Youth, the unforgettable years, when one swam every stream, fought every fight and swore to climb every mountain. It was in those years that I did my mountaineering. Training under the iconic Nawang Gombu Sherpa (Scaled Mt. Everest twice, First Indian to scale Nanda Devi, Director at HMI-Darjeeling), we scaled three peaks of over 20,000 feet in that course. He constantly spoke about understanding the mountain, about the power of kindness, the respect for the forces of nature- and many such gems of learning. This was before lard and life took over in the cities.
“…it was an all-out downhill trek.”
The mountains became as mythical as Shangri-La; yes, there were fleeting visits with the family in comfortable resorts, but rarely one got that intimacy that ‘mountain people’ yearn for.
Decades later, the moment finally arose when I declared that I shall go for a solo trek. My astrologer said it was in my stars that I would travel to great heights, but I had hoped he meant heights of success of career and whatnot, but it wasn’t that, though this was as good. The family was sheepish in their response, some eye rolling mixed with a dollop of supportive kindness, undeterred I proceeded with the plans.
Taking the train up to Dehradun, I reached late in the night and found a seedy room for the night after some adventurous scouting and desi haggling. The next day, I biked further north, deeper into the Himalayas, leaving the hill towns and passing smaller villages and clean streams gave me the ‘heaven’ feels, with the smell of pine, the swish of trees and flowers growing in the wild.
It was dark by the time I reached Sankri, the starting point of the trek. The team received me warmly and the room was overtly warm and nice and the mattress a real peach. I sensed this was the ‘before the assault’ comfort, so I took it all in.
Sizing my girth and age, the trek leader inquired if I would carry my rucksack or I prefer it go on the mules, taking mild offence, I scoffed and told him I was a purist tourist, not a hill tourist. The last day, I begged him to take my rucksack- in my defence, I would say it was an all-out downhill trek.
Day 1: Sankri (6000 ft) to Aurgaon (9000 ft)
Started from Sankri after an oily breakfast around 9 AM. When I expressed apprehension on the puris- in a normal world one would take a mid-morning nap after such gluttony- the trek leader in his ever-smiling avatar said, ‘I might need the energy’. I thought it to be a tad brazen at that moment, but he was right.
The next two hours was a brutal climb as we made our way out of the village, almost vertically. My guide was a one-armed Nepali, his left arm being a stump from the elbow onwards, ‘birth defect’ he said nonchalantly. And as all Nepalis, he was forever happy, whistling and singing, he would often stop slyly to grind his tobacco and chuna, for which he used his stump arm very aptly; I could imagine other tobacco eaters feeling jealous of his stump.
By the time we reached the outskirt of the village, my double layered T-shirts were dripping with sweat but my legs seemed to hold up fine. After the initial onslaught the trail had flattened and meandered through an apple orchid village, Arjun (my one-armed guide)sensed I needed some respite.
One house where we stopped offered us sliced cucumber with some local spicy chutney, hidden from the lady host I managed to wife off the spice from the succulent cucumber and ate it gleefully. Another household gave us the sweetest crunchiest apples, that wooden village house had three small children playing the silliest game with a piece of cardboard, like a sports enthusiast I followed there every step, investing myself- trying not to make them conscious or join them. I guess I looked at them with the eyes of my inner-child.
Only a few hours into the trek and Arjun and I developed a joke, I would ask him how far, how long, he would point to some far away clump of trees and I would feign loss of sight in the hope that he is joking, mostly he wasn’t. We kept climbing until we entered a huge pine forest, the trees were mighty and majestic; as a city dweller, one could just stand staring at the grand trunk of the tree in awe. It was nearing 2 pm and we had been walking for 5 hours with intermittent stops, the weather moved in and it started to pour.
I was exhausted, we had climbed about 2000 ft by now, Arjun egged me, saying there was ‘Aurgaon’ up ahead from where it will be easy and we might even break camp. In anticipation of a dry hut and a warm cup of tea I pushed on, keeping my eyes out for some habitation. We did get to ‘Aurgaon’, it was a bunch of stones put together under a tree and given a name, some bizarre pahadi humour I thought and gave Arjun a subtle earful while he looked on seeming amused.
Leaving that tree (that was sold to me as a village) we walked across a meadow and came across a young couple standing under a tree trying to stay away from the rain. He was handsome and well built, moustached, in traditional clothes, and she was beautiful with kohled eyes, wearing sparkling chunky earrings and nose-ring and an embroidered achkan. They were newly married and there was an air of romance, for a moment one could even imagine that they were on a date enjoying the weather or maybe waiting at a bus-stop.
Except that they had come looking for their lost horses and had been wandering the mountainside for the last couple of days. Listening to their story, Arjun gave them a packet of biscuits, and we moved on.
A short walk away, we came across our camp- and was I delighted to see it. It rained most of the afternoon but it cleared by 4 pm, showing us a most beautiful sunset over the Har-Ki-Doon Valley.
Day 2: Aurgaon to Sheldi (again, just a rock under a tree); 9000 ft to 12000ft
Woke up after a restless night; altitude-induced disturbed sleep. It was a cloudy night and a rainy morning. The bad news of the morning was not just that the mule handler had high fever but that the mules had wandered off. Apparently, some horses had come down from the higher passes in the night, their scent had driven the mules wild and they forgot their troupe and handler and years of care and trapezed away behind them- universal rule, one can say.
The mule handler was crocined up, given an extra jacket and sent out in cold rain for he is the only one who could recognize their hoofs and also the only one they would listen to. It was 10:30 AM by the time we got going. I had gotten a sweet post-breakfast nap in the interim and was fresh and charged to get going.
The trail was a nice walk through a forest covered in light fog, the silence of the forest broken only by the wet droplet falling of a leaf every now and then. Teeming with life, with ferns growing from every corniche, moss on each dead tree, a small purple flower on a lone patch of fistful mud in a small crevasse, each way you looked, it looked like a paradise garden.
Moving steadily, we enjoyed the walk chatting and chuckling, Nepalis being gregarious people full of beans. This was until the steep climb crept up on me, the talking was replaced by a thumping heart rate and me asking Arjun, how much more?
As the day progressed the trail got hard and mean, and the toughness of it all started to seep into me, churning thoughts about things in my life I have been ignoring for long. Right there in the middle of the panting and the enchanting forest, my thoughts meandered to those hard things that I had left alone. I wondered why; some kind of survival mode kicking and pressing you to sort out all the nonsense clogging your mind, so one can focus on the one job at hand, the next step. The chatter and chuckle were gone and Arjun played only the supportive guide, nothing else.
We stopped to have a packed lunch at 3 pm, the rest of the camp party had caught up with us with the mules, we all sat there in the grass ate vegetable pulao quietly. I was told it is only a short climb now, by now I had learnt not to trust the ‘short climb’ answers of the guide, we were crossing the 12000 ft mark, the tree line suddenly appearing and giving way to nature-manicured grasslands. It was 5:30 pm by the time we reached the camp, a top-of-the-world kind of stunning view.
Sitting on a camp chair, looking out to the vast stunning valley, it all seemed worth it. By nightfall, the wind had picked up, so had the rain. We stayed inside and heard the rain howling through the valley.
Day 3: Phulara Ridge Day
The weather was almost violent, with a wind swirling rain and face-stinging droplets. The trek leader mildly broached the subject of staying in for that day, looking at the weather, I was reluctant- he also did mention that it is a tricky path and tough days walk. I looked back at him quizzically, in a questioning manner- you mean to say the last two days was a cakewalk? But now was no place to talk or think these things, only thing to do was to put on your shoes and poncho and get moving. Thankfully, the weather lifted by the time we got going, only a light rain in the air.
Traversing the gentle meadow slopes felt like a chocolate ride before the real ride, scenic views on both sides of a small ridge added to the buoyant feeling. At one particular rock, only one rock, there was mobile network, a flush of excitement with a flurry of messages and calls- pictures shared- social media checks, all happened. Rejuvenated, I started again.
Progress was slow with the high-altitude effect kicking in, feet felt heavy and breathing harder and the gentle grasslands gave way to a rock-strewn slope. At some point Arjun pointed out the destination to me, shrouded in clouds, I was certain this was the Nepali’s dark sense of humour; it seemed like another mountain range in another state or maybe even Nepal.
By this point where he is your only support and there is no easy come back, all the class and status boundaries had blurred; it was he your guiding light and sole encouragement candidate and friend and pal. He behaving like he is taking a walk in the park, talking about the shrubs and his struggles of finding himself a wife considering his solo arm. He said, ‘how do you tell her family that only my arm is stunted, all else is good.’
At that height amongst that beauty, to laugh on this most bizarre of human problem seemed most poetic. The flora and fauna, as expected was most unique in shape and size. Just because it was not a teeming forest did not mean this was any less buzzing; small birds a variety of insects and bushes as big as an apartment were strewn around.
Just before starting up a fresh steep slope, Arjun held my hand concernedly, gesticulating me to stop, he had spotted a dark furry large animal looking down at us; it must have been about 100 yards away. I didn’t spot it till it moved, but bears were known to be in the area and they could be hostile. Arjun moved ahead to explore and get a clearer picture, for a moment, there was real tension, until I heard Arjun laugh loudly and vociferously banish something.
It was a beautiful sheep dog, I doubt it was lost, but it did seem like it wanted some company and games, something Arjun just did not understand despite of me telling him. He shooed it away with candour, the dog watched us trudge along with a forlorn face, a waved at it like a friend, and he wagged his tail from afar.
It was almost 1 pm, and Arjun stopped and pulled out some roti rolls, ‘for energy’ he said. I knew at that point that the tough part was to yet to begin. Phulara ridge seemed to be still a few bends away, we were cutting literally horizontally through a mountainside to reach it, only now there was no path, no mud to plant your feet strongly on or a grass patch to glide on, only haphazardly arranged set of unstable wet rocks at a steep incline. This, Arjun assured me, was the last challenge of the day.
We started up at about 1: 30 pm. I was slow and shaky, the rocks would shift from under my feet, Arjun tried to show me the steps but our legs were different, in size and strength, one had to make one’s own path, like in life. We kept moved non-stop till 3:30 pm, Phulara was still not in sight, I could see myself descend into a trapped feeling.
The rocky slope was so menacing that even to turn back wasnot an option, at times I was moving on my all fours, the rain had moved the faint path, and Arjun had lost his bearing adding to my fatigue and irritation. All my rationality and deep thinking and scenic moments faded away and all that remained was constant confusion, wet rocks and the mind plotting to deal with them.
The rain was now incessant, we had been soaked to the bone for hours by now, at one point we moved around a place for over 30 minutes, trying to find a way across a particular large set of rocks. I sat down, mulled my options, I hoped giving up on this trek was one of them, but it wasn’t. Arjun stayed distant and calm, he knew (as he would have seen many times before), that I was struggling with myself.
“I picked myself up and started again…”
Then it occurred to me; there was only one way out. To pay obeisance to the Mountain Gods, give up my ego and let the peace descend, then I would find the calm to carry on. Which is what I did; to submit to a higher force has its advantages.
I picked myself up and started again; by 5 o’clock, we reached Phulara Ridge.
