My Worst Travel Experience in Shimla

Shimla had always been one of those places I fantasized about—a quiet escape into the mountains, chilled breeze brushing my hair, pine trees stretching endlessly, and long solo rides through winding roads. As a woman who loved traveling alone, I believed I had already faced most of the usual fears. But nothing quite prepared me for what happened that day.

The morning started out perfect. I stepped out of my small hotel in Chotta Shimla, the kind with wooden floors and a balcony overlooking the valley, wrapped in that crisp mountain air that makes you instantly fall in love. My plan was simple: rent a scooty, roam freely, and chase the best viewpoints.

The rental guy handed me the keys with a casual smile.

“Madam, battery full hai. Scooty bilkul perfect. Aap tension mat lo.”

The confidence in his voice made me trust him completely. Big mistake.

By late morning, I was cruising along the beautiful curves of the mountain. The roads felt endless, the sunlight soft, the scent of deodar trees earthy and comforting. I felt invincible. Independent. Exactly the version of myself I loved the most.

Around 1 PM, I stopped for chai at a tiny local stall. The vendor—a cheerful old man—suggested I take a secluded uphill road.

“Madam, upar se pura Shimla dikhega. Bahut hi khoobsurat. Aapko pasand aayega.”

Locals always know the best spots, right?

So I followed his advice.

At first, the road was breathtaking. Quiet, narrow, framed by forests so dense I felt like I had entered a postcard. I hummed to myself, enjoying the freedom.

Then the scooty jerked.

Once.

Twice.

Hard enough that I thought I ran over a rock.

Before I could react, it sputtered like it was choking—and died.

I blinked. Pressed the ignition. Nothing.

Tried again. Silence.

Then again. Nothing.

I climbed off, half laughing in disbelief. “Achha… very funny. Start ho jao.”

As if talking to it would magically bring it back.

But the scooty refused.

Fine. No problem. I pulled out my phone.

And there it was—the nightmare beginning.

No Service.

I raised my phone higher. Walked in small circles. Climbed onto a rock. Not even a single bar. The mountains swallowed signals like they enjoyed it.

The road was deserted—no cars, no walkers, no shops. Just me, the dead scooty, and hundreds of towering trees that looked pretty earlier but now felt menacing.

I checked the fuel. Full.

Checked the switch, the stand, the brakes. Everything normal.

Except the part where the engine behaved like it had a grudge.

Minutes stretched, turning into an hour. Then almost two.

I tried staying calm, but my mind raced with a thousand anxious possibilities—What if it gets dark? What if I have to walk miles alone? What if a leopard appears? I cursed the rental guy. Cursed myself for taking unknown routes. Cursed my overconfidence.

I could almost feel the sun beginning its slow descent, shadows lengthening across the road.

And then—just as my throat started tightening with frustrated tears—I heard a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow, approaching from around the bend.

I turned sharply.

A local woman, maybe in her late forties, wearing a warm shawl and carrying a small cloth bag, walked toward me with a curious expression.

“Madam, gaadi kharaab?” she asked kindly.

I nodded so fast I probably looked desperate. “Yes! It just stopped working. There’s no network. I’ve been stuck here and—”

She raised a gentle hand, calming me instantly. “Yahan network nahi aata. Koi bhi fas sakta hai. Fikar mat karo.”

Her calmness felt like a blanket around my panicking nerves.

Without asking too many questions, she placed her bag down and inspected the scooty. I watched her expertly check wires, press a few connections, and tap something near the spark plug like she’d done this a thousand times.

While she worked, she asked, “Aap akeli travel kar rahi ho?”

“Yes,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea this morning.”

She chuckled softly. “Achha hi idea hai. Bas kabhi kabhi pahad apni marzi chalata hai.”

Within fifteen minutes, she stood up and said, “Chaliye, start karke dekhiye.”

My fingers trembled slightly as I pressed the ignition.

The scooty roared back to life like it had been taking a nap.

I gasped and almost laughed from relief. “It’s working! Oh my God, thank you so much. I thought I’d be stuck till evening.”

She shook her head humbly. “Chaliye. Main aapko neeche tak chhod deti hoon. Raste mein phir ruk gayi toh?”

She didn’t just fix it—she walked alongside me for a good stretch, guiding me to a point where the network returned and the road became familiar again.

When I finally reached a safe, busy patch of road, I parked and stepped off. “I don’t know how to thank you enough,” I told her sincerely.

“Bas agli baar thoda sambhal ke jana,” she said with a warm smile. “Aur suno—pahad pe akeli travel karna bura nahi. Bas pahadon ki izzat karni padti hai.”

With that, she waved goodbye and returned up the road, disappearing into the same bend she had appeared from—like a mountain guardian who showed up exactly when I needed her.

When I reached my hotel, the receptionist immediately noticed my pale face.

“Madam, sab theek? Aap der se aayi…”

I nodded but truthfully, I was still shaken inside. Later that night, sitting on my balcony, the mountains looked calm again, almost apologetic. The stars glimmered above the dark treetops, and I realized something:

Travel isn’t just about views and photos.

It’s about learning your own limits.

And discovering how incredibly kind strangers can be.

Shimla taught me that day that nature is breathtaking—but unpredictable. And that sometimes, the scariest travel moments become the stories we cherish forever.

If anyone asks me about my worst travel experience, I just smile and say:

“So this one time, my scooty died in the mountains…”