Bridges had fallen and the roads were cut off. A long line of waited for many hours hoping for things to get better. Buses were cancelled and they had no clear answers to when the services will resume. “It depends on the weather, sir,” was the fence-sitting answer from the person manning the phone at the bus company, who neither had any real-time information nor had powers to provide decisive answers.
Himachal Pradesh was seeing heavy rains in the past few days. As it happens every year, landslides had crippled the road infrastructure and there was a cloud of uncertainty over what happens next. Unpredictable as the weather here is, things might magically settle back to normal next morning. Or it could very well turn worse if another line of dark clouds made their way towards the mountains.
My local contact constantly kept me updated on all the information he was able to procure. He had someone or the other in every part of Himachal giving him updates. Yet, nothing seemed certain. I turned to Twitter, looking for all the latest information that one could ask for. I had become like a journalist with a undying fetish for breaking news, scouring for every information that I could get, so that I can make informed decision on our next move.
Chandratal. This is where we were headed before the weather gods made us change plans.
The road from Delhi to Manali was affected by incessant rains that had brought down a bridge at someplace 100km before Manali. Himachal Parivahan had cancelled the night’s bus, since the bus that had left the previous evening from Delhi had not reached Manali yet. Nor did the buses from Manali make it to Delhi. We were stranded in Delhi for a night and were struggling to know the current status, so that we know what to do on the next day. My logistics organizer insisted that we rent a car and just head out, as someone would be working at the bridge and everything would be fine by the time we make the ten hour journey to the point-of-problem.
This article was published in Trino Magazine, Dhaka. At the end of this story is a slideshow of images, presented at the Open Show, Bangalore.
A sense of excitement overtook me as soon as our pre-dawn flight took off from Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. I could see the first hills of the giant Himalayan Mountains once we were up in the sky, even before we left behind the crowded concrete boxes of Delhi. The sky above the jagged mountain ridges had already taken a gentle shade of orange, announcing the beginning of a beautiful day.
It was the third week of January and the air was nippy as we departed from Delhi. We were a small bunch of mountain-enthusiasts heading to Ladakh that day, ready to brave the super-freezing temperatures in Leh with a wish to walk side-by-side along the mountain people of Zanskar Region on a river that freezes during in the winter months.
Other than our tour leader Manish Lakhani who was a veteran of Zanskar, none of us had an exposure to cold and arid winters in Ladakh. But warned well in advance and armed with sufficient information, we had boarded the flight with down jackets, multiple layers of clothing and thick boots that could help us land in -20C weather.
As I looked out from my plane’s window nearly half-an-hour a later, first rays of sun were striking the mountain peaks while the valleys and glaciers were still in shade. Flying at a height of 10,000 meters over the mountains that stood higher than 6,000 meters, it appeared as if we were flying dangerously close to ground level. It almost felt as if we could open the windows, let a hand down and touch some of the snowy peaks right below.
It was a quick and sharp landing in Leh with a jolt of breaking in the runway that is tucked away between the mountains. Indus River, seen from the top, was all frozen but for a few cracks where its deep blue colours disturbed a white blanket. It was -13C in Leh, but with our layers of clothes and insulation, it did not seem harsh.
The first day’s camp after descending into the river and walking the first mile.
Two days later, we were struggling down a scree-slope nearly 60km from Leh as we descended into the Valley of Zanskar River. The river surface was frozen, but a strong current flowed underneath and kept us weary of encountering thin ice that could break and take us down. In places where the ice-shelf was broken, the deep-blue waters of Zanskar flowed invitingly, looking so beautiful that I would jump into it without much thinking, but for its forbiddingly frigid temperatures. The waters were so clear that every pebble was clearly visible even at a depth of ten feet.
The first ten minutes on the ice-shelf, it was as much falling on ice as it was walking. But in some time, we were getting used to our brittle chilkat shoes, got better at gauging the ice surface and managed to stay on two feet for longer periods. I myself prided in remaining literally infallible for a larger part of the trip until I came crashing in a relatively dangerous terrain on a steep slope.
Walking on the tiny strip of frozen Zanskar River, next to the blue flow.
For the next five days, we treaded over the frozen waters everyday, waking up to a miserably cold morning everyday and packing all our stuff with great pain using our numbing hands. Our spirits would lift the moment we were on the ice-shelf, or Chadar, as it is popularly called. Our bodies would warm up as we walked and our spirits dulled by the night’s dipping temperature would get uplifted by the brilliant mountainous landscapes and the gurgle of Zanskar’s flow.
All along the way, our tour leader Manish would chant one mantra that the ‘chadar is unpredictable and changes every hour’. We would see powdery snow along the path one moment which would morph into rock solid slippery ice a little later. Sometimes we would be walking on perfectly good ice covering the river, only to encounter after some time just a thin patch of good ice on which we had to tread dangerously. The hardest hour of the trek was when we were trapped for a day at the bottom of a gorge with a completely broken Chadar, leaving no choice but to spend the night close to the river and hope for things to get better next morning.
Where the ice was thin, we had to go over the slopes. It was more difficult at some places, and at one point in time we had to spend a night wherever we were, hoping for the ice to form next morning.
Just like the condition of ice varied, the scenery kept changing by the hour and by the day. Sometimes we would walk along a narrow valley that would suddenly open up widely at the confluence of streams. Waterfalls would appear occasionally along the way, which dumped their waters straight into the river in summer months but were completely frozen and stuck to the wall in these cold winters.
The bright sheet of snow and the blue waters were the only things that stayed constant with us all along. Sometimes emerging from a thick blanket of snow, the current carried tiny crystals of ice that floated on the river. My ‘aha’ moment of the trek came when I saw these crystal forming a bunch of crystal-lilies at a place where the water swirled at a corner, forming a small gathering of gently rotating discs of ice-crystals.
We encountered difficult times along the way when there was no ice in stretches and we had to find way through the slopes. These were the times when our infinitely agile and unbelievably strong Zanskari Porters came to our help. They would simply lift us on the shoulders and take us across shallow waters, so that we escaped the cold bite of the river. On precipitous slopes, they would climb up first, setup ropes and then belay us up carefully.
It is not just on the ice that our porters worked hard. They would march ahead and set our tents ready at the campsite before we arrived. On reaching a camp, we could always look forward to settling down in our comfortable tents with a hot cup of tea. Everything worked like a clock and we had things ready in our hands even before we needed it – be it something as important as a delicious dinner or a mug of hot water for freshening up in the morning. The porters and kitchen staff would pack the equipment and leave a campsite much after us in the morning, but would march ahead in no time to set things up for us at the next camp. Chadar Expedition would be much difficult without their heroics.
As we got closer to Padum, the valley widened and allowed us to walk over the slopes, leaving the river bed.
After six days of walking on the river, we reached the wide open valleys where civilization flourished once again and small villages dotted the mountain landscape. In here, for the first time during the trek, we left the river and walked along the slopes; we kept the tents folded and enjoyed the warm rooms in Zanskari Houses; we spread out from being huddled at the edge of the river and played soccer with the children in the villages. In two days that we spent in the open terrains of Padum, we forgot the ruggedness of the terrain and mingled with the smiling faces around us. But soon, it was time to go back. It was time to retrace the tough path on the ice within the confines of Zanskar’s steep mountains on either side of us.
Just like it used to be during the trek from Leh to the depths of Zanskar, Chadar kept changing and continued to throw challenges at us everyday on the way back. But time and again, our porters were there to lead from the front in the hour of difficulty. Weather gods too did their best and ensured that we had a smooth journey for a large part of our way back. It is thanks to the porters and good weather that we made it to Leh safely and in time to catch our flights home. As we took another quick flight over the mountain peaks enjoying the views below, we carried many fond memories – of smiling faces, enduring porters and breathtaking views that kept our company all through the expedition.
Below is a slideshow of images, presented at the Open Show, Bangalore on Chadar Trek.
+ This is an article on Lahaul and Spiti earlier published by Kansai Timeout, Japan + Also see: Our tour to Lahaul and Spiti every year in July
“It is so beautiful that you will find it difficult to come back,” said our cab driver Mangal Singh as we drove towards Lahual and Spiti region in the highlands of Indian Himalayas. I looked up and saw his beaming face and wondered if it was just a marketing pitch or a genuine remark. His brightly lit eyes expressed confidence that we would have a good time, and his warm smile and friendly gesture melted my doubts away.
Driving over the last mountain pass on our way at over 13,000 feet, we are suddenly led into no man’s land as we enter into the valley of Lahaul. Civilization and hustle bustle of the everyday world is left behind and completely forgotten in its silence. There are no houses, no people, no vehicles to give way to, or anything to remind of the world we have left behind. A narrow road barely good enough to drive reminds that we are still connected with the world, and also gives us access to the terrain that almost feels uncharted.
Lahaul and Spiti region is a desert in the higher ranges of Indian Himalayas, where nothing more than tiny grass a few inches tall grows. Muddy brown mountain surface stretches as far as the eyes can see, and the peaks keep growing taller and taller as we look ahead. Moisture laden clouds from the south are blocked by Pir Panjal ranges of the Himalayan mountains, ensuring that it never rains in these parts.
Condition of the road deteriorates quickly on entering Lahaul. Soil is loose and keeps shifting, ensuring that freshly laid tarmac doesn’t even last for a year. Driving involves wading through streams originating from melting snow, which run across the road in a bid to meet Chandra River far below in the valley. Sections of the road are narrow enough to barely let a jeep pass, and any error in judgment would only mean tumbling down the valley and into the fast flowing river. Yet, there are hardly any accidents, thanks to little traffic and the drivers who are used to these roads.
There was no permanent habitation sighted on the journey for next eight hours of our drive. The road passes along lines of tall mountains forming a narrow valley bisected by Chandra River. Mountain peaks are dressed in snow that would soon melt and bare it all in high summer. Nomadic shepherds wander this forbidding land during the warm seasons in search of narrows plateaus where nothing more than bits of tiny grass grows. Herds of sheep seem to be content with just this grass and survive effortlessly, and the shepherds survive on sheep.
Our accommodation for that night was very basic, in a tiny one-family village called Batal. An elderly Buddhist couple and their helper who ran the place had arrived here for the summer from warmer climes and had re-opened the hotel only a week ago. They were a friendly lot and effortlessly broke into conversations even as they cooked our dinner. They made us burst into spells of laughter with their jokes every now and then, and kept us in good spirits despite the cold weather. “You are too early in the season,” said the man of house, “you should come here after a few more weeks, it will be nice and warm.” He pointed to my thick sweater and woolen cap and laughed out loud when I told him I was feeling comfortable.
Our next morning drive to Chandratal – a high altitude lake – left me with an interminable affection to the region. The turquoise blue lake is surrounded by mountains all around it but for a narrow passage that drains its waters. Its calm surface reflects the snowy peaks and clear blue sky like a perfectly polished mirror. Its clear water is transparent and the ground far below in its depths is easily visible. An urge to jump in for a swim is curtailed only by the temperature of the water, which is close to freezing point.
Further, we crossed-over the mountains of Lahual into Spiti Valley through Kunzum Pass at nearly 15,000 feet, the highest point in our journey. The mountain pass hosts a small temple for the local goddess Kunzum Devi. Whether the pass derived its name from the temple or the other way is not known, there was no one to tell us about it and neither did our driver Singh know. Walking barefoot on the cold ground was not exactly my idea of fun, but I could not resist going inside to have a look, for which I had to remove the shoes. The temple was empty and there was no evidence of anyone having been there in the past few days.
Landscape of Spiti Valley is remarkably different from Lahaul. The floor of the valley is wide and has a lot more vegetation. Straight, easy to drive asphalted roads took us through Losar, the first village in Spiti and then to Kaza town. Villages appeared on the road every now and then, and there were a few people waiting on the road for transport to Kaza. This was a complete change from the uninhabitable terrains of Lahaul.
Spiti is a land of ancient Buddhist monasteries that are as old as thousand years. One of those, Ki Monastery is over 800 years old, but most of the buildings are new and there is no visible evidence of its past. The buildings that stand today are made of white washed mud plaster and wood to support the roof. More buildings, built with concrete, are coming up in the periphery to accommodate more students as well as travellers.
A friendly monk with a round mongoloid face, small blood-shot eyes and bugling cheeks welcomed us and escorted us inside. He spoke with a deep high pitch voice that seemed to be coming from the bottom of his larynx.
The monastery is spread around a prayer hall where the monks assembled. A few deities of worship, a kitchen and smaller prayer room surround the prayer hall. An old kitchen built many centuries ago still exists, though not used anymore. Our escort monk showed us the utensils of yesteryears and asked to take a seat on a bench in the center. ‘These days we use this room to honor the guests,’ he said and poured us tea from a pot. Over the tea, I questioned in him length about the past and present of the monastery.
‘Life was much difficult before,’ he explained and spoke in length, ‘it was not easy to procure food and other daily needs, but now the government helps us. Procuring fuel and wood was a big problem, since there are no trees here. Things are much better these days; we are well connected and well provided. There is a problem of good teachers though, Tibetan preachers don’t get visa easily and we will have to manage with local ones.’
I barraged him with many question. ‘Why is your monastery located in such remote place? Why are you so far away from civilization? Why do monasteries tend to be in some far away mountain or top of a hill?’ There were simply too many questions I wanted answers for.
The rain of questions was probably hard on him, but he was patient. He took some time to think over it and said, ‘it is to escape from the everyday world.’ I waited for him to continue but he did not seem to have more to say on it.
He escorted us back to the entrance after the tea, and humbly welcomed us to visit again. The goodness and hospitality of the people of hills never ceases to amuse me. ‘We have rooms to stay for tourists,’ he said, ‘next time you come, do stay with us.’ Despite the hardships of the terrain and difficult conditions they live in, they are congenial and helpful even to strangers.
At Tabo village, a couple of hour’s drive from Ki is another monastery that is more than a thousand years old and is known for its well-preserved frescoes. The monastery’s prayer hall, called Tuglhakhang, is richly decorated with frescoes in vibrant colors. A set of nine small temples built with mud surround the prayer hall, each decorated with paintings of incarnations of Buddha and Tibetan deities. The daily activities of the monastery are performed in a new building built beside the temple complex, leaving the ancient structure preserved. The remains of the old monastery and the frescoes are now declared as a UNESCO world heritage center.
We drove further from Tabo next day and into lower regions of Himalayas, exiting Spiti from other end of the valley. But in the next few days we were on the road, we kept repenting about having left the majestic valleys of Lahaul and Spiti so early, and yearned to be back there. Mangal’s words – “It is so beautiful that you will find it difficult to come back”, kept haunting us all the way.
