They say that if you make the mistake of venturing to the Himalayas even once you are doomed. Because they keep calling you back. Neither pictures, nor words can capture the magnificence of those mesmerising bugyals and towering peaks whose beauty brought tears to my eyes. Hope some of you will read this travelogue and feel the urge to see them for yourself, because only then will you understand what I want to say.
Day 1 - Drive to Lohajung. Height: 8,000 feet
5 pm. It’s getting dark and rain clouds are gearing up overhead. We have been cramped up in the car for 10 hours. The oily samosa I had in Karnprayag, the last big town nestling lazily in the folds of the flowing Alakhnanda more than two hours back, is swirling in the depths of my stomach and I swallow another Avomine to keep nausea at bay. We could have left Kotdwar at 5 am but Manoj Rawat spent the next two hours ignoring my pleas to start early with his usual nonchalant “What’s the hurry!” Now we are on a lonely mud track with forest cover all around. What’s worse, there is no cell phone coverage and not a soul to ask if we are going the right way. I feel sick, sweaty and worried as hell. We haven’t been able to use the car AC either since dad’s Alto refuses to climb uphill with it on. That was Manoj's idea as well. "Small cars work better on hill roads". It starts to rain and when he turns to me and says: “hope we are on the right track”, I lose it completely. Suddenly, the cell phone rings from the dead. It’s our guide Mohan, wondering why we haven’t reached Lohajung yet. We have an hour more to go. I just grit my teeth and sit in sullen silence, staring out of the window with rain splashing my face. A few more turns on the road and the air gets cooler. Eventually we are in Lohajung market (a sprinkle of about a dozen odd shops) where Heera Singh Bisht, Mohan’s second in command, is waiting for us. He directs us to retired Sub Major Dayal Singh Patwal’s lodge – a quaint hill house with an apple tree drooping over the stone steps. To my dismay I find that the toilets are set away from the rooms. But they are clean and Patwalji’s daughter Geeta has carried half a bucket of hot water (heated on firewood) for me to the bathroom. After a bath and a hot meal with the large and furry dog Brownie (pronounced Brawny) nibbling crumbs at my feet, I return to the room, pointedly turn my back to Manoj Rawat and go to sleep.
5 pm. It’s getting dark and rain clouds are gearing up overhead. We have been cramped up in the car for 10 hours. The oily samosa I had in Karnprayag, the last big town nestling lazily in the folds of the flowing Alakhnanda more than two hours back, is swirling in the depths of my stomach and I swallow another Avomine to keep nausea at bay. We could have left Kotdwar at 5 am but Manoj Rawat spent the next two hours ignoring my pleas to start early with his usual nonchalant “What’s the hurry!” Now we are on a lonely mud track with forest cover all around. What’s worse, there is no cell phone coverage and not a soul to ask if we are going the right way. I feel sick, sweaty and worried as hell. We haven’t been able to use the car AC either since dad’s Alto refuses to climb uphill with it on. That was Manoj's idea as well. "Small cars work better on hill roads". It starts to rain and when he turns to me and says: “hope we are on the right track”, I lose it completely. Suddenly, the cell phone rings from the dead. It’s our guide Mohan, wondering why we haven’t reached Lohajung yet. We have an hour more to go. I just grit my teeth and sit in sullen silence, staring out of the window with rain splashing my face. A few more turns on the road and the air gets cooler. Eventually we are in Lohajung market (a sprinkle of about a dozen odd shops) where Heera Singh Bisht, Mohan’s second in command, is waiting for us. He directs us to retired Sub Major Dayal Singh Patwal’s lodge – a quaint hill house with an apple tree drooping over the stone steps. To my dismay I find that the toilets are set away from the rooms. But they are clean and Patwalji’s daughter Geeta has carried half a bucket of hot water (heated on firewood) for me to the bathroom. After a bath and a hot meal with the large and furry dog Brownie (pronounced Brawny) nibbling crumbs at my feet, I return to the room, pointedly turn my back to Manoj Rawat and go to sleep.
Drive to Wan
Manoj and Brawny contemplating a photo shoot at Patwal lodge, Lohajung
Geeta's kitchen
Flowers outside our room
Day2 Wan to Bedini bugyal. Distance covered: 15 km. Height: 11,000 feet
5 am. I wake up, throw the fat cotton rajai off and open the creaking wooden door of the room. Outside lie strewn dead bodies of strange bugs and giant mosquitoes that have committed suicide sometime in the night by dashing against the yellow light bulb. I look up and nearly forget to breathe. Right across, a snow covered peak towers above mountain ranges that are so high that they are blocking the sun that hasn’t risen high enough yet. Shafts of sunlight are sifting through the clefts in the mountain and translucent white rays are spilling over the forests and villages on the hillside. It’s the large and intimidating Nanda Ghunti laughing at my misconceptions about the importance of my puny existence. Shamed, I walk across to the green apple laden trees, check out the pretty pink roses rising from a broken tin can and climbing up a stone wall, and feed Brawny the toffees lying in my pocket. He swallows them happily and becomes my loyal subject. We walk across to the kitchen to find Geeta chopping some fresh green spring onion, ask her for “dwui gilas chai, chinni kam” and wake up Manoj Rawat directing him to the view outside. The two of us sit there wordlessly soaking in the splendor of the Himalayas while Brawnie (who sees it everyday) yawns and goes back to sleep.
6 am. We tuck into big rotis and pyaaz ki sabzi made in mustard oil (that sentimentally reminds Manoj of his mom’s cooking), say bye to Patwalji and his family and get into the jeep that Balwant Singh (yet another) Bisht is cheerfully driving.
The rickety old jeep crosses some pretty fields, villages and women out to get firewood, all of who are on first name terms with Ballu and finally rumbles to a stop where a slim built man with a sunburnt face and very white teeth is grinning at us widely. It’s Mohan Singh Bisht, our guide saab for the trek. When he finds out I’m a Bisht too, he insists on calling me didiji and Manoj – Rawatji, giving him the exalted status of jawaiji (son in law). It gets Manoj some VIP treatment throughout the trek which shall include having tea and soup served in the tent and piping hot rotis at mealtimes while the rest of us are fed rice and peeli dal. My most endearing memory of Wan is of the one-roomed Aanganwadi school I peep into by mistake. A little boy with apple pink cheeks is perched on a chair twice his size. He is reading a lesson that his four students – as cute as him – are repeating after him in sing song voices. “A for appil, appil maane seb; B for bwaay, bwaay maane ladka..” When he stops for breath at “H for hauj, hauj maane ghar” I ask him where the teacher is. “Madamji, bazaar jayin chin” he tells me curtly in Garhwali and gets on with the lesson. Their shrill voices ring out in my ear as I step out to find a bwaadi in a pahadi sari and guluband just like my long-departed grandmother used to wear (now my most prized piece of jewellery) with almost as many wrinkles looping across her attractive face. When I tell her that, she gives me a hug and gets on with spreading wheat out to dry on an open roof.
10 am. Climbing up to the old temple near the guest house, we cross small terrace fields cut into the slope, kids with runny noses and houses where women are threshing wheat. Little kids stop and say namaste asking for “mithai” (toffees). We step across a shallow stream and find some pretty ghaseries fetching leaves in large cane baskets. I try picking one up and my back bends under its weight. The strain of the climb has started to show. Each time I stretch and fold my leg I can hear a creaking sound in my knee, as if it needs oiling. We have been walking for four hours through dense Alpine forests with twisted gnarled roots that look like tortured souls in hell. As I lower myself onto the grass and deep breathe to slow down the heart beat, wishing I never had to get up again, I spot a flash of red. It is 62-year-old fellow trekker Narayan Chaudhari from Mumbai moving ahead with a winning smile. Gritting my teeth, I get up. In Manoj’s eyes I can see that he is dying to catch up with this Amitabh Bachchan of trekkers and show him what strong stuff Army officers are made of but husbandly responsibilities restrict his aspirations. He hands me my walking stick and says: “start walking or your body will get cold”. For once I follow obediently.
5 am. I wake up, throw the fat cotton rajai off and open the creaking wooden door of the room. Outside lie strewn dead bodies of strange bugs and giant mosquitoes that have committed suicide sometime in the night by dashing against the yellow light bulb. I look up and nearly forget to breathe. Right across, a snow covered peak towers above mountain ranges that are so high that they are blocking the sun that hasn’t risen high enough yet. Shafts of sunlight are sifting through the clefts in the mountain and translucent white rays are spilling over the forests and villages on the hillside. It’s the large and intimidating Nanda Ghunti laughing at my misconceptions about the importance of my puny existence. Shamed, I walk across to the green apple laden trees, check out the pretty pink roses rising from a broken tin can and climbing up a stone wall, and feed Brawny the toffees lying in my pocket. He swallows them happily and becomes my loyal subject. We walk across to the kitchen to find Geeta chopping some fresh green spring onion, ask her for “dwui gilas chai, chinni kam” and wake up Manoj Rawat directing him to the view outside. The two of us sit there wordlessly soaking in the splendor of the Himalayas while Brawnie (who sees it everyday) yawns and goes back to sleep.
6 am. We tuck into big rotis and pyaaz ki sabzi made in mustard oil (that sentimentally reminds Manoj of his mom’s cooking), say bye to Patwalji and his family and get into the jeep that Balwant Singh (yet another) Bisht is cheerfully driving.
The rickety old jeep crosses some pretty fields, villages and women out to get firewood, all of who are on first name terms with Ballu and finally rumbles to a stop where a slim built man with a sunburnt face and very white teeth is grinning at us widely. It’s Mohan Singh Bisht, our guide saab for the trek. When he finds out I’m a Bisht too, he insists on calling me didiji and Manoj – Rawatji, giving him the exalted status of jawaiji (son in law). It gets Manoj some VIP treatment throughout the trek which shall include having tea and soup served in the tent and piping hot rotis at mealtimes while the rest of us are fed rice and peeli dal. My most endearing memory of Wan is of the one-roomed Aanganwadi school I peep into by mistake. A little boy with apple pink cheeks is perched on a chair twice his size. He is reading a lesson that his four students – as cute as him – are repeating after him in sing song voices. “A for appil, appil maane seb; B for bwaay, bwaay maane ladka..” When he stops for breath at “H for hauj, hauj maane ghar” I ask him where the teacher is. “Madamji, bazaar jayin chin” he tells me curtly in Garhwali and gets on with the lesson. Their shrill voices ring out in my ear as I step out to find a bwaadi in a pahadi sari and guluband just like my long-departed grandmother used to wear (now my most prized piece of jewellery) with almost as many wrinkles looping across her attractive face. When I tell her that, she gives me a hug and gets on with spreading wheat out to dry on an open roof.
10 am. Climbing up to the old temple near the guest house, we cross small terrace fields cut into the slope, kids with runny noses and houses where women are threshing wheat. Little kids stop and say namaste asking for “mithai” (toffees). We step across a shallow stream and find some pretty ghaseries fetching leaves in large cane baskets. I try picking one up and my back bends under its weight. The strain of the climb has started to show. Each time I stretch and fold my leg I can hear a creaking sound in my knee, as if it needs oiling. We have been walking for four hours through dense Alpine forests with twisted gnarled roots that look like tortured souls in hell. As I lower myself onto the grass and deep breathe to slow down the heart beat, wishing I never had to get up again, I spot a flash of red. It is 62-year-old fellow trekker Narayan Chaudhari from Mumbai moving ahead with a winning smile. Gritting my teeth, I get up. In Manoj’s eyes I can see that he is dying to catch up with this Amitabh Bachchan of trekkers and show him what strong stuff Army officers are made of but husbandly responsibilities restrict his aspirations. He hands me my walking stick and says: “start walking or your body will get cold”. For once I follow obediently.
Classroom at Wan
The bwaadi who reminded me of my dadi
Bedini Bugyal. 11,000 feet
In about five hours, we have left the forest behind. Lush green undulating meadows stretch out as far as the eyes can see. Right ahead stands a small stone temple. Even as we watch an old woman appears from behind it with a ferocious looking bugyali dog with untidy matted hair and a “don’t mess with me, I bite” look in his eyes. She grazes animals on those cold, windy slopes. She doesn’t have socks and on my way back I leave a pair for her with Mohan, that I hope are now covering her calloused feet. Late afternoon it starts raining and becomes freezing cold so we retreat to our tents and brace up for the long night ahead. In the darkness a thunder storm catches us and for nearly an hour the rain lashes our tiny tent so fiercely that I wait for it to come down any moment, leaving us soaked to the skin in the freezing temperatures. It doesn’t happen.
Day 3 Bedini bugyal to Bhagwabasa (14,000 feet)
6 am. Mohan tells us to start walking. Two of the trekkers drop out at Pather Nachuni, where there are shelters for the night. The rest of us continue to walk on the almost completely uphill trail for a few hours. Just when I decide it’s time to burst into tears, we hear the ringing of bells from the temple of Kalu Vinayak, up ahead in the mist. That’s where we’ve been told the climb ends. Mohan and party who started almost two hours after us have crossed us on way and are there already, sprawled on the rocks like lazy lizards. He hands me a bottle of water and a roti with some bhindi kee sabzi piled on top that I chew on eagerly. Manoj, who has not been feeling well, refuses to eat. About another hour of walking, we spot snow and loose rocks scattered along the hill side. The scattered stone pathway has opened onto some fascinating crudely-built stone huts perched at the edge of a slope where the mules are grazing and the kitchen party is busy singing songs and pitching tents. There are patches of snow around us. Mist is creeping up between the mountains in thick swirls and I know it plans to sneak up quietly and put its damp, cold fingers on us. Inside one of the stone huts, cook Heera (not to be confused with guide Heera) is making some coffee. We sit with our steel glasses cheering trekkers who are walking in wearily, and there is a sense of achievement all around. Mule boy Kunwar Singh Negi with a hairstyle Saransh would love to sport (that I suspect comes from not washing it for a month at least) breaks into a Kumaoni song that mingles with the chatter of the trekkers. At 5.30 pm we are served dinner as the weather is packing up. Heera is gallant enough to hand me a piping hot plate of rice and dal right inside the tent. He tells me to put the plate outside when I'm done and I'm in his debt for life. Manoj still doesn’t want to eat anything other than biscuits and I’m getting a little worried about him.
In about five hours, we have left the forest behind. Lush green undulating meadows stretch out as far as the eyes can see. Right ahead stands a small stone temple. Even as we watch an old woman appears from behind it with a ferocious looking bugyali dog with untidy matted hair and a “don’t mess with me, I bite” look in his eyes. She grazes animals on those cold, windy slopes. She doesn’t have socks and on my way back I leave a pair for her with Mohan, that I hope are now covering her calloused feet. Late afternoon it starts raining and becomes freezing cold so we retreat to our tents and brace up for the long night ahead. In the darkness a thunder storm catches us and for nearly an hour the rain lashes our tiny tent so fiercely that I wait for it to come down any moment, leaving us soaked to the skin in the freezing temperatures. It doesn’t happen.
Day 3 Bedini bugyal to Bhagwabasa (14,000 feet)
6 am. Mohan tells us to start walking. Two of the trekkers drop out at Pather Nachuni, where there are shelters for the night. The rest of us continue to walk on the almost completely uphill trail for a few hours. Just when I decide it’s time to burst into tears, we hear the ringing of bells from the temple of Kalu Vinayak, up ahead in the mist. That’s where we’ve been told the climb ends. Mohan and party who started almost two hours after us have crossed us on way and are there already, sprawled on the rocks like lazy lizards. He hands me a bottle of water and a roti with some bhindi kee sabzi piled on top that I chew on eagerly. Manoj, who has not been feeling well, refuses to eat. About another hour of walking, we spot snow and loose rocks scattered along the hill side. The scattered stone pathway has opened onto some fascinating crudely-built stone huts perched at the edge of a slope where the mules are grazing and the kitchen party is busy singing songs and pitching tents. There are patches of snow around us. Mist is creeping up between the mountains in thick swirls and I know it plans to sneak up quietly and put its damp, cold fingers on us. Inside one of the stone huts, cook Heera (not to be confused with guide Heera) is making some coffee. We sit with our steel glasses cheering trekkers who are walking in wearily, and there is a sense of achievement all around. Mule boy Kunwar Singh Negi with a hairstyle Saransh would love to sport (that I suspect comes from not washing it for a month at least) breaks into a Kumaoni song that mingles with the chatter of the trekkers. At 5.30 pm we are served dinner as the weather is packing up. Heera is gallant enough to hand me a piping hot plate of rice and dal right inside the tent. He tells me to put the plate outside when I'm done and I'm in his debt for life. Manoj still doesn’t want to eat anything other than biscuits and I’m getting a little worried about him.
The pretty ghaseris of Wan. Men in the hills happily leave all the hard work to the women
A namaste for a toffee
Trail winds through a tortured forest
Stone hut at Bedini
Old lady at Bedini
Campsite at Bedini
View from our tent
View from the top
Nanda Ghunti
Curious onlooker
..and a disinterested one
The bugyals make you forget how tired you are
Old man Bisht (Mohan's dad) sharing my sunscreen
Flowers in the bugyal
Local girl collecting kida jadi a root from which an anti impotency drug is made.
Day 4 Roopkund (16,400 feet)
It has rained off and on through the night (more on than off). The end of my sleeping bag feels colder than usual and it takes me a while to realize that some rain water has seeped in. Luckily it is at the foot end and by moving my head right up and not stretching my legs all the way down I manage to avoid the wetness. That’s the only time I have felt happy about being short. I can't get to sleep though and ask Manoj if he’s up as well. He is. It’s 2 am and we just lie in the dark till I hear him snoring. I want to walk down to the toilet tent but the fear of an encounter with a bear or leopard is a big deterrent. I distract myself by going carefully over all the calamities that can kill us right there in the cold, dark night (earthquake/wild animal/landslide) and wonder who would be the best person to take care of Saransh if both his parents disappear that night. Drifting in and out of these pleasant thoughts I finally wake up to the chatter of the boys preparing tea, which means it is 4 am. Mist has dropped around us and the shadowy figure of Heera is handing out steaming chai in steel glasses. We are told to hurry since we must reach Roopkund before the snow starts melting, making the climb more treacherous than ever. Finally at 5.20 am we start off after a Maggi breakfast that no one really wants to eat. We walk on the stone path crossing stretches of ice where Mohan shows us footholds by walking first and then stays back to ensure that everyone has crossed over safely. On virgin snow we spot pug marks that cause a lot of excitement and Mohan points out Brahma Kamal plants that shall bloom in September. He also shows us the glacier where a 24-year-old boy feel to his death on the last trek while trying to negotiate the tricky slope on his own and we stand there listening to his helplessness at not being around when that happened.
The climb is tough and there are slippery patches of ice where footholds are hard to find but in two hours plus we manage to reach the summit. Surrounded by snow covered slopes, Roopkund lake stretches before us in a pale blue circle of frozen ice. A pile of bones and a cracked skull lie in a corner. Old man Bakhtyar Singh (Mohan’s dad) points out landslides that he says have covered the rest of the skeletons and some, he says, lie buried inside the lake. According to National Geographic more than 500 travellers were caught there in a hail storm hundreds of years back. He blows a conch at the temple and tells us how the route we took was the same as that the gods Shiv and Parvati took on their way to Kailash. At this point, he says, Parvatiji felt thirsty. Shivji created a lake in the mountain. When Parvati was bending down to drink from it, she saw her reflection in the water and realized how beautiful she was and what a tramp she had married. That didn't deter her though and she followed him all the way to Mount Kailash. The lake was named Roopkund. Manoj climbs halfway to Junargali pass to see the mighty Kailash, that lies on the other side and finally after some biscuits and a photo shoot we set back for Pathar Nachuni where the two trekkers who dropped out wait for us.
The next day we will walk back 21 kms to reach Wan and after a night halt with Patwalji (who will make Manoj (and not me - scowl) the kindly offer: “ek drinks le lijiye Sir, thak gaye honge”) start back on the long ride home. One day soon we know we will have to come back. Because, like I told you before, once you visit the Himalayas you are destined to return. They have started calling me back in my dreams already.
It has rained off and on through the night (more on than off). The end of my sleeping bag feels colder than usual and it takes me a while to realize that some rain water has seeped in. Luckily it is at the foot end and by moving my head right up and not stretching my legs all the way down I manage to avoid the wetness. That’s the only time I have felt happy about being short. I can't get to sleep though and ask Manoj if he’s up as well. He is. It’s 2 am and we just lie in the dark till I hear him snoring. I want to walk down to the toilet tent but the fear of an encounter with a bear or leopard is a big deterrent. I distract myself by going carefully over all the calamities that can kill us right there in the cold, dark night (earthquake/wild animal/landslide) and wonder who would be the best person to take care of Saransh if both his parents disappear that night. Drifting in and out of these pleasant thoughts I finally wake up to the chatter of the boys preparing tea, which means it is 4 am. Mist has dropped around us and the shadowy figure of Heera is handing out steaming chai in steel glasses. We are told to hurry since we must reach Roopkund before the snow starts melting, making the climb more treacherous than ever. Finally at 5.20 am we start off after a Maggi breakfast that no one really wants to eat. We walk on the stone path crossing stretches of ice where Mohan shows us footholds by walking first and then stays back to ensure that everyone has crossed over safely. On virgin snow we spot pug marks that cause a lot of excitement and Mohan points out Brahma Kamal plants that shall bloom in September. He also shows us the glacier where a 24-year-old boy feel to his death on the last trek while trying to negotiate the tricky slope on his own and we stand there listening to his helplessness at not being around when that happened.
The climb is tough and there are slippery patches of ice where footholds are hard to find but in two hours plus we manage to reach the summit. Surrounded by snow covered slopes, Roopkund lake stretches before us in a pale blue circle of frozen ice. A pile of bones and a cracked skull lie in a corner. Old man Bakhtyar Singh (Mohan’s dad) points out landslides that he says have covered the rest of the skeletons and some, he says, lie buried inside the lake. According to National Geographic more than 500 travellers were caught there in a hail storm hundreds of years back. He blows a conch at the temple and tells us how the route we took was the same as that the gods Shiv and Parvati took on their way to Kailash. At this point, he says, Parvatiji felt thirsty. Shivji created a lake in the mountain. When Parvati was bending down to drink from it, she saw her reflection in the water and realized how beautiful she was and what a tramp she had married. That didn't deter her though and she followed him all the way to Mount Kailash. The lake was named Roopkund. Manoj climbs halfway to Junargali pass to see the mighty Kailash, that lies on the other side and finally after some biscuits and a photo shoot we set back for Pathar Nachuni where the two trekkers who dropped out wait for us.
The next day we will walk back 21 kms to reach Wan and after a night halt with Patwalji (who will make Manoj (and not me - scowl) the kindly offer: “ek drinks le lijiye Sir, thak gaye honge”) start back on the long ride home. One day soon we know we will have to come back. Because, like I told you before, once you visit the Himalayas you are destined to return. They have started calling me back in my dreams already.
The route is like a line drawn in pencil on the mountain ranges
Traffic jam at 12,000 feet
A treacherous climb
But well worth the rewards
The mist doing its magic
Finally we found Roopkund. And some new friends
Shattered skeletons at Roopkund
View of Kailash
Heera Singh
Time to pack and go
End of trek
Mohan Singh Bisht, new found bhulla and guide
Pictures by Manoj Rawat (except the ones where he features). You can check out Mohan Singh Bisht at roopkundwithmohan.weebly.com
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