Waiting for Mules: a photo essay of our trek to Chainsheel Lake (Part 1) #TravelouesofArtiJain

Dear Readers,

I hope you are all well and healthy.

Today, I'm sharing memories of a trek that I went on in October 2018. As memories are many and wonderful, I've decided to split the travelogue into parts.

Offering part 1 today for your reading pleasure.

The photos were made then but are being looked at and shared now--thanks to my current home-bound journey status, I'm able to look back at the treasures of my past travels and relish them all over again.

I hope you'll join me.

Warm regards

Arti.

The morning temperature read -5 degrees Celsius in Mandi Thatch. Misty fog seemed reluctant to let go of the sun. She wanted another cuddle.  

It was the morning after the night of celebrating Vani's 50th birthday. 

Vani, a dancer, a health coach and an avid trekker had decided to celebrate her milestone birthday in the mountains, doing what she likes best--trekking. And even though October gets cold in the Himalayas, a couple of us volunteered to be part of her birthday celebrations--happily and eagerly.

Apu, as usual, did all the spade work. She sent us the itinerary and a packing list. Looking at the weather predictions, I packed all the thermal vests and leggings I had ever bought from UniQlo and landed in Maunda: a village that will become very dear to us after this trip. 

Outdoor Monks were trusted with the task of taking us to our destination: Chainsheel Lake, nestled in the lush green folds of Chainsheel bhugyal -- a high altitude meadow in the Himalayas perched at 3,600 metres above sea level. As there had been a few unfortunate episodes of loss of life in these parts the previous year, the village Pradhanji and one of his friends, Rana ji, came along with us as local guides.

You can see Maunda's charming Pradhan ji (on the right of this photo) all set to embark on the trek with us.  While we were lugging all the thermals known to us and were kitted out in our carefully thought out trekking gear, Pradhan ji's preparation included packing his phone and  a change of clothes and Ranaji for his part, carried his transistor. 

Our trek started in Maunda.  The khacchar wala (the mule owner) who was supposed to accompany the team did not turn up. So, some local lads from a nearby village were roped in to help out with the trek.

The trail we were supposed to take had not been accessed all year. So, this trek to celebrate Vani's 50th would wear many hats -- as a trial to check out the route, as an opportunity to capture its beauty to promote the village of Maunda as a suitable base to start all future treks from and consequently bring much needed commerce into the village.  All we, the mountain lovers whose souls dwell in these parts, needed was an excuse to pack up and go. So we did.

Six or seven hours of hiking later, we reached Sonawat Thatch, our first camp site, by early evening. 

Tents were set up. Dinner followed a couple of rounds of tea and a young moon shone in the deep Himalayan sky while we rested.

As an early riser and as someone who can make do with four hours of sleep on treks, I can be found outside my tent, waiting for the sun to rise.  The next morning was no different.

For me, every sunrise and every sunset witnessed is like a new book read or a poem told. The alchemy of sun and sky in those hours has to be witnessed to behold. 

Sunrises and sunsets are the best kind of gold to hoard in a life time. I'd like to be the Bill Gates of sunsets and sunrises one day. I'm not kidding. I'm extremely ambitious like that.

The sun rose like a sorcerer that morning and sprinkled Sonawat Thatch with its magic.

The mules, though, had a slightly different point of view. Do you notice the ground frost? 

After breakfast, we loaded our day packs on our backs, slathered on sun cream while the team loaded the mules with everything else--all the essentials needed to spend five nights outdoors, in the Himalayas in October.

Clear blue skies, grove after grove of bare branched birch trees and unending rows of mountains kept our spirits up and vibrant. Mountains come in all shapes and forms. The one we were about to traverse seemed to have suffered a few erosive blows from land slides in the monsoon rains. The path ahead started getting narrower and rockier.  

And then it became dangerous. The only saving grace was that it wasn't raining. We crossed this stretch in single file. The rubble and debris on the path made it slippery at places. But as humans with two legs carrying just the day's supplies of lunch, water and extra layers, we managed to cross over pretty deftly and then whooped a triumphant whoop when we got to the other side. The mules who were following us had a very different experience.

You see, treks are a means of income for villages in the Himalayas where employment opportunities are rare as all developmental policies in India, like in many other countries, focus exclusively on manufacturing and building and hardly ever on preserving and conserving. We are all witnessing the effects of such lopsided, money-making, short-term solution based policies.  Treks in these parts are akin to a co-operative movement: the entire village benefits from it, assuming that the head or pradhan has his people's best interest at heart. 

Mules are loaded up with tents and other camping equipment. Care is taken to ensure they are not over burdened and that the weight is proportionate on both sides. A trekking team is as good as its mules/donkeys. Without them, treks such as the one I go on wouldn't be possible. This also provides earning opportunities to the village youth who would otherwise head out to towns and cities, as is the case in so many parts of India. Thus, emptying villages of youth and hope. 

As you can see, with all this load, it was impossible for the mules to cross the narrow ledge. We didn't know any of this, of course. We had carried on ahead and when there were no donkeys in sight behind us, had decided to wait for them.

It was a very long wait!

We waited and we waited and then we waited some more. First, I went around clicking photos of mountains and trees. Then, I munched on an apple. Then I clicked a few photos of us waiting. That's Apu up there. Now, the thing is that without our mules, we wouldn't be able to carry on ahead. I'm usually lost in my own world so I tend to find out what's going on pretty late. Any stop on a trek is an unhindered opportunity to click. So I click and don't ask too many questions.  When the waiting didn't end for a very long time, I asked.

"They're having trouble with that last pass." Someone said.

All manners of speculations and suggestions fluttered around the group. Pradhanji, for his part, sat unperturbed and Ranaji's transistor rang out ---"Yeh Akashwani ki...seva..." to break the silence when conversations died down: as they do when one is faced with an unexpected change of plans. 

"I can see them." declared Pradhanji, getting up from the perch he was sitting on- on his haunches all this while, smoking.

"Where? Where?" we all erupted simultaneously.

"Ooooh...there....can you see that falan-falan bend ..." he pointed his finger in the direction we'd just come up from.

To say that it took me an hour after he'd spotted the moving mules on the horizon to make out dark blobs of movement far, far, away is no exaggeration. Well, that's what you get when you live in cities---you stop seeing clearly!

A collective sigh of relief followed by a chorus of "kya hua, kya hua?" (what happened, what happened?) greeted the team when they finally joined us in Mandi Thatch, our camp site for the day.

As expected, the narrow ledge had freaked out the mules who rely entirely on their instincts for survival. So, their loads had to be offloaded. Each mule was then cajoled/pushed/perhaps even threatened to cross the ledge, guided by its keeper. The loads were then carried by the team across the ledge and only when the mules felt settled, were they loaded up, balanced and secured (for the second time that day) for the rest of the journey. 

Once reunited, the tents were pitched, tea was made and life returned to normal once again.

That night, Surinder, the chef, excelled far and beyond our expectations. He makes the most amazing food but when he and the team brought out a cake: baked in the tent in a pressure cooker and dotted with candles to celebrate Vani's 50th, it left us all speechless. I still can't fathom how Surinder manages to bake and cook such feasts at such altitudes! The cake was delicious.

Sunset and bonfire, cake and cuppa, songs of 'Happy birthday' sung in English and Garhwali, tum jiyo hazzaron saal... followed by amazing shero-shayari (poetry recitals) by Pradhanji created a celebration like none seen before or since. It was perfect. We went to bed clad in many layers of warmth, both the thermal kind and the fuzzy kind one feels in ones heart when man and nature come together.

The next morning unfolded dramatically. 

"Our mules have gone.... khacchar bhaag gaye...the mules have fled..." cries of wonder and hilarity (the kind one finds in unimaginable situations) tweeted around Mandi Thatch along with birdsong a little before sun rise. 

The morning was bitterly cold.

Siddhartha's thermometer refused to rise above -5 degrees Celcius despite his effort to take it to the 'sunniest' spot around his tent.

After some chaotic kerfuffle trying to figure out the mules' whereabouts, the team figured that they must've made their way back to their village--yes, equivalent to  a day and a half of our trek thus far. A little sleuthing revealed that while the mules' novice keepers took to their grasses to invite sound sleep, the mules had decided to scamper all the way back to the warmth and familiarity of their own haystacks and sheds in the village. Animal instincts are fine tuned for survival. 

Another wait unfolded. But, with hot cups of tea, yummy breakfast and enough warm layers, we were able to crack jokes. Or perhaps, it's the innate optimism of a new day breaking out over the mountains that makes one see everything through the prism of positivism. Or maybe, it was Pradhanji's chilled out vibes that helped. His reaction to the situation was akin to a father's whose son or daughter  has just missed the school bus and he knows he'll have to take his car/scooter out to drop his offspring--a slight deviation in daily routine but nothing to get worked up about. When one is in sync with nature, patience comes naturally.

Khacchar walas (keepers of mules) took off to look for the stars of the trek and to fetch them back. 

As soon as word reached  that they had been spotted and were now being brought back, it was decided that the group would carry on ahead with Bharat, our team leader, while the rest of the team of Outdoor Monks will wait to load up the Moody Mules and follow us.

By then, fog had reluctantly let go of the sun. The long wait for our band of rebels to be found worked in our favour. Slowly and steadily, a bright sunny day began to emerge from the smothering cuddles of Himalayan fog.

Everything sparkled-- snow, stones, shrubs and our smiles:)

A 'happy' birthday girl:)

The pictures that follow were all taken on Day 3 of the trek: we covered 11 kms that day from Mandi Thatch (Bhutaha) to Sarutal. Come along and enjoy the spectacular views. The air is fresh and crisp. Cerulean skies and fluffy clouds are ready to keep you company.

To stand and ponder and stare for hours without any agenda or plans--now, that's bliss in my world. And when one gets amazing chai after a long day of walking and admiring, that's what I call sone pe suhaga:
translation: Gold. Pure Gold.

I'll be back with more bags of gold for you soon-ish. Part 2 of this travelogue promises to blow your socks off -- or rather freeze them--because while we will be climbing higher to get closer to Chainsheel Lake, the temperature will tumble lower.

The views, however, will make it all worth your while as they did for us.

Till then, stay safe and healthy. Smile often and dance whenever you can:)

Happy weekend dear ones. xx

Solo in a Pack

"When you practise on your own, you meet yourself." Giselle, my yoga teacher said softly. She smiled her usual warm smile, her eyes disappearing in the rise of her cheeks, only the shining sparkle of her wisdom shone through. 

I was sitting on my mat feeling at peace with my body. The class had come to an end. Mats were being rolled up, blankets were being stacked neatly and placed in a blue Ikea bag. All the students were in different stages of getting ready to leave. 

It was the last class before a long summer break. To me, it felt like a weaning off session, an attempt by our soft spoken guru to nudge us towards our mats without the scaffolding of her words guiding our limbs, our breath and our thoughts. 

She may have said something after that last sentence. But I didn't hear her. Something about 'meeting myself' made me stop in my tracks. Like a camera lens, my thoughts zoomed in on those two words. The rest of what was being said and done around me faded into a blur.

How easy is it to meet yourself? 

Are we ever ready to make our own acquaintance? Truly and honestly? 

Why do I find it easier to drive to a class to practice than to roll out my mat at home? 

Keeping the raging dialogue hidden inside my head, I  paid up, said goodbye and left. 

When I resist the mat, am I in some way refusing to meet myself? I wondered as I drove out.

I had put my reluctance down to lack of discipline and general laziness. I never thought of it as being unprepared or unwilling to meet myself. 

And what does meeting oneself really mean? 

'Listen to your body', Anusha, my first yoga guru, used to say. 'Don't worry about others, be present on your mat.' 

'How you are on your mat is how you are in your life.' was another one of  Anusha's favourite things to say during a class. 

For me, the words I hear in class are as important as the techniques I'm shown. My teachers' wise utterances keep playing in the recesses of my self, especially the bits that I need to pay attention to. 

Summer is unique in Doha. As the school year comes to its natural end in June, many families move out of the city for good to either head back home, or move to a new place with better job opportunities or to be close to where their children are (at universities etc.) Doha's working population is predominantly ex-pat, so it's natural for the city to be a transient stop for many.

A friend recently remarked how her corner of the yoga class she's been part of has emptied out as many of her yoga buddies have left.

Getting attached to a group of people, a class time-table, your favourite place in the shala to unroll your mat, a sequence of asanas, or even a yoga teacher are all shades of that which yoga is showing us to distance ourselves from: attachment. 

And going back to Giselle's words, only in finding the discipline and courage to make a date with myself to meet me can I hope to distance myself from all the above attachments. Otherwise, any one of the above has the capacity to interfere with my practice.

Being solo in a pack is a beautiful place to be in. 

Often on treks, despite being part of a group and despite respecting the safety codes of trekking (not lagging too far behind or running too far ahead), I often detach from others and walk with myself. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling.

Watching the daisies dance with the breeze, the play of the morning sun on leaves, the dusty clouds that keep puffing out of soles of the one walking ahead of you and rustling leaves are all present like my teachers' words: telling me to listen to the voice inside, to meet the soul that has been given a body that I use to live, to walk, to practise yoga, to write, to cook, to love, to laugh, to sing off tune, to dance with abandon, to dress up in a saree or to spend an entire day in old pajamas, to bathe in waterfalls, to slip on big rocks, to hold a friend's hand, to give her long and tight hugs and to sip hot tea.

"We are not becoming experts.

  We are just finally becoming good students."

Says William Martin in The Sage's Tao Te Ching

As a student, I hope I can use the steps my teachers have shown me to practise the discipline of detachment so that I may meet myself more often on my mat. And in doing so, I can be a better version of my solo self, one day at a time.

Whatever your daily practise, be it a walk in the park, mediation, preparing food for family, writing, singing, dancing, listening, earning money or just being, I wish you all the best. 

I'm writing a blog post after a long time. Bear with me while I flex my writing muscles. The thoughts I've poured out today have been knocking my insides for a few days.

The photos I've shared on this post were clicked in the Himalayas (Maunda and Chakrata) a couple of weeks ago.

Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating .

I'll sign off with these lines from The Sage's Tao Te Ching by William Martin

"Work with passion and energy

at the tasks you cherish,

but connect often with that part of you

that is watching it all happen

with eternal joy and love."

**********************************

I'd love to know what you make of Giselle's words. What do you do to meet yourself? Do you do that often? 

Y is for Yartsa Gunbu: the viagra of the Himalayas #AtoZChallenge

Jagat, our Nepali guide, pointed out to the ground and said, 'look.'

I looked but didn't see anything.

'Look...look.' his body followed his pointed finger and folded into a squat peering at the ground. 'Can you see?'

I looked but I could not see.

I felt exactly as I had when my driving instructor had asked me,'which way is the wheel facing?'

We were both inside the car. I thought it was a trick/funny question.

'How can I know? I'm inside the car?'

I saw him slapping his forehead like Punjabis do to suggest no-hope for this one. (i.e. idda kucchch nee ho sakdaa). His eyes were peeled at my hands holding the steering wheel. He was trying to tell me the clue was in my hands with his eyes.

I didn't get it then. I was almost thirty when I decided to learn to drive. He had told me more than once that I should've done this when I was seventeen. i.e. I was too old. So, I knew he was biased. 

Only after my legendary attempts at passing the driving test did I get it and then I felt as stupid as I was feeling that day at 10,000 ft above sea level trying to see what Jagat was pointing at in the lush meadows of Ali Bugyal.

Jagat scarped at the ground with his index finger and like an expert pair of pincers teased out a worm like creature from the ground.

'Open your palm.' he said and put the creature on it.

'Half plant, half worm.' he proclaimed.

'What?' 

'Yartsa Gunbu, very, very, very expensive Tibetan medicine....it's plant for six months and worm for six months. Sells for 50,000 dollars for half a kilo!'

My eyes popped out at this tiny thing. He tweezed another one out and put in on my palm.

I trusted Jagat. All his information about the local flora and the peaks we were about to climb had sounded plausible up till then.

For better photos and a brief description of the biology of Yartsa Gunbu, please do click on: www.npr.org. You have an option to listen to the article. It's very informative.

After I got back from this wonderful son and mother trek to Roopkund, I started digging up more about this super expensive fungus.

Like all elixirs of youth and life, Yartsa Gunbu comes with its fair share of bans, police chases, rules put by governments and flouted by people for survival or greed. 

'Locals, sometimes, go looking for it. It's illegal  ....But....' Jagat's eyes had said the rest.

I came across stories of gangs, a man killed by another for YarstaGunbu which prompted the local government to put the ban.

However, as an aphrodisiac and as a status symbol (especially in China, I'm told), this tiny fungus has been the bane of many small villages in the Himalayan region.

I read a story of a man who went missing and was later found dead. Such stories are not uncommon in villages of Nepal. The more I googled, the more disenchanted I felt.

My heart breaks when I see this beauty and the beast of human greed that's acting just like the caterpillar fungus: consuming some villages from within.

Yartsa Gunbu is being researched and googling it will tell you that they seem to have found it useful for treating cancer and arthritis.

I hope and I pray that right measures are taken to farm it and that locals, the guardians of these magestic mountains are not short changed by the mighty corporations or greedy men and women. Even as I type this out, I can hear the echo of the emptiness of my words. But, hope I will.

M is for Maid of Honour #atozchallenge

Gotcha!

This post is not about weddings or female friendship. No, sir. It's all about the queen of an Indian household...the kaam waali bai aka the house maid.

Courtesy: Google images

The poster says it all. 

The calmness index of a typical Indian household is directly proportionate to the maid/help/helper's ability to be 

a) present and available, and

b) to turn up on time for her duties.

I've lived away from India for almost twenty years now. So when I go back, I see and notice things that don't make sense to me. But it's the way things run in almost all the houses I call 'home' when I visit.

Ding dong. 

The first bell rings at 5 am. The man ringing the bell wants to wash you car. You nudge your husband, he nudges you back. You have no energy to nudge back so you drag your mostly asleep body out of your room and fumble with the latch on the main door, open the door, hand the car keys to the car wash guy and come back and put your head back on the pillow.

Ding dong.

Almost like a robot who's been programmed to do just this, you drag your sleep-walking body back to the main door, open it and look up at the car wash man like a clueless idiot. But before you turn to grab the keys you've already given, he announces that the water pressure is too low and maybe someone needs to check the water tank level.

DING DONG!

Sleep has scooted so quickly from your eyes, you spring up like a spring and say, "What? No water?"

The poor car wash guy looks at you, shuffles his chappals and takes his phone out from his pocket. He knows he'll be there for a while. He's seen this scene played out a few times. He knows the drill.

You stomp back to the bedroom, screech the living daylights and sleep out of your husband, plant your hands on your hips and put your scrunched up face close to his sleepy one and hiss, "You didn't run the motor last night, did you? One thing...one job...one little flick of a button! Why do I put up with this?"

You think the hissing is contained within the confines of your room but you're wrong.

The car wash guy can hear every syllable standing at the main door, waiting for water. He's half listening to you and half to the whatsap video on his phone.

"Is the maid on holiday?" asks the milk delivery guy when he sees the car wash guy languishing at the door.

"Hmmm." nods the car wash guy without looking up.

They can both feel the rising temperature emanating from within the house.

The milk delivery guy decides not to ring the bell and calls out instead, "Bibijee...dhoodh." (Ma'am... milk)

Your husband leaps off the bed, runs to the door and shakes the milk delivery guy's hand before taking the four plastic pouches of Amul milk from him.

The three men at the door share a moment of camaraderie, a moment of understanding, a brief moment of feeling the pain -- the pain of living in a house without a maid.

The bell will ding and dong the rest of the day--for the vegetable guy, the dhobi, salespeople selling anything from underwear to tricks to attain nirvana, the AC repair guys, the alms seekers dressed as designated deity for the day: Hanuman on Tuesday, Shani on Saturday etc. etc.

"Why does she need to go back to her village...we're her family, aren't we? You ask your friends when you see them at a coffee morning which has been organised by a friend in a hurry, just so you can vent and rant and not do what you had threatened to on the phone when she'd called an hour ago.

"I'll kill myself Manju. I can't take this. How am I supposed to live like this? Without a maid? This is no life...I'd rather be dead...."

Manju had panicked a bit. She had expected you to break down in a day or two, not the first day of this difficult period of "maid's-gone-on-leave". She called a few friends. ALL of them were there to offer support. ALL. 

The one thing that unites middle class Indian housewives/or working wives is their collective and heartfelt understanding of life without a maid.

"5, yes...5 am." you  hold back sobs that're stuck in your throat as you explain the way this first day without your maid has unfolded so far. 

Your friends nod and squeeze your hand in support. Some can feel the slight shiver run down their spines when your tale awakens memories of their 'maid's-on-leave' days.

******

None of the above is fiction. Believe me. Living in London taught me how to manage my day without a maid. I'm utterly grateful for that. So, when we moved to Doha, I decided to keep our home maid free. I do get a cleaner in, once a week, to help me out. But I'm glad we manage to keep calm without the Bai (a house maid) even if our floors are not spotless and our meals are simple affairs.

Each to their own. I do understand the need for help and there are households where the symbiosis of the helper and the helped is a joy to watch. Also, housework offers a great employment opportunity. A friend once needed a little extra cash around Christmas. I was training to become a teacher, working full time and my children were 7 and 4. We struck a deal. It was perfect. I'd come home to an immaculate house and beds made with fresh linen on Fridays and feel like I'd entered heaven. I'm all for getting help to make life easy. We only live once!

It's the reliance on another person to fix your own life that I have trouble digesting.

What's your take on getting help? Is it affordable or expensive in your part of the world?

Leaving you with pictures of meadows (called bhugiyals) in the Himalayas. Calm. Serene. Peaceful.

*****

Sunday awaits, when the writing will rest, but the reading will go on.

'N will see you on Monday :)

Roopkund - about trust, trash and toilet tents

Scan. Squat. Squirt. This is the standard modus operandi to pee on a long trek.

It's easier if you are a man because:
a) you needn't squat and
b) your scan span goes further, so you can guard your privacy easily and efficiently.

We, the women folk, have to rely on others to be our scanners. It's all about trust. You trust that your scanners will ward off wanderers and keep your dignity in tact. 

So when we reached Patar Nachauni and spotted big boulders, our bursting bladders ordered us to find spots to squirt. This was also the last spot for any phone reception. While some of us clambered down to squat, others climbed up to the highest point and called home to inform loved ones that we were alive and well and that they won't hear from us for the next 24-30 hours or so, as there would be no phone reception after this point.

From this point onwards, sharp incline and rocky terrain tested the trekkers' strength and will. While some in the group suffered from symptoms of altitude sickness (breathlessness, dizziness etc.) others managed by pacing their stride.

Trust.

When the going gets tough, trust yourself.

I did.

Thick fog descended and all I could see was the next bit to climb. In a way, the fog helped. I was forced to focus on just the patch I could see in front of me. It made the climb easier.

Sometimes, it's best to take the next step and not worry about the bigger picture.

Climb. Stop. Breathe.

Climb. Stop. Breathe.

The rhythm lulled me into oblivion. I was alone but didn't feel lonely. It felt like I was back on my yoga mat -- in sync with myself, my breath, my body and my soul.
And every now and then, I'd stop to:
Inhale
and
Exhale.

The fog engulfed the terrain. It gobbled up the trekkers behind me. For the duration of this laborious climb, I trekked alone.

Was it wise?

In hindsight: NO!

Trekking as a group requires trust. We trust our guides to keep us safe. But, we also trust each other to keep pace.

I was lost in myself for this stretch of the trek. It's okay to do that when one is on a solo trek, but not when you are part of a group.

'Anything could've happened.' I was told. 'You could've twisted your ankle.'

Sense was knocked into me when the rest of the group caught up with me,

I could see the folly of my ways.

Not once during that 4 km stretch did I think of anything or anyone-- not even my son who was trekking with me. When I try to recall that time, it feels as pure as silence. There was magic and I think I felt it and was enchanted by it.

If I were single and if I had no worldly ties, I'd go on solo treks all the time. In fact, I met one such man one morning at a tea stall in Bedni.

He's 55 and single. He lives and works in Kolkata. He picks a trek that calls to him from trekking magazines he subscribes to. 

'You must be reaching Nirvana.' I remarked when he told me his story.

'Far from it.' he said. 'I still like money. Still need to earn it to be able to afford treks. But only when I come here, I feel truly alive.'

Trekking is as much about such chance encounters as it is about traipsing through tricky terrains and synchronising  the self with sunrises and sunsets.

Kalu Vinayak temple marked the end of the steep ascent. 

It's all downhill from here till we reached Bhagwabasa.

According to a guide I overheard, people take a vow to do the parikrama with the statue of Ganesh (looks pretty heavy to me) for their safe return from Roopkund.

I waited here for the rest of my team to catch up.

Lessons learnt today will come in handy the next day when  at 2 am we will set out on the most treacherous climb I've ever attempted.

But before we go there, let me show you our camp site at Bhagwabasa.

Do you see the slate like rocks? Yes, they were sharp and uncomfortable. We didn't pitch a tent. Instead, we were given a shed to squeeze our cocooned bodies close together for warmth. It was cold and extremely uncomfortable.

Basically, once you found a spot where the rocks poked you the least through your sleeping back and through the mat below it, you lay still -- like a mummy.

The good news was that we had to be up around 2 am to get ready for the climb.

'We will be preparing porridge and you all will eat some before we head out.' announced Chauhan, our guide as we settled to sleep. ' You will all need the energy.'

We all groaned collectively. Who in their right mind was going to eat porridge at 2 am?

But we all did. And relished it. And asked for more. It was the most delicious sweet porridge (sans milk, but stuffed full of energy boosting almonds, cashews and raisins), I've ever tasted in my life. Yum!

Clad in all the warm layers we were carrying, we stood ready on the grey stones.  An early start ensures safety, we were told. Melting snow makes climbing dangerous.

Torches -- Check

Last loo run ---Check... hold on a tick! Who's been using our toilet tent?

Yes, those are our toilet tents: the beautiful red one and the one next to it.  As Bhagwabasa is the last and only campsite before Roopkund, it gets busy. As trekkers, we trust that other groups would use their toilet tents (even if they are pitched a bit further). We also trust that trekking companies who bring large groups (almost 30 in one) to the Himalayas would ensure that their 'groupies' observe certain civil etiquette to make the experience pleasant for all.

Sadly, that's not the case.

Toilet tent misuse may be overlooked when the terrain is tough and the cold is biting, but there is no excuse whatsoever for littering the place. The sad and bitter truth that one faces on such remote and beautiful parts of the country is that trekkers and visitors lack basic civic sense. It's a shame.

Come on people, wake up! Take your trash with you. It's not rocket science. Leave only your footprints behind-- the Himalayas don't need your plastic sweet wrappers, discarded cans and bottles-- take them home with you and then recycle them. Or better still, don't bring plastic with you.

Can we trust ourselves to keep the Himalayas safe and clean and litter free for the generations who will come after us? 

A clean India is not impossible to achieve.

This kind of behaviour gets my goat. TV and radio ads can blast out 'Swachch Bharat' or 'Clean India' slogans till the cows come home, but India will be clean only if the people who live there take care of their trash like it's their responsibility and not just the government's.

Back to the trek, then.

It was dark. It was damp. But, at least the rain had stopped. Had it been raining, we wouldn't have carried on.

Chauhan's instructions were very clear-- keep pace with each other and keep hydrated.

The first light...

We stopped to put crampons and gaiters on just as the sun was streaking the sky red.

We could see what lay ahead. It was stunning. It was scary; so scary that I tucked my camera away to keep my hands free.

Jagat (the best guide in the world, according to my son) who is also a minefield of information about peaks and everything else used his ice-pick to claw out a foot hold, the person behind him would put his foot in and then the next, and so on. The progress was slow but steady.

When I reached the top, I took my camera out.

 We DID it!!!

photo courtesy: Rajat:)

Almost as soon as this picture was clicked, the sinking feeling that we had to climb down sunk in. NO!!!!

Temple at Roopkund Lake.

Climbing down may be easy on the lungs but my poor heart was petrified of falling off the mountainside!

Splitting headaches (thanks to altitude adjustment) greeted us back in Baghwabasa when we reached at around 10 am. Strong cups of tea and a little rest sorted us out. The day had only just begun and we had to make our way back to Bedni.

Come along and watch the sun light up the Himalayas; the abode of snow ('him' means snow and 'alaya' means abode).

The same temple (Kalu Vinayak) on our way back, when the sun shone in the bright blue sky.

I met a local family who were carrying these flowers as an offering for the temple at Roopkund. They were climbing up the path like you and I stroll in a mall-- totally chilled!

these flowers have an amazing scent and they paint the mountainside purple.

Halfway down, it started pouring buckets. My IKEA poncho didn't hold out. I squelched my sodden body back to camp.

But look what happened almost as soon as we reached Bedni -- the sun smiled and shone through the blanket of clouds.

 Our beloved toilet tents.

If I tell you that we saw yellow daisies next to the hole in the ground the next morning, will you believe me?

Well, it's true:)

A clear morning the next day-- Bliss!

All we had to do was walk downhill for about 12 hours through a thick forest of Juniper, Pine, Oak and Rhododendron to reach the point where a vehicle would pick us up. 

That should be easy, right?

WRONG!

The rain soaked forest floor of Wan forest will make the climb downhill slippery and slushy.

We will play many rounds of 'antakshari' to keep an 'ear' out for each other.

The thought of a hot bath at the end of the climb down will keep us all motivated and chirpy.

I'll demonstrate the zig-zagging technique of climbing downhill to Arnav. He'll ignore my suggestion but adopt the same technique when Rajat will show him after a few slips.

I'll shake my head at his teenager ways and carry on enjoying every moment of this precious 

mother-son trek.

If, like me, you are fascinated by myths and legends, then check this link out: 

Myths and Mysteries of Roopkund

Hope to see you all soon. Enjoy your weekend 

and

USE 

a TRASH CAN!

Better still,

RECYCLE, if you can.

In case you missed part 1 of this trek, here it is:

Roopkund - Part 1.