TRAVELLING VARIOUS PLACES

8 THE FOOD
Ladakhi food has a lot in common with Tibetan cuisine but it doesn’t have to be all thukpa-momo. Ask for a thentuk—like a thukpa with small flour dumplings or a kothey—like fried momos but less greasy. Noodles abound of course and it won’t be long before you can tell your thankthuk (short, flat) from you laman (longer) with your eyes closed. Tibetan Kitchen (Fort Road) offers an expansive repast, the gyakok, from a chimney broiler—the gyakho, which may be familiar if you’ve ever had a Chinese fondue. Or call Hotel Snow View in Changspa (9419178598) to order a five-course Ladakhi Tibetan meal (Rs 300 per head). Tired of carbohydrates, vegetables and mutton? Drop in at the venerable Dreamland (Fort Road) for fresh snow trout in garlic butter

9 JEEP SAFARIS

One of the most exciting ways to see the vast rocky plateau and mountains of Ladakh is to jeep across. Ladakh has an extensive network of roads, thanks to the Army—most of them mountain roads that cling to hillsides above rivers and streams. A number of operators organize jeep safaris—Banjara Camps (26861397; www.banjaracamps.com) organizes extensive safaris with stays in camps—they even offer a Delhi-Manali-Leh-Srinagar-Delhi safari. Far Horizons (011-51602100; www.farhorizonindia.com) also organises safaris in Ladakh. One of the more interesting safaris takes you on a spectacular and often treacherous drive to Padum, the headquarters of Zanskar.

10 CAMPING SUMMER IN LADAKH
is perfect for camping—the weather is good and the trees are flowering. Tented camps, from spartan to luxury Swiss, spring up all over. Most are ad hoc affairs so inquire at the tourist office in Leh—but there are also a couple of well-established camps and camping areas. Ladakh Sarai, near Leh, is popular (around Rs2,000; call 011-23511483). To stay near a monastery, try either the Gaph-Chow Camp (Rs60-400; 01982-227151) near Likir, or the camp at Hemis (R 75; book through the restaurant near the Hemis gompa entrance). You can also camp near the lakes—at Pangong Tso (Rs800) and near Tso Moriri, at Korzok, where you can stay in the Nomadic Life Camp (Rs800; 01982-254845). You can also camp at Rangdu in Suru and at Chamba Camp (Rs 1,500-3,000; 01983-221140) near Diskit.

THE BASICS
Ladakh is indeed not for the acrophobic. The highest airport in the country is at Leh (3,505m); the Leh polo ground at 3,500m is said to be the highest in the world; the world’s highest observatory at 4,517m is in the village of Hanle. But Ladakh also has the dubious distinction of being the home of the world’s highest battlefield, that of Siachen at 6,300m, which is serviced by the world’s highest helipad at 6,400m.

So if you come by air from the plains, you will have to spend some time acclimatizing to the altitude before attempting anything even slightly strenuous. Lack of oxygen in the air can cause breathlessness, lethargy, dizziness, headaches, nausea and insomnia. Take it easy for the first 24 hours, and be sure to drink plenty of water and aim for three to four litres a day. Leh’s water supply is notoriously unsanitary so only drink mineral water. Expect to go to the bathroom a lot. Avoid alcohol, if possible.

SCENEMATIC
Ladakh is an increasingly popular location for movies, ad films and music videos (Kargil, Maruti, Ma tujhe salaam) but it all began with the gritty realism (Bollywood standards) of Chetan Anand’s war movie Haqeeqat (1964).

ORACLES
There are thought to be over 200 living oracles in Ladakh. True oracles are born not made, but once identified they undergo three to six years of tutelage. Famous oracles can be found in the Matho Gompa, a 16th-century monastery 20km from Leh. An annual festival is held here, usually in late February-early March. Many oracles deliver their pronouncements or medical diagnoses in a trance, possessed by spirits. Some healers even suck out disease using straws.

PLAYING POLO
Generally associated with the rich and famous, polo is said to have originated in the Western Himalayas, possibly Baltistan and Gilgit, and is quite popular in Ladakh. According to legend, the game was introduced in Ladakh in the 17th century during the reign of King Sengge Namgyal whose mother was a Balti princess. In the Ladakhi version of polo, teams of six players compete against each other in a game that lasts for an hour. The game is part of Ladakh’s cultural fabric and almost every major village boasts a polo ground, called shagaran. The most enthusiastic games can be witnessed in Drass and in Chushot, a village close to Leh. But it is in Leh that the game has been institutionalised, where teams compete for the Ladakh Festival Cup during the Ladakh Festival (September 1-15).

RUINS
Chiktan is a small sleepy town, nestled in the middle of snow-covered mountains, and what you notice first about it are the lofty crumbling ruins of the Chiktan Fort (Chiktan-e-Rajikhar). The once majestic fort is now in ruins—its nine floors reduced to a few walls, but the view from the fort is spectacular. Chiktan is 30km from Sanjak, which is beyond Achinathang on the Khalatse-Batalik road. If you have the time, in Chiktan meet grand old man Mohammad Moussa, who’ll tell you tales about the fort.

1 ZANSKAR
The Zanskar is one of the most remote and beautiful rivers in the country, and the only one high enough to raft in the summers. The 120km-long run from Padum (the headquarters of Zanskar) to Nimu (the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar) passes through magnificent mountain gorges and involves some thrilling whitewater. It’s graded 3-4, and has no road support. At the end of each tough day you’ll be camping in utter wilderness. Outfits organizing rafting trips include Himalayan River Runners (011-26852602; www.hrrindia.com), Mercury Himalayan Explorations (011-23346209; www.himalayanadventure.com) and Snow Leopard Adventures (www.snowleopardadventures.com).

2 HIGH PASSES
Ladakh literally means ‘land of the high passes’. Here you will find Khardung La, at 5,602m the highest motorable pass in the world. Just under 40km north of Leh, the pass leads to the Shyok and Nubra valleys and was opened to vehicles in 1988. Historically, traders used the pass to get from Leh to Kashgar in Xinjiang Province. The second highest pass, Taglang La (5,328m) is crossed on the popular 485km drive from Manali to Leh. The pass is 109km from Leh. Chang La (5,270m) is the third highest pass and is the approach to Pangong Tso. The passes are best navigated between June and September. Taxi fares are set by the Leh Taxi Union (01982-252723/253039).

3 WILDLIFE
The Hemis High-Altitude National Park and the Changthang Cold Desert Wildlife Sanctuary are the two main designated wildlife areas in Ladakh, but wildlife can be found scattered all over the region. Some of the main species of mammals in the area are the bharal or blue sheep, the great Tibetan sheep, Tibetan antelope, serow, ibex, snow leopard, red fox and the Tibetan wild ass or the kiang. The lakes: Tso Kar, Tso Moriri and Pangong TsoÑare home to the great crested grebe, brahminy duck, bar-headed goose, the endangered black-necked crane and the ruddy shelduck. Himalayan Safaris (01982-252638) and Overland Escape (250858) can arrange your trip.

4 ROUTES
Ladakh is remote but surprisingly easy to access. The simplest way is to fly in. Both Jet Airways and Indian have flights to Leh from Delhi six days a week for Rs 6,900 one-way. Two highways link Ladakh to the rest of the country: the historic 434km Srinagar-Leh road, over Zoji La, through Kargil and the Zanskar range; and the tourist-friendly Manali-Leh highway over the Rohtang pass and the much higher Taglang La. Buses leave from both Srinagar and Manali. Motorcycling is popular but arduous; carry petrol because you won’t find pumps in Zanskar or Nubra. Mountain biking is increasingly popular. To avoid Rohtang, you could try the route from Spiti to Kinnaur and through to Lahaul via Kunzum La.

5 WHITE SANDS OF NUBRA
The Nubra Valley lies between the Ladakh and Karakoram ranges, its borders touching Pakistan and China. It was on the Silk Route, but China put a stop to the caravans that passed along the Shyok and the Nubra rivers. Now, the double-humped Bactrian camels that roam the white sands near Hunder are the only reminder of the ancient trade route. Hunder, the last point up to which travellers are allowed to go, is a small village in a green valley, which is known for the white sand dunes that come a little before it (with a 4-wheel drive you could venture on to the dunes).

6 THE GOMPAS
Ladakh’ most imposing edifices are all monasteries. At Stakna, Shey or even Lamayuru (the oldest ÔlivingÕ gompa) you may be content to admire the massive hill-top complexes from a distance. But up-close the monasteries are full of ancient atmosphere and ritual as well as many artistic treasures. DonÕt miss the large Chon-Kor Maitreya at Thiksey. The main hall (du-khang) of the thriving Hemis Gompa is impressive but even the ruins of Basgo are arresting, and perhaps the greatest works of Ladakhi sacred art are the surviving murals on the crumbling 12th-century walls of Alchi.

7 FESTIVALS
One of the most colourful sights in the stark landscapes of Ladakh is the festival that happens here all year round. Every monastery has its own festival where masked dances alternate with ritual chanting—the most famous of these festivals is the one, which takes place at the Hemis gompa (late June/early July). For a complete list of monastery festivals see www.jktourism.org/cities/ladakh/festivals. In addition to these festivals the Ladakh administration also organises the Ladakh Festival between 1-15 September every year, in an attempt to boost the fag end of the Ladakh tourist season. The festival features dances from all over Ladakh, an archery competition and a polo competition that takes place on the Polo Ground in Leh. Losar, the Buddhist New Year, is a winter celebration.

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TREKKING IN GARHWAL, INDIA

It was a surprisingly cool April night in Devprayag, an unremarkable concrete hill-town perched above the turbulent confluence of the Bhagirathi and Alaknanda rivers. The sky was clear, a million stars seemed tacked onto the inky blackness, and a sliver of moonlight reflected off the pillars of the Chaukhamba peak in the distance. It had been a very long drive up from Delhi, but we were now firmly in the mountains, and Sanjoy was snoring like a cricket.

This part of Garhwal is known for its religious spots—the Panch Kedars and the Char Dhams—and most treks are better known as pilgrimages. But if you’re an atheist like me, and fancy yourself a birdwatcher and hiker, you could very easily chalk out some beautiful treks through old-growth forests. Our plan was to start trekking the next morning from Sari village, a two-hour drive from Devprayag, and head towards the Mandal valley over the course of five days.

Unlike most other treks I’ve been on this one was completely organised—porters carried our luggage to campsites leaving us to carry just a daypack; our guide Surendra Bisht (also known as Suri) led the way, stopping every once in a while to point out another peak which had appeared over a crag; while Yashpal Negi, the birdwatcher, whispered an average of 30 Latin names an hour into my ear. There was packed lunch to be had on the walk, the promise of good food for dinner and ready tents when we arrived at the campsite; tea, filter coffee, nimbu pani on demand, and camp fires in the evening. The arrangements stopped just a little bit short of us being carried in palanquins.

Green Lake: Sari Village to Deoriatal (5,904ft, 2hrs)

Sari is a small sleepy village beyond Ukhimath, a few kilometres off the road that goes towards Kedarnath. It’s a mix of modern concrete-box architecture and traditional stone houses. A patchwork of terraced fields planted with wheat stretch down from the village to the point where the mountain falls sharply into the valley of the Mandakini river, and above the village for about a kilometre, at which point dense forests take over.

A bridle path ascends through the village and the fields. We set a leisurely pace, giving ourselves time to get into the rhythm of the climb. As we got higher the hubbub of conversation from the roadside tea stalls faded away leaving only the rustle of leaves and the gentle wheeze of the breeze as it forced its way through narrow gaps in the rock faces. Brilliant red strokes of rhododendron trees in bloom appeared on the forests of the adjoining hill. It was hot in the sun, and a trickle of sweat made its way down my forehead. The snows of the Chandrashila peak, our destination two days hence, glistened impossibly far away.

The path made its way towards a cleft in the hill, entering, after an hour of climbing, a dense forest of rhododendron, banj oak, and deodar. Here the sunlight filtered through the canopy in small patches, the path was covered in fallen leaves, and the probing tap-tap-tap of the Himalayan woodpecker rose desultorily from hidden corners.

A little later the path levelled out, and then just as suddenly we emerged into a clearing, at which point two things happened—the green waters of a small mountain lake appeared a little below us, and the snows of the Chaukhamba, Kedar and Gangotri range of peaks which had seemed so distant from Rudraprayag, emerged magically within touching distance, towering above the lake. We made our way towards two single man tents, erected a little above one bank of the lake. By the time we got there, two camping chairs and a camping table with a plate of biscuits and two mugs of coffee had been put out.

Long Walk: Deoriatal to Barniyakund via Chopta (9,840ft, 9hrs)

I poked my head cautiously out of the tent, shivering with every movement. A pale pre-dawn light lit up the sky, but the sun hadn’t hit the mountains. There was silence all around. A gaggle of Bengalis wearing monkey caps stood huddled on one bank, waiting for sunrise. As I was debating going back to sleep a mug of hot tea was deposited in my hands, and I retreated back into the tent.

When I poked my head out again, the sky was ablaze. The first rays of the sun had struck the massive pillars of Chaukhamba. The snows of the peak rippled in the waters of the lake, and the pee-pee-ah of a large hawk cuckoo rose in pitch to a hysterical crescendo as the sun rose past the peak.

Sanjoy was already up, and much to my chagrin, on his way to the toilet tent—that epitome of camping luxury. A lavish breakfast of porridge, omelette, toast with a choice of jams, peanut butter and cheese, fresh fruit, and hot milk laid out against the equally lavish backdrop of forests, the lake and snowy peaks awaited us.

At eight, we were ready to move. The kitchen team would pack up, get back to the road, and drive to the next campsite at Barniyakund. The rest of us would walk. The climb would take us straight up to a ridge, a steep ascent of nearly 2,500ft, after which we would continue along the spur for a couple of kilometres. We would then descend about as much as we had climbed, to the Akash Kamini river, and then climb the same amount once again to the Martoli Bend, a little before Chopta.

The ascent was tortuous, coming as it did immediately after breakfast. The air became thinner, my breathing more laboured, and I slowed down considerably with every switchback. Sari village reappeared more than a kilometre below us, and views of valley after valley stretched out from where we stood to eternity. There was a nip in the air, but I was soaked. As I huffed and puffed, village women carrying huge bundles of leaves of the moru oak came skipping down the path, disappearing quickly around the bends.

The climb got steadily more difficult. The rock-strewn pathway climbed relentlessly up. The first spindly fir trees appeared as we reached the top of the ridge. By now the sun was high up in the sky, and the birds had fallen silent. As we moved from the right flank of the ridge to the left, there was a stunning change of scenery—the far views of various valleys were replaced by snowcapped peaks. They were now forbiddingly close. I could see every snow-accentuated ridge, and every gully. I stared stunned, and then sat down to take in the view.

We were entering a patch of forest that had run amok. Huge trees towered hundreds of feet above us. The path was strewn with fallen tree trunks. Moss covered every rock surface, and the thick smell of decaying vegetation hung in the air. The first maple trees appeared, covered in the dense cloak of fresh green leaves. A monal pheasant let out an alarm cry and streaked across the path, its brilliant blue feathers glinting in the sun.

Rounding the last hill we began our descent towards the river. The path hugged the side of the hill, meandering from one vast rolling bugyal (alpine meadow) to another. Chains of red and pink rhododendron trees surrounded the bugyals, their canopies so heavy with flowers that you could barely see the branches. The grass was a young green having grown afresh after the thaw. A little after three, we stopped in Roni bugyal for lunch. We’d been walking for nearly seven hours, and I was starving. I wolfed down my packed lunch of sandwiches, an apple, orange, and a bar of chocolate. “We’ve got another two hours to go,” said Negiji standing up.

At Martoli a car was waiting for us. From here it was a level three-kilometre drive to the campsite at Barniyakund—a beautiful meadow flanked by forests on one side, and views of towering peaks on the other. That night I sat by the campfire, warming my legs, sipping hot tomato soup, and munching papads. Soon thick black clouds were rolling down from the mountains above us, obscuring the stars and sending a bone-chilling wind down the valley.

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TREKKING IN GARWHAL

Into Snow: Chopta to Chandrashila and back (13,564ft, 6hrs)

By the morning the sky had cleared up, allowing us to attempt the 3,500ft climb to Tungnath, the highest of the Panch Kedars. A stone pathway framed by flowering rhododendrons leads all the way from Chopta to Tungnath. It’s a gradual climb—as you get higher the views get more and more spectacular; and the rhododendron varieties change, reducing in size till at 12,000ft they’re just bushes one foot high.

The going was slow—and we stopped every 10 minutes to take in mouthfuls of air. The fir trees ended at about 10,500ft, after which patches of snow began appearing on the brown rocky ground. Monal pheasants wandered on the margins of the snow searching for insects in the grass, while a Himalayan pika, a marmot-like creature that looks like a cross between a mouse and a hare, chased a partner across a rock wall.

Two hours later we were at Tungnath. Negiji and I decided to press on towards Chandrashila without stopping. There was too much snow on the pagdandi from Tungnath to Chandrashila so we decided to try another route. We found a few grassy patches but there was no avoiding the snow. Slipping, sliding and falling, we reached a small peak a little below Chandrashila. Beyond this the path disappeared under snow. As we stopped panting, the absolute silence that you find at this altitude blanketed us. Even the wind seemed to blow quietly. The lone cry of a crow ricocheted feebly off the mountain.

Around us lay strewn a panorama of peaks—Nanda Devi, Trishul, Dunagiri and Hathi stacked side by side in front, obscured partly by clouds, while behind us lay Chaukhamba, Kedar peak and the Gangotri peaks—our constant companions through the trek. The Chandrashila peak rose straight above us, the little hut on top of the peak appearing like a fleck in the clouds.

It had started raining by the time we got back to the campsite. We joined a couple of people who’d taken shelter in a small shop by the roadside. At four o’clock a hailstorm turned the mountainside white. By 4.30 the hail had melted. And at five hot pakoras and tea was sent up to us from the camp. It was warm by the fire, and the rain fell gently on the leaky thatch roof—in my tired state the small drops felt like little clear thoughts falling through the mind to disappear in the mud floor.

Stray Feathers: Chopta to Mandal (5,100ft, 8hrs)

At 10 in the morning, the clouds started clearing and the rain let up.

Birds started appearing—a speckled finch foraged in front of one of the herders’ huts at Barniyakund. And as I was making my way towards the car, I saw the majestic figure of a Himalayan griffon alight on a tree. It spread its massive white and black wings out to dry in the first rays of the emergent sun, and looked up at the low-slung clouds.

We were to drive nine kilometres from the camp, and then start our descent towards the Mandal valley. As we started walking, the forest closed in immediately on us. Water dripped off rocky overhangs, onto petite wild flowers that lined the path. The rain had made the moss-covered stones even more slippery, and every step was a prayer and a careful negotiation. A few hours of this and I’d had my fill—we decided that it would be far more fun to walk the remaining distance on the road.

It was a good decision—the deserted road wound through dense forests brimming with wildlife. Five minutes down we heard the rustle of leaves and the phlegmatic call of a barking deer as it ran from the road in alarm. A Jerdon’s Baza sat on the moss-covered branches of a dead tree, it’s majestic white-tipped crest displayed sideways. And as we walked further a male-female pair of Kalij pheasants scurried into the undergrowth. They appeared a couple of times during our walk—always tantalisingly close, but vanishing in a split second.

At four o’clock, Mandal village, located on the banks of a stream at the intersection of three mountains, appeared below us. The foliage had changed once again—now there was a preponderance of rust-coloured walnut and kaphal. It had started drizzling. The tiredness was telling on me and Suri. By five it started getting dark, and I could see sheets of rain falling in the far valley.

Master and the Murkh: Mandal to Ansuya village (6,900ft, 5hrs)

Ansuya village is located high on a hill, a five-kilometre ascent from Mandal. The path to it goes through Mandal, past old stone and slate-roofed houses, water-driven flour mills, and sun-drenched terraces where people sit soaking up the morning sun, and then through dense patches of forest.

As I entered the village, an old man sitting on the steps of a house stopped me, and introduced himself as the pujari of the temple. “Please take a photograph of him,” he said pointing to a man in a tattered sweater washing utensils by a stream. “Ayye murkh,” he screeched, “they’re going to take your photograph to Delhi.” The murkh looked petrified. “Look at him,” chortled the pujari, “in those tattered sweaters.” In the meantime, the murkh had finished washing the dishes and was rolling on the grass in front of the cottage. “He’s like a grain of fat, unpolished rice,” said the pujari loudly, while the murkh smiled indulgently and blew indolent smoke rings into the air.

It was our last night at the camp. Suri was in a fine mood—regaling us with tales of dead trekkers whose ghosts wander various campsites. The dinner was more elaborate than usual—the cook had driven all the way to Gopeshwar to buy us a desi murgi. There were two different subzis, dal and rice, and kheer for dessert. Even the crickets were putting on a show—their chirping rising in orchestral grandeur. The sky above had cleared. The candles on the table flickered in the breeze, the deep chuckle of a nightjar rose from the forest, and the lights of Gopeshwar twinkled like fireflies on a distant mountain.

THE INFORMATION

ROUTE

Delhi-Rudraprayag-Sari village-Deoriatal-Barniyakund (Chopta)-Chandrashila (and back)-Mandal-Rishikesh-Delhi.

THE TREK

The trek from Sari village to Deoriatal is short and easy. Deoriatal to Barniyakund (the campsite beyond Chopta) is a long walk, and can be strenuous if you’re not fit. The climb to Tungnath from Chopta is relatively easy—and shouldn’t take more than 3hrs. It’s a steep climb from here to Chandrashila, but worth it for the views from the top. It’s best to do part of the Barniyakund to Mandal walk along the road, especially if you want to do some birding—descents along the bridle paths can be a little too steep. The walk from Mandal to Ansuya village is only steep in short sections.

WHAT TO CARRY

While trekking you’ll only be carrying a daypack, so toss all your stuff into a large duffel bag for the porters to carry. Remember to carry your own torch, waterproof gear, towel and warm clothes. Everything else, including sleeping bags, is provided.

WHEN TO GO

The best time to do this trek is from April to end-June and in September-October. It can get too cold during the winter, and too wet during the monsoons.

OPERATOR

Many operators organise treks on this route, but we used Countryside Outdoor Programmes (022-24441513, 24442944; www.countrysideindia.com). They offer 7N/8D fixed departures (ex-Delhi; by train from Delhi to Haridwar) for Rs 17,450 per person (check their website for departure dates and a detailed itinerary). They can also organise the trek especially for you (the cost will go up), provided you inform them at least 15 days in advance.

BIRDING

Yashpal Singh Negi, who runs the Mandakini Magpie Birdwatchers Camp (Rs 500; 01364-268344, 9412909399) in Kakragad village near Rudraprayag, is a mine of information on the birds of the area. Countryside can arrange for him to accompany you on the trek for an additional Rs 750 per day.

For 473 long kilometres, the Manali-Leh road clings, slips, slides, punches and wriggles its way through some of the most spectacular terrain in the world. Along the way it crosses four high passes, fords streams and rivers and clings precariously to tumbling mountain surfaces. It follows in the tracks of an ancient caravan route that went from the plains of Punjab to the highlands of Ladakh, and then onto Yarkand—for many centuries the largest trading centre in Central Asia. But this was never the favoured route—water was scarce, there was virtually no habitation, the passes were treacherous, and there was little fodder available for the mules. The route from Srinagar to Leh was in comparison much easier, open for longer, and had caravan sarais along its length.

The route is still treacherous. For the most part the road is little more than a widened caravan track. Every year landslides bury the road, and every year the military imperative of having an alternative to the Srinagar-Leh highway requires that it be laboriously resurrected. The coming of the road has wrought subtle changes. The caravans have now been replaced by tankers carrying army fuel and trucks laden with supplies for Leh’s growing population. In place of the bleached bones of pack animals that once littered the route, there are now the shells of these vehicles entombed in snow. Instead of horses, the Changpas now have cars parked outside their sooty encampments. For three and a half months of the year, from June to mid-September, there’s lots of coming and going, and small camps spring up at unlikely places. And a journey which once took a week (or more) and was an ordeal, can now be done in two days, and is often called a holiday.

Getting away from the noise of Manali wasn’t that easy, though—all of North India seemed intent on frolicking in the snows of the Rohtang Pass. Our Ford Endeavour Thunder Plus idled restlessly behind a kilometre-long pile up of cars at Gulaba, a particularly mud-slide prone spot on the climb to Rohtang. Above us the road snaked its way between sheer walls of rock that rose on either side, leading up to the mighty Rohtang Pass. Himalayan Griffons floated effortlessly between the cliffs, weaving in and out of the low clouds.

The snowball-throwing crowds, shrieking couples on snow scooters and rickety wooden sledges disappeared behind a bend as we made our way beyond Rohtang. Suddenly there was absolute silence. Just the sound of the wind rushing down the mountain, the gentle tip tap of melting snow, and the scrunch of car tyres on the road. Clefts in 15-ft-high walls of snow revealed a battered road.

The descent into Lahaul was steep and dusty, down scree- and boulder-strewn mountains. As the road levelled out, the settlement of Gramphoo appeared on a plateau suspended above the raging Chandra river. The green shades of Manali were replaced by shades of brown and rust, interspersed occasionally by a few willow trees. A rugged line of snow peaks lingered in the backdrop. Soon villages started appearing along the road—small affairs of stone and mud houses surrounded by trees, with a mandatory chai shop where men could be seen loitering. The first shoots of potato and peas were appearing on small fields slapped onto mountainsides. Women in salwaar kameez, with heavy jackets on top, walked along the road carrying bundles of firewood. A little before Tandi we took a road leading up to the village of Tupchilling. It was dark by the time we arrived at a camp of small bamboo houses sprawled on a field adjacent to the new gompa of the village.