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Spiti Valley ~ Part II
by Harish Kohli
http://www.awimaway.com
During my first visit to Spiti, I had walked along the snow-
covered track between Dhankar and Kibber. There are no
hotels in all of Spiti and accommodation can be found only
at the government rest houses. I had stayed at the homes of
villagers whose warmth and hospitality never ceases to
amaze me. They were mostly farmers who worked hard during
the brief summer months to raise their crops of barley and
peas. Sitting around the family hearth ~ a wood-burning
stove in the middle of the kitchen ~ and sharing a simple
meal with them, one felt the outside world to be
unimaginably remote.
Returning to Spiti now, after many years, I saw a greatly
expanded Kaza. I was dreading and preparing my self for the
worst but was relieved to find, despite the inevitable
signs of progress, that the old town still retained some of
its medieval charm, with its traditional mud houses and
narrow alleys. The bazaar was packed with shops and stalls
and there were even the ubiquitous STD telephone booths,
which made long distance calls readily possible.
The barking of Rab woke me. I peeped out of my tent but
could see nothing in the morning light. The sun was still
behind the ridge in the direction Rab was facing. Giles,
the schoolteacher, looked through his binoculars. 'It's an
ibex~ one ~ two ~ three~oh, there is a herd of them,' he
shouted.
The view was magnificent. Tall crags leapt from the slope
where the ibex grazed; wisps of cloud swirled high among
the cliffs, weaving a soft mantle against the now blue sky.
The animals' fawny-brown coats were camouflaged against
brown rocks. Their short dark tails wagged. Enormous horns
rose above their tiny heads, ending in sharp points. We
thanked Rab for letting us see those magnificent creatures
and offered him a special helping of food.
We were now in the remote Pin Valley of Spiti. White-washed
villages appeared periodically, surrounded by patchworks of
fragile fields. Harsh, rocky Mountains rose above them in
singular walls. There were no trees or bushes, just stark
ruggedness that formed its own beauty.
After eight days' trekking from Kibber we were convinced
that we are ready for an assault on Bhaba Pass. Tashi made
breakfast a little earlier and before the morning sun had
time to get too hot, we started our long march. In three
hours we could have made half a day's march but Bhaba was
an altogether tougher and slower proposition.
Harish Kohli is a mountaineer, winner of the lifetime
achievement Award for National Adventure and a travel
author. His book 'Across the Frozen Himalayas' is based on
a real life incident of having survived ~ 48 Degrees
Celsius temperatures on the summit of the Karakoram Pass
for over 26 hours.
The path was fairly flat for the first hour, turning into a
climb about halfway up. And the further we climbed, the
tighter the angle to the summit became. Almost four hours
to the minute after we had set out, we hauled ourselves
over the last boulders, high above the glacier, and found
ourselves faced with one of the most supreme views on
earth.
A cold wind was blowing on the pass and I was feeling heady
owing to the altitude. The journey down the southern rim of
Bhaba with deep snow was even more exhausting and
precarious. I kept losing my footing on the loose surface,
and when we finally reached the bottom, the waterfall down
the mountain refreshed our sights. There was green
everywhere, the monsoon clouds brought wisps of rain, the
spray on our bodies glittering in the late afternoon sun.
We followed a long, winding path through forests and across
meadows of wild flowers, camping next to a stream. Later
that day, while our tea and crispy pakoras were being
prepared, we sat outside in the sun watching lammergeyers
and imperial eagles circle overhead.
Suddenly Stephanie noticed that Rab was nowhere to be seen.
The porters said that he may have died of cold. But I think
Rab was too intelligent to go on. He may simply have turned
back and headed for the last camp. There, having rested, he
would have found his way back to the last village or other
human habitation. This was the way in which Himalayan dogs
exist: they hunt for themselves, find their own water,
travel from village to village and master to master,
earning their keep by playing watchdog.
Nevertheless, the sense of achievement was overwhelming and
that night we built a bonfire and sat outside singing
songs. I raised my mug of tea in a toast to my absent
friends ~ much too weary to move and too smitten ever to
leave.
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