Kugti Kalling

The first day's walk towards the village of Kugti turned out to be very pleasant and not very demanding for either the lungs or the legs. Which was a very good thing : the 12 km trail that we had to cover wound through shady conifers and ran for most of the way along an enchanting river, bubbling merrily down the valley in a friendly, welcoming manner. We meandered up the path, stopping often to admire the sparkling waters as they swirled and swept around and over beautifully patterned rocks and boulders. Even though we were hemmed in by high ridges on either side of the valley, the sun shone bright and warm from a blue sky : we couldn't have chosen a better day to begin our hike.

If the kids had had their way, this Hadsar dog would have joined our group!

Adele ( L ) and Sanal ( R ) flank Margaret on a bridge 

Small stands of irises appeared on the grassy banks flanking the trail. Stray villagers stopped to chat and point out the way. We paused at points of picturesque beauty and photographic possibilities and the children amused themselves by throwing stones into the river. Though born in the post modern world, they were happy to make do without the appurtenances and devices that seem to have become a part of everyone's garb : we carried no cellphones, no Ipods, no radios and no laptops. We were blissfully disconnected from the daily chatter and anxieties of the outside world. Best of all, it did not make us unhappy or discontented.

The walk along the Budhil Nala to Kugti was idyllic

We walked in a loose group, each at his or own pace, the adults ensuring that the kids were never out of sight. In this haphazard fashion, listening to the whisper of the wind in the pines and the musical roar of the river, Sanal and I found ourselves suddenly in the center of Kugti. There was a cobbled square in the middle of some houses and a little store selling basic groceries. Thankfully, the shopkeeper also sold chai. This, as my friends know, I can never resist. Throw a chai stall onto a remote Himalayan trail and you've succeeded in halting my onward progress! The afternoon had advanced well into the evening by now, the misty blue light filtered through the conifers on the surrounding ridges and shot shafts of ethereal light which bounced off the slate roofs of the houses. I contemplated my serene surroundings as I sipped my cup of chai and waited for the rest of the group to catch up. A half hour went by, a quarter of an hour went by, and still there was no sign of Margaret or Franklyn or any of the other kids. Our guides too seemed to have gone missing.

Fearing a mishap, Sanal and I backtracked to the edge of the village. I needn't have feared : our guides had decided to set up camp for the night in the compound of the village school, which consisted of a modest little shed and a small grassy lawn in front of the verandah. We pitched a couple of tents and were very soon settled in. Some of the local children came to make our acquaintance and it was interesting to watch the tentative efforts that some of the bolder ones made to befriend our four city bred brats. Very soon the ice was broken and we had a whole bunch of kids darting in and out between the tents and the school building, squealing and laughing their way to a brief friendship. Darkness dictated that the Kugti children all go back to their homes.

Camp on the Kugti school yard

The next day dawned bright and sunny as well and we were soon trudging across a wooden bridge spanning a torrent on the far side of Kugti. The path now swung to the left and gradually began to gain height. The vista opened up and in a matter of an hour or so some glittering peaks beckoned us up the valley. I had no idea what their names were, or even if they had any. But when we stopped for a breather and glanced back at the way we had come, a striking looking massif soared into the sky across the valleys and I had no doubt in my mind that this was the famous Manimahesh Kailash, ( 5655 metres / 18,500ft )  which towered over the lake of Manimahesh where thousands thronged to every year in a pilgrimage in August. Though of modest height by Himalayan standards, the peak dominated the skyline and exuded a character of stern aloofness, buttressed by sharp ridges and crenallations plunging vertically into the haze of the valleys below.

Kugti

We ourselves were now confronted with a stern vertical ascent to the eyrie of a wonderful little temple perched high above. By the time we had huffed and puffed our way up to this beautifully carved wooden structure, it was lunch time. We sat on the stone ramparts of the courtyard eating the lunch we had packed in the morning before leaving Kugti. The wind dried the sweat from our bodies and the orange triangular flag fluttered briskly from the long pole it was attached to. The setting was perfect and had it not been for the ugly graffiti defacing many of the walls of the temple, it would have been easy to succumb to its divine charms and believe that this was truly a stop en route to heaven.

The peak of Manimahesh Kailash provides an impressive backdrop to the temple

Ugly Graffiti desecrates a place of divine worship...in spite of the request to desist printed so boldly.

Leaving the temple behind and winding our way up through a series of slopes we came across a meadow overwhelmed with wild irises : this was certainly a branch of paradise. Feeling like pilgrims now, we kept on climbing up the trail till we reached the grazing grounds of Duggi. We pitched the tents on a grassy meadow next to a bubbling brook lined with yellow buttercups and heaved a sigh of relief. This was going to be our base for a couple of days while we explored the area and checked out the trail leading up to the Kugti pass (5040 m) which crossed the Pir Panjal range into Lahul.

Adele, Franklyn and Margaret in the field of irises

Yaks graze in the background at Duggi

We lit and gathered round a campfire that evening, nursing a feeling of well being and expectation. We were surrounded by big mountain slopes all around and we looked forward to walking around the meadows and side streams over the next few days.

Rhododendrons growing wild on a hillside.

Manimahesh Kailash - 5655 metres / 18,500 ft.

Dhauladhar 2000 - Any Excuse Will Do!

This is the way it is with a die hard mountain lover : you look at a map, you pick an area that interests you, you begin your research, you convince yourself (that is the easiest part) that this is one valley or one trail that you must absolutely do, then you cast around for an excuse that will stand up to censure in the eyes of your disbelieving friends who are probably shaking their heads and saying, "Oh no, not again, he's got that crazy gleam in his eye..."

In the summer of 2000 I found the perfect excuse to round up my niece and nephew for a child-friendly trek in the Dhauladhar ranges of Himachal Pradesh. Timothy, then 12 years old and his sister Adele, a little over ten years of age, were migrating to Canada with their parents in a couple of months. I played the genial uncle and said,"How would you like to trek in the Himalaya before you leave India for good?". Neither of them had ever seen the Himalaya and they were excited. With them on my side, it didn't take much to convince their parents who probably couldn't believe that someone could be foolish enough to make such a patently silly offer. I had barely finished speaking when they yelled in unison,"Take them!" They had another little baby to worry about and tons of packing to do, so my proposal must have come as an answer to their prayers...

Adele Noronha

Timothy Noronha

Our son Sanal was the third kid, he was slightly younger than Adele. He was the only one who had trekked in the Himalaya : at age seven we had taken him to the Pindari Glacier  in Kumaon. Before that, when he was three and a half years old, he had made it up to the pastures of Lalanti  (14,000) , below the Charang Ghati pass in Kinnaur, mostly on the shoulders of Margaret. Gavin, a friend of this threesome, made up the quartet. Margaret and I had never looked after more than one child, since that was all we had. I decided we needed reinforcements and induced my friend Franklyn to come along. He was sceptical at first. He is a confirmed bachelor and the prospect of keeping an eye on four high energy souls who might combine into an unmanageable force was daunting. But in the end, the lure of trekking in an area neither of us had ever been to was hard to resist. So there we were, four kids and three adults, bustling about on the platform at Bombay Central, looking for our berths in the August Kranti Rajdhani Express bound for Nizamuddin in New Delhi.

Gavin DSouza

Sanal Surin

Our friend Rajesh Bathija had applied his artistic talents to the T shirts we wore. "Dhauladhar.com" was emblazoned on the front. Of course the domain name was never registered and the website didn't really exist, but it seemed to somehow merge the emerging ethos that these kids belonged to with the ancient art of just plain walking in the hills! The shirts elicited a lot of enquiries from our co-passengers and the kids kept up the pretence. Thankfully, wi-fi did not exist along the rail corridors of India then and smart phones had yet to become the norm, so no one could really test the veracity of our claims.

Rajesh painted a Quick Reference Map on the back of the T-shirts! We decided later to cross the Jalsu pass further east in the Dhauladhar instead of tackling the Indrahar Pass, as shown in the sketch.

Debbie and Quentin, Gavin's parents, looked half anxious and half relieved as the train sounded its horn and began to move. Hazel and Cecil, the other parents, mirrored the same expressions, glimpsed briefly through the tinted glass as we gathered speed and left Bombay behind. It was the month of May and the airconditioning was a relief as we settled down for the long ride. "He who goes to the hills goes to his mother," says an old Hindu proverb. I thought to myself, "Here we are, certainly going to the hills, but three of these children will have to settle for Margaret as their mother for the next couple of weeks!"

The 18 hour journey to the capital was fairly smooth, once we got used to the constant giggling emanating from the upper berths as the kids made up and played all kinds of games. These games were a source of constant delight and merriment for them even if they appeared inane to us. Night fell, the compartment became quiet, the children fell asleep with the exhaustion of excitement, and the train hurtled northwards.

Late in the morning, we bundled the children out of the train and onto the platform. Our many kit bags and rucksacks followed. Since our next train departed from Old Delhi railway station late in the night, we decided to wait out the day at Nizammuddin. We stocked ourselves with a pack of chilled bottled water, arranged the luggage like a little stockade where we herded the brats in, and passed the time of day discouraging beggars and touts and coolies. The kids initially found entertainment in listening to the announcements over the PA system : each announcement regarding the trains arriving and departing from the various platforms was preceded by a very loud two-note audio signal. The children would collapse into heaps of laughter at this and eagerly wait for the next one. Their mirth was almost uncontrollable. I looked at Margaret and Franklyn and we all shook our heads; did we seriously think we could shepherd this boisterous foursome through the ridges and valleys of the Dhauladhar? Had we perhaps taken on more than we could handle?

We needn't have worried. As the afternoon wore on, the oven like heat of May in Delhi soon stunned us into a stupor and gradually the youngsters fell silent. When we judged the sun was losing its intensity, we engaged two taxis and transferred over to the chaos that was Old Delhi railway station. We had reservations in the overnight train to Pathankot, but some local commuters thought otherwise. Our compartment was crammed with office workers and others going back to their homes two hours out of Delhi. My son could not fathom the pressures of modern urban life in India and was almost in tears when four men occupied the upper berth he was supposed to sleep in and sat with their legs dangling above our noses. They were loud and uncouth and their crude conversation centred around the male and female genitals and their choice of words was injudicious, to say the least. It did not seem to bother them that there was a lady and four small children in the confined space of a second class railway compartment. We all sighed in relief when their destination appeared outside the windows and they disappeared into the heat of the summer night.

Pathankot railway station, by contrast to the one we had departed from, appeared to be neat and tidy and organised. We were impressed when we did not have to haggle for a taxi to Dalhousie, 80 km away. There was a Taxi men's Union booth where we purchased our ticket, a taxi was assigned to us and away we went. We were soon out of this neat cantonment town with its wide avenues lined with ancient banyan trees painted with the white and ochre bands so typical of such places. The road began to climb towards the foothills and the succulent yellow bunches of  "amaltas" (Indian laburnum) provided welcome relief to our travel weary eyes. Slowly and imperceptibly, the temperature began to drop with each hill contour that we ascended, the vegetation was changing, a few rhododendron trees began to appear and we could sense that our journey was coming to an end soon.

Dalhousie is perched between six to nine thousand feet at the western edge of the Dhauladhar mountain range and is one of the most charming hill stations that I have ever visited. Twelve years ago, it appeared to be far less crowded and touristy than say, Manali, Shimla, Mussoorie, Naini Tal or Darjeeling. It also boasts the closest snowline to the Indian plains anywhere on the subcontinent. The walls of the taxi booking office in Dalhousie were adorned with framed photographs of the town under six feet of snow, and cottages with icicles dangling from their roof gutters.

Instead of snow, we had rhododendron trees lending a splash of colour all over the town, and the pretty pinkish white flowers of the chestnut trees swayed  high above us in the cool breeze, perfectly cupped amongst the glossy dark green leaves. We checked into the venerable old timbers of the Himachal Pradesh Tourist cottage and ordered some chai. As we sat in the wicker chairs on the veranda looking at the distant ridges which held so much promise, there was a clap of thunder and the mountains reverberated with deep and distant echoes which lapped at our eardrums like waves on a lonely shore. Dark storm clouds soon filled the horizon, electric blue lightning rent the heavens apart, the setting sun sank like a fiery crimson orb and hail began to pelt the tin roof of the cottage. We were jubilant. This was exactly the sort of welcome you need when you go to the hills. Our senses came alive, the perspiration on our skin evaporated and with it all the sordid memories of the train journey. This magical transition, from the hot and dusty plains of a baking summer to the cool of the conifers is one of the most enjoyable elements of Himalayan trekking in a country where most of the landmass swelters in tropical excess.

I didn't know about the others, but I was certainly going to my mother! Since mothers are mothers, she insisted that we have dinner first. So we sat around the table in the modest dining room and feasted on the vegetables and rotis dished up by the cook and looked out through the glass paned windows at the thunderstorm as it slowly withered away. It was time to put the kids to sleep and look at our maps and plan the days ahead.

Phase one of the plan required that we get to the road head at Hadsar from where we would walk for two days to get to the pastures of Duggi. We would spend a couple of days here, exploring the vicinity, or just chilling out as the mood dictated. I hoped to hike to the bottom of the Kugti pass as well. We would then reverse our steps back to Hadsar and prepare for Phase Two which would  gradually lead us over the Jalsu Pass and back to the Kangra valley where we would make our way to Dharamshala and McLeodganj, home of the Dalai Lama. This part of the western Himalaya is buttressed from the plains of India first by the Dhauladhar range as the southernmost outlier, beyond which flows the Ravi river, then the Pir Panjal and behind these two rise the peaks of the Great Himalaya after the great trench of the Chenab Valley. The Dhauladhar and the Pir Panjal are pierced by a number of passes which allow access to the separate river valleys. These passes have been used for centuries by the gaddis, shepherds from Kangra who take their flocks of sheep and goats to the succulent pastures of the high mountains in the summer months. Trekking amongst these mountains and valleys via the traditional paths and seeing the shepherd's way of life is a visual treat, with the usual free dividends for the spirit and the soul that these undertakings normally generate.

As a little acclimatisation exercise, we decided to take the kids up a local hill. As we passed a little square, a street artiste/snake charmer was preparing for his act, prepping up the audience with a non stop harangue about the habits of the dangerous and poisonous snakes that he was going to show them and the plucky little mongoose who would do battle with them. The children wanted to stop and watch the main event. We hung around and waited for the performance to begin. We waited almost an hour and nothing happened. The artiste's young assistant moved around in the little circle of people that was beginning to form, dangling a couple of reptiles from his fingers like a rosary, occasionally frightening the crowd by swinging the snakes close to their faces. In the background, the loud and strident voice of the presenter continued to build up the anticipation; the mongoose could be seen wriggling impatiently inside the little hemp sack that he was confined in. He was itching to sink his teeth into the infernal snakes!

But the show was not going to start in any hurry, the artiste was sizing up his audience. "Not enough bodies," he must have said to himself, "this is not going to generate enough money....I have to wait a little longer".

Finally, even the children got tired of this non-starter and we dragged them away up through the upper parts of town, past the Dalhousie Public School where fresh faced students with red blazers were milling around during their recess. We found a track which wound its way up through the cool deodar forests and found ourselves below the air force radar station on top of the ridge. The kids thanked me for the uphill slog by pelting snowballs scooped out of an old bank of snow below the radar station. We stopped at a little tea stall before heading downhill and hopped onto a local bus which brought us back into town comfortably.

The food shopping for our little expedition was completed that same evening and a visit to the Tibetan market provided extra warm clothing for the children. The evening was rounded off with a tasty meal of momos at a small eatery. The business of packing was completed late at night, a hired jeep took us the next morning to Bharmour via Khajjiar and Chamba. Another little walk above Bharmour provided the kids with some entertainment, glissading on some old snow, playing cricket with the local lads, and cuddling a little lamb. The next day we threw the boys at the back of the Matador truck, together with the luggage, and drove off to Hadsar, where the real walking would begin. Finally, Dhauladhar.com was live and on stream!

Bharmour

One of the many temples in Bharmour

It is amazing how much fun a little old snow can provide young children! Sanal tries out glissading.

Cricket in Bharmour

The view from the cricket ground!

Next Stop : Hadsar

Life Begins at 10,000 feet!

"Life begins at 10,000 feet," is a famous quote by the legendary American philosopher/mountaineer Willi Unsoeld who, with Tom Hornbein was the first to climb Everest by its difficult West Ridge in 1963. For me, my life almost ended at 10,000 feet in the Dhauladhar range in May 2000!

The trek up to the meadows of Yara Got had gone well. The four kids with us were doing well and were now playing in the patches of snow which enlivened the swathes of lush green pastures dotted with wild rhododendron in full summer bloom. I was on a ridge high above them, striding along confidently on the snow and using my trekking pole occasionally to steady my gait. When I reached the cairn on top where Govind the guide was waiting for me I looked happily at the vast panorama spread out in all directions, white clouds billowing in the valley immediately below and on the other side. It was a perfect moment. As always, these perfect moments must end; we turned around and began to head down towards the tents where we were to spend the night. Margaret, my wife, and Franklyn were attending to the camp chores while Adele, Timothy, Sanal and Gavin were throwing snowballs at each other higher up the slope. I could see their four dots and the bigger dot which belonged to Behari, another one of our guides.

The camp at Yara Got

We had ascended mostly on slopes of tussocky grass, avoiding the hard packed snow which lay in sheets across the hill. Now, Govind decided that going down the snow would be faster and less time consuming than zig-zagging our way down the hill. He sprinted ahead of me and was soon receding into the distance. I followed sedately, using the conservative "heel plunge" technique which normally works well on soft snow. The snow here was not soft, yet I made fair progress until my heels hit a thin layer of snow under which was hard ice. My legs shot out from under me in an instant and I found myself sliding down the slope on my butt. "Self arrest!" my instinct screamed at me: I dug my one trekking pole into the snow on my right and tried to pivot my body into the classic pose taught at climbing schools which brings the weight of your shoulders directly above the pick of the ice axe and this helps to decelerate and ultimately stop your downward rush. In this case, the trekking pole bent and snapped out of the snow, not slowing me down one bit. I spreadeagled my legs and the snow in the V of my crotch gathered itself and slapped me in the face splattering my sunglasses and reducing visibility. I was now in serious trouble, I could see the end of the snow slope way below  and beyond that a cliff which plunged into a deep valley. I bundled myself into a tight ball as a clump of black rocks loomed; I was thrown up into the air with the impact, landed back on the snow with a thud and slithered some more before thankfully coming to a rest on another block of rocks just feet away from the edge of the cliff. I lay still for a long time before uncovering my head from under my arms where I had tucked them as I had been thrown into that arcing trajectory. I could feel bruises on my limbs. I stretched my legs at the knees and they seemed functional. I stretched my arms and my elbows - they seemed all right too. My right wrist was swollen like a tennis ball and I feared the worst, but somehow it didn't feel broken. Lady Luck had saved me once again!



Govind waiting for me at the cairn

Down below the kids had been watching my rather rapid descent down the snow...my son Sanal (at that time 10 years old) shouted happily, "Hey, look, my dad is glissading!" I had been talking to him earlier about that technique which allows you to execute a controlled descent on slopes of snow with a moderate angle and he was thrilled that I was apparently demonstrating the technique for their benefit. His cousins Adele, (5 months older than him) and Timothy who was twelve took his word for it as did Gavin, the fourth child in our little group. The whole idea about doing a trek in the friendly and not too high ranges of the Dhauladhar had been conceived so that the kids would be able to enjoy it as well.

Descending back to the tents...we took the slope below and to the right of the guide

It took me a little while to appreciate the fact that I was still alive and not mortally injured. I sat up in the snow. Govind, who I had whizzed past, was next to me now and helping me to stand up. He asked me if I was all right and I said I thought so. I put my left arm over his shoulder and this is how I hobbled back to the tents.

My injury warranted an extra day at this camp for which I was glad. Above us was the Jalsu pass (approx. 12,000 ft) which we planned to cross as the highlight of this particular segment of our summer holiday in the mountains of Chamba. I seem to have a propensity for little accidents in the hills...but this was by far the most serious injury I had sustained while on a Himalayan trek. I had been introduced to the joys of trekking in the Himalaya in May 1976 when I joined a programme conducted by the Youth Hostels Association of India (YHAI). The cost was ridiculously cheap - Rs.300/- all inclusive - and all one had to do was show up at their Base Camp in Kishtwar! Over a 10 day period, the trek took groups of people over the Synthen and Margan passes where I had my first experience of walking on snow! If like me you had grown up in the plains of Bengal, you will appreciate what a life changing event that could be...

Margaret and Franklyn with the walking wounded!

This blog will chronicle a few of the Himalayan treks that I undertook over the years with my friends and I hope to convey the charm and challenges encountered...

There was a line emblazoned across the top of the brochure which the YHAI had mailed me before the Kishtwar trek. "Wandering, one gathers honey", it said. Looking back now on my wanderings, I agree completely!

Jalsu Pass is shown on the extreme right of the map

The trail from Surai to Yara Got

Wild rhododendrons en route to Jalsu Pass