November 10, 2005 – Almora, Uttaranchal, India
Yesterday, I went up to 7,000 feet to a place I have been visiting since my childhood. Mountains on one side, a deeply forested valley on the other, with the Saryu river snaking its way into the distance. Down in the valley you could hear cowbells tinkling as laughing village children led their livestock home for the evening. Huge Tibetan mastiffs (with disproportionately large heads) lazed and basked in the warm afternoon sun. These dogs are placid and slow to anger, but believe me, you do not want to provoke them. They have huge jaws, are fearless, and are expressly bred to keep livestock safe from marauding leopards at night. Over the years, I have come here, usually alone, to think, to reflect on my life and to take stock of the future. Over the years, I have brought a few friends here. All of them have been moved by the beauty and calm of the place. I feel like I have been to this place in a previous life as well. The feeling is uncanny and in some ways, disturbing.
I am staying with my friend and trekking guide extraordinaire Bharat Shah and his family which consists of his parents (his dad is fitter than I am and he is nearly eighty), his wife and his two adorable kids. Evenings are spent at his office in the town’s Mall Road (all main roads in mountain towns are called “mall roads”), where an interesting bunch of people assemble. Local mountain veterans rub shoulders with serious foreign trekkers with crew-cuts. These guys and gals are from all over the world - Holland, Spain, France, Britain, the US, etc. Some of them are here for the trekking and the mountains, others are here to look for nirvana. Some of them do not know why they are here. Local drunks lurch and stagger past on their way home after an evening drinking the local country hooch. One of them abruptly stops outside the office and salutes Bharat and me, for no reason at all, before walking past. Both of us collapse into gales of laughter. Good fun if you are a people watcher like me.
Today we leave for the Dhakuri Pass trek, where I will end up at 9,500 feet in the middle of an oak and rhododendron forest with no electricity or water. It is November, and it is going to be colder than a witch's tit up there - especially at night. Bharat - being the sweetheart that he is - has been up since early this morning patiently packing food, supplies and clothing for the next 4 days. I admire his patience, meticulousness and constant good cheer. We leave for the town of Bageshwar this afternoon – it is a temple town in a valley by a river. Like all Indian temple towns, it is dirty and crowded. Many of the temples are beautiful, but garbage and filth lie strewn everywhere. Why, I wonder, do we desecrate those places most holy to us?
The hotel in Bageshwar is full of mosquitoes. I find the town miserable, until I look out of my window at sunset, and see the sun’s last rays touching the snows on the beautiful summit of Nanda Devi. I hope this is a good omen for the rest of the trip. Tomorrow, we drive up to Song, where the motorable road ends.
It is a bitterly cold and foggy early morning drive through the river valley. As we get out of Bageshwar, the countryside is sparsely populated. I feel my pulse racing as we get closer to Song. This is what I have waited a year for. Tired of people, noise and crowds, my soul is weary. But as the sun rises and dispels the early morning fog, I get a glimpse of graceful Nanda Kot –it is so close!!
From Song, we climb 6,000 feet and 17 kilometres to Dhakuri, where Nanda Devi is almost within touching distance. The weather is still holding out - it is not cloudy, and the mountains look like they have been etched into the near horizon by an artist. The vegetation changes as we climb – from scrub jungle in the river valley, to pine and finally to beautiful oak and rhododendron at the higher elevations. Lovely mountain flowers grow by the side of the trail, beckoning us upward.
Far away in the valley, I can hear a transistor radio playing in a village – “Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nahin”. I am at least three kilometres away, but sound carries over a great distance here. My heart is pounding in my ears and I am breathing hard – my city lungs have still not gotten used to the elevation. But I am in paradise for the moment.
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