Markha Valley Trek

32
SEVEN DAYS IN LITTLE TIBET The straw-gold sunlight of a crisp August morning slanting down from the turquoise blue Leh sky, alighted on a restless figure pacing the road... a wannabe trekker with a bulky pack on his back. For better or for worse, D-day was here and there I was... filled with apprehension. This was to be my first solo-trek in the majestic Himalayas and I acutely felt my heavy pack weighing me down. The 85 km long Markha-valley trail stretched out before me with steep barren gorges, icy treacherous rivers, uncertain camping sites and a couple of five kilometre high passes thrown in for good measure. A Danish tourist I met on the trail had inquired (with raised eyebrows) why I trekked alone and that got me thinking. I’ve come to the conclusion that to trek alone you need three qualities in about equal measure. For a start, you need confidence in your trekking skills and be ready to face unexpected situations, secondly you must enjoy being by yourself and lastly you must be stupid... for no matter how much you may enjoy solitude or have the ability to leap over mountains with a single jump, an innocuous twisted ankle at a remote spot could ensure that you never left the mountains. Having said that however, trekking alone does lend a sense of vulnerability that sharpens the senses making one intensely aware of one’s surroundings, a tantalizing feeling of being alive that can’t be duplicated in the safety of numbers. LEH - ZINGCHEN - YURUTSE So anyway, there I was awaiting my taxi, impatient to be owith the dawn. The elderly man next-door, with whom I had had long chats the previous day, butted in on my thoughts and was sympathetically livid at the late taxi. He hollered a passing

description

My week-long hike in the Markha Valley, Ladakh, India.

Transcript of Markha Valley Trek

Page 1: Markha Valley Trek

SEVEN DAYS IN LITTLE TIBETThe straw-gold sunlight of a crisp August morning slanting down from the turquoise blue Leh sky, alighted on a restless figure pacing the road... a wannabe trekker with a bulky pack on his back. For better or for worse, D-day was here and there I was... filled with apprehension. This was to be my first solo-trek in the majestic Himalayas and I acutely felt my heavy pack weighing me down. The 85 km long Markha-valley trail stretched out before me with steep barren gorges, icy treacherous rivers, uncertain camping sites and a couple of five kilometre high passes thrown in for good measure.

A Danish tourist I met on the trail had inquired (with raised eyebrows) why I trekked alone and that got me thinking. I’ve come to the conclusion that to trek alone you

need three qualities in about equal measure. For a start, you need confidence in your trekking skills and be ready to face unexpected situations, secondly you must enjoy being by yourself and lastly you must be stupid... for no matter how much you may enjoy solitude or have the ability to leap over mountains with a single jump, an innocuous twisted ankle at a remote spot could ensure that you never left the mountains. Having said that however, trekking alone

does lend a sense of vulnerability that sharpens the senses making one intensely aware of one’s surroundings, a tantalizing feeling of being alive that can’t be duplicated in the safety of numbers.

LEH - ZINGCHEN - YURUTSE

So anyway, there I was awaiting my taxi, impatient to be off with the dawn. The elderly man next-door, with whom I had had long chats the previous day, butted in on my thoughts and was sympathetically livid at the late taxi. He hollered a passing

Page 2: Markha Valley Trek

taxi to a halt, ushered me in, and assured me of vengeance upon the offending cab for not arriving on time.

I waved a goodbye to the colourful prayer-wheels of Leh as we exited from under the ornate archway at its entrance. My driver was a Kashmiri Muslim settled in Leh and we chatted animatedly about nothing in particular as the tarred road crumbled to a graveled path, which soon degenerated to a bumpy trail of pebbles that was the sole road to Zingchen. The classic Markha-Valley trek is around 100-km long, starting at Spituk village. However the 14 km jeep-track from there to Zingchen was through hot barren hills... something my guide-book described as a “must-do only if you’re a

masochist”.

Ladakh is a high-altitude snow desert cradled in the rain-shadow formed by the towering peaks of the Greater Himalayan Range and the Karakoram Range of mountains. Receiving less than 4 inches of rainfall a year, most of it as snow, the view from the cab was remarkable. Not a bush, not even a blade of grass bridled the freedom of the ever-present breeze as it swept up dusty swirls around us. Below, in the distance

like a silver snake, lay the Indus river, winding its way through a lush green and yellow corridor of cultivated fields, the only habitable zone in that harsh barren land. I gazed out of the window at the hills flying past... well not really “fly” per se, it was more like being in a tiny rowboat on a choppy sea as the little car tumbled and see-sawed over the boulder-strewn path.

We spotted a couple of villagers walking our way and gave them a lift. Mohammed and his wife had left early that morning from Phyang, taken a bus to Spituk and were walking to Rumbak, a village on the way to Yurutse, where I was headed. The entire trek was for the benefit of a goat that Mohammed had set his sight on. He assured me that he was not going to buy it outright... he only wanted to see it and make sure it was

Page 3: Markha Valley Trek

healthy... that his investment was secure. Once it was fattened and ready for the butcher he’d be back to close the deal.

The narrow jeep-track finally gave up its unequal struggle and petered off. The car deposited us at the head of a brambly path that began next to the clear Zingchen stream. We took a break for tea. Mohammed’s wife fished out a blackened little kettle from her tiny backpack and went to collect water from the stream while Mohammed and I collected dry twigs for a fire. They pressed maggi noodles and tea on me, while stoutly refusing a share of the food that I carried... insisting that they would soon be home anyway. It was this kind of hospitality, to even complete strangers, that I encountered all over Ladakh. People everywhere were quick to smile, chat and lend a helping hand. And that perhaps, is the reason that though these folk live in such an inhospitable land that remains buried under snow and cut-off for most of the year; I didn’t see a single starving Ladakhi or one who begged for charity. While remaining respectful always, they were never servile and exuded a self-respect that I found admirable.

The trail ahead lay along the valley of the Zingchen, crossing the surging stream time and again. Initially crossings consisted of planks of wood loosely strapped together to form a rudimentary bridge, further on they were logs thrown across the water and still further ahead fording the stream necessitated some acrobatic skipping over

submerged rocks.

We soon passed a derelict guard-house that announced the entrance to the Hemis National Park, the last abode of the snow-leopards. There was supposed to be an entrance fee, but cobwebs on the windows of the cabin told that it hadn’t been claimed for quite a while. Snow-leopards are rarely sighted in the summer when tourists from around the world descend to trek this route, but in winters, when their natural

prey becomes rare, they are frequently spotted (pun not intended). Prowling around villages and stealing livestock, they were once considered a menace. This was the

Page 4: Markha Valley Trek

primary reasons that Homestays in villages was initiated... so that villagers along the route made money from trekkers and realised the worth of preserving their environment and in particular, the snow-leopards.

I still hadn’t got used to the lower oxygen-content in the rarefied air and could barely keep up with the light, effortless pace set by the Mohammeds. They took another break for my sake, and whipped out the tea-kettle again. This time it was the salty Tibetan butter tea that they brewed. Mohammad’s wife squealed in delight, when I brought out my peanuts and handed them both a fistful. They carefully put it in their pockets and munched them thoughtfully the rest of the way. Though we lived in different worlds, different eras even, it was surprisingly easy chatting with Mohammed. He talked of farming, I talked of education, we both complained of the rising inflation and understood each other perfectly.

We soon reached the tea-tent near Rumbak and parted ways. I settled down to a lunch of Maggie-noodle soup and mint tea while they set off for their home. In the tent were a couple of elderly women from Germany and a Canadian with his 14-year old daughter. Soon a gaggle of school girls from the UK trooped in chirping away happily. The tent was getting crowded so I picked up my pack and set off again.

The path now clung to the hem of the hills bordering the stream, till it finally descended to a small meadow used as a campsite. Then was a stiff climb up a reddish-purple scree-filled hillside that quite literally took my breath away. Chortens at the top spoke of a settlement beyond and sure enough, the bright green fields of Yurutse beckoned.

Page 5: Markha Valley Trek

Yurutse is a one-house settlement, and there lay the ancient stone building perched over bright-green step-fields. It housed a young woman and her aged mother who tended the fields and stayed there all by themselves. I was welcomed in with cups of steaming hot mint tea.

Traditional Ladakhi houses have a central hall containing an ornately decorated wood-fired stove with a metal chimney tunneling its way through the rooms above. Two sides of the room are thickly carpeted with narrow, shallow tables laid out beside them. Gleaming pots and pans are proudly displayed next to family photos on the wall behind the stove. Among the vessels were some strangely shaped kettles with long snouts used for pouring Chaang, the local beer, at weddings and festivals. The walls were of thick stone, built to last for generations, and keep the biting cold of the long winters at bay.

My resting pulse was a thudding 120 per minute (where normally it’s below 65)... I was not yet used to the high-altitude. The human body acclimatizes by initially elevating the heart rate and churning out more red-blood cells till there are enough of them to mop up sufficient oxygen out of the rarefied air. Then the pulse returns to normal.

Page 6: Markha Valley Trek

I took a long nap and then went to sit on the terrace above. I had packed a thick slice of delicious apple pie from the German Bakery in Leh, and I sat down now to do justice to it. In the sun it felt like sitting in a microwave oven, while shifting to the shade felt like lying in the chiller-tray of a refrigerator. I finally settled down in the sun with my wide-brimmed Shikari-Shambhu hat and took in the Stok Kangri peak rising loftily above the sea of swirling green fields, in between mouthfuls of apple pie.

I went down for another nap only to be awoken by a dull thudding beat... a monk was worshipping at the small private shrine at the top of the house. It was dinner time. For dinner we had donkey ears... well not literally, but a dish whose literal translation from Ladakhi is precisely that. It consisted of flat wheat strips rolled into the shape of a donkey’s ears and dunked into a broth of carrots, potatoes, spinach and herbs. I remarked that most of the ingredients seemed to be locally grown and that the family had such large fields. The lady of the house replied that finding land for farming was not the problem, finding people to work on them was... a statement that would have sounded absurd in any other part of India. But Ladakh, even with the sprawling

populous Leh as its capital, boasts a population density of just 3 people per square kilometre!

Staying with me at the house were the German women I had met earlier and an American father-son duo Jim and Andy. I had a pleasant chat with them and their guide Tashi, a BSc student at a college in Leh, moonlighting as a

guide for pocket-money. This was a common phenomenon all through the four-month long tourist season when the snow-gods of the passes relented to allow a

Page 7: Markha Valley Trek

deluge of visitors to stream in. Farmers, students, government officials and their supervisors everyone dipped in to partake of the herds that descended... and I think it’s good that they do so, for then there is a strong incentive to keep the place pristine. But I fear that once the all-weather road to Leh opens up, this still-amateur tourist industry will become a full-time occupation and a lifestyle that has remained untouched for generations will slowly fade away.

After dinner I went out to catch the sunset. I climbed down along the steep drop to the valley and sat for a while at the edge, but the chill breeze drove me back to my snug, carpeted room... and soon I was out for the night.

YURUTSE - KANDA LA – SHINGO

The next day began early... I freshened up at the crystal-clear stream in the fields and went to the toilet. Lavatories in parched Ladakh are water-free. They are usually outhouses with a hole on the floor down which cow-dung and mud is shoveled once the job is done. The chamber below it is regularly cleared and the

manure used in the fields... it’s quite a hygienic and efficient arrangement if you think about it.

Breakfast consisted of a rotis with jam and butter, some of which were packed for lunch. Though the previous day had been tiring, we were all in high spirits as we set off for the Kanda La pass.

The vegetation soon turned to patches of scrub clinging desperately to the hard cold rocky soil. This was apparently prime real-estate for marmots. Marmots

look a bit like fat mongooses with shortened tails. They scampered around unconcerned, not having learned to fear people. There were also numerous Chukor partridges that strutted along with chests puffed up proudly displaying their zebra-striped wings.

The climb up to the 4800m pass was gradual but exacting. The German women decided to turn back as their high-altitude induced headaches were getting worse. We halted for tea at a tent pitched near the base of

Page 8: Markha Valley Trek

the climb and then followed an exhausting, literally breath-taking climb to the high windy pass. The scenery opened up all around us as we ascended till at the top we had a 360-degree view of the mountain ranges, with the Stok Kangri in the east and the distant Zanskar range to the west.

The pass at the top had a mani wall and reams of prayer flags fluttering in the breeze.

All promontories in Ladakh are surmounted by these flags. Buddhist mantras printed on these flags are believed to scatter with the winds, blessing and purifying the surroundings. Mani walls are made with hundreds of rocks inscribed with Buddhist prayers, usually the mantra “Om mani padme hum”. Chortens and mani walls are always to be crossed to the left, in a clockwise direction, for protection and wellbeing of the traveller... a quaint tradition, still followed rigorously by the locals.

A noisy ever-present breeze ruffled the mane of the horses as we settled in the lee of the mani wall for lunch. Tashi raced up a nearby hill to get mobile coverage and inform his agency that all was well with their clients. The sun

Page 9: Markha Valley Trek

was still warm and I felt drowsy after lunch. I waved a farewell to the Americans and lay down for a nap. That was a bad move... a nagging headache that had begun as

we neared the pass now began to get worse. Another half-hour at that height and I knew I’d be in serious trouble... I hastily descended the pass and caught up with the Americans and their ponies.

It was still a long gravelly route down to Shingo. We spotted numerous marmots peeping from behind rocks and straggly bushes, while eagles hovered high overhead. Tashi had found a long elegant

eagle-feather and had tucked it carefully into his bag for the village archery competition. The competitions, he said, were like a party... where, he emphasised, girls would be watching.

Shingo was a settlement with two-three permanent houses overlooking a stream that meandered through sparkling green and yellow fields.

Page 10: Markha Valley Trek

I took a short nap, and all-too-soon it was time for dinner. Dinner was Thupka (a kind of broth). The house was built along similar lines to the one at Yurutse but was smaller and seemed less ancient. The hosts, however, was just as gracious and hospitable. The reason this trail has become so popular with European tourists is

because the Ladakhis, though poor, are unfailingly honest and cheerful in all their dealings.

The route ahead went down to Skyu and then branched off. One route went to Chilling, where a basket-crossing of the Markha-river deposited you at a motorable road serviced by local busses. This was my exit-plan and the route taken by trekkers who didn’t want to cover the entire trail. The other branched off along the Markha river-

valley with steep slopes hemming you in most of the way to the Kongmaru La, a 5200 m high pass, beyond which the trail descended to Shang Sumdo where a tarred road lead back to Leh and civilisation. As I snuggled into the warm blankets that night, I lay seriously considering my exit-plan, but put off the decision for the next day.

SHINGO - SKYU - SARA

And thank-god I did!

All the high-altitude uneasiness had sloughed off with the night and I felt alive and raring to go. Morning was a cold, refreshing splash at the sparkling stream nearby gleaming in the sun. The horses tethered to the fence were stamping and neighing, eager to be off and so was I (eager to be off that is... not the stamping and neighing bit).

The trail down to Skyu was along the Shingo rivulet, a narrow gully carved out of the imposing rocky hills by this playful little stream. At places, the valley was less than a hundred meters across with the trail zigzagging repeatedly through the stream as it wound its way through brambly bushes that infrequently blossomed into bright pink explosions of tiny flowers.

Page 11: Markha Valley Trek

Somewhere along the way, my foot slipped into the stream, and thenceforth I boldly crossed the stream not concerning myself with keeping my feet dry. As Jim and Andy were more careful I soon outpaced them and found myself alone. Yes my feet were cold and wet and yes my pack still weighed 13 kgs and yes to a hundred other inconveniences... but finally I was trekking alone! It felt great!

The shallow gully had none of the wide expanse or barrenness that makes the casual trekker feel insignificant. This narrow space, made alive by the cool, bubbling stream had a personality one could relate to... this valley felt like it was mine.

Gradually, the gradient eased and an abandoned parachute tent crept into view. These parachute tents were all army-surplus sold or given to the locals to set up shop for trekkers. As there were so few settlements along the way, the villagers usually worked out a system to share the tourist inflow and man the tents. Well... ‘man’ wouldn’t be a correct word though as it was usually taken care of by the women while the men worked as guides and ponymen.

This tent had a small board welcoming the visitor to Kaya. Now Kaya was more than 2 kms out of my way and I was concerned I had taken a wrong turn somewhere... but I needn’t have worried. In the mountains, when a villager says “baaju mein hai” (beside it) it usually means a 5 km radius, if he says “aage hi hai” (just ahead) it usually means a stiff 2 kms while “idhar hi hai”(it is here) translates to a kilometre away. So I ignoring the sign and soon came upon Skyu.

The path to Skyu was lined with weather-beaten old ruins between craggy ancient cliffs rising steeply on both sides... reminding me strongly of an Indiana Jones movie. As the valley opened up, a thousand year old gompa (monastery) founded by the llamas of the Drukpa lineage rose into view. Monasteries initially began as a hall where village elders and the king’s representatives sat to discuss issues, collect taxes,

Page 12: Markha Valley Trek

pass judgements etc. Being a convenient place for hoarding food and money, it became a target for bandits. Soon they were shifted up high bluffs overlooking the villages for easier defense and began to play a more spiritual rather than political role.

Unfortunately, the monk of the gompa was away and I sat down at the tent pitched below with the Americans who had caught up. We sat below the thousand-year old relic discussing American foreign policy and downing cups of steaming mint tea. Soon the Americans left for Chilling, wistfully looking forward to hot showers and gourmet meals while I set off for Markha and a whole week on the trail.

The village of Skyu, though sparsely peopled by any reasonable scale, was one of the largest villages in the region. The houses and fields sprawled out for a kilometre along the river though I spotted very few people. The village was soon behind me and the trail climbed up the cliff bordering the surging river. My guidebook had correctly described this portion of the trail as “a series of eyes”, widening to shallow basins filled with dense thickets of s e a b u c k t h o r n bushes and then narrowing and snaking up ridges topped by chortens and mani-walls.

The day was getting hot now and I was running out of fuel. At a particularly picturesque rise, I sheltered from the breeze in the lee of a mani-wall and unpacked my lunch. The rumbling white river was a sheer drop from the cliff, while the noon-sky above had taken on the peculiar crystal clear blue of Ladakhi skies. I sat at the edge of the cliff and dug into my lunch of buttered rotis, boiled egg and a boiled potato with salt.

I felt contented and tempted to snooze... but Sara was still some

Page 13: Markha Valley Trek

distance away so after an all-too-brief halt I strapped on my pack and set off again. Around 4 kms away was supposed to be another tent at Hamurja. When I got there, the parachute tent was not manned but a group of French tourists had set up a campsite on the small pasture instead. I went to the kitchen tent and sat chatting with the Nepali cook (hoping to cadge some tea in the bargain). He was a professional cook with mountain expeditions and regaled me with stories of his trek to Kailash parvat with groups of more than two hundred people (and how a few hare-brained daredevils had decided to bathe in the freezing lake there and as a result had, quite expectedly, died).

Further ahead, the valley widened as the river, though still full of vigour, seemed to mature and calm down as it spread over the loose gravel of the valley floor. If I had carried a tent of my own, I’d have probably pitched it right there. The view was spectacular with river spilling over the wide open plain bordered on two sides by scree-filled high cliffs and on the other two by distant snow peaks.

Page 14: Markha Valley Trek

Just as I was starting to tire, the welcome signboard for the one-house settlement at Sara came into view. Julian, the Canadian I had met earlier, was in charge of the house. The lady of the house had run (literally run) to the neighbouring village

(around 2 kilometers away) Chalak and had left him in charge. Julian had been down this same trail some 15 years back with his wife and had returned now with his pretty 14-year old daughter Emma. I dumped my pack in my room and went to sit by the river. The rocks there were nicely sun-warmed while the water was pleasantly cold.

Sunset in Ladakh happens in stages. First the shadows of nearby

hills begin to creep silently over the landscape as the sun dips from view. Then the high ridges behind them start to dim while the distant high snow peaks catch the slanting rays and turn to gold. And finally, these too are extinguished by the night to be replaced by a brilliant coruscating sky twinkling with stars.

Dinner was dal, rice and spinach peppered with apologies from the gracious family at the absence of vegetable in the dinner. Grocery shopping for them was a stiff 3-day trek to Chilling and back, so their apologies seemed absurd, but they were genuinely sincere in their remorse.

Post-dinner, their infant Tenzing and Emma hit it off big time. The crazier Emma got the more Tenzing squealed and giggled... it was quite entertaining.

A large contingent of Israelis showed up with the night and the little house was filled to the brim. But that bothered me not the least for the moment I closed my eyes, the world dropped away and I was fast asleep.

Page 15: Markha Valley Trek

SARA – MARKHA

The next morning was early. Even as I sat yawning, buried under blankets, Julian and Emma became a bewildering whirlwind of activity, changing, packing up things and getting ready to leave. I stood for a while on the barn roof with my water-bottle, drinking in the new day. The river had chilled during the night and was now icy and foaming.

Breakfast was buttered rotis and tea. The Canadians set off after breakfast as I sat to pack up and read my guidebook for the trail ahead. Breakfast lay heavy in my stomach, the blankets lay warmly on my shoulders and I felt comfortably lazy... so I shut my eyes and dozed off again. I couldn’t help but notice the contrast with most of the other trekkers I’d met along the trail, who took the trail as a challenge, a pretty little obstacle course to race through as speedily as possible. I guess most European trekkers are the kind who like to conquer peaks and set records, while I can see myself lazily chewing the cud with cows in a meadow far below, cheering them on.

The valley ahead was wide, with the river now a majestic restrained force. Once past the bright green wheat fields of Chalak, the valley basin turned to sandy gravel with towering sandstone cliffs looming on both sides. There were ominous signs of landslides at many places and the sun was intense, so I did not halt anywhere along the way till I climbed a short rise and the view took my breath taken away (well... to be honest, my breath was taken away as much by the steep climb as the scenery).

Page 16: Markha Valley Trek

Punched into the adjacent cliff-side were holes that monks had once used as a retreat for quiet contemplation. The path ahead lay through thickets of seabuckthorn forests and a wide shingled space without any shade.

The day was hot and it was with relief that I spotted the old crumbling fort of Markha stabbing up into the distant sky-line. There were numerous meadows

marked for campsites and pasture as I neared the fort. Up a short stiff climb to the ancient gompa, I sat in the breeze by the mani-wall at the top. The gompa was locked. I asked a rosy cheeked school boy about it and he replied “Monk so raha hoga”. It was past eleven a clock on a hot lazy morning

what else could he have been doing I asked myself.

Markha is the largest village along the route so I was confident of finding some tea-stall to halt for lunch. The village and its terraced fields spread out like a green and yellow checkerboard below me. I picked my way through the fields, looking around for a place to halt and before I knew it the village was behind me. Ladakh being Ladakh I should not have been surprised that the largest village on the trail was one with around twenty houses. I found myself in a marshy pasture with a single bent scraggly tree. I took shelter in its shade and had my lunch.

Page 17: Markha Valley Trek

The trail ahead was blazing in the noon sun. I trudged on some 15 minutes and turned back for a last look at Markha... and that did it. Ahead of me lay a hot sun-baked valley while behind me was a comfortable home-stay beside bright green fields. I turned back and was soon installed at the Mentok family’s home. On hind-sight it was fortunate that laziness had won, for the trail ahead crossed the Markha river at least twice. The river swollen by the snowmelt in the afternoon sun had swelled dangerously. Trekking groups of Europeans were only fording it now in the early mornings, when the river was comparatively docile.

At the home-stay, I shared a room with Henri, a French teacher and an amateur photographer. He has been kind enough to send me some of his snaps which I have uploaded here. In the evening I went back up to the gompa and this time found it open. A monk sat within beating a muffled drum and in a monotonous undertone chanting a prayer. The mediaeval monastery felt deeply still and soothing. I sat there for a while.

Page 18: Markha Valley Trek

In the evening, another Frenchman and his daughters arrived. They were part of an NGO that had supplied solar lighting to the village the previous year and were now back to set up a UV-water filtration plant.

Back at Sara, the Israelis had assumed I was part of the local family that ran the homestay, over here the French assumed the same. At Niamling and tea-tents all along the way people, both Europeans and the locals, assumed I was a porter or a guide. I didn’t see a single Indian tourist the entire time. An occasional Indian tourist does cover the trail from Zingchen to Skyu and out from Chilling, but it is rare to see Indian tourists in the Markha valley. What I also did not see was plastic wrappers, bottles, cans and all the assorted debris of city life. It is a painful truth that where the Indian tourist goes he leaves his mark... an ugly eyesore. So in spite of being such a popular trail for so many years, Markha Valley has retained its pristine beauty precisely because you do not find Indians tourists there. (In contrast the azure Pangong lake that I saw later was bordered in places by plastic rubbish as a motorable road to Leh made it a easy for Indians to get there).

Dinner that night was spinach momos and more cups of mint tea. The others continued an animated lively conversation in French, with much gesticulation and laughter, while I retired for the night.

MARKHA – HANGKAR

The next morning I waved a goodbye to the sweet old child-like woman at the homestay (who grinned toothlessly back) and set off for Hangkar. I caught up with a group of Danish tourists I had seen earlier, who were covering the trail on horseback with full riding gear and a complement of guides and helpers. Horseback was a good place to be, I thought, as the trail vanished into the icy river. There were four river crossings in all and the surging icy water was almost waist-high in places. I had firmly resolved not to fall, but as my legs got numb I almost did stumble on the fourth crossing.

Page 19: Markha Valley Trek

Fortunately the weather was clear, and once changed to dry clothes the sun soon warmed me up. As there was a short window for crossing the stream, I found many trekkers of many nationalities at the tea-tent ahead at Umlaung. I chatted with the gentle group of elderly Danish horsemen and women, a young family from Belgium and assorted ponymen, guides and porters.

The way ahead was through dusty ridges and tangled jungles of seabuckthorn bushes. I chatted with a Muslim porter from Kargil who kept complaining of the weight of the pack on his back (by contrast I never found a single Ladakhi complaining of his lot). He lighted up at hearing that my name was Ijaaz and then cooled down when he realised it was not.

We soon came upon a meadow with a teat tent welcoming one to Hangkar. The village was still 2 kilometers away but this was a convenient camping site. An expedition of the Indian Army was just setting off for the Stok Kangri peak and they all looked ridiculously fit, hefting huge oversize packs and striding past with the ease of a walk in the park.

Page 20: Markha Valley Trek

As the sun reached its zenith the fields of Hangkar swam into view. The only word that can capture my impression of the place is “Magical”.

The village consisted of about ten houses scattered around bright green wheat and potato fields on the banks of the swiftly swirling Markha, with flowering meadows of soft green grass thrown in for good measure. Sheer craggy cliffs steeply rose on two sides while a small tributary of the river cut a gully down one side with houses blending into the hill beside it. I find it surprising that most tourists trek on to Thujungtse to make the most of the day, when such a beautiful spot lies in between.

I enquired at a white-washed primary school set back from the fields (the only other structure apart from the huts). The young lady teacher there said that the house in the middle of the field had its key hanging by the door. Seeing my hesitation to just walk into someone’s house, she told a little girl sitting there to direct me to her home. I followed the ponytailed girl as she skipped

Page 21: Markha Valley Trek

through the fields. A powerfully muscled white horse stood grazing in the meadows while a black fluffy donkey (the kind seen in Winnie-the-pooh) lay with its calf

nearby.

I hung out my wet clothes to dry on the hot rocks outside as I settled down for lunch. The woman of the house came from her fields and prepared mint tea. Before going back to her farms she poked her head through the door and asked “Cock chahiye?”. Slightly non-plussed I said “Kya??”. “Cock” she repeated with more earnestness. Seeing my blank expression, she thought a moment and tried again “Cock-aa-colaa ?”. Ah! I politely declined.

After a short nap, I went for a stroll by the river. It was a game of hide-and-seek with the sun. As the sun dipped behind the crags of the hill on the opposite bank its shadow crawled across my side of the river. The sun was still

harshly intense while the shade quickly became chilly so it required a constant balance of moving with the shadowline for a comfortable stroll along the river. I had heard locals complaining that the Markha Valley trek had become over-crowded, well I disagree. You do run into tourists at tea-tents and you do come across occasional groups while trekking but there are also long stretches of solitude and that evening I had the valley all to myself.

Once the sun had dipped from view, I made my way back through the fairytale meadow of yellow-white flowers. A young llama boy was chasing a baby sheep as it frolicked all over the place. He caught it and carried one of them while the other slipped away. He called out to the pony-tailed girl for help and together they caught the second sheep. I stood there patting the horse while it steadfastly ignored me and continued hungrily munching the grass.

Page 22: Markha Valley Trek

The woman and her three kids were collecting dry cow-dung as I returned home. I sat on the stones outside taking in the darkening fields chatting with the little girl

about her school. She was glad to know that I was a mathematics teacher. The tiniest of the three kids, with the longest name of Jigmet Dachi Lama chased a plump black tomcat and plonked it down beside me. The cat half-shut its eyes in pleasure as I scratched it and crawled into my lap for a nap.

Just then, the girl pointed to the opposite hillside where a herd of some twenty deer were acrobatically descending

the sheer cliff. The grandmother pottering in the potato field nearby looked up and told the kids to chase them away. All three kids whooped and raced for the deer. Looking mildly annoyed, the deer hopped back up the vertical precipice in a dignified manner. The scene in the gathering dusk was surreal, and I wouldn’t have been particularly surprised if Totoro, the Japanese friendly spirit of the forest, bounced along next.

Dinner was rice, a dry daal and spinach with ketchup. An old transistor gave the news of riots in Srinagar, which seemed a whole world away. Midway through the meal, the family donkey poked its head through the window to join in the conversation. It probably expected an enthusiastic welcome and seemed much miffed when the girl pushed it out and slammed the shutters on its face.

I went out for a leak later that night and was struck by the star-spangled twinkling night sky. The air was cold and crystal clear and every square inch of the pitch black sky was sparkling with diamonds. The milky-way formed a hazy band above the sharply outlined black hills. A shooting star with a long tail traced its way through the heavens and I could not think of anything to wish for... everything was just as it should be.

Page 23: Markha Valley Trek

HANGKAR – NIAMLING

Hangkar was my favourite campsite of the lot and I seriously considered staying back another day there. However, before me lay the long climb to Niamling followed by the high Kongmaru La pass and an uncertain transport at Shang Sumdo. With a departing flight from Leh that was inflexible. I decided to husband my two spare days for later.

The trail began with a heart-busting stiff climb straight up a gorge, with no time for sissy things like warming up. Framed behind the chortens and prayer flags waving in the breeze at the top were the fields of Hangkar stretching down to the river. What had robbed me of my breath was just a daily route for the school children staying in that village!

Once past the village, the narrow trail clung to the steep hillside and in half an hour descended to a rickety bridge that lead to a meadow-campsite across the river. Porters and pony-men there were packing up the tents while the sahibs had gone on ahead. Even as I reached the bridge, the porters waved for my attention. Over the roar of the river, we communicated in signals and I was directed not to cross but to walk on the rocks up the stream and find the trail further ahead.

The trail ahead was through a rocky stretch over scree-filled slopes with loose gravel and numerous signs of recent landslides. I picked up my pace till I reached a huge boulder overhanging the trail and rested in its slight shade sipping from my water-bottle.

Page 24: Markha Valley Trek

Just then, loose pebbles rained down on my hat and even as I comprehended the danger of an imminent landslide a fist-sized rock crashed down inches from my feet with a sickening thud. I looked up to see three long faces framed in the sun, looking down at me with great curiosity.

They were blue-sheep, locally known as bharal. I knew well that any moment the pebbles they were dislodging could start a landslide, but it was so funny I couldn’t resist clicking a snap before hastily grabbing my stuff and getting the hell out from under them. From a safe distance, I observed the mountain goats at leisure, at their remarkable sure-footedness as they pranced casually from one tiny invisible outcropping to another. They soon lost interest in me and casually hopped up the vertical cliff.

Walking on, I reached a rock-strewn untidy little meadow with a tea-tent. I was surprised and a bit disappointed that I had reached Niamling so soon and that it wasn’t half as picturesque as I had heard. Well... I was in for a surprise. I had just reached Thujungtse, a

Page 25: Markha Valley Trek

campsite I thought I had passed an hour back. Niamling was still quite some distance away.

The Danish group of horsemen reached the tent. All were in their late fifties, and remarkably fit for their age. One of them I talked to said that when he was of my age he had been trekking the forbidden places in Tibet!

The way ahead was a stiff steep climb up a mountain. Hangkar to Niamlink is an altitude gain of around 800m in just six and half kms. To make matters worse I had taken a steep shortcut used by the locals and not the gradual longer way taken by

trekkers. I reached the top exhausted but the view of the majestic Kang Yaze massif on side and the Stok Kangri range on the other was well worth it. I met up with the Danish group again and we climbed a shallow rise to what I consider the most sublime place on the entire trail.

Page 26: Markha Valley Trek

A serene wide C-shaped pool of crystal clear snowmelt water rippled gently in the cool breeze mirroring the snowy pyramid of Kang Yaze and the brilliant blue of the sky. I settled down for lunch at the concave end of the C-shaped bank of the pool.

A tiny stream tripped down from a rise on one side, feeding the pool. Climbing up the stream I came across yet another ethereal pool of still sparkling water. This one had a `skull-cap’ crown of dull-yellow flowers floating in the middle. I hopped all over the place taking snaps, egging my dying camera battery on. But again, when I look at the snaps now, they seem lifeless.

I dipped my feet in the pond but quickly put on shoes again, the water was freezing. I sat by the pool for almost an hour till I was certain I had made it mine.

Page 27: Markha Valley Trek

It was with reluctance that I heaved on my pack again and set off for Niamling. The long rest and the thin air made the going tough. I took no breaks in the hour and half it took to get to the rolling alpine meadows of Niamling. As the evening progresses, the mercury there plummets and it would have been downright dangerous to be late in reaching this camp, as I wasn’t even carrying a tent.

Niamling is a vast pasture cut through by the Markha, with rudimentary stone dwellings of nomads on one bank of the river

Page 28: Markha Valley Trek

and a few tents of trekking groups scattered across the other. Nomadic goat and yak herders have been using these ancient huts for generations... it’s a lifestyle that I don’t think will survive for much longer.

The guy in charge of the home-stay tent there was a dour fellow. There were no families staying at that height, and I can well-imagine that the bitter cold and harsh lonely life there for four months of ‘tourist-season’ must not exactly be a picnic. This was the only camp that I had actually booked in advance... not finding blankets or tents here would have been, well... fatal.

It was nice meeting Henri, the Frenchman, again. He was to share my tent. Dinner that evening was a bland daal-rice and an equally bland boiled cabbage sabzi.

As the sun dimmed, the slanting rays lit upon a large flock of sheep and goat that filled the meadow with bleats and grunts as they returned for the night. A few yak and dzo stragglers followed suit, lumbering across the freezing river over a rickety wooden plank of a bridge.

The night was bitterly cold. Fortunately the quilts provided were

massively thick and buried as I lay curled in a sleeping bag under them I was soon fast asleep. It had been a long, eventful day.

NIAMLING - KONGMARU LA - SHANG SUMDO - LEH

The day that followed would be much longer still. The plan for the day was to cross the 5200 m Kongmaru La pass and then drop almost a kilometre down a steep, treacherous trail on the other side to Shang Sumdo some 16 kilometers away.

As I filled my bottle from the Niamling Chu, water splashed on my hands and within moments they were numb. I have never felt cold of that kind before, when all you feel is pain and don’t know even know if your hand is wet without looking down to check.

Going to the toilet in the open is an experience in Ladakh. On the one hand the vast landscape is bereft of people, on the other it is also bereft of vegetation... so no

Page 29: Markha Valley Trek

convenient bushes to squat behind. It was a fair 20 minute trek to some distant boulders that blocked both the view and the breeze.

By the time I returned Henri had left. I thrust my hands in the sleeping bag and rubbed them till feeling returned. Breakfast was the usual buttered rotis, a hot watery gruel of milk and rice and steaming cups of tea. I set off early, before the other trekkers left.

The climb for the pass starts as soon as the trail crossed the Niamling Chu. It ascends to a wide open plateau which is like a flat bowl surrounded by ranges of snow mountains all around. Living in a city all my life, it’s difficult to even comprehend the wide empty expanse that spread out all around me. Occasional yaks looked up in surprise as I marched past them, zigzagging up to the pass.

The high, snow-lined windswept pass was mounted by a long mani-wall with colourful p r a y e r fl a g s fluttering wildly in the chilly breeze. The view was, e x p e c t e d l y , magnificent and I felt on top of the world!

Page 30: Markha Valley Trek

I took a short halt at the top and blazed a greeting in the snow for the trekkers who would follow.

Once below the snowline the hills were overrun with marmots and rabbits while the skies above had circling eagles. You had only to stand still for a minute to see the marmots and rabbits come out from behind boulders and peep out of their holes to stare at you, twitching with curiosity.

It was a long slippery track down to the swiftly flowing stream. Many pack-animals had slipped and died in this stretch so I took it slowly. Once in the valley, the terrain changed dramatically. The angry snow-

strengthened stream had cut through the rock like knife through butter. There were large rock spires bordering the stream... much like the Elvish statues beside the river down which Frodo rowed his canoe. Fantastic rock formations were lined along the stream. Occasionally the path rose steeply to clamber over a jutting boulder, at times the path crumbled to a series of loose rocks scattered across the stream and occasionally careful wading through the white rapids was called for.

It was a long but exhilarating walk to the tea-tent at Chusykurmo (which literally means ‘sour water’ after the muddy stream beside it). I sat with a young apprentice guide, a Ladakhi college student studying in Delhi (whose one complain was that the

horses farted too much), and had a maggi noodle soup garnished with local herbs.

It was pleasantly warm under the plastic of the tent and I stretched out to relax and consider my next move. I could either halt at Chogdo a kilometre down and then go to Shang Sumdo the next day, or try and make for Shang today itself... a further 3 km walk on an easy trail. Shang is a road head connected to Leh, but as only one

Page 31: Markha Valley Trek

bus left in the early morning, I decided to push on to Shang and try to book a cab with some of the other trekkers.

Once past the pretty fields of Chogdo the path gently undulating on the side of the hills was wide, even and with an unchanging view of the river valley below.

When trekking alone, it is imperative not to let the mind wander for a simple slip or unwittingly taking a wrong turn can have disastrous consequences. But the path did get monotonous after a while, and I rambled through the labyrinth of memories that were crowding my mind. In time, the fields of Shang Sumdo came into view and the trail ended at a tea tent above a tarred road.

Netanel and Mikhail, an Israeli couple, stumbled in exhausted about an hour later and we decided to book a cab. (Being the small world it is Netanel was, of all things, a mathematics student at precisely the university I almost went for my postdoc). Booking a cab was however, easier said than done.

The village had one telephone, a BSNL receiver belonging to the affluent family in the village. I went to their house and requested to use their phone. Two pretty young girls came down dressed in bright Tshirts and jeans that seemed out of place in that rustic hamlet. They studied at a college in Srinagar. They

brought down with them their BSNL receiver and a bulky looking battery. We walked up a road to a place where they assured me we would get coverage.

Page 32: Markha Valley Trek

Along the way, the girls noticed that their cow was tethered too close to their fields, and one of them raced down the embankment, in her fancy clothes and sandals to pull the cow away. The other girl and I shuffled all over the road waving the receiver around to appease the telephone gods... but it was not to be. I returned to the tent, mission not accomplished.

A bus soon came lumbering up an hour later and Netanel rushed down to book it. After much haggling and calling in the owner from the fields, we booked a car to take us back to Leh and creature comforts.

It is true that I longed for hot showers and tasty food but my mind was still swimming with visions of the landscape and people I had spent the past week with. Even now, almost three months later I can vividly recall the aquamarine hues of the sparkling sky, the lonely windswept passes, the white untamed rivers cutting through rolling alpine meadows, the bright green and yellow step fields swaying in the breeze, the vast barren expanses and most of all the simplicity and warmth of the people there.

I would strongly urge more people to experience this trail, particularly other Indians. Blanketed in our city-smogs most of us are not even aware of the beauty our country has. But to all who go there, I pray that they follow the old adage of trekkers “Take back with you only memories, leave behind only footsteps”.

To everyone I met in Ladakh, “Julley !!”.