Shonar Joshi
Sunday Herald; 20th Aug 2000

Kinnaur or Spiti Valley “ the remotest parts of Himachal “ dry, barren, sheer rock and desert mountains. Why would anyone want to go through such an ordeal? Shonar Joshi tells us why.

I love trekking. When I'm in the mountains, I forget everything and go blank happily. There are treks and there are treks the kind I like are longer the better, tougher the better, quieter the better. But most importantly, it should have an entry and a different exit. Through one land, into the next. Voila...that's my game.

Needless to say, it was with great enthusiasm that I tackled the idea of crossing the Kinnaur Valley (Himachal) via the Pin Bhabha Pass into the Spiti Valley. For those of you who have no idea of what Kinnaur or Spiti are these are the remotest parts of Himachal, dry, barren, sheer rock and desert mountains. Why would anyone want to go through such an area...? Read on...

The trek was arranged by the Banjara Camp which has a delightful luxury camp tucked away in the liddle of nowhere, by the river, surrounded by mountains, in the Sangla Valley of Kinnaur. It is here that I found out about the Pin Bhabha trek and greedily accepted the invitation to plunge into the wilderness.

I started out in the wee hours of the morning bump-riding the dirt track till our base at Kafnu. All this while, I had been under this illusion that Kinnaur is not green and even the few patches one sees are not really enough to break the uniform image of the mountain rockface. So, when I began walking, it was a bit strange to find myself in the middle of a real, true-to-life forest. Things only got better as the pines, walnuts and maples maples which I thought were a unique feature of Kashmir alone, multiplied in number and filled the air with such a sweet smell. That it was like a drug one that I was already having withdrawals for, at the very thought of not having it around me to breathe in. Below me, the Baspa river roared away, sometimes soundless, yet other times drowning all sounds around me. A little after noon, I broke the pace at Musrang, which had been uphill all this while, for a quick bite and since it had begun to drizzle, it was safest to sit under a rock which gave me just about enough protection to shade my nose from the rain lesson no. 1 always carry a water-proof jacket with a hood or a raincoat.

That night, I camped in an open ground at Kahra, with little idea of what lay around me owing to the clouds and rain. But the suspense was well worth it, for the next morning, I found I had slept nestled between snow and icy peaks, on the rich green ground cover of Himalayan grasslands, spattered with silver dew, and out in the distance I saw my porter chasing his horses which had run away during the night. This was to become a ritual he would give the horses a few threats and then leave them, only to find them gone the next morning.

The second day was to be a tough one for we were to cross the Pin Bhabha pass. Now, I have crossed many a pass before but there are no rules, no fixed expectations, no notions whatsoever of the thing that's to come. We're talking of hard core nature here untamed, raw, beautiful and dangerous. The climb was bearable for about the first two hours. And then there lay two mountains between the pass and us. These were a killer. Steep, literally at 75 degrees, I was exhausted after walking one third the way. But once on the trail, it is impossible to stop almost fatal. And so encouraged by the horses and owner alike, I trudged on, step by step, inch by inch. When only the last 500 yards remained, I was suddenly infused with his inexplicable urge to run, and so I did. I panted through the last stretch and there it was...the only thing I could see in my line of vision was this uninterrupted stretch of land packed heavy with snow, surrounded by tall glaciers. As if it were meant to be, it began to snow and from behind this curtain of white, walking majestically, like spirits from an ancient Idian age, hardly leaving footprints behind, came a half dozen yaks huge and woolly. They had made it across and now it was my turn to traverse this slippery tract and reach the safety of the valley below. I had one hour to do so or it may have proved to be fatal. Once it begins to snow, all danger signals are up.

I took my first step and for about 50 yards, I though it was going to be alright. The next thing I knew, I was slipping down the glacier, digging my nails into the hard ice and waiting for my guide who was lost behind the snowflakes. Fortunately, my ride came to an abrupt halt as my foot hit a rock. Not quite sure of what to do next, I opted for simply standing precariously on that tiny stone and wait. My heart, which of course was making all sorts of threatening sounds, soon relaxed and contributed to being quiet in order to guage where on earth the guide was. That is when I understood what a pin-drop silence was. No sound, not even of the snow falling, not even of a bird fleeing, not even of my blood pounding in my head, not even aaaaaah! Right that's as far as the silence goes, for now there was Ganga, my guide, who had slipped as well and landed straight on my Krishna position, dragging me along with him for another 3 feet below. Ok...atleast I wasn't alone in this. Anyway, to cut a long and cold story short, we made it finally to safer ground in about 1 ½ hours and although sopping wet from all the snow, I was ecstatic and went charging to catch up with the horses. That night was a very special one, for I knew that things could have taken a turn for the worse only a few hours ago it was a time for gratitude, as always. Sitting by the fire, drying socks and shoes, eating daal bhat and thinking maybe I would not have been sitting here right now...ooof.

Well, the next day began as usual. The landscape had miraculously changed after the Pass to become oen of pink and mauve mountains, stretching into a deep blue sky, with golden hued earth all around dotted with orange and purple wild flowers. Difficult to imagine? There were no trees anymore no greenery, no birds just the river and the colours.

We began walking around 7 in the morning and by 10.00 am I was still not able to reach the mountains that I had seen from my previous camp. Finally, another couple of hours brought me to the first village which was just a dot against the mass of rock that it was built on. The sun was very strong and I had shed all my clothes save a pair of shorts and T-shirt and there I see the village folk, in their fur coats, yak leather shoes and woolly hats oblivious to the burning sun. I wondered what kind of life they has here, away from the rest of the world, with nothing to do, except place wagers on the weather for the next hour. Tracing the river, I walked for another couple of hours until lo and behold, the road decided to end into nothing at all. On one side lay the river. On the other the rockface. In front, I had no road. At the back only the same road I had been walking on. Ganga and I squatted on the edge of the dirt track and waited for the horses, for some help, for some good ideas, for a miracle. That's when we saw it. There was an iron pulley attached to both ends of the river on an iron wire. We didn't know if it would work, for past experiences haven't always been good. Besides, the river looked very menacing and turbulent to say the least and was at least 40 feet wide. Anyhow, lack of alternatives always makes the fear easier to bear with, and so Ganga the dude, jumped in and began to pull himself across. Divine providence was with us no doubt, for he got across, sent the pulley back, I got in, came half way and the Devil got into Ganga. He would yank me forward for a few feet and then let go and have me merrily swinging in that rickety iron trap, literally tumbling into the rapids below. After, I threatened to trace him all the way to his native village in Nepal, he pulled me in and we were once again, on the roll, without any clue where it was that we were rolling to.

Suddenly, there was a long shrill whistle and a mountain away, we saw our horses, who having spotted us, were pleased beyond belief and came tearing through to catch up animals obviously are far more intelligent and were on the right side of the mountain unlike us. The last stretch of the trek followed a level though endlessly meandering trail between the pastels of the hills and finally we descended over gradient to reach the bridge which would lead us to Tabo. Here, by the side of the road, were our friendly Banjara Camp folk who took one look at us and whisked us off to the luxuries of the Tabo camp hot water, beds, warmth, soup, food...what not. It was a bit of a shock at first to be in the midst of such luxuries again, but it was nice nevertheless, for a bit of everything is what makes life fun to live.