Nanda Devi exploratory trek 2005

Joel and Bob explore the Nanda Devi region

by Bob Rosenbaum

"Because mountains are high and broad, the way of riding the clouds is always reached in the mountains;
the inconceivable subtle power of soaring in the wind comes freely from the mountains.”
-- Eihei Doge, “Mountains and Waters sutra”

Post-trek October 30th, 2005

Sitting here in Delhi, already the mountains seem too far away. Although hot water heaters and clean clothes are fine, the toot of the ubiquitous horn, the press of bomb blasts in crowded markets and the seductions of email and electronic entertainments simply cannot compare to the simplicity of suns gleaming impartially on ice falls, rhododendrons, apprentice kitchen boys and bedraggled trekkers. True, conversations with poets and priests can re-awaken the wonders of moving water, but the social niceties required at the round meal table require efforts more tiring than those necessitated by ice axes and elephant grass. For the last few days I have slept poorly and woken depressed, filled with sadness of love lost awry, nettlesome thoughts of phantom knives and imaginary flights from the duties that await across the ocean on sanitized but colder shores. In the mountains the puzzle of the first noble truth - suffering - lay in its absence. In the city the conundrum lies in the roots of the self-sown weed.

From my trek journal

Day 1 – 8th October

Leaving Delhi in the pre-dawn hours on 8th October, my anxiety that Don Bosco's gates or poor directions would bar the jeep bearing Joel and Lobsang from picking me up proved (as most anxieties) foundless. Worry, though, breeds in the incongruities of cities. The night before I'd had dinner with Jose in an Hyderabadi restaurant located on the second floor in one of the posh neighborhood mini-malls which are popping up everywhere in an increasingly affluent Delhi. The name of the restaurant? "Mystique Heights." A good place, perhaps, for a pre-Himalayan meal (saffron paranthas and cashew-pepper sauce). On the first floor of the mall, though, the name of the restaurant-disco was "Nothing Natural" and its advert proudly proclaimed "Natural is Boring."

In Delhi as in most cities silence seems unnatural, but still can find some space for itself in the hours before sunrise. The jeep did come and my two duffels quickly loaded and tied down on the roof (the rear being already jammed with gear). With our Sikh driver, Lucki, and Lobsang in front and Joel and I in back, we set off for the 9 hour drive to the hill station of Almora, about half-way to our trailhead at Munsiari.

Having previously endured numerous drives between Delhi and the Himalayan foothills, there were not many surprises, though there were signs of the continuing Indian economic boom. The roads out of Delhi had more flyovers (overpasses) and toll booths, and were somewhat better paved than a year ago. Most noticeable was the amount of new construction, especially of luxury apartments, Western style office buildings and huge enclosed shopping malls, megalithic but bland rectangular hunks with giant banners proclaiming the brands within. There were new entertainments as well, such as the water park "Drizzle World." Within an hour or two, though, it is still the case in India that moving outward in space is moving backwards in time. Not far from the cities, the older India appears. The road narrows to widths varying from one-and-a-quarter to two-and-a-half lanes.

Since these lanes are shared by wide, garish orange-and-red trucks (often with “God is One” on the front, and “Power Break” in the rear) and dusty grey oxcarts, women pedestrians balancing loads of hay or piles of manure on their heads, single-speed bicyclists with 10 feet of metal pots piled up on the rear fender, modern Toyota vans and mini-cars and bright new motorcycles speeding in between all the vehicles, along with the occasional elephant – well, it requires a good deal of alertness on the part of the driver. The usual procedure is to get as close behind the vehicle ahead of you as possible, speed up, beep your horn, then pull out to pass with a fine disregard for any approaching vehicles – swerving at the last minute back into your own lane as you narrowly avoid a 3-vehicle sandwich. In fact, most large vehicles have the words “horn please” on their rear bumpers to encourage you to beep as you pass. Of course, the larger vehicle generally has the “right” to force any smaller vehicle off the road onto the side. Also, this game takes on extra piquancy on curving mountain roads with blind curves where the amount of clearance before a sheer drop is a matter of just a few inches.....hence the frequent road signs: “Be soft on curves.”

In any case, Lucki is an excellent driver, somewhat less daring (and, hence, more reassuring) than the average driver. He’s an employee of Prince, who runs a taxi/jeep service in Delhi frequently used by Joel. (Later, though, we’ll find out that Prince has put an unreasonably high mark-up on our trip... leading Lucki to be willing to take us the extra distance from Almora to Munsiari). Lucki is be-turbaned, bulges mildly around the middle, highly educated but works as a driver to support his two daughters and son. He keeps awake by playing a cassette tape, “super duper” with the greatest hits of Bollywood movies, most especially the song Kajrare, currently a big hit.

In one dusty town, behind a temporarily blockage caused by six vehicles all converging at one time at a rotary and refusing to yield, Lucki is pulled aside by a smiling policeman. He has caught Lucki in an infraction: he is out of uniform. It turns out there are 143 regulations a driver of a tourist jeep is supposed to conform to, ranging from how many condoms and sanitary napkins he is required to keep in his glove compartment to whether his shirt is buttoned. Both Lucki and the policeman think it rather funny that he has been caught: rather than pay the (expensive) fine, Lucki gives the policeman 100Rs (about $2.50) and receives his “God bless” in return and a waiver of any ticket. Both realize this is one of the necessary ways for the policeman to supplement an inadequate salary.

Through many dusty towns, the roads dirt now, the shops open to the road and encrusted with its grime, so that black and grey obscure the once-bright colors of the shacks. Rusty kettles filled with hot milk, water, tea and spices for chai: plastic gee-gaws of toys, auto parts, masala potato chips and very old electronics stacked every which way seem to be the mainstays of these shops. Women in colorful, if soiled, saris or black chadors sometimes walking, sometimes on the backs of bicycles, in most cases doing most of the work as the men lounge or, occasionally, tend shop.

As we start going up and down through the hills, at several towns Lobsang asks for petrol – there’s some anxiety whether we’ll be able to get enough, but Lobsang is resourceful and always finds his source. A stop at a local dhaba in the morning along the highway – flies galore – for a parantha breakfast, a stop at a little dingy restaurant with an “extensive menu” – so long as it’s chole and rice – then gradual climbs into the hills and the climate begins to cool and green verticality replaces the brown plains (broken by occasional rice paddies). Past Nainital, another hour or so and we end up in Almora. This hill station is less visited, and hence cleaner, than most in the area. We walk through the bazaars, with their Dassara goodies, their shops of produce and essentials and pots and pans, shopping for rice, toilet paper, soups and other provisions. We’re at about 6000 feet, the clouds come in, and we find a hotel which provides shelter for the night. Sitting in the dimly lit hotel, the only ones in its room rather grandly identified as a restaurant, the temple bell incessantly ringing puja, thunder and lightning over the green hills and ramshackle stores of this British Raj hill town, it’s good to be out of the city.

Day 2, 9th October

From Almora to Munsiari isn’t far – 100 or 150 km – but it takes us all day to drive the curving mountain roads. My room is right next to the loudspeaker for the local mosque, so I’ve been woken early by its blaring. We pile into the jeep and set off for the drive, which is through beautiful pine forests nestled on gentle grassy swaths. Many of the pine trees have grass “skirts” around them, villagers preparing winter fodder. There is little undergrowth at first, but gradually the pines give way to oaks and scrubby, dense vegetation. After four hours or so we’re halted on a hillside by road-work: they are tarring about 200 yards of twisting highway. This stops all traffic in both directions for about an hour, during which I wander away, partly to pee and partly to play around with my camera. At a turn in the road I catch my first, tantalizing glimpse of snow on top of a distance peak up a narrow ravine with a small but noisy stream. Of course, it’s while I’m there that the road re-opens, the traffic takes off and, though I hurry to catch up, the seven of eight vehicles (including my jeep) have taken the opportunity to get through the obstacle and moved on. Workers point out a short-cut up the hill, and I climb this to emerge on the hilltop and start walking toward the town. Eventually our jeep comes up from behind me and picks me up. Then it’s just another hour or two – and a VERY steep climb for the jeep – to Munsiari. As we crest the hill we see the town below us and the beginnings of the valley we’ll walk up tomorrow, now ominously but beautifully draped in clouds of multiple shades of grey. Facilities here are rather primitive, despite it being a trailhead “tourist spot”. We find, and reject, one dank building recommended by the Lonely Planet guide and go back up the hill to a place with a terrace and adequate rooms – they even have a television, with one English channel playing some movie about CIA recruitment. No running hot water, but they’re willing to bring a bucket in the morning. The sink drains directly onto the floor (not uncommon in Indian hotels, where the floor has a drain in it for Indian-style “showers” – pouring water on one’s self from a bucket). In the dark, Joel and I go up to the bus stop area – a dilapidated rotunda surrounded by single-light-bulb shacks selling the usual tobacco and dals – and have a dinner of masala vegetables and rotis cooked over an open fire.

Day 3, 10th October: the Day of the Albino Grasshopper

Rising, there is partial clearing and the view across from our hotel is of the Panchuli group, lovely 6000 meter snow-capped peaks. We may be able to hike back through these, depending on the status of the passes both to the east and west of our exploratory route. We’re thinking about taking Traill’s pass – if we can find it and navigate it; we here “nobody’s taken that for 40 years” (which, later, turns out to be false). Because of that, I take all my things rather than leave some at Munsiari; this is not a problem because we’ll have horses to carry our things most of the way, even if not over the pass (where we would backpack, so I’ve brought backpack food for this). At the crest of the hill Lobsang encountered the horsemen from when Joel and he were out here last spring – they’ve been waiting for us, hoping for a job. Lobsang makes the necessary arrangements.

We go back up to the bus stop, have breakfast at a little dhaba next to the “restaurant” we ate at last night. It’s so filled with smoke we decide to eat outside, but the rotis and paranthas are quite edible. After breakfast we hire a jeep to take us downhill to the road’s end, descending from our hotel at 2250 meters to river level at 1500 meters. A shame to have to lose this altitude, but in the Himalayas you go where the topography tells you to. While the horsemen arrange our gear, Joel Lobsang and I take off on the trail, first through the town at the bottom, then down to the trail itself. Almost at the outset, Joel spots a huge grasshopper, completely devoid of color, dead in his path. An omen, perhaps – but of what? White snows? Many a hop and a skip to navigate the trail? Perhaps a rendezvous with life and death, or a continual renewal of wonder.

An hour or two of easy walking takes us to a little village where we have some chole dal bhaat at a dhaba, then continue up the trail to Lilam at about 1850 meters. It is a wide trail, paved unevenly with rocks, easy to follow but it is quite hot and humid. The river is grey with glacial debris, roaring loudly the whole time, augmented by the constant high-pitched sawing of the cicadas, making a white noise of the grey water, black rock and green hills. When we arrive at Lilam, it starts to rain; everything is soggy from either sweat or mist. We offer our passports at the checkpoint, and see there are not many visitors; we haven’t seen any other westerners on the trail. A Lilam policeman, though, tells us there has recently been a group of Australian trekkers who had their boots stolen, having left them outside their tents one night. So from now on, boots go in the tent.

Lobsang pitches the cook tent; Joel and I pitch our own tents (each of us having the luxury of a 2-person tent) and the dining tent and relax there to our first Lobsang-cooked supper: Army dal, green bean curry, mutton, rice, and chapattis. Best meal I’ve had for a while!

One other sad note, before sleep: over dinner Joel mentions to me that at the end our last year’s trek around Manaslu, our sirdar made off with all the money he was given to pay the porters. This is a shame: the sirdar seemed quite a good fellow, though he had a cough which seemed tubercular and we were a bit worried for his health. Joel thinks he may have had some extraordinary need for himself or his family and, rather than ask for help, took this manner of funding. He’s probably left Nepal for India and, if he returns to Nepal, won’t be able to get work again. Meanwhile Joel and Project Himalaya have paid the porters what they were owed – thus again cutting into any money, however slight, they may have made and putting a sour coda on that otherwise most wonder-filled trek.

Day 4, 11th October, 15 km to Bodgwar, 2500m/8000ft

This morning we encounter our first Westerners, a young, very pleasant Finnish couple out on a fairly short trek up to Milam and back. Together we take care of business at the police station check point, then head up the Gori Ganga. The first steps are complicated by a milling herd of goats who block the path in town; they are afraid of our walking sticks and won’t advance, and afraid of the herdsmen behind them and won’t back up. So I part the wool, pushing through them, and we’re off.

Initially it’s quite warm, heading along the river, continuously if gradually heading up. The trail remains wide and developed, and we stop at a small thatched dhaba an hour or two up for tea and to wait for Joel, who’s hampered by a bad knee. After this break I set off on my own, through dense forests, past rapids and waterfalls. At one point the river divides, the way narrows, and we start going through gorges. Completely alone, I have a momentary worry about whether I’ve gone the right way, but eventually Lobsang can be seen ahead in the distance.

Having been in the Jumlam in Ladakh, I am not quick to award the title of “impressive gorge” to many places, but there are areas where the plunge down to the river is impressive. Occasionally the trail will be blasted through a rock face, or pass under a waterfall, or a single tree will jut out dramatically on an overhang far above. Snow-dusted peaks begin to peek out in between outcrops of stone; the density, colors, and steepness of the rocks and vegetation are reminiscent of the Kanchenjunga middle hills, but are less of an up-and-down hike and more of a gradual ascent. However there isn’t any sense, yet, of real elevation gain.

Around mid-day there is a grassy green “hill” rising steeply above us for perhaps 1500 feet, with a small Alpine hut perched precariously on it. It looks like our route will take us up there, but instead the trail follows the river, goes around the corner and finds itself in a clearing where the river makes a graceful bend, the hills set back a bit so there is a flat space where a long, narrow, thatched “hotel”/dhaba rests at the bottom of a cliff. This is Rigor. The thatched roof of the dhaba has white stones spelling out “welcome” on the left and something about love on the right – very Indian! Tea and pack lunch there, then onward as the trail steepens and the gorges narrow until, finally, we emerge into a wide valley with the small village of Bodgwar at its head. There is something about emerging from a gorge where the lungs, mind, and spirit open up as well as the path. Whether it be a kind of metaphor for rebirth or simply emerging from darkness into more widespread light, however, enjoyable the gorge, the exit is always expansive.

It’s becoming cold and windy, so qigong is done somewhat unsatisfactorily with many layers of down between laogong and qihu points. But it feels like the first “real” trekking day, with some mileage behind us, so sleep comes easily after supper.

Day 5, 12th October, to Rialkot, 3130m/10,300ft

This is a day mostly to be remembered in pictures. It’s warm in the morning, but as we continue up and up the air begins to cool. After Bogdar’s opening its back into more gorges. There are many waterfalls, but one in particular can be traced all the way from the top of a peak (Kildam Choti, 5163m?) down to the river in a series of thin, long falls. We pass an isolated small snowfield, an occasional shrine, and ascend to a clearing where it looks like the trail will level off and follow the river. This is not to be, though: instead we get a “Kanchenjunga” type surprise because to avoid a landslide, we have to go very steeply up rock faces, through the spray of a waterfall over slippery rock, to a high narrow point which doesn’t have much of a view, then plunge steeply back down again, losing all the elevation we’ve gained.

After a lunch break, the clouds rush in behind us, carried by a noble wind. As we continue to hike upwards, it begins to sprinkle; it seems, though, by keeping up a fairly rapid pace we are able to mostly stay ahead of the actual rain, and eventually out-walk it completely to clear sky. Views start to open up, and we camp on a hill above the river, the army campsite behind us framed by two mountains tipped with snow. It feels we’re finally in the mountains.

I begin my koan for the trip: the first noble truth of Buddhism. Is life not just full of suffering, but suffering itself? What is suffering? Somehow in the mountains, where everything is simply itself and discomfort can be quickly followed by ecstasy (whether of a cloud moving across a cliff face or a taste of Lobsang’s supper!) suffering seems very distant.

Day 6, 13th October, to Martoli, 3300?/3600? meters

A short (half-day) trek to this gateway village, poised at a trail juncture. Going north takes you to Milam; going west takes you to East Nanda Devi and Nanda Kot. At this point the trail opens and we walk through summer grazing fields, now autumn brown. As we approach the stone houses of almost-abandoned Martoli, we get our first views of Nanda Devi East in the distance off to our left, clouds swirling around the ridge, backlit by the sun, and the Milam peaks ahead of us.

This is a relaxed day with time to do laundry, qigong, have one of my longer talks with Lobsang. This is my third trek with Lobsang (the others were in Ladakh), and while he’s always been friendly he’s also a proud and private person and I haven’t hitherto felt we’ve gotten a chance to get to know each other. Today we talk about our lives and our families. Lobsang has a young (3 month old son) now, and it seems to have made a difference; he talks more of home now. His wife, a schoolteacher, works at a school some distance from Manali so even when he’s not out trekking he only gets to see her on weekends. As a Tibetan refugee, one of the Ladakhi nomads caught on the Indian side of the border when China and India engaged in hostilities regarding Tibet and international boundaries, he is a citizen of no nation but has had experiences which go beyond easy political platitudes. In addition to speaking Ladakhi, Hindi, and Tibetan he has learned functional English while trekking. He is not trained in mountaineering techniques but is tremendously competent as a guide and extremely strong, able to go at about twice the pace of the average trekker – a good person to have in your corner. He also is very responsible and worries about his trekkers, going out to look for them if they arrive late. I am ridiculously pleased to hear he considers me strong and fit, looking 10 years younger than my age, much healthier than when he met me on our first trek together (when I was ill, and also upset about breaking up with my wife). Ah, pride.

We are planning to go to Nanda Devi East base camp tomorrow, but a bit of a tiff arises when our head horseman, who last spring told Joel he could take us to the base camp, now says he can only take us about 2 km west of Martoli. Apparently the trails have changed and the horses can’t go further. Joel is quite upset, as our plans counted on establishing a well-provisioned camp at the foot of Nanda Devi East and spending some time exploring there. Now we’ll have to carry our own gear and food for a considerably greater distance.

Joel is also still dealing with the death of his brother. For the most part, he’s his usual self – waxing ecstatic about food and views, kidding about old movies and British TV shows, enthused about the trek and the territory, and passionate about Indian history and culture, especially as it manifests in local customs. Occasionally, though, he’ll be more philosophic, or a bit sad – not surprising since it’s only been a month since his brother died on trek. But he’s so happy about what we’re experiencing on our current adventure – where within 3 days of walking we have views of almost-8000m peaks – that he’s already planning which of his favourite trekkers he will invite to join him next year.

Our Finnish couple has gone on to Milam, and we’ve encountered no other trekkers. We have, however, been accompanied for the last two days by two dogs, who seem well-fed and friendly – perhaps from cadging handouts from trekkers like us! While in Milam, we also meet a local man who lives out nearby at Lawan, who’s able to offer us some advice on trail conditions and locations, maps of this area being unreliable. Our friend, though, is rather upset because some porters accompanying a large trekking group a few days ago stole some of the food he had cached by his home. We’re pleased, though, that he’s willing to accompany us to Lawan the next day.

Day 7, 14th October, to Lawan, 3600m/11,777ft

A moderately cold night, around freezing temperatures inside the tent, but a cloudless morning. Today was virtually your ideal trekking day: very short, but with abundant pleasures.

I was up early, and headed up the hill to visit the Nanda Devi temple there, which faces the east peak. After taking in the early morning views, I returned to camp (and breakfast: cheese and tomato omelets, Lobsang-baked bread, Joel-brewed coffee) to discover the horsemen would be able to take us about half-way to base camp, at least as far as Lawan, about 6 km away. So there will be no need to carry heavy packs today, as had been anticipated last night.

We set off west, re-visiting the temple, now warmed in the sun. Bells all around it – apparently the custom is to bring a bell to a temple to honor the Goddess. The views are spectacular all around and just keep getting better during our short (2-3 hour) hike to a lovely grassy camp site with views of Nanda Devi, clean flat ground to relax on – and a dead cow.

We can see Lawan, raised above the river across a gap from us. To navigate this gap, and its landslides, we descend down to the river and cross a VERY slim mud-and-branches bridge whose weight would not support two trekkers at a time, let alone horses. We then clamber back up the hill. The horses, though, have to take a longer path upstream, ford the river at a rocky point, and rejoin us at Lawan. There is nobody living at Lawan now that the summer grazing is over except our friend, who is planning to do some semi-illicit poaching for valuable plants that will fetch a high price over the border in Tibet.

We have a lazy afternoon, qigong being more pleasant since it’s warmer today and the ground is less polluted by manure. A big Australian group with many porters (who, unlike horses, can navigate the trail) comes back from Nanda Devi East base camp, and our local man at once jumps up and starts yelling at their porters: they’re the ones who stole his food! (though they strenuously deny it). The Australian group keeps to themselves, generally rejecting our overtures, which is fine with us. As night comes, so does the cold, and we bundle up. I read the Quixote, do zazen, and wonder how this ideal trekking day can be considered suffering...

Days 8, 9, 10 to 17th October

It’s cold enough that I write with my gloves on. It’s been several days since I made diary entries: I left the diary behind to save weight, since we’ve been backpacking for the past few days.

The 15th was a strenuous day. Although we only trekked for perhaps 6 hours, it involved carrying a full pack, perhaps weighing 20-25 kg, at an increasing altitude. The trail started out through elephant grass, long silky brown stuff, knee high, fortunately soft. But the grass, which grows in slippery clumps, often obscured the trail, and it wasn’t uncommon to take a step and slide down an extra 6 or 8 inches into a hole you didn’t see. Also, the trail required a lot of ups and downs to negotiate the steep hillsides, punctuated by subsidiary streams and landslides. As the crow flies the route was short: as the trekker marches the route was crepuscular.

We went through rhododendrons, birches, bushed in rusty fall colors, dropping down eventually to the glacial stream coming off Nanda Devi east’s flank. Then there was boulder hopping, then back up the hills onto some very narrow, slippery trails with steep drop-offs. At times on a landslide, with a trickle of water slicking the mud-rock-gravel combine, the trail might be half a boot-width wide: hiking poles certainly came in handy. The terrain was tiring, but exciting as views continued to open. We were led on by promises in the guide book that Nanda Devi East base camp was a place of lovely meadows. I doubt the authors have been there. When we got to the basin, after 6 hours, the “meadows” were bare, steep piles of scree, boulders, and mixed rock – nothing you’d want to camp on.

From the 20 foot high boulder at the bottom of the basin we saw we could ford the stream and head northwest toward Nanda Devi East base camp, or stay on our side of the stream and head up over the lip of the basin, closer to the snow slopes above. We opted for the latter, and after another half hour’s stone stepping found a spectacular campsite situated between a steep snow slope on the left and a steep brown moraine on the right. There were stones creating a cave type shelter (more of a granite half-hollow) for the two horsemen we’d brought to help carry our items, and to cook in, and flat places for tents, and the main wall of Longstaff’s Col lay directly ahead of us. Only problem: no water. Surrounded by glaciers and snow, but no running water. Lobsang solved this by saying he and the crew would go back down to the stream at the bottom of the basin and carry water up. For them, this was 20 minutes: for Joel or I, it would have been a good hour, exhausted as we were. I didn’t have the strength to argue, but certainly felt grateful when they came back with the water.

As soon as the sun set, it became very cold. But as the moon came out Venus and Mars appeared, and the mountains could be seen glowing white in the moonlight – enough illumination to take photographs which showed the planets and the glaciers rising like ghosts out of the darkness. Nobody else was anywhere near for miles, so there was no light pollution even from porters’ campfires.

We had our backpack dinner of soy chili and tea. Lobsang and the crew didn’t like backpack food particularly, and in the future opted for ramen. After supper, the two horsemen slept in the 3-person tent we usually use for dining, but Lobsang slept in the stone “half-cave” shelter. Joel and I snuggled into our mummy bags.

Morning dawned gloriously clear. We made a quick breakfast of it and Joel set off ahead of me to climb the moraine that formed the northern wall of our declivity. I followed shortly after, deciding to head up a bit where the valley rose to meet a descending moraine, figuring I’d have less to climb to the lip of the moraine. Along the way I passed Joel, crowing at the view from the top of the moraine. His joy soon turned to expletives as his pack, which he’d set down in order to take pictures, started bouncing back down the moraine toward our base camp. Rather smugly, I began to veer up and ascend the moraine’s slopes, only to find that my chosen area though less high was steeper and less stable (as moraines tend to be, as one proceeds further along them). Even as scrambling up I cursed the slippery scree I still felt somewhat superior to Joel’s “carelessness” with his pack – that is, until I reached the top and found it to not be the broad shoulder I’d expected but a knife-edge requiring me to sit and straddle it, one leg on either side, in order to get any kind of stability for photographs. I was very careful, mostly from fear of embarrassment, to keep one strap of my back over my shoulder at all times – not as easy as it sounds when one is trying to simultaneously open the pack and extract its pouches of wide angle and telephoto lenses and filters. The view, though, rewarded the effort: the great wall, seemingly vertical, that provides one of the defenses for Nanda Devi’s inner sanctuary stretched between Nanda Devi East and Nanda Kat, with the former rising up above 7000 meters. Longstaff’s col lies at the low point in the center of this wall, and viewing it one can see how it is not really a “col” except by politeness: crossing it is impractical unless one attacks it with technical mountaineering skills. With its glaciers, arêtes, ice falls and avalanches (several of which we witnessed that morning) it is no place to venture over with laden porters or, for that matter, unroped trekkers.

Joel and I were still looking for Traill’s Pass, which on Harish Kapadia’s sketch seems to offer a traverse from our eastern vantage over the wall to the Pindari glacier on the more southerly side of the Sanctuary. Looking at the actual topography, it seemed hard to believe the terrain would actually allow this, but we thought the pass might lie hidden behind the relatively accessible snow peak immediately to the south of us. So Joel and I descended the moraine, crossed over onto the snow slopes, donned our crampons and began our ascent. Pretty soon the way steepened and it appeared our best bet was to take a rocky gully up toward where we thought the pass would be, so off with the crampons and on to a scramble: sometimes it was an effortful but stable walk but more often it was a struggle up rotten scree, or clambering with hands and feet up rock stairwells.

After perhaps two hours of this, perhaps around 1:30 in the afternoon, Joel (who was leading) left the gully and rejoined the snow slope. He went just far enough to see where the likely summit was and, judging it to still be two or three hours away, felt disinclined to put out more effort. In addition, his crampons lacked front points, making it impossible to kick-step his way up as the slope further steepened. So Joel turned back in the hopes of a more relaxed afternoon at camp. While I was tired, I still had enough energy (and stubbornness) to go further, so I put my crampons back on and struck out and up. The slope was now usually over 45 degrees, so diagonal gave way to direct ascent, using my ice-axe in the two-handed stake position. To my surprise, I found this considerably easier than the sliding-scrambling of the rock gully, and I made better time that I expected, reaching the summit in another 90 minutes or so, despite being hampered near the top by soft deep snow which repeatedly swallowed me thigh-high. (The difference between Joel’s time estimate and my climbing doesn’t reflect any particular ability on my part; Joel is used to climbing at higher elevations, at least another one or two thousand feet higher, and since the oxygen content decreases logarithmically, his estimate would probably have been accurate in the Everest region or Ladakh).

This was probably peak 4944 (Bhital Gwal) on the map – my altimeter gave me a reading of 16,000 feet. I should note this map, the only quasi-topographic one Joel could find, leaves a lot to be desired. It has no magnetic declination, making it impossible to use for precise location setting, and is clearly simply in error in places. In addition, besides its topographic lines it has shaded and crossed lines without any precise topographic meaning to provide a pseudo-picture of cliffs and glacial walls, making it very difficult to read. The map misled us several times as we poked around in the area.

In any case, the 360 degree view from Bhital Gwal was tremendous, with East Nanda Devi in all its glory, its towers and fluted walls alternately white snow and, where it was too steep for the snow to adhere, black granite. The col some distance beyond the summit we’d been thinking, per the map, would mark Traill’s pass, looked inaccessible except by technical climbing, depending on whether an icefall directly below the col could be skirted. By now clouds were beginning to add drama blowing past the peaks and the sun, lower now in the sky, tinted the lower hills gold and wheat-yellow.

Time, then, to leave: but I decided to go down the back (southeast peak), which had a gentler slope, and circle round to our campsite below. Almost immediately I came upon a distinct, long row of recent snow leopard tracks but, alas, no sight of the elusive animal itself. I alternated plunge-stepping, diagonally, and glissading down. The snow near the summit, though, was a bit too soft for a good glissade, and at the bottom as the sun was nearly setting, it was a bit too slick. In attempting to glissade the elastic band of my goretex pants slipped up onto my calf, which I thought nothing of at the time; unfortunately, it gave me abrasions the size of softballs on both calves, tearing away enough layers of skin so that they still, three weeks later, have not quite healed over. What is not felt on the cold snow becomes tender later on during long marches! One piece of equipment, then, that needs some upgrading.

I eventually came in a bit east and above our campsite. Having given Lobsang some anxiety on prior treks (Lobsang tends to fuss over his trekkers if they are late or not striding easily along a trail – and a very good thing it sometimes is that he does so) I had sworn not to do so this time. Unfortunately, though I was only a few hundred feet above the campsite it was a steep, tricky few feet with poor hand or foot holds, alternating ice with slippery grass, and the sun was setting rapidly. I was clumsy with fatigue, and was most inelegant (and narrowly missed a bit of a fall) negotiating that distance: at one point my camera (which I usually clipped on my belt) slipped off and went bouncing down the slope, to be retrieved by Lobsang who (accurately) pronounced it still in good working order. Tired as I was, it was wonderful to come down to the security of Lobsang’s guidance and hot tea.

The next day, October 17th, we didn’t stir until the sun hit our tents. After a breakfast of muesli and coffee, we debated whether to descend and cross the river to Nanda Devi East base camp. Deciding we’d already had the best of the views, we decided to head straight back to Lawan. Lobsang pronounced it an easy four hour hike back, with our loaded packs, and later claimed to have done it in two. I needed something more like six hours, with an hour’s break for lunch. My legs were dead all morning after over-exerting the day before: my feet required constant mental effort and guidance rather than finding the way themselves, so I constantly was stumbling over some loose stone or tuft of grass. I lost faith in my feet and legs’ ability to right themselves of their own accord, and this caused me to go slower, testing each step, which in turn made the whole hike more difficult. In truth, the footing on this trail often was treacherous – Joel managed to fall into the river at one point, I managed to just fall in the mud.

The abandoned village/campsite of Lawar looked pretty good by the time we reached it, and by now the Australian group had quit it so we had it to ourselves. We’ve been told the few remaining locals are just waiting for us to leave before they pack up and take their flocks further down for the winter (taking their flimsy mud-stick bridge with them).

This whole valley used to be a major trading route with Tibet. Will the thaw in Indo-Chinese-Tibetan relations allow its restitution? I certainly hope so.

Day 11, October 18th

Well, we’d planned to explore up this valley to where our local informant says Traill’s pass lies. Both Joel and I, though, are tired: we decide to stay put and have a rest day. A good day to do laundry while the sun shines (though your fingers still lose all feeling as you wring out the laundry and set it to dry) and to read (for me: Don Quixote in the marvelous new Edith Grossman translation. Joel is immersed for the Nth time in Kim, Conan Doyle stories, and histories of India and the British empire). It’s also a good day to horse around with the horsemen – most notable of whom is their most junior member, Biru, who swears he’s 18 but is probably 14 or 15. Every morning he wakes us with his loud, cheerful singing (Joel is about ready to kill him for his alarming clock tendencies) and his boyish antics. He is not supposed to be paid, he’s just tagged along from the village with the head horseman: however, he puts in more work than the others, as Lobsang has been training him as a (willing) kitchen boy. Biru almost never walks, but rather runs, wherever he goes. Today he is proud to be actually mounted on a horse, riding one rather than leading it laden with burdens.

Joel usually waxes ecstatic about good food, but tonight was totally transported by Lobsang’s Zera (Cumin) potatoes. Boil the potatoes; cut them roughly and stir-fry with onion, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, then add whole cumin seed. The fresh cumin seed Lobsang got locally has an unusual taste, with strong overtones of caraway. Yum!

Day 12, 19th October

After a leisurely breakfast, with a special treat of paranthas using the (little bit of) leftover zera potatoes for filling, we packed up and started back for Martoli. That’s only a few hours away, but we plan to take a detour, heading up the river toward the purported pass (the elusive Traill’s pass?) our local informant has told us about. To do this we’ll go to the ford the horses used, a bit up-valley of where we crossed on the sketchy bridge on our way here. As far as we can tell, this will take us toward a northwest shoulder of Nanda Kot – which doesn’t make any sense from our map, but then our map is less than helpful. (It also fails to conform to a second, less-detailed map we have).

We follow the horse trail south and then descend to the river, which we discover we’ll need to ford. Lobsang takes off his boots and crosses, finding the stream fairly tame, not much more than knee high for him. As I make my preparations – taking off my boots, removing their insoles, then putting my boots back on without socks – Lobsang agitatedly insists I should cross barefoot rather than get my boots wet. We each insist our way is correct: the question becomes moot, as the horses catch up to us and I decide to take my Tevas out of my duffel. Before I can do so, and despite my attempts to stop them, the horsemen cross the stream: Lobsang, however, has divined my intentions and gets the sandals for me and forcefully tosses them across. The stream is cold but refreshing: feet are clean (if numb) for the first time in a week and a half!

Joel has crossed and started up the narrow snowfield/glacier which faces us, finding this easier than scaling the slippery grass of the steep hill. I follow; the snow is soft enough and to kick-step without crampons or ice axe, and we’re only on this tongue for 20 minutes or so before we’ve gained the few hundred feet needed to take us onto the hill. We then head up some more until we get a view of the purported pass. It’s easily visible but a goodly distance – probably about two hours – away. Neither Joel nor I are tempted to exert ourselves to go up to the col. We are unlikely to be rewarded with particularly spectacular views, especially as clouds are gathering; we also have had a surfeit of spectacle at the feet of Nanda Devi East. Even if the pass exists at this point – it looks manageable here, but who knows what lies on the other side, or what the Pindari glacier might be like -- we are not carrying loaded backpacks. We’ve decided, rather than try any pass crossings, to explore up toward Milam and then into a valley which, north of here, runs west toward a different (supposedly fuller) view of Nanda Devi. So after a somewhat tricky down-climb back onto the snow and up onto the original trail, we head to Martoli, stopping at the beautiful flat, grassy plateau due east of Lawan. We’d been told there was “no water” for a campsite there, but discover plenty of snowmelt streams; probably, since there was no village at the site, “no water” meant “no possibility of obtaining rum from a villager.” After a brief pause at this delightful locale we have an easy stroll downhill: Martoli and its temple are visible in the near distance. We arrive in Martoli just as it starts to snow: a good day for an easy lunch inside the dining tent, then snuggling up in our individual tents for a cozy afternoon of reading and rest. Sadly, today is the day I finish the Quixote. While the first book is entertaining, the second is the masterpiece. It was written over ten years after the first, its characteristic Spanish self-reference (both Quixote and Sancho know they have been in a published novel by Cervantes and in another, false “book II” written by an anonymous author), its conversations between its protagonists, its mixture of cruelty and compassion, honor and pragmatic self-interest, humor and sadness, make it a fitting mountain companion.

Today was the first day I really felt I got my trekking legs and trekking mind. Up until now I have needed to have my legs follow the dictates of my mind’s orders: now my legs are strong enough to do the walking themselves, and let the mind follow them. All the petty worries and events of daily life in Berkeley, California seem miniscule, of no great moment: in the mountains nothing special is needed, not even zazen. The simple acts of walking, eating, sleeping are sufficient unto themselves, and one need look forward nor back, as one of my daughters wrote in a poem: “not thinking of tomorrow”.

Day 13, 20th October

After the snow, good weather. The dawn is completely clear. I wake with a great deal of energy and set off, first of the party, at a brisk pace north for Milam. First a steep descent to the river; a short plank bridge, a steep climb up, round the corner of the hill, and suddenly a wide valley stretches out with rolling hills and pastures – something out of the English moors or Scottish highlands, perhaps, if it weren’t for the snow peaks that beckon in the distance. The sun is high, the air is warm, and only the dryness of the air keeps me from whistling as I ramble along the trail. After about an hour, as I approach a short sturdy suspension bridge at the intersection of several trails, a man coming back from Milam hails me for conversation. He is a local inhabitant who works as a guide and is waiting for his small party to catch up. His English is good enough for a bit of conversation, and we enjoy chatting in the sun. He proudly shows me his lightweight combination microscope/magnifying glass/binoculars/compass – an inexpensive plastic gizmo made in Italy, given to him by some previous trekkers – and I show him my monocular. He’s quite knowledgeable about the area, and when I ask about Traill’s pass he indicates the pass Joel and I explored yesterday is useable for transit to Pindari glacier, but only in spring after the snow has consolidated and before the monsoon hits. He seems competent and pleasant, and as Lobsang and later Joel come up I introduce everyone to each other: perhaps they will work together next spring.

We cross the bridge here – it turns out the bridge up at Milam has been washed away – and after another two hours or so stop in a deserted village for our noon lunch. We’re told that from this village, or shortly afterwards, we should see the valley we’re planning to explore a few days from now and in so doing get new views of the Nanda Devi massif, this time with the main peak as well as Nanda Devi East. Clouds, though, mass at the head of the valley, hiding any mountains and giving the valley a cold, inhospitable appearance compared to our sunny perch.

We continue our ramble toward Milam, but clouds are gathering and the day is turning colder. As we approach Milam we see it sits at the convergence of two streams, two valleys: its gateway is a bridge across the rapids and a wall of sculpted hoodoos leading up to a broad plateau. Here a year-round military outpost maintains a small garrison, guarding the passes to Tibet; entrance to Milam is through this ITBPF (Indo-Tibetan Border Police Force) post, though on this late, grey afternoon nobody comes out to ask for our passports. Just a bit further on is Milam village, beautiful with plazas and mature trees, but also virtually abandoned and therefore sad. Most of the stone houses are roofless, though the carved doorways give testimony to better times, when this was a busy way station for trade with Tibet. Perhaps it will be so again.

I minister a bit of first aid to my leg – my sciatica is kicking up slightly, probably aggravated in part by muscles trying to compensate for the pain where my calves are still skinless from my ill-performed glissades of several days previous.

Day 14, 21st October

Last night was one of the coldest we’ve had yet, so we’re slow getting up this morning, waiting for the sun. Once we are up, on a nice clear day with only a few wisps of cloud, we see the moon still poised in the sky, providing a round white counterpoint to the shining crystal angles of the snow peaks above and behind us. We’re not terribly ambitious, anyway, planning to just take a short hike to “zero point” where there are supposed to be grand views of the main attraction, the massive Milam glacier.

At most it’s an hour to zero point, perched on a vantage point perfect for the placement of a single medium-sized communication relay dish, perfect for views north to the peaks of Hardeol and Trisuli and the glacier-filled valley leading up to them. Only problem is: the glacier isn’t there.

That’s an exaggeration; the glacier is there, but it has obviously receded a great deal and no longer poses much of a sight. Rather than a valley with a sweeping white mass we have the glacial stream running through a clearing, at the head of which are the twisted piles of rubble and ice which constitute the remains of the once-proud glacier. Here it is what is not here which is impressive, for it is obvious that global warming has worked its disappearing act on a huge area in a short amount of time.

Yesterday on the trail we saw a large Australian group, led by a well-known trekking guide, bringing her troupe back from a long day spent travelling to and viewing the Milam glacier. I hesitate about whether to head up toward the glacier and the peaks beyond; I’ve brought ice axe and crampons, but am disappointed by what the glacier looks like and hold few illusions that it will be a particularly enjoyable place to poke around. Joel has already turned back for an easy day exploring the village. On the other hand, Joel knows he’ll be back in a few months, and I may never be here again. I also can’t believe that so many people come so far to see so little: surely just ahead there must be something extraordinary. So, although I don’t expect much, I head up the gravel of the now-shrunken river and then into the glacier.

Like many Himalayan glaciers, this is not the gleaming white one associates with National Geographic pictures or Jungfrau touring. Rather, it is brown rubble. The Himalayas are so young and their sides so steep that rockfall is a constant, and the ice is covered with the mud, stones, scree and mineral debris that rains down on it every day. Usually by mid-day it is warm enough so the ice which holds the hillside “cement” together starts to thaw, so there is a constant scrabble as loose pebbles and larger chunks of minerals (plus the occasional boulder) dribble down onto the glacier’s surface. In addition, the steepness of the gradient pushes the ice into large mounds like the bellows of an accordion. This means exploring the glacier usually means going up one steep, loose hill to a crest where you hope to have a sight of a peak or a snowfield, only to find yourself confronted with another, higher lump which requires you go down to its bottom before you can head around, over, but certainly not through it.

I explored the glacier for about two hours, constantly thinking of turning back; each time I found a boot-track from a previous trekker, though, I was encouraged to continue on in the hopes that some famous scene would soon present itself. As tracks became less and less frequent it dawned on me that my own prints would be contributing to the false hopes of some similarly stubborn (credulous?) trekker. After going a good deal of the way and satisfying myself that if I continued I could get past the last few folds of the glacier but would only find myself at the base of a set of peaks which, while beautiful in themselves, would not boast of any extensive snowy skirt, I finally turned back. Before I did so, though, I was rewarded with a glimpse of a spire some ways in the distance, sharp as a spike: Hardeol, perhaps.

The way back was redeemed, in part, by the quality of light that comes as the sun sinks behind the tall peaks and casts sharp shadows on the golden flanks of their smaller brethren. Once I reached the campsite, I was told I needed to go to the ITBPF office to show my passport. By the time I got there it was nearly dark outside, and totally dark inside the office. The facilities for the army are, to put it mildly, minimal: a few shacks which, while they may have the capacity for electric light, don’t seem to utilize it. As I groped down a dark corridor looking for an office, a fire burned in the middle of the floor of one room. Niceties such as central heating – indeed, any heating – or cooking stoves (other than the kerosene type, and that also was not much in evidence) are low on the army’s list of priorities. For warmth, the soldiers had blankets to throw around their shoulders (though officers had better jackets, and the Indian army’s sleeping bags are well known for their insulating properties, though not for their light weight). In short, this would be, once the winter set in and cut off this handful of people from any communication other than the radio, a less-than-luxurious posting. (In the India-Pakistan conflict in Kashmir, both sides lose more soldiers to hypothermia and other high-altitude related illnesses than to actual hostilities).

I had a pleasant chat with the ITBPF officer taking my passport details, and my passport, which he promised to return when we left the following. Then back to camp, supper, and a well-deserved rest (plodding on Himalayan glaciers being tiring). A large, French trekking group has come in and set up camp not far from us, though, and they and their porters seem to be involved in some sort of party-cum-drumming contest. Fortunately, this does not last too late, and the silence of the night is kindly. By now the moon does not rise until later, so the sky is dark and, being clear tonight, the star display resplendent.

Day 15, 22nd October

Biru’s singing and loud chatter wakes us to a brilliant morning. The moon is still up, companion to the mountains to the north, decorating a pale blue sky. Because the bridge at Milam has been washed away, today we’ll be retracing our steps south to along the river to Burphu, cross the bridge, then go back north along the river to the valley running west from Pachu. I linger a bit after breakfast: Joel has gone on ahead, anxious to catch the purported spectacular view of the full Nanda Devi massif from Belju (which had been wreathed in clouds when we passed Belju on the way here).

There’s a small temple on the hill above the army base, in the direction of the restricted valley which leads to Tibet. The temple is deserted at the moment, but its two portals, festooned with the bells that are traditional offerings here, frame mountain views both north and south. Then it’s off to the ITBF base, past the stables, into the barracks to pick up my passport. Back down past the hoodoos, crossing the rapids on a plank bridge, then back up to the trail from two days ago. The sun is high, the day is temperate, and not a cloud mars the sky. Views from Belju are indeed splendid: mountain walls radiate bi-directionally from Nanda Devi East: northwest up to the main peak, some 400 meters higher, and northeast to another ridge. Together, these arms provide the inner sanctuary with a fortress that is formidable, intimidating, and altogether inspiring.

After three hours of strolling and picture taking I’m back at the bridge; we have lunch at the crossing and meet a young couple from Munich who are heading in our direction. The woman is having some GI distress; I show her some acupressure points and also offer her some Cipro (over the next few days, she finds the acupressure sufficient). After lunch it’s a stroll through meadows, at first somewhat muddy and then, after gaining a thousand feet or so of altitude, broad enough to harbor three small abandoned villages, each with five or six stone houses surrounded by a stone fence that would do New Englanders proud, the final village (Pachu) preceded by a welcome lith. The views from Pachu up valley to Nanda Devi are lovely, and it’s a pleasure to do qigong on a flat surface on a day when it’s warm enough that multiple layers of down are not needed. For supper, I show Lobsang how to make a puttanesca sauce (his last pasta sauce being more of a curry), which he complements with three or four other dishes for a real feast.

Day 16, 23rd October

To come.

Day 17, 24th October

Up with the sun, but slow getting organized after collapsing into my tent and sleeping bag last night. I’m the last one to leave the campsite, just a little behind the horsemen, but am feeling rested and fit. I soon catch up to the horsemen: mischievous Biru is last, leading the mule, and he decides to play a game of catch-up. Whenever I get close to overtaking him, he whips the mule to make it go faster and stay one step ahead of me – and provide himself with an opportunity for good-natured laughter. Eventually I do pass them, but later on they overtake me in turn when I take a break to, in the words of Sancho Panza, “do what nobody else can do for me.”

Back toward Martoli, but this time after crossing the river we won’t ascend up to the village, bypassing it instead as we head south back towards Lilam. It’s likely to be a long day.

As I cross the bridge below Martoli, the dog which has, well, dogged our footsteps all along (Lobsang has thrown it scraps) comes halfway across the bridge and sets up a long howl. I think perhaps he will go back to his owner at last – he looks well taken care of – but he opts to continue to follow Joel and myself. The way back is cloudless, and we contour around hills which almost feel Scottish in their scrub and grass: sunny where we are, the way ahead looms with mist. We encounter a herd of sheep with their shepherds, something which could be a Swiss picture (if the shepherds were a bit cleaner and the sheep/goat a different species).

We stop for lunch and decide not to go the whole long way to Lilam, there’s really no need to: instead, we’ll stop at Rilgar. Lobsang points east, across the river to a valley which offers a possible pass to the Panchuli range but which turned out to be too steep on the other side for the Australian group to take their horses down it a few days ago. We only saw that group for an hour or so at Lwan. (In fact, we’ve seen very few people: the logs at the police stations show about 150 people trekking in this area during the month of October: compare that to the tens of thousands in the Nepalese trekking areas at the same time).

After a lunch of venison jerky and cold zera potatoes, I had a bit of a bad time: the scars on my calf kept feeling as if they were ripping, probably a sign of the skin healing, but enough to slow me down. Fortunately it’s been a good day for strolling, except for a rather fierce wind blowing up-valley into our faces. As we approach Rilkot we pass by the abandoned houses on the ridge which used to constitute Rilkot village: they look like forts and perhaps guarded a toll road long ago. We camp in Rilkot and take shelter from the wind and cold. At suppertime we’re getting to the last of our food; we’ve pretty much run out of spices but Lobsang still manages, somehow, to concoct something tasty.

Day 18, 25th October

Up a bit earlier, off by 7:30. The horsemen want to get to Lilam, which would make for a long day, but we decide to go only as far as Rilgar.

I’d forgotten how many ups and downs there were on this section of the trip; eagerness to reach the high country is a good amnesia aid. There was the “Kanchenjunga hill” (so called because of its steep up-down with no net loss or gain of elevation, typical of that trek in eastern Nepal). There were rain sprinkles, not enough to really get anyone wet but enough to make the rocks slick (leading me to slip on one completely wide and level stretch; I made a wild scramble for balance and managed to spin over to the side of the trail and end up in an undignified sprawl in some thorns). Throughout the day the clouds gather and the humidity rises. It’s dreary coming down from the mountains. Joel proclaims himself “psychosomatically exhausted” from the increasing proximity to civilization. As a compensation, it is very, very green, and the mists in the mountains are evocative of classical Chinese paintings.

More people are now on the trail, heading up-valley. Some of them are construction workers, with pairs of men carrying iron braces for bridges. We halt by an Indian road repair crew who provided a classic Indian vignette (though one which is fast vanishing, as India becomes more efficient and preoccupied with productivity). The crew has perhaps a dozen workers, eleven of whom are squatting, doing nothing. One of the crew is more ambitious: he takes a single stone, places it just so on the trail, then motions me to go on. His colleagues watch, impassively. When I look back, all twelve are again sitting idle.

Today, for some reason – perhaps the advent of villages and “civilization” – my mind is busy and my efforts to focus fruitless. Eventually I give the jingles going through my mind a mantra, “listen to the river”, and with this enlist them in listening to the spectrum of fluid song. The river contains all sounds, sorrow and laughter, washes away all pain and all aspiration other than for the sea: I realize that I, too, am simply another form of water in motion.

Lunch in Bodgwar, where the rustic “hotel” is tended by a man smoking a pipe (hooka) half the size he is. We then pass the “checkpoint” which, however, fails to check us. An hour or two more and we reach Rilgar on its sweep of river, just in time to duck into the “hotel” before the rain descends. Joel reports this hotel is like the Nepali tea houses of twenty years ago, with its dirt/mud floors, its (rather well-ventilated) walls constructed of loosely woven reeds; it offers both communal and individual sleeping platforms, the latter being less than 6 feet long. But it’s homey in a rustic sort of way, and the river runs, if not exactly through it, right outside. Of course there’s no electricity, and the reeds screen out not only rain but also daylight, so we rely on our headlamps to read, cook, and eat. We consider pitching tents, but are told there is a danger of rockfall; the thatched roof of our hotel does not protect us, but its location snug against the foot of the cliff does. After dinner Joel and I are an object of interest to local people stopping by the inn for the night: they come and silently stare at us ensconced in our sleeping “rooms” and then, the novelty wearing off, retreat to play cards.

Day 19, 26th October

I slept poorly last night, mostly because if someone in one part of the lodge stamped or moved strongly, the whole rest of the lodge shook. Throughout the night, half-dreaming, I thought I was experiencing earthquakes.

Once on the trail for our last hiking day, we took our time. It was a multi-sensory day. Sounds: the swish of branches as monkeys, hidden by the dense greenery, jumped from tree to tree; the rivers’ rush augmented by the high pitched sawtooth sounds of synchronized crickets; screeches of parrots and large-tailed black mynas; clicking of walking poles, bells of horses and, eventually, the harsher harbingers of “civilization”, the noise of motors gearing up. Vision dazzled by ten thousand shades of green demanding attention after the greys and browns of the uplands; in one section there was a dense fleck of multi-colored butterflies. The air itself is tangible with heat, humidity, sweat. Most noticeable is the assault of odors; whereas the mountains’ dry thin air had the sharp tang of snow and granite, as we approach towns there is the mixture of mud, goat sheep mule donkey horse dung, carrion on a hillside providing a feast for vultures -- and my own self, a bit ripe after three weeks despite nightly rub-downs with wet wipes.

There are more and more people on the trail. Men are carrying ironworks up-valley; another man has a huge steel desk strapped to his back. One old wood cutter, bowed under his branches, is taking it one step at a time walking up a steep hill. We’re back in the land of waterfalls, thatched huts and satellite dishes.

A brief tea-stop at “the last dhaba,” perhaps two or three hours from Munsiari; shortly thereafter, we reach the village where we had dal bhaat for lunch on our first day’s trekking. Joel stops to distribute biscuits (cookies) to two old women and a little boy, then heads up the path to entice a lovely village woman with a biscuit for her toddler.

It’s now the last lap, we’re at river level and need only walk a few kilometers to the road end of Moonrise. What I’ve forgotten is that this last bit is steeply up; Lobsang reminded me but I discounted it, figuring after a few weeks of scaling mountainous slopes a little climb to a village road end will be of no account. I’d forgotten that a) the climb comes at the end of the trek, so reluctance must be added to gravity as an impediment b) the stone path, being uneven, makes for unpleasant walking c) the path goes upwards unceasingly without leveling off for a thousand feet or so d) heat and humidity make for slow going. There is a promise of a cold soda and a warm bath drawing us on, though. (I confess the one thing I missed, while hiking, was Diet Pepsi -- a signal to me that I truly am addicted). I’m not tired - I stop several times to wait for Joel -- but I’m not tripping gaily down the path.

We reach the road end, have our soda (though despite refrigeration it’s not very cold), and wait for our jeep. An ITBF contingent arrives and sets off for Lilam; we marvel at the awkward heaviness of their equipment. Once the jeep arrives, it takes forty-five minutes to get up the hill, and I amuse myself by standing up and riding on the outside of the jeep. We arrive at the hotel shortly before the rain resumes, and then only after to wait an hour or so to be brought a bucket of lukewarm water. Oh bliss. After washing and getting into clean clothes, I go back on my resolution to get my beard shaved in Nainital, and do the job myself, feeling itchless at last. In the evening I give (via Joel and Lobsang) tips to the horsemen; I donate my ice axe to Lobsang -- he’s been eyeing it all trip, I think in part because of its leather adze/pick cover -- and my sleeping pad to Joel. We also take Biru aside and, though he’d not expected to be paid, Joel gives him a some wages and asks him to work as kitchen boy for Lobsang when he returns. Then it’s up to the bus stop and a local dhaba Lobsang has ferreted out for a meal of mutton, chapatis, curried vegetables; Lobsang provides beer for me and rum for himself. Early to bed, since tomorrow we start at 5 am for the ride to Nainital; it’s nice to feel clean but not so nice to hear the sounds of a television in the next room. I’m feeling a bit of end-of-trip sadness.

Religion, philosophy, meditation -- they all seem somewhat unnecessary in the mountains. Perhaps their function is to bring a bit of the mountains and rivers as we go about our busy lives in more social surroundings, reminding us that human-made is a small construct that always relies on something bigger than itself, however often we may forget it. Perhaps it’s best to end this diary, as it began, with a quote from Dogen’s “Mountains and Waters Sutra”:

Because mountains and waters are active events since before Before, they are alive this moment, vigorous activity in the present. Because they are the self since before form arose, they are emancipation-realization: penetrating liberation of immediate activity.

Namaskar

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