Continued from - Call of the Wild Part 1

Leh, the capital with 25 thousand people, is the only town of any size in Ladakh. Still no traffic lights though!

Heading west from Leh on the road to Kashmir, we follow the Indus river. The Indus river, from where India gets its name, originates in Southern Tibet, from the slopes of the great and sacred Mount Kailash.

The snows of Mount Kailash give rise to 4 great rivers that traverse epic journeys of thousands of kilometres over the plateaus of Tibet, through the Himalayan mountains and the plains of the Indian subcontinent, sustaining the lives of a Billion people along the way.

The Indus flows north – known as Sengge Khabab to Tibetans (River originating from the Lion’s mouth)

The Satluj flows west – known as Langchen Khabab to Tibetans (River originating from the Elephant’s mouth)

The Karnali flows south – known as Mapcha Khabab to Tibetans (River originating from the Peacock’s mouth)

The Brahmaputra flows east – known as Tachok Khabab to Tibetans (River originating from the Horse’s mouth)

As we near Kargil, my thoughts turn to a less spiritual reality of these mountains. In 1999, India and Pakistan fought a bloody war on the mountains around Kargil resulting in thousands of soliders dying on both sides. After Pakistani incursions into Indian territory, the Indian army fought heroically to regain lost mountains. Many individual stories of courage and sacrifice emerged from the war and have inspired a new generation of patriots across the country. Jigmet told me about the role of the Ladakh Scouts, an Infantry regiment of the Indian Army specialising in mountain warfare. This regiment, consisting of Ladakhi and Tibetan Khampa warriors (the same people who fought the Chinese when they invaded Tibet), contributed greatly towards the Indian Army winning the Kargil War and has been much decorated in their short history. Local Ladakhi man, Colonel Sonam Wangchuk, who received one of the highest Military honours for his bravery during the Kargil war, has become a source of pride and inspiration for all Ladakhis and in every  village we visited, at least one person claimed to be related to Colonel Wangchuk.

It took us 3 days driving from Leh to get to Padum, the centre of Zanskar. Passing along the way, exotic scenery such as the Noon-Koon Mountain peaks (7800M) and the Drang Drung glacier, which is literally a river of ice.

On reaching Zanskar, we based ourselves in Karsha Gompa (Monastery). The team organised a nature orientation course for the local school kids while I roamed around aimlessly smiling at everyone and entertaining the kids. Then one day the director said "Action" and we headed for Bardan Gompa, which is where the road (for lack of a better word) ends. It’s all walking from here on. 

Strapping on our backpacks, 4 of us (Jigmet the leader, Angmo – a young, hardy Ladakhi girl, Sonam – a free spirited, squint-eyed young Ladakhi boy and myself) started walking up the Lungnak valley. The Lungnak valley goes up the Tsarap-Lingti river in a south easterly direction all the way to its source on the glaciers of the 5200M Shingo La Pass. 

The first day was hard. I’d done heaps of mountain trekking in the years gone by but years of sitting in an office, hunched over a computer had taken its toll so my 20KG backpack ate into my shoulders while the steep terrain strained my thighs till they wobbled. I walked, gasping in the thin air (our trek started at 3900M and went uphill till 5000M, climbing and descending over a thousand vertical metres in a day) and tried to not shame my ancestors in front of these hardy mountain people

But the first day is always the hardest on any expedition and soon my body got used to it, my confidence rose and I was keeping pace with my companions easily.

The scenery was spectacular as we gained height, crested gorges and forded rivers. On our 3rd day, we saw a few Bharal (wild Blue sheep) and where there is Bharal, there is the possibility of Snow Leopards! Though Jigmet had made it pretty clear that we were unlikely to see a Snow Leopard on this trip since it was only August yet and the leopards wouldn’t start descending from the heights till after the first snowfall in October (he was right of course, we never did end up seeing a snow leopard though that never took anything away from the experience). But being a tracker, Jigmet couldn’t help tracking the Bharal. His senses immediately heightened and he was like a wild animal tracking his prey. He looked under rock overhangs and pointed out scratches that a Snow Leopard had made to mark its territory, though they weren’t recent. Snow Leopards are incredibly territorial and since prey is hard to hunt in this steep and unforgiving terrain, a single Snow Leopard may patrol 500 square kilometres. Snow Leopards are also nomadic and don’t typically have a “home base”, which adds to the difficulty in reliably tracking them. An expert tracker will look for signs in the terrain to determine if a snow leopard may be in the vicinity.

We walked every day through incredible mountain scenery and stopped at night, usually in a village where someone would offer us a bed to sleep. The best nights were the ones we spent sleeping under the stars on rooftops or in the wild. The night sky was so clear, it felt like you could touch the milky way. And because the air is so dry, there is no dew to worry about in the morning. Jigmet knew someone in every village along the way and sometimes I wondered if he might be more well-known than Colonel Sonam Wangchuk, the war hero. Some evenings we would get the village together and hold a consultation session to understand their views and concerns regarding the Snow Leopard. 

These were invariably polite and pleasant discussions and usually ended with the drinking of “Chhang”, home-made barley beer. It is an acquired taste and reeks horribly but it does the job and you even get used to it after a couple of weeks. Even their tea is unusual and consists of dollops of salted yak butter mixed in with the tea. It’s all designed to keep them warm and hydrated in the cold and dry climate but it takes a bit of getting used to. I was a bit of a novelty for most villagers as few outsiders ever visit this remote area, and most just walk through without stopping in the villages. I thoroughly enjoyed my interactions with these simple people and wished I knew more of the language to have richer conversations. But smiles, sign language and my spartan Tibetan got me through most of it. There was the odd hilarious moment like when an elderly lady pointed at me and motioned for me to take my clothes off. I thought, fuck, the oldest profession in the world is well and truly alive even in this remote corner of the world! But seeing my shocked expression, Jigmet quickly interpreted the lady’s innocent question about whether I wanted to wear the traditional Ladakhi robe (called Goncha. The Tibetan version, which is very similar, is called Chuba).

One morning Jigmet informed me that today’s going to be a very special day. I asked him why but he just smiled and said “You’ll see”. Mid-afternoon I turned a corner in the trail and I saw. And my jaw dropped.

Phugtal is a remote monastery, carved into a cliff, tucked away in the folds of Zanskar. From far it looks like you’ve stumbled onto the BatCave! As you get closer, you start to see the scale of human construction, which is dwarfed by the size of the mountains surrounding it. It is a vast complex yet so in tune with nature’s contours. We visited the incredible monastery and met a few monks, who retreat to Phugtal for periods of isolation and meditation. It was a serious place but there were pockets of mischief. Or maybe I was the pocket of mischief.

We camped in the village of Yugar across the river from Phugtal. The village was 4 houses packed tightly together surrounded by green fields of nascent Barley. There was a particularly cheeky little girl who came around in the morning to harass us. She stealthily followed me as I went to the fields to take a shit and laughed all the way back to the village when she saw me take my pants off!

I had a great time playing hide and seek with her and the other kids. A little pixie she was. A little pixie with great spirit. I wonder how she’s doing and what became of her. 

From here the trail forks, one goes east towards Tibet and the other goes south towards Shingo La pass and onto the rest of India. We went south towards the pass, gaining height till we reached the isolated and spectacularly located settlement of Kargyakh. After spending the night here, we turned around and headed back down the valley, retracting our steps. 

In another week we were back in Padum, meeting with bureaucracy, trying to secure government funding for our projects. I was really starting to feel like part of the SLC team and had gained their trust and respect. It was a great honour and hugely satisfying. 

After recuperating at basecamp for a few days, we headed down the Zanskar river to Zangla, the historical capital of Zanskar. It’s now just a village with a hundred people but its location, at the entrance to the fearsome Zanskar gorge, betrays it as a seat of power. An evening walk to the ruined Zangla fort on a mountain top above the village was one of the highlights of my entire stay in Ladakh. The setting sun set ablaze mountain tops with deep, rich hues while the valleys cast eerie shadows, the wind carried the call of howling wolves and giant Golden Eagles went shopping for dinner in nature’s supermarket in the skies. The 4 of us played hide n seek amongst the ruins and then raced each other slipping and sliding down the mountain.

We had a party that night in a friend’s house. Much Chhang was drunk and I stunned a few people with my wild Bollywood dancing moves. I’m told my pelvic thrusts were the talk of the valley for days after.

Soon after this, our time in Zanskar came to an end. We offered our thanks and prayers in Bardan Gompa and headed north, towards the Pakistani border.

We were heading to Jigmet’s village, Skyurbuchan, along the Indus river. Along the way, we diverted through an area called Dah-Hanu, where the inhabitants claim to be of pure Aryan ancestry descendent from the time of Alexander the Great, when he invaded India over 2 thousand years ago.

Whether that is true or not who knows but the people certainly look Germanic, many have blue eyes and apparently there’s blondes around too. They also have unique dresses, customs and religious beliefs that are distinct from the Buddhists of Ladakh. Very few people are allowed to visit here as its a politically and culturally sensitive area and you need a special permit but we sailed through all the check points since Jigmet’s village, Skyurbuchan, is in this area.

At Jigmet’s village, we finally relaxed in the comfort of home. His mother plied us with food while his dad brewed vast vats of Chhang! It wasn’t all fun and games though, I got involved in the village life and pulled my weight and sometimes pulled more than that!

We walked around the mountains every day and visited the “upper village”. Typically, in Ladakh, there is a main village in the valley and a collection of huts further up the mountains, which is used in summers as a base for grazing animals. Sheep, Yak and Dzo (cross between a cow and a yak) are left to roam the mountains and counted and collected every few days.

After an idyllic few days in Skyurbuchan, we returned to Leh and set about writing our reports and planning the implementation of the project. I spent my days in the little office writing a report and strategy paper on the Homestay project and whiled away my evenings roaming the bazaars and drinking beer in the rooftop restaurants with backpackers and old mates. One day I borrowed a Royal Enfield from a mate and did a quick run up to the highest mountain road in the world (at the time), Khardung La (5600M). Just because it was there. The bike wheezed and puffed in the thin air but got me up and back down the mountain without missing a beat.

One of my old mates, Nyima, is a ladakhi river rafting adventure guide who runs white water rafting and kayaking trips all over Ladakh. With his help I took my whole SLC team out rafting on the Zanskar river. The Zanskar is a wild and unforgiving river with water temperature just above freezing, many class 4 rapids and no habitation or support in case of accidents. None of the SLC folks had ever done white water rafting before and none of them knew how to swim. For once I enjoyed seeing them out of their comfort zone while I was totally at home! We only rafted a small section of the river but the 10 day Zanskar River run is one of the greatest river adventures to be had on the planet.

It was now late autumn and getting seriously cold. Soon it was time for me to head to Delhi and pull the curtain down on this most amazing adventure.

I saw lots of wildlife; Marmots, Wolves, Blue Sheep, Ibex, Eagles but we never did see a Snow Leopard in all this time wandering the mountains of Ladakh. We saw shit. No really, we saw leopard shit, we saw leopard tracks, we saw leopard markings, we even saw the carcass of a Blue sheep killed by a Snow Leopard. But to be honest, I almost felt relieved that we didn’t see one. The Snow Leopard is a mythical beast for me, a symbol of wild earth and all that is still primeval in this world. And I am happy in the knowledge that there are still secrets out there. There are still things and places hidden from Google and till the last Snow Leopard is photographed, tracked, trapped, radio collared and neutered, there is hope for the wild things amongst us.

In 2008 I quit my well-paying corporate job and moved to a remote Himalayan region called Ladakh to search for Snow Leopards. My wife, my beautiful, big-hearted, deeply understanding but long suffering wife. She was not impressed of course, but to her eternal credit, she understood my need to do this.

This was 2008, when the big GFC hit and everyone was puckering their arseholes at work so the chair they were sitting on couldn’t be snatched from under them. But the number of fucks I gave about keeping my job could be counted on a blind man’s hands (so anywhere between 0 and 2, depending on how many hands the blind man had). The call of the wild was irresistible and I was answering it.

Ladakh is the northernmost tip of India, bordering Kashmir (both Indian and Pakistani) to the west, Tibet to the east and Chinese Turkistan (Xinkiang) to the north. It is geographically, ethnically, culturally, religiously, linguistically and historically Tibetan. It’s also an integral part of India. If you have lived or travelled through India, you will understand this. However, if you’re one of those people who think of India as one big, hot, crowded plain teeming with fanatic Hindus who man phones all day, play cricket in their lunch breaks and dance Bollywood at night, you should get out more. And watch less TV.

The name Ladakh literally means “Land of high passes”. And they’re not kidding. In a place the size of England, there is no bit of land that is below 3,500M. The highest peak is close to 8,000M. 4 of the 5 highest motorable roads in the world are in Ladakh, including the highest, over Marsimik Pass, at over 5700M. Located north of the main Himalayan range, Ladakh falls in a rain shadow and is deprived of the monsoonal rains that fall over most of the Himalayas. As a result, Ladakh is a high altitude desert. Due to its altitude, latitude and unique geography, Ladakh has extreme temperatures ranging from -30 to +40 degrees and is one of the coldest inhabited places on earth. It is also culturally fascinating, being at the cross roads of the Ancient Silk route, while the inhabitants have historically been traders and nomads.

I’ve been fascinated with Tibet ever since I saw a picture of a lama on a barren mountain with snow peaks in the background. I was about 18, impressionable and full of a romantic optimism about the world. I devoured any literature I could lay my hands on about the history, culture and geography of Tibet. There were plenty of Tibetan refugees settled in Delhi at the time and I accosted many a random Tibetan and Ladakhi in the street, bought them a lassi (coffee wasn’t cool then) and talked about Tibet. Tibetan girls were uber-exotic to me and when I finally bullshitted an exceptionally pretty one into hooking up with me, I felt like I’d won the lottery. She taught me many things about Tibet, including the language. Then, in the Y2K, I went to Ladakh for the first time, alone, with a rucksack on my back and it blew me away. 

It took me 3 days of non-stop travelling on rattly buses to get there but I didn’t even notice the discomfort of the journey, I was so excited to finally be going to the promised land. 

I spent a couple of weeks wandering about, camping, climbing mountains and just taking it all in. Ladakh was spectacular beyond my expectations. It has the rare capacity to slow time down to a standstill. I wanted to sell everything I owned, become a lama and settle down in a monastery right there and then. 

Except, I didn’t own anything I could sell and the world was relying on my software coding skills to save it from collapsing on itself because of the Y2K bug.

So no, I didn’t become a buddhist monk but I did go again to visit a few years later. Then I immigrated to Australia and along came 2008. While most of the world was preoccupied with stock and property prices, I was sneakily dreaming of snow leopards.

Snow Leopards are one of the rarest and most elusive animals in the world. To spot one, it takes days of planning, investigating, walking, hiding and waiting in very steep, high altitude terrain. And even with the best guides in the world, you have to be extremely lucky to see one. If you truly appreciate what a freak of nature a Snow Leopard is though, it will all be worth it. The “Shan”, as the Snow Leopard is called in Ladakh, is an animal with almost supernatural strength and cunning. It only weighs about 40-50KG but can leap upto 10M in a single stride, kill and carry prey three times its size in its jaws, jump up steep rock faces and disappear at will.

I have been fascinated with Snow Leopards almost as long as I’ve been fascinated with Tibet. 

Bored with the futility of my corporate job, I turned to the internet for salvation. After much distraction and noise, I did indeed find my Salvation. The “Snow Leopard Conservancy” (SLC), a multi-national NGO dedicated to, surprisingly, conserving snow leopards. The Snow Leopards are now found only in certain areas in the Himalayas (including Ladakh) and central asia. Once I'd made contact with the SLC, it didn’t take long for me to pack it all in in Oz and soon I found myself driving up over the mountains to Ladakh, with some old mates. Memories came flooding back as we crested the many passes en route to the land of high passes. 

I met Jigmet Dadul for the first time in the small, cramped 1 room office of the Snow Leopard Conservancy in Leh, the capital of Ladakh. A small, friendly and unassuming Ladakhi man, he is now known as one of the foremost snow leopard trackers in the world. I spent the next 2 months travelling around Ladakh with Jigmet and his team tracking snow leopards and collecting data. The SLC was also involved in helping villagers setup a HomeStay program for tourists that would provide much needed extra income for villagers. How does this help the survival of the Snow Leopard you ask? Well, it’s pretty clever. In the winter, when prey is scarce, Snow Leopards sometimes descend near villages, enter livestock accommodation and cause chaos. The leopard only needs to kill one sheep or goat to keep itself fed for a week but it’s so powerful and the sheep so panicked that there is a lot of collateral damage. 

Such attacks are a huge financial setback to villagers, who sometimes kill Snow Leopards in retaliation. The homestay program is designed to provide villagers with an alternate source of income so they are not totally reliant on livestock. The tourism potential of the Snow Leopard will also encourage demand for Homestays, which will provide incentive to protect Snow Leopards instead of attacking them. The SLC is pioneering many such innovative community-based protection schemes as they realize that the only way to save the Snow Leopard in the long-term is to make it a friend of the humans that it lives close to.

Anyway, we set off from Leh in an old jeep one fine afternoon, headed for Zanskar. The name Zanskar was like magic to me. The most hardcore of hardcore places, Zanskar is one of the remotest places on earth. If Ladakh is Australia, Zanskar is the remote Kimberleys. Hemmed in by snow covered mountains on all sides and no airport, Zanskar is cut off from the rest of the world for 8 months of the year during its severe winter. Until recently the only way to get in and out of Zanskar in summer was walking 14 days over multiple 5000M high passes. In the winter, the only way out was walking 10 days through the terrific Zanskar river gorge, mostly on the icy surface of the frozen river itself! Around June, when the snow finally melts on the Pentse La Pass, the only road coming into and out of Zanskar becomes operational for a few short months until impassable snow builds up again by October. I felt like an explorer heading into the unknown as we bumped our way towards Zanskar.

              Continue to Part 2

The urge to climb is perhaps one of the most basic and natural urges I have felt ever since I can remember. Beginning with the trees in the playgrounds of childhood, I have always known an inexplicable, wild desire to climb. The more trees I climbed, the more trees I wanted to climb! I never analysed why I wanted to climb trees or what made me climb again and again. The answers were always there in just doing it, in feeling the complex emotions, the twisting, mangling, tingling of nerves that strangely calmed me and gave me a sense of peace.

I would stand beneath the tree, looking up at the maze of branches and leaves, visualizing my path to the greatest heights I dared to climb along the limbs of the tree that were the ramps propelling me to higher ground. The exhilaration was in reaching the top and seeing the breath-taking giddy space between the earth and me. There is nothing quite like sitting on a branch enjoying the perspective of the world through a maze of green leaves and brown branches.

I knew that a single slip would plummet me to the ground, banging my head on a thousand branches along the way. My mind could not afford to blink for even a second, because that is all the time it takes for the body to lose the tension that keeps it alive. There was a sense of harmony, of balance and peace in the tension. You focus through a haze with all your senses, thoughts, your very being one-pointed in it's attention span to stay alive. That surely is what creates the BUZZ.....

I am writing on Rock climbing. I am not documenting the psychology of a monkey. But perhaps it all figures. Climbing trees may not be so different from climbing rocks. They both stem from the subconscious urge to climb. Some people climb rocks, others climb trees, still others climb buildings. Essentially, they are different expressions for that wild desire to CLIMB; to be high above humanity, to soar, to feel a sense of peace and poise under extreme stress...to feel the BUZZ...!!

Somewhere along the way, I discovered rock. Or rather, I discovered that rock could be climbed. I had always seen rocks and huge boulders but I had never really seen into them. I had not yet DISCOVERED rock as a climbable entity that provides release for "the urge to climb".

So started my continuing love affair with rock. It probably sounds very weird, but yes, I discovered the life of the rock. Each feature told a tale; each crack, each splinter had a character; the surface of each rock with its varied texture and different hues had it's own personality. Each piece of rock is so different that every time I see a rock while walking., I am compelled to examine it and try to understand what it is trying to say to me. Some rocks scream, "You can't get up me, you slob...I'm too high and mighty". Some merely whisper, "Come and try me...you might enjoy it". Yet others entice you with, "I'm fun, but I could kill you". Well actually, all of them say "I could kill you", some just say it louder than others.

Rock Climbing is all about conquering your fears by exercising control over your mind. Fear makes you hesitate, and hesitation makes your deepest fears come true. My best climbs have always been in a positive frame of mind, when my movements were a subconscious flow without awareness of mind, and my mind seemingly responded by following the smooth poetic trajectory of my body. Whenever I have been aware of my mind controlling my movements, somehow things always get screwed up. It is perhaps about that state of perfection when body and mind are no longer separate.

The satisfaction of a perfectly executed set of moves on vertical ground with my feet kicking out in space makes me feel like an eagle nesting up high on an unapproachable cliff. It seems to me there is only the universe and I, and I am overwhelmed by a tremendous love and respect for the rock that symbolises the very universe that lets me enjoy that rare poetic moment. That's what makes it all worthwhile. After a perfect climb, you no longer care that there is no skin on your fingertips, you do not notice the bloody scratches on your arms and legs, or bother about the screaming exhaustion of your arms. You just have a deep wide grin on your mug and a satisfaction deep, deep within your soul that nothing can touch.

That's why I climb rocks.

When I moved to Australia, it opened climbing's pandora box for me. In Delhi, where it all began, I was mainly involved with bouldering. I had never worn a climbing harness...didn't know what a climbing rope was...and had never seen anyone climbing with a rope. I had no idea that people were so crazy for the Buzz that they even had special shoes designed to help you climb rocks! I would just take the thinnest joggers I had, and set off.

I thought that you climbed as well as you could but if you thought a climb was too dangerous for you, then you didn't climb. Simple. It never occurred to me that the risk of the climb could be reduced with technology and equipment. In fact what I loved about climbing was that it did not need any equipment. There was just the rock and I - pure nature - nothing artificial between the rock and me.

I only learnt later that rock climbing was an immensely popular sport in the West and that they had devised a very sophisticated system of grading the difficulty level and danger of the climb.

I was quite amazed to discover that each climb had its own name, and each different route on a rock had a different name. If you are climbing a particular rock face its one climb, but if you climb the same rock a metre to your right or left, its a different climb.....wierd! I was to realize the benefits of this manic obsession with organisation in due course.

As a result of my lack of exposure to the sport, I had never dared to climb any tough climbs higher than 10-15 meters, from where I could, and often did, jump when I got into trouble. Undoubtedly, I could have smashed my head or at least broken a few bones, if I had not landed perfectly. I had always managed to pull it off and believed in the benevolence of the Gods of Rocks.

I thought it was not possible to climb higher if you have a loving family, thoughts and images of whom flashed before your eyes every time you were stuck halfway up a wall, losing your desperate struggle to pull your body weight on a fingertip hold, panic-struck while surveying the best landing options. Every jump was a nerve-wracking few moments from when you know you are stuck and not going to be able to make it any further up, through the desperate scanning, the jump and the final landing, until your body has stopped shaking from the Adrenaline, though your mind is still in a state of numb shock.

Out here in Oz, I discovered the "sport" of rock climbing. I played tennis and basketball - those were sports, not rock climbing. Here people go out rock climbing with the kind of preparation and equipment required to lay siege to a fortress. I discovered all sorts of wierd gadgets and equipment that somehow save your life when you fall or jump off the rock. How was this possible?!?!

I was intrigued by all the equipment, not to mention the fuss. I soon learned about bolts, cams, quickdraws, friends, wires, karabiners, static and dynamic rope, bolts, runners and a myriad other things. The amazing thing that I discovered was that a lot of rocks had bolts in them. I was dumbstruck at the commitment of people who would take the pains to climb up the rock carrying drilling equipment, drill a hole and put a bolt in there. 

Gradually my amazement and disapproval melted as I saw the practical benefits of some of the practices here. I certainly felt a thousand times safer climbing at the end of a rope than climbing at the end of my wits! And wow, when I fell, I did not have to worry about how flat the ground below was because I would never get there, the rope would hold me as taut as a stretched bicep, and I could continue my climb from where I flew off. I wasn't sure whether that was equivalent to cheating, considering the debate about it.

Soon, I started leading. That involves taking the rope up behind you as you climb, carrying equipment with you on your way up, placing stuff into cracks and natural holes and clipping your rope into those gadgets so that you would be safe. Well that's the theory of it anyway, but if everything went according to theory, rock climbing would not raise as many eyebrows as it does. Equipment is not fail-safe and people DO fall and lives ARE lost, but that is an occupational hazard for a rock climber. No doubt the risk to life and limb adds to the buzz. I doubt if the BUZZ would be anything more than a mosquito buzzing if the risk was absent from the rock.

I have climbed vertical walls that are a hundred feet high and made moves I could only have dream about, if it had not been for the fact that I was reasonably safe if I should fail. Knowing that, I can push myself that much farther to risk it all on a monster move, because I know there is a nylon rope sticking to me that will somehow stop my fall and let me live to see another sunshine. Without safety equipment, failure on a high climb meant almost certain death on impact.

Images of my loving family still hound my frantic brain when I am stuck up high on a gravity defying climb. Controlling fear is certainly much easier when you can feel a stout rope trailing behind you and you know that your fall will be restricted to the last protection that you have on the rock and not to the hazy bottom that's jut barely visible as a mirage in the desert!

Epilogue 
In and around Sydney, where I am based now, there are many excellent options for rock climbers. The Sydney area abounds in sandstone escarpments and cliffs.  My favourites are

• The Lindfield bouldering area
• Blue Mountains which has almost unlimited potential for adventure climbing
• At Point Perpendicular, near Nowra, you have to abseil down sea cliffs and then climb back up with huge surf crashing below you. Very atmospheric!

The fascinating thing about rivers is that they flow. Without being pulled or pushed, they simply flow with a natural sense of direction and purpose. In a world moving frenetically, where everything is rushing by, pushed to it limits, the river's natural pace is therapeutic. Like life itself, flowing freely without a care, turning randomly wherever it feels like.The river has no deadlines to meet and no rules to follow.

The Kosi originates in the middle Himalayas of Kumaon, Uttaranchal, India. Kosi literally means "river" and is one of the few major Himalayan rivers that does not have a glacial source. As a result, the waters are comparatively warmer than the glacial rivers. It originates in the high ridges around Kausani, draining a fair share of Kumaon's abundant monsoons, leaving the hills at Ram Nagar. The Kosi carves for itself a beautiful valley, still unspoilt, probably because for long stretches it does not run parallel to a motorable road.

We had done a canoeing expedition down the Kosi a few years earlier and had always wondered if it was possible to Mountain Bike down its length. On a fine November morning the inimitable Gauri Rana and I loaded our bike carriers with goodies and set off from the flats of Nainital, down the road to Bhimtal. Gauri's brother, Shiva Dai, flagged us off somewhat apprehensively, given the dilapidated state of Gauri's bike. On a fantastic freewheel from the end of the lake, we relished the cool breeze as we zipped down curves, settling comfortably into Expedition mode. Down, down, down, past Bhowali, we went onto the Ranikhet road. Leading the descent high above the valley floor, I spied a spectacular mandir on the side of the road. It was painted a bright red and yellow with the signature red Hindu flags fluttering in the cool breeze. We stopped and paid our respects to the local deity, before we sat on the mandir veranda hanging out over the cliff edge. There was an exhilarating feeling of space beneath our feet and we sat silently, lost in our own thoughts. The pujari came out of nowhere and sat down with us. He explained that the mandir is located on a particularly nasty bend on the road where many vehicles had gone hurtling down the cliff in the past. The local people decided to appease the local deity through this shrine, which has worked apparently.

Finally we reached the bottom of the valley and our first interaction with the Kosi. It was from here that we hoped to follow the Kosi down till it leaves the hills at Ramnagar. We stocked up on food and inspiration (Rum!) at the shops before crossing the bridge over the Kosi onto a broken gravel track along the river. At the first bend in the river, the scenery changed dramatically: the valley closed in and the mountain slopes grew into a sheer sided gorge with lots of scree slopes marking land slides. It was deathly silent with only the river's smooth gushing providing audio relief. It was nearing dusk and we found a nice, sandy spot near the river to pitch tent. Gauri set about making camp while I took the bikes to the river and gave them a good scrub, having a wash in the process. It was a beautiful evening: no one was around, the camp was set up, the Kosi gurgled away. It was time for the rum! We had a wonderful evening of songs, laughs, stories and noodles. Following which we fell into a deep and peaceful sleep under the stars.

We woke up to a chill in the air and waited for the sun to hit camp. But the gorge was so deep, we realized it might take a couple of hours till the sun shone down on us. We decided to break camp and hobbled around with our hands in our pockets, trying to get each other to do most of the work. Getting underway, we discovered the sun was shining high and bright around the next corner, 200 m from our camp! In high spirits, pedalling along briskly in the crisp morning air, Gauri was humming away in front of me, jumping up and down on his pedals to negotiate steep climbs. He had a bike with no gears and I stared at him in disbelief as he negotiated steep climbs on loose gravel without dismounting while I puffed and fiddled with my gears, chugging along at walking pace. The guy has thighs of steel! Crack! A loud metallic sound pierced the air as Gauri fell off his bike to the left. He stood up with a sheepish grin and a pedal in his hand. The pedal had sheared off the crank.

Luckily there was a small village ahead where I munched on biscuits and tea while Gauri jogged back towards the road head to get the pedal welded back on the crank. The tea stall was the local hangout place and village elders sat around discussing the latest election results. We discussed local politics, development efforts and the devastating effect of fishing with dynamite and electricity. On the whole it seemed like things were going in the right direction for the village. That didn't seem true for our expedition though, as they said that the road we were currently on would peter out after a few kilometres and the bikes would not be able to get through to Betaal Ghat, where we were hoping to reach at night.

I shared the news with Gauri when he came back, but with a newly welded pedal and the whole day ahead of us, he was raring to go and said, we'll take it as it comes. I was more than happy with that line of thought and along we went down the sweeping valley of the Kosi. Through green fields of vegetables and terraced hills of paddy. But after a couple of hours of lovely riding, the dirt road turned to a walking track and then even the track got lost in the fields. We stopped, exhausted, at a local house, just beside the river and asked for directions.The house owner ran a tea and biscuit store. We sank down on the floor and slurped on tea and chomped on tea saturated biscuits. Gauri, as is his habit, got into an interesting conversation with the young man who owned the house while I gave him stern looks to remind him of the expedition to complete! The next 10 kms were anything but cycling. More like an ironman competition. Carrying bikes and rucksacks up steep hills, down gullies, across rivers and through fields. The local kids came out to watch us slipping and puffing through the village, dragging bikes through potato fields. Finally we managed to hit a sort of track that led us to the road to Betaal Ghat. We were tired and ravenous by the time we got there, and forced an overwhelmed shop keeper to cook everything he had in his shop. I think we wolfed down 10 eggs, heaps of rice, a bucket of Daal and 6 bottles of Pepsi between the two of us! We burped in unison and headed off at a leisurely pace out of Betaal Ghat.

The road climbed steadily and we enjoyed beautiful views of the Kosi valley as it opened out and was probably a kilometre wide at this point. The setting sun put a mellow shadow on the valley and we both plugged on in silence, the only sound coming from the squeaking of the Billy hanging off Gauri's rucksack. It was a funny sight, Gauri riding his bike and the Billy hanging off the right side off his rucksack attached to the bike carrier, swinging wildly. It suddenly struck me that this was it! This was what I came for. To be lost, to be anonymous, to be swinging wildly, to be free. I was free. It was one of those rare moments of extreme clarity, like you've just figured it all out! That's the beauty of travelling. Inspiration strikes you at the most unexpected places - panting like a dog cycling up a steep hill in the middle of undiscovered Kumaon. You just cannot predict or pre-arrange it.

We set up camp along the Kosi in the gathering dusk. This was leopard country. There are plenty of stories floating around of leopards carrying away women and children and even mauling men in these areas. I collected firewood quite nervously as Gauri set up camp and kitchen in the lee of a large boulder. More than once I scared myself by stepping on a branch causing rustling in the bush. I gulped down the glass of rum handed to me by Gauri, savouring the warmth searing down my throat. Soon we were laughing away discussing the idiocies of the day and the wild stories of other adventures. With Gauri in your camp, you can never be bored. The slightest whiff of madira gets him in the mood and well into the night you'll be begging him to stop as your stomach is hurting from laughing too much.

In the morning I discovered we had pitched camp in the middle of the track used by tractors engaged in harvesting rocks from the river. We made breakfast of bread and butter with some delicious tea. It was such a perfect spot with sunlight just beginning to filter in over the mountains. The Kosi flowed invitingly and we couldn't resist a dip. We ended up diving and frolicking in the river before soaking in the sun on the rocks. We climbed back up to the lodge where we had left our bikes the night before and continued the Gauri-Harry Kosi Mountain Biking expedition. We didn't have much time to settle down because within an hour we were confronted with some awesome landslides. A whole mountain seemed to have caved in on the road. With a combination of pushing, dragging and carrying the bike over landslips, we reached a tea shop next to a dry river bed of boulders. There were boulders of all shapes and sizes strewn across the whole 100 m width of the river bed. It seemed like the river had carried away the insides of the Himalayas in one terrific wild surge of passion. The old man at the tea shop said the river did this every monsoon. We sipped the sweet tea in the miniature glasses that all Indian tea shops seem to have an endless supply of.

After the pit stop there was even more devastation. Huge trees lay uprooted across the road, mountain streams flowed freely where the road was supposed to be. It was an exhausting 2 hours of hauling that led us to the final obstacle, a 100 m wide expanse of a fantastic near vertical landslide. By the time I reached it, Gauri was already across, sitting comfortably with a smirk across his face. I sucked in a deep breath and set off hesitantly. I had to lift the bike with my left arm and it dangled over the edge looking down 1000 m to the river, as I shuffled nervously along a 6 inch wide crumbling path. Halfway across I froze, rocks were hurtling down the slope above me and I spied ghost like figures darting across the vertical slide. Langurs! I watched as they playfully jumped from rock to rock, sending clouds of pebbles and rocks on their way down the terrific slope to the river far below. I managed to get across without incident and victoriously raised my arms as Gauri happily snapped away. There was a huge bend in the Kosi here. Straddling the bend was a beautiful village with lush yellow wheat fields and fresh white-washed cottages. I envied them their idyllic paradise in an unknown fold of the Himalaya.

A few kms of exciting downhill riding followed. It was particularly exciting for Gauri because his brakes had pretty much given up the ghost. The road widened and we saw a jeep for the first time since Betaal Ghat. A small village followed where we ate a spicy Daal-chawal or rice and lentils, cooked up by an ex-army man who had lost an arm at battle in Kashmir. A grant from the Army had helped him to setup his Dhaba and he was quite happy with his lot without an ounce of regret for having lost his arm for the nation. I was left gasping at the man's courage as well as the spice in his daal! The spice in my stomach helped propel me up the steep incline out of the village. I was really enjoying this bit, screaming down the track, singing wildly in my exuberance. I left Gauri biting dust. After some exciting mountain biking on rough dirt tracks through tiny picturesque villages, we finally hit the tarmac at the Ram Nagar-Ranikhet road. We had our standard stop at a tea stall before we set off towards Mohan, where we hoped to camp or get into the Forest Rest house.

After two days of rough riding on dirt tracks or no tracks at all, we went nuts with joy on the smooth tarmac. We screamed down the highway, overtaking disbelieving scooters and dumbfounded buses! Better sense prevailed when I spied a huge pipal tree by the side of the road. Its branches hung down to the ground and it seemed as ancient as the Himalayas themselves. We stood in its majestic presence seeking its blessings, immediately humbled. People stopped us on our way down, thinking we were part of a movie crew shooting a Bollywood movie in the Corbett National Park. I wanted to tell them, "We're not pretty Movie Stars doing a scene Mate, we're the REAL THING!!". We're not going to get into an air conditioned car and drive away after cycling up and down a 100 m side lane. We are the "Gauri-Harry Kosi Mountain Biking expedition" and we make our own way! Hahahaha! I felt truly heroic!

At Mohan, where Jim Corbett shot one of his 12 legendary man-eating tigers, we were firmly into Tiger country. In the gathering dusk, village dogs morphed into snarling tigers. In my nervousness, I overshot the Forest Rest House and then while turning back, I dropped the bike in the middle of the road, much to the amusement of Gauri and a couple of passing village belles. The location of the forest house must have been fantastic at the time of Mr. Corbett. Now it was just on the road - though the road, to be fair, was in the forest. It was set amidst large lawns with an air of quiet tranquillity about it. Despite Gauri's incredible sucking up to the Chowkidar, he didn't open the locked rest house for us. I was very surprised as Gauri has this uncanny knack of being able to get his way. Finally when we cried and said, we would get eaten by tigers out in the forest, he took pity on us and opened a small dusty room at the back of the rest house. The room seemed to have last been opened at the time of Mr. Corbett himself and our lungs had to work hard to sift out the oxygen from the aerial dust hanging around in the room. We set off with the Chowkidaar to find some booze and food in the middle of the forest. Our desperate search led us to some unlikely places including the general store, the police post and a night cattle market. To no avail. Finally, a passing truck driver took pity on us and gave us a couple of pegs from his "one for the road" supply. Somewhat satisfied, we wolfed down some vegetable stew and roti and sulked back to sleep in the dust bowl.

The dew was thick and fresh on the trees next morning as we enjoyed our morning ablutions in the forest behind the rest house. I set a blistering pace down the road to Ram Nagar, showing off my 18 gears to Gauri! I overtook an overloaded three wheeled scooter rickshaw, much to the driver's consternation and his passengers' amusement. A little boy raced me on a bike taller than himself, as little chickens dived for cover away from the road. I stopped just outside Ram Nagar and waited for Gauri to catch up. We stocked up with food and inspiration (!!) at RamNagar and also performed some running repairs on the bikes at the local cycle repair stall. It's amazing how the village cycle repair guy anywhere in India can fix up your bike to make it go anywhere!

We ate a delicious chicken with countless fresh tandoori rotis at a dhaba in a small gully. Another little wonder of India, tucked in every nook and gully! The owner was telling us of his disappointment on seeing Vivek Oberoi, the bollywood star. "Koi personality nahee hai uski, aapki achhee personality hai uske saamne to!" My chest swelled beyond even my bulging stomach and I paid an extra generous tip. We again burped in unison (it was a sort of expedition motto now!) and set off lazily, crossing the barrage across the Kosi and turning onto the road towards Sita Bani. This area is in a non touristy part of the Corbett National Park buffer zone, with small villages cleared in patches out of the thick terai jungle.

We cycled along merrily, stopping occasionally for pictures. Soon the gradient turned upwards and we puffed and sweated up the hill. The tarmac was almost new but there was absolutely no traffic. We had this patch of paradise all to ourselves. It was a beautiful ride, if a little hot. As I was straining up a particularly steep and endless slope muttering abuse at Gauri for dashing off up ahead, I spied him standing at a locked gate looking cautiously inside. This was a small entrance to the Corbett National Park. We did not have permits to go into the Park so I was wondering what Gauri was upto. As I pulled up beside him, he winked at me and walked on inside towards a small derelict cottage in the middle of the forest. As I poured water on my head to cool down my boiling brain, he came back with a huge grin on his face. "I've fixed em up, let's take the shortcut!"

Apparently he had bluffed the local chowkidaar into believing we had the permits to go to Sita Bani and before the poor fellow could recover from the Gauri effect, we had pedalled far out of sight, into a jungle so thick, it swallowed up even the sounds of the tyres crunching the gravel. It was a mystical ride through thick Sal forest. Magic rays of sunlight escaped in through the high forest canopy. I half expected a majestic tiger to emerge out of the thick undergrowth and saunter across the road. A couple of hours of cycling got us to the Forest Rest House of Sita Bani. It was the most magical location in the thick jungle with no roads. The only signs of human habitation were the Rest House and a small mandir below it. The rest house itself was on top of a small hill and had fantastic views down to the Kosi. The old Chowkidaar was a jovial fellow with glasses so thick, his eyeballs seemed to touch the glass. We boiled the billy with some tea and the old fellow warmed up to us. He was happy to have some company and with a little prodding, opened the locked doors of the Rest House for us.

It was early evening. We took a leisurely bath in the stream flowing nearby. As I lay submerged in the cool water, a couple of langurs galloped across the stream. We went back totally refreshed and ready for a night among tigers and leopards. I think our loud and rather drunk rendition of Kishore Kumar and Nepali classics kept the big cats away. The stars did peep out from behind the clouds to have a look at what the fuss was about. It was an absolutely gorgeous night that I can surely never forget. We woke up groggy and surprised that the chowkidaar hadn't come to kick us out after our shameful display of the night. Going bush in the morning was fraught again with visions of an amused leopard chancing on me as I squatted on the steep slope holding on to my pants with one hand and a bush for support with the other. I hoped that the leopard would have a sense of humour and roll onto his back and break into uncontrollable laughter, which might be my only chance of escape!

When we were ready to leave, we went down to the small mandir. There was a single sadhu there. He was an enigmatic ascetic with the relaxed manner of one who has seen and experienced much. Once a year there is a large mela here, when villagers from all over the Kumaon Terai come for darshan. The rest of the year, it is ideal for a quiet and contemplative existence. The place had a strange energy and I felt the overwhelming urge to meditate there. I still regret that I did not. I was sure I would return one day to explore my connection with this magical place. As we pushed ahead on our way, Sita Bani cornered a quiet place for itself in my heart. The place was like no other. It is one of the most special places for me in the Himalayas.

We pushed on in meditative silence along a deeply rutted four-wheel drive track. Soon we were out of the foothills and came onto the wide flood plain of the Kosi. We followed the now placid river along a jungle track to Powalgarh, another place made famous by Jim Corbett during his hunting forays. At Powalgarh the beautiful forest finally gave way to the farmer's axe and fields of rice and wheat rose up hesitantly at first, and then bloomed in the full glare of the sun. It was Diwali and the little town was decorated with tinsel. The halwais were doing brisk business selling huge boxes of sweets. We ate breakfast at a small dhaba and celebrated the beautiful day with laddoos and jalebis.

It was plain sailing now as we got onto the highway connecting Kashipur to Kaladhungi. Gauri kept us entertained with jokes and stories, half of which he seemed to have come up with at the spur of the moment. A scooter with a young couple skidded out of control in front of us and landed heavily on the road. We stopped as a crowd collected out of nowhere. Thankfully they were all right. We continued on with greater awareness of the traffic. Soon we were at the T junction of Kaladhungi deciding whether to bike up the 30 odd kilometres to Naini Tal or catch the bus. It was afternoon already and we wanted to get back to Gauri's place at Bhim Tal before nightfall so we could enjoy this night of lights and laughter among friends. The bus came and we heaved the bikes onto the top of the bus as we sat on top, among a group of happy school kids. Just as we climbed the final hill into Naini Tal we heard a loud Thud behind the bus. A mangled piece of red metal lay in the middle of the road. Gauri's Bike had fallen off. Right at the last curve! Before I could yell out, Gauri was already down the ladder and running back towards the bike. The bus stopped and I got my bike and our rucksacks off it. Remarkably, his bike had survived the fall but the front wheel was a wreck. It was so twisted that the bike wobbled like a drunk man making his way home.

It was a sad end to a remarkable expedition but then, things are never perfect. Gauri hailed a jeep and stuffed his injured bike and our stuff into it as I decided to freewheel down to Bhim Tal. As the setting sun filled the sky with its dying orange glow, I reflected on the days gone by. A satisfaction filled my being and I stood on the pedals, rocked my head back and let out a loud cry of the exultation. YEEEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I was ready for Diwali!

On a crisp early morning of Dussehra day I trudged along the path leading to the rock climbing area of the Laado Serai park near Mehrauli in South Delhi. The orange gravel crunched under my slippers and the birds chirped their early morning songs. The lungfuls of clean air were invigorating and the stillness of the morning calm was pregnant with expectation as if someone would suddenly pull up the curtains on this tranquil facade and all hell would break loose.

I come here quite often in the mornings to climb the small cluster of boulders in the middle of the park. And as always, the first sight of the dull orange rock brings a smile to my face and my eyes instinctively turn upwards to the top of Rock Face #11 as it greets me like a good friend. I connect, I really do connect with this place..the moment I see it, I feel it.

I pass under Rock Face #2, which has been giving me sleepless days (I usually doze off in office!!) for the past couple of weeks. It is the most beautiful piece of rock in the area. It starts off slightly overhung for the first 5 metres, which is the tough part, and then slips back to vertical and is very smooth for the rest of its 12 m height. The rock face has precious few indentations to provide leverage for desperate fingers. The place where the overhung part merges into vertical rock is where the climber has to pull up his whole bodyweight on a fingernail-deep knob while his feet kick thin air. Its 5M off the ground with a not-too-scary landing on grass. That is the crux move. That is 'The Move'.

Getting to the Move itself is a bit tricky but I had mastered it after a couple of tries. 'The Move' itself is a different matter. I have made 5 attempts, including once with a rope, which I thought would give me greater confidence, but it had always eluded me. I even fell off a couple of times and just could not pull myself up on the thin knob. I was starting to think that #2 was beyond me at the moment. I was just not good enough for it. I had lost the mental edge over the rock. I was resigned to stare at it longingly for some time.

This morning, I walked past #2 and started stretching on the crimpy holds of my favourite warm up boulder. There was something in the air today...what was the buzz, what was the rock saying to me? I felt good, the stretch of my hamstrings was perfect and my body flowed on the rock like the alien in Predator..!!

Suddenly I know it. I know this is my best chance to crack 'The Move'. I know I am ready for it.

I walk up to the grassy patch under #2 and look at it. I can see the small knob of orange rock protruding from the smooth quartzite cliff where the overhang turns vertical. I feel the confidence seeping out of me....its a centimetre deep..there is no way ANYONE can pull up on that peanut sized hold..!! I start losing the invincible feeling..the mind starts its tricks again..trying to convince me with logic. I quickly dip my hands into my chalkbag and rub my hands with the dry chalk, which absorbs moisture off the hands and helps to firm the grip on rock. I then touch the rock, fold my hands in prayer, close my eyes and connect with the God of Rock.

The horizontal crack is a few inches above my head. I wedge the fingers of both hands into it and place my left foot on smooth, vertical rock. I pull up with my arms and as soon as I am off the ground, I reach out with my left hand to shove two middle fingers into the neat horizontal pocket above the crack. I steady my left foot and grab the vertical edge with my right hand. I shift my bodyweight to the left so that my right hand sticks with the rock on pure friction. I am arched like a bow, sticking to the rock, following its overhung contours and my body feels like jelly. Its like a yogic aasana and my concentration is total.

My left arm goes up steadily like the seconds hand on the Big Ben, slowly feeling the rock. I cannot afford to make any sudden moves because the balance required is immense. My left hand feels the horizontal groove 2 ft above my head and I breathe a sigh of relief as I hold onto it. It's the best hold on the whole face, an inch deep and 6 inches wide horizontal groove. I slowly bring up my right hand as I stick to the rock with my left hand and the big toe of my left foot. I bring up my feet to the horizontal crack where my hands were a few seconds ago and am now stuck at an angle of 70 degrees with the horizontal facing upwards, 2 meters off the ground. Just staying in this gravity defying position is sapping my strength and I have to make 'The Move' now.

My hands are doing their own thing, my feet are their own masters, my body is working like clockwork. My mind is nowhere in the picture, it is a higher power guiding my body. I have made 'The Move'. Oh YEAH!!! I'VE MADE THE MOVE..!!! My mind starts to clear and I look around me. I am standing on a centimetre deep horizontal ledge with two toes of my right foot. My right hand is firmly grasping a round protrusion (where did that come from??) and the rock above me is smooth but less than vertical. My feet are 5M off the ground.

I dig my hands into my chalk bag and feel the buzz that's pounding my head like a hammer. I'm feeling it man..bigtime! I've still got to go 5M more on really smooth and polished rock but nothings going to stop me now. I take a few deep breaths and steady myself. Then I test my next hand hold, a sloping smooth dip in the rock. Right foot on a sloping dip, right hand pulls a sloping dip and I am near the top. The top is super smooth, like talc and turns grey in colour, unlike the orange and brown lower half but the gradient is only 60 - 70 degrees. Its all balance here. Take it easy and don't rush it I tell myself. I am 10M off the ground and a fall from here would be serious but I am not thinking of falls, I am not thinking at all. I am totally focussed on the job at hand and it is just one of those climbs where everything comes together perfectly, like meditation, nothing else matters.

I pull over the edge of the wide ledge. That is the reward for the climb and I let out a Tarzanesque scream of triumph. I don't know what that was for, but it just came from within me. I watch the fruits of 2 weeks of extreme mental and physical effort which now dances before me. It was triumph....not over the rock. I didn't conquer the rock, I didn't prove I am better than the rock. The rock taught me...it showed me something I could never have experienced if I had not climbed it, something real, something inexplicable to someone who has not climbed. Like intoxication...you cant really explain it to someone who has never felt the sway of inebriation. It allowed me to let go of my fears, squashed my negative thoughts. It was a triumph of the spirit.

The thorny kikkar jungle spreads out happily before me and even the towering, phallic Qutub Minar looks a little dwarfed to me today. I sit down on the ledge with my back against the rock and just stare at nothing. I can feel my blood whooping with joy as it rushes through my fatigued forearms. My hand locks in place when I clench my fist and refuses to open.

The perfect climb…

The tea is sweet. The warm slurps melt down my throat providing much needed warmth inside.

Vikram and Awnish are lost in their own thoughts. I am thinking about nothing...perhaps only about how perfect Nyima Ram's tea is. I am sitting at my friend, Nyima Ram's tea shop at Koksar, Lahaul. A few days earlier Awnish, Vikram and I had set out to reach Darcha from Koksar, trekking across the pass of Tempo La in the heart of the Mulkila group of peaks also called the CB (ChandraBhaga) group. These are the peaks that take the breath away from your lungs as you stand on top of Rohtang Pass and look north. Sheer jagged peaks with white caps and glaciers trapped among the peaks. I had always been fascinated with this incredible profusion of peaks and longed to delve into their sacred midst.elevations, hours of walking, grades of treks, itineraries, notes - I am always oblivious of these. I don't trek in the Himalayas to measure anything at all. I walk because I am compelled to return to where I belong. I walk one step at a time. My feet do not carry me, it is my mind I trek on.

We managed to penetrate to the heart of this incredible mountain complex but had to retreat at the sight of the heavily crevassed glaciers pouring down from the 5000 m high Tempo La. That, anyway is a different story but it provides the backdrop to what each of us were musing about while slurping Nyima Ram's tea.

"I dont want to go back over Rohtang". I heard my thoughts echoed in space. I looked around and saw Vikram looking expectantly at me. We all had the same thought. We didnt want our adventure to end already and we certainly didnt want to get on a bus and leave for Manali. "Nyima jee, yahan se Dashaur ka raastaa hai?",(Is there a road to Dashaur?) I asked. I knew Dashaur was a sacred and mystical lake somewhere to the east of Rohtang jot and was supposed to be incredibly beautiful. But i had only heard of people climbing to it from Marhi, on the other side of the Pir Panjals. I was sitting in Koksar at the base on the other end. "Haan jee, ek din ka raasta hai!". I ask Nyima for the details of the route but he can only provide me a general direction and says we shud be able to reach it by evening if we cross the glacier alright.

We set off early next morning after Vikram had successfully managed to choke the sewage system of koksar for the next 6 months with a truckload of toilet paper.We climbed the almost vertical mountain behind Koksar. There was no path, not even a hint of a trail. we just traversed up the steep incline as best as we could and within a couple of hours, commanded an eagle's view of Koksar and the Chandra valley for miles on both sides. The Chandra was almost a fluoroscent green and had a gleam about its glacial waters that looked quite surreal.It meandered swiftly through the deep valley between the Pir Panjal to the south and the CB peaks to the north. We reached a broad meadow at the top of the climb and gaped at the waterfall which exploded horizontally like a water canon. I went ahead to investigate the path and was accosted by an incredible view. The nala had narrowed into a gushing torrent tearing through a gorge less than 20 feet wide and at the head of the gorge was a hanging glacier from under which the milky torrent roared into life. There was a 50 foot waterfall right at the head of the glacier. It was an incrdible sight.

We got up and headed up the steep mountain to the true left of the glacier and headed dead south straight towards the huge mountain representing the Pir Panjal's intimidating might. The terrain turned from meadows to boulders and glacier moraine and the going was slow and tiring. The effort was more than compensated by the tremendous sense of awe I felt at looking around me. I could see the snow and ice across the chandra valley and the highest peak in the CB group, Mulkila, far to the north east. To the south, towering above my head was a beautiful giant mountain with glaciers hanging off it and waterfalls falling but never reaching the ice below. The long, serpentine glacier snaked below me as I walked on its lateral moraine. I felt like I had penetrated to the sacred heart of the Pir Panjals, which technically, I had.

After a short rest we decided to cross the glacier and we had to head west at the top, and walk along its eastern bank. The glacier was filled with gaping crevasses and was covered with fallen boulders and fresh snow. We trudged carefully together and crossed it without incident in half an hour. The nervous energy gave way to euphoria and we glided up on a cloud of exhuberance. Walking on fresh snow and moraine sapped our morale and we were eagerly looking out for the lake beyond the next ridge...the next ridge..the next ridge...the ridges were conspiring to multiply against us. The wind was fierce and biting cold. It seared my throat as it went down through my gasping mouth.

I balance on the sheet of ice forming below me, as I run through a white world of snow and sleet, breathing the stark beauty I love, aware that I cannot stop for pause here, now.

Finally I saw the pile of rocks signifying a gaddi camp. A solitary cairn of stones stood surrounded by snow and beyond it was a depression. 

The depression was surrounded on three sides by peaks and ridges and the only outlet was along the glacial nala that we had followed up. That HAD to be the lake. I dropped my rucksack and ran towards the unseen depression. What I saw shocked me completely. THERE WAS NO LAKE..!! The snow melted off the amphiteatre of ridges and flowed down into the nala. There was no lake. We had endured the day with the thought of reaching a heavenly lake at the end and now the fatigue became unbearable. We decided to stop and pitch camp there and then.

Gurgle..Gurgle....grrrr.....bbbrrrr....gurgle....I woke up to find my stomach making strange noises...must have been the bacon...it didnt taste right..toilet paper time..!! As soon as I unzipped my tent and poked my head out, I was mesmerised. The moon was exactly half but the light that emanated, reminded me of one of those sci-fi movies where the aliens descend from shining space saucers. It was such a magical night. The stars were shining bright and clear againt pitch black velvet. And the moon was intoxicating.

Gurgle..Gurgle....grrrr.....bbbrrrr....gurgle....yeah right..!! After attending to matters a little less romantic I stared around me in a trance. The snow peaks were shining like huge goblins and I was in love with the world. I thought about waking up Vikram and asking him to bring out his tripod and taking a night shot, but I was afraid his reaction might be less than friendly. I retreated back to bed and was soon in blissful dreamland, dreaming of back-lit fairies and snow flakes falling in slow-motion.

We climbed the ridge, something to my far right reflected the sun that was not snow. I looked. I could not believe it. it could not be. Yet, indeed it was the crystal waters of Dashaur lake. Oh my god, we had been 1 hour walk away from the lake and had not known it.The lake was absolutely beautiful. A small glacial lake surrounded by cairns that devout Buddhists and Hindus had placed as offerings in prayer. The lake is situated on a pass in the Pir Panjals and is over 4200 m high. To the south, the views encompassed ridge after ridge of mountains down to Kullu. Hanuman Tibba looked like I could touch it. Far, far below was the green oasis of Marhi. To the north, the vertical peak of Geopang Goh dominated along with three peaks that looked exactly like a manifestation of Bhole Nath's trishul.

It was a heavenly setting. It is one of the most powerfully beautiful places I have ever been to. I knelt before the lake and prayed to this earthly abode of god. I drank the sweet water of the lake and felt blessed to have been allowed to view and feel the divine power of this place. Strange is his leela indeed...when you are seeking, he hides his treasures behind invisible situations, and when you have given up hope and are making your way home, he opens his heart and shows you his secrets.

We set out for civilization feeling content and blessed. The drop from Dashaur to Marhi is steep and we descended cautiously breaking icicles off rocks and crunching on them. A little above Marhi, we stopped to see the thousands of tourists crawling up to Rohtang in uncountable sumos and jeeps, belching huge clouds of black smoke and throwing biscuit wrappers into the pristine green. I did not feel sad, nor angry, I did not feel superior, nor right. I just felt in love with life. I just felt connected with Dashaur, the magic lake.

The Dhauladhars are a mountain sub range of the Great Himalayas...running approximately east-west, parallel to the Pir Panjal range. Though not the highest of the Himalayan sub ranges, the Dhauladhars form an imposing barrier rising to almost 5000 m steeply out of the Kangra plains. Himalayan facts and figures have always taken a back seat for me and when I saw the Dhauladhars for the first time high above McLeodganj, rising like a white-haired demon, breathing fire, ignited by the setting orange sun, I was overawed.

Kareri Lake is a small glacial lake just below the Minkiani Pass in the western Dhauladhar Mountains to the north east of McLeodGanj. It is 3500 m high and oval like a perfect ellipse. To the north are the massive rocky peaks of the main Dhauladhar, to the east is a low ridge that leads towards McLeodganj, to the west is a steep drop of a thousand metres to an open valley, while to the south is the only outlet from the lake in the form of a stream going down to Noli and Kareri villages. The lake is frozen over from November to March, while during the summer the surrounding meadows are rich with green nutritious grass and wild flowers that the local Gaddi shepherds and villagers use for the grazing sheep and cattle.

Kareri Lake is a two-day trek from McLeodGanj. A fine and sunny wintry afternoon in end- November saw me prostrating myself in front of the Buddha in the Tsug LhaKhang monastery in McLeodganj. Feeling suitably blessed and protected, I set off alone towards Kareri, breathing the crisp, invigorating air of the pine forests. It was the beginning of the cold winter but I was surprised to see very little snow on the peaks. The Dhauladhars stood proud and naked, untamed in their wild beauty.

The Tibetan children's village lake was having a sports meet and I was the focus of attraction of a thousand bewildered eyes as I sauntered embarrassedly through the centre of the football field, trying to make a short cut.

Soon I was off the road and heading down a steep mountainside on a well-trodden trail. It was a pleasant evening and wanting to enjoy it, I decided to pitch camp on a flat grassy terrace with a small stream gurgling nearby, even though I had a couple of hours of daylight. After pitching tent and setting all my worldly belongings in my mobile home, I started up my bulky kerosene stove and made some tea. Two gaddi (shepherd) girls came by with a small herd of baby sheep, but they were more interested in poking my tent than in their sheep. I invited them for tea, which they refused. They continued to stare at me in amazement and looked around to for my other companions. I had a bit of a laugh at their disbelieving eyes when I told them I was alone. The campfire I lighted roared so bright that I cooked my noodles on it, saving precious kerosene for later days. As the embers glowed, the sky burnt bright with a million stars. I sat late into the night reflecting on the beauty of my surroundings and the simple pleasures of being alone in the mountains. The lights of the village on the opposite mountain twinkled much like the great sky above me. It was Kareri.

I packed up and set off just as the sun reached my campsite the next morning. Climbing down the mountain I came across a stream, which was crossed halfway by a boulder and the other half by a rickety wooden bridge. The climb to Kareri village was steep, accentuated by my 25 kg rucksack. Toiling hard under the midday sun, I met a local lad, ShubhKaran, carrying a bag of atta up to his village. We got talking and he invited me to have lunch at his humble shack. It turned out that his father was the local Panditji. I was invited to stay the night, typical Himachali hospitality. The whole family treated me like a lost son, trying to dissuade me from going up to the freezing lake. After spending a lovely night with the family and thanking them profusely for having me, I left for Kareri Lake, a 4 to 5 hour trek from the village. The mother packed me some rotis with saag and warned me to watch out for the evil spirits at the lake. Well, I had to feed the rotis to a cow because I couldn't get them down my throat but the love of the family will remain in my heart forever.

Kareri Lake was farther than I thought but when it appeared, after many false alarms, the setting was spectacular. At the base of the main Dhauladhar range, the Minkiani pass towered 600 vertical meters above me. A small lake probably just 6 feet deep at this time of the year, surrounded by burnt brown grass meadows.

There are two small mandirs, adjacent to each other, dedicated to Shiva and Kali on the southern shore and I quickly bowed down in prayer. Kareri lake is the summer settlement of the villagers of Kareri and Noli, so there are a few mud huts built around the lake, but at this time of the year, the whole place was deserted and in the 3 days I spent in this ocean of peace, I did not have a single human visitor.

I inspected all the little huts and found one with a perfect chulha and plenty of hay to add comfort and warmth to my sleeping bag. It also had a perfect view of the deep gorge to the west from the window right above my bed. I then whipped up courage enough to immerse myself in the icy waters of the lake and came out a few seconds later chilled to the bone but exhilarated and ecstatic. I looked around at this beautiful vista...the magnificent mountains...the lake...the huts...it was all mine...there was noon but me in this paradise. I screamed, I ran, I meditated, I practiced yogic asanas, i played my flute. Just nature and I. The silence and the complete stillness were overpowering.

At night I boiled a potato on the firewood chulha, ate it with salt and pepper and let the fire warm the hut well into the night. It was chilly outside, but inside the hut was warm as home. It was my home. I was up well before the sun rose over the eastern ridge of the lake. The lake was covered in a thin layer of ice that shimmered in a thousand colours with the rising sun. When I went down for water and cracked the ice with my cooking pot, the cracks ran to the centre of the lake. As the sun came up over the ridge, the ice slowly started cracking and I watched this amazing phenomenon as I boiled my morning potato on the fire.

Minkiani pass is one of the crossings of the Dhauladhar Range, the watershed between the Kangra and Chamba Districts of Himachal. During the day I went up to the pass, which is really steep near the top, and is pretty much boulder hopping all the way from the lake to the top. On the way I came across a rock cave built by the Gaddis who use this pass to cross with their sheep into the Bharmour-Chamba area and then onto Lahaul. The view from the top more than makes up for the effort. I could see all the way down to Dharamsala and beyond Kangra to the plains in the south, now covered by a misty winter haze.

To the north, there were amazing views beyond Bharmour to the Pir Panjal range glistening in fresh snow. I wandered into District Chamba and ate a sandwich and watched a golden Eagle float gracefully. Watching the motion of an eagle in the mountains is perhaps one of the most peaceful and inspiring moments I have memories of.

I wanted to go to the sacred Lam Dal lake that was somewhere to the East beyond the pass but I wasn't sure of the route and didn't want to risk getting caught in a winter blizzard. So I walked along the ridgeline feeling privileged to be able to savour these Himalayan heights and vistas in absolute peace with myself. Such are the moments that I seek in my travels and the peace and satisfaction of such moments is beyond description.

There are so many rocks and boulders around the lake and being an avid rock climber, I could not resist the bouldering opportunities of the hard rock here. As the shadows descended down from the pass, the wind stung me like needles and I snuggled into my jacket. Suddenly there was a loud roar from the jungle behind me and I jumped up and stared right into the trees, fumbling to find my knife from my waist bag. But it turned out that the bear was not very hungry and probably didn't fancy a tired and hungry solo traveller for his dinner, so he didn't show up. But he sure scared me enough to sleep with my knife near my head and give me a fitful sleep.

Morning dawned fresh as a daisy and my fear evaporated with the morning mist. I quickly got into rock climbing mode after a cup of noodles. The morning was spent on some lovely boulders that were high enough to scare me but not tough enough to throw me off. The ideal bouldering.

I felt like moving back and so after a quick dip in the ice, I packed and left heaven the way I had ascended, leaving nothing but footprints, taking nothing but memories. It was a magical time I had spent in that ocean of tranquillity, a time I will cherish, forever.

PS - I didn't take any pictures on some of my early mountain travels. I was too busy communing with nature and shit (Dickhead, I was). These pictures have been stolen from the internet to provide some perspective to the story. If you are the owner of any of these photos, please don't sue me, steal one of mine instead.