’t even mildly impressed. It didn’t budge at all.

Then came the actual action.

The forest team brought out thick nylon ropes, tied them around the boulder, and started pulling. That was our cue — some of us joined in pulling, others pushed, a few used tree barks as lever to lift, and some helped in placing stones beneath it for holding. It was a full team effort: muscles, morale, and memes in equal measure. 

namba pasanga ellam Indiana Jones maari rope pull panraanga!

And then there were the Vadivelus in the group — standing with full drama, shouting “Thallu! Thallu da!” and pushing the air more than the rock.

The boulder, unimpressed, remained stoic.

Finally, after much huffing, puffing, pulling, pushing, and a couple of “don’t hurt your back, bro” warnings, the boulder shifted — just a few inches.

But as someone rightly said, “A few inches matter.”

 

And in this case, it made all the difference. That tiny bit of space was just enough for the bus to squeeze through, and the journey could finally continue — with cheers, high-fives, and some very proud selfies.

As we stood there catching our breath and laughing at the absurdity of it all, one of the boys remarked,

“Let’s just leave it here as a landmark and brand it — CR Boulder 2025.”

 

And just like that, the boulder earned legendary status in our ride chronicles.

What a ride it was after that.

The 23-kilometre stretch into the forest was a narrow path — just a strip of concrete wide enough for the bus’s wheels, flanked by mountain on one side and a sheer drop into the valley on the other. It was not for the faint-hearted, and definitely not for an inexperienced driver.

Luckily, we had a seasoned pro behind the wheel. He had the poise of a monk and the reflexes of a stuntman. While we sat gawking out of the windows, barely spotting anything but green blur, he was casually pointing out things like:

“Monkey on that branch, left side.”

“Monitor lizard near that rock, see?”

It’s a skill — the kind that comes from years of driving through nature’s living, breathing corridors.

As the bus wound its way deeper into the Silent Valley, our forest guide began sharing insights about the reserve.

He explained the unique structure of the forest — how different layers of vegetation thrived here, from towering canopy trees to dense undergrowth. We got to know about native species like red sandalwood, the sambrani tree known for its aromatic resin, and even a particular kind of tree that was once used for railway sleepers before concrete took over. It felt like walking through a living textbook on biodiversity — only far more immersive.

As we listened, the bus made a short halt beside a roadside waterfall — a beautiful surprise nestled right there along the path. It wasn’t a big one, but the water was gushing with energy, flowing freely over the rocks just a few feet from where we stood.  

Watchtower, Wobbles & Wow Views

Over an hour into the ride, we finally reached the watch tower — the highest vantage point inside Silent Valley National Park. From the top, the view was nothing short of breathtaking. A vast expanse of uninterrupted green stretched out in every direction — layers upon layers of dense forest, rolling hills, and misty valleys.

But to earn that view, there was a small challenge.

To get to the top, we had to climb a narrow metal staircase, zigzagging up through three tiers. Each level got steeper, and the structure creaked ever so slightly with each step, adding to the thrill. By the time we reached the final platform, the wind had picked up — sharp and forceful, as if trying to shake the tower just enough to make you question your life choices.

 

It was equal parts thrill and chill — quite literally. Standing there, clutching the railings, soaking in the panorama, the silence of the valley below was almost spiritual… punctuated only by the occasional “Don’t lean too much, bro!” from the group.

The Tea Break Reality Check

Next up was our much-awaited tea break, and the guide casually mentioned we’d need to walk a few hundred meters down to reach the spot. Sounded simple enough.

But once we started the descent, reality kicked in — this wasn’t a gentle slope, it was a proper downhill, winding through uneven paths. All for tea.

 

As we made our way down, sweating slightly, a thought crossed several of our minds:

“If this is the effort just for tea… how exactly is the 1.5 km trek going to work?”

 

We had seen YouTube videos and heard people talk about the Silent Valley trek to the Kunthi Puzha (Kunthi River) — supposedly a 1.5 km route through forest trails. But now, having just climbed down a mini hill for a cup of tea, that 1.5 km was starting to sound like Everest Base Camp.

A few sips of that warm tea, and we were back in good spirits. Though quietly, most of us were now doing the math — 1.5 km down is also 1.5 km back up 😊.

The Trek Begins: Downhill is Easy, Until It Isn’t

A few hundred meters in, the guide stopped near a tall, weathered tree.

With a quiet tone and a subtle point of his finger, he said,

“Look closely… see these marks?”

We leaned in. There they were — long, deep claw marks running vertically down the trunk, etched into the bark like scars.

“That’s from a tiger,” he added. “Sharpening its claws.”

There was a brief silence, followed by nervous chuckles.

A few of us instinctively checked our flanks — just in case Mr. Tiger decided to make an unscheduled appearance 😊

Still, there was something humbling about standing inches away from those claw marks — a quiet reminder of who really owns these woods.

The trail continued downward, winding through roots and rocks, each turn revealing new shades of green, the forest occasionally opening up to glimpses of valleys and hills in the distance. It was peaceful, raw, and strangely grounding.

Of course, none of us were talking (yet) about the uphill return that awaited.

The trail floor was wet and slippery, blanketed with decayed leaves that muffled our footsteps but also made every step a bit uncertain. As we went deeper, the group naturally split into three kinds of trekkers.

Out in front were the eager ones — enthusiastic and full of energy, already imagining themselves in a Nat Geo special. 

In the middle was the safety-first squad, sticking close to the guide — just in case Mr. Tiger decided to check in on his scratch marks.

And then there was our group — the backbenchers. Leisurely, chatty, occasionally distracted, and possibly the least prepared to outrun anything if it came to that.

Somewhere along the trail, I was completely lost in the moment — focused on the forest, maybe a little too romantic about the serenity — when suddenly, a loud shout pierced the silence.

I froze.

Heart racing.

And then, I jumped out of my skin.

For a split second, I thought this was it — the tiger, the pounce, the headline. But nope.

It was Daddy, grinning from behind a nearby tree, having just pulled a prank that nearly sent me back to Chennai on foot. The man had timed it perfectly, hiding like a jungle spirit and scaring the living daylights out of me.

The group, of course, erupted in laughter.

Me? I laughed too — eventually — once my soul returned to my body.

Finally, we reached the end point of the trek — a quiet opening that gave way to a stunning view. Below us, a section of the river snaked through the forest, flowing aggressively a few hundred feet down.

There were no benches, no signs, no viewing decks — just raw nature. The kind of spot that doesn’t announce itself, but rewards those who make the effort to reach it.

The view was beautiful, no doubt — but it came with a silent footnote:
this wasn’t for the casual tourist.

 

We stood there for a few moments — quietly taking it in, breathing a little deeper, knowing full well what lay ahead.

The uphill return.

If the trek down was a quiet walk through nature, the return up was a reminder that gravity is a one-way friend.

The descent had felt deceptively easy — gravity did half the work, and we all felt pretty good about ourselves. But now, standing at the base and looking up at the path we had casually strolled down, reality hit hard.

The enthusiasts took off first — climbing with energy, stamina, and what felt like suspiciously professional trekking genes. Every few minutes, we’d see one of them pause at a bend, look back at the rest of us, and offer a thumbs-up like it was encouragement. It wasn’t. It was mockery in disguise.

The middle pack soldiered on, huffing and puffing, motivated by pride and peer pressure — stopping every few meters to breathe, curse, or pretend to admire a random tree.

And then there were us — the backbenchers.

We didn’t fight it. We accepted our pace, took breaks often, and consoled each other with gems like:

“Bro, we’ll all reach… eventually.”
“Just keep walking till someone offers a lift.”
“This is not a climb, this is karma collecting interest.”

 

Somewhere along the way — during one particularly steep, never-ending stretch — I was gasping for breath, half-bent over a stick I had picked up just for moral support, when a scene popped into my head.

The rescue mission where Goundamani goes into the forest with Arjun in the movie Jai Hind.  The situation was similar between Santosh and Satish. 

I imagined Santosh and Satish in place of Arjun and Goundamani.

Satish: “என்னால நடக்க முடியல…என்னை எதுக்குடா கூட்டிட்டு வந்தே?”(Trans:  I am not able to walk, why did you bring me?)

Santo: ஏய் நீ தானே வரேன்னு சொன்னே (Trans:  you only told that you want to come)

Satish: “வரேன்னு … ஒரு formalityக்குத் தான் சொன்னேன்.”(Trans: I told for formality)
Santo: “சரி, போ.” (Trans: ok, go back)
Satish: “எனக்கு ஒரு car வைச்சு குடு!” (Trans: arrange a car for me)

Santo: “மரியாதையா வா” (Trans: come quietly)

Satish: “300 அடி ஆழத்துல… மரியாதை என்னயா உனக்கு?” (Trans:  can’t translate, you can enjoy this only in Tamil)

(Watch the comedy here:  https://youtu.be/HmDhP3Of3U4?si=B5QivQ9MDBlP2gCo&t=763)

 

The legs burned, the sweat poured, and the final few stretches felt like walking through wet cement. But somehow, with enough pauses and dramatic sighs, we made it — dragging ourselves to the top, where water never tasted sweeter and sitting down felt like a spiritual experience.

The return leg from the watch tower back to the forest office was, quite fittingly, silent.

All the energy had burned out in the trek and replaced by the soothing lull of exhaustion. As the bus rolled through the winding forest roads, heads slowly began to tilt, eyes gave up, and one by one, most of us slipped into sleep.

By the time we reached the main office, we looked more like a group that had returned from a Himalayan expedition than a 3kms forest trail.  

Once we made it back — legs trembling, spirits lifted only by sarcasm and the promise of food — we stopped at a small hut-style tea shop near the Silent Valley office for lunch.

Simple setup. Modest kitchen. No fancy cutlery. But after that trek? It might as well have been a five-star buffet.

The food was fresh, hot, and soul-satisfying — the kind that tastes better because your body has truly earned it. Steaming rice, warm sambar, a couple of simple sides, and crunchy papad. Every bite felt like a reward.

Tired, full, and happy — it was the kind of lunch that didn’t just fill the stomach, it reset the mood.

The Unexpected Highlight

We hopped back onto our bikes and started making our way out of Silent Valley. On the way in, we had noticed a small bridge over the river — one of those blink-and-you-miss-it spots. This time, we made it a point to stop. The view was picture-perfect: gentle curves of the river, framed by the natural light of the day. The cameras came out, and so did the smiles.

As we continued riding, I suggested an alternate route back to the resort. On the map, it looked promising — same travel time, but it passed by something marked as a river view point. Seemed like a good idea.

It turned out to be the best call of the day.

We parked by the roadside and walked a few hundred meters to reach the gorgeous stretch of river, wide and wild, with strong, cold currents gushing over smooth boulders.

People instinctively took off their shoes and walked into the water, soaking their feet, laughing, sitting on rocks, and letting the current cool off the tiredness from the trek. The evening light, the rush of the river, and the ambience around us created one of those rare moments where everything just… paused.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t on the itinerary. But that river moment became the silent favourite for many of us.

By the time we returned to the resort, the mood was light and easy. We were welcomed with hot tea and crisp onion pakoras — the perfect combination after a day in the wild. The evening rolled into casual conversations, a few laughs, and prepping the bikes for the return ride the next morning.

The Ride Back: Winding Roads & Morning Calm

The next morning, we geared up for the return ride to Chennai — slightly sore from the trek, slightly sleepy from the early start, but fully recharged in spirit.

This time, we planned a different route via Karamadai, avoiding the main city stretch. What we got in return was a hidden gem — a series of narrow, winding forest roads that weaved through thick patches of greenery.

The early morning chill, the gentle mist, the hum of engines, and the curves of the road made it feel like we were riding through a postcard. No honks, no chaos — just the sound of nature and machines in harmony. It was one of those blissful moments.

After about 30 minutes, we merged back onto the main highway and began the long haul back toward Chennai, stopping at familiar cafes and fuel stations along the way. The ride was smooth, steady, and quieter — not because of exhaustion, but because everyone was mentally replaying the highlights of the past two days and we rolled back into Chennai — unscathed and 10 minutes ahead of schedule after 1000+ kms in 3 days.

Until Next Time

The Anaikatti ride had everything — smooth highways, sweaty treks, tiger claw marks, surprise river breaks, and some classic Goundamani-level complaints. But above all, it had good roads, better company, and unforgettable moments that no map could’ve predicted.

Like every ride, this one too reminded us: it’s never just about the destination. It’s about the detours, the breakdowns, the bad jokes, and the unexpected silences.

Until the next ride, the road stays in our minds — and maybe a little bit in our calves.

Epilogue: In Goundamani We Trust

“என்னை எதுக்குடா கூட்டிட்டு வந்தே?” — we asked mid-trek. But by the end, we knew exactly why.

 

300 அடி ஆழத்துல … but we climbed back with stories worth every step.

 

Varenu… oru formality ku sonnen — became our trip motto. And somehow, it worked.

 

We didn’t get a car like Goundamani asked for — but we got something better: the road, the river, and the ride.

 

CR Boulder 2025: Goundamani would’ve turned back. We pushed forward.

 

When the climb tested us, only one voice kept us going — “நமக்கு மரியாதை வேணாம், ஒரு மாதிரி ஸ்டிலா நிக்கற இடம் வேணும்.” 

 

Next time, we’ll still come — formality-ku thaan sonnom, but we’ll mean it.