Trekking near Dharamshala - II

When we left for Dharamshala, what we checked on the Net indicated the possibility of some three to four day treks. As it turned out, though, Triund Peak was expected to be a 4 hour trek from Gallu Mandir, up to where we could motor down. Lahesh Caves, another option was a 4 hour trek from Triund and beyond lay Indrahar Pass. Which essentially meant that we either trekked only to Triund or we gave up on returning each day to Club Mahindra. It is one thing to start off knowing you are going to rough it out. Quite another to find yourself having to abandon the idea of comfort on the fly, as it where. Vinod would have drooled at the thought - being the sort of weirdo whose ideas of enjoyment are totally warped; we frothed. And decided to do just Triund.

It was one of those early morning starts, when I perforce verify for myself that 6 AM really exists and is not merely a figment of other people's imaginations. That is one of the things that I could not avoid despite this being the most deluxe of deluxe treks. With four hours up and four hours down to do, one really did not want the Sun beating down on you while you are huffing and puffing up a mountain.

After breaking fast en route, we reached the Gallu Mandir, which was the starting point of the trek. (Yup, motored down, so?) And, as you all know, I did my celebrated imitation of a steam engine, gasping all the way as we started climbing. I had competition, though, since this time my companions were not really of the caliber of Vinod the mountain goat.

Nearly halfway up, by distance only, was a teashop where we sat down for a cup of tea. And the view.

This halfway mark on treks is a bloody tease, I tell you. I mean, it is all OK to say that you have covered half the distance but what these guides forget conveniently is that you have not climbed half the total height you are expected to climb. Not to mention the fact that if it is really half the distance and only a third of the height, you are in for increasingly steep slopes from there on.

It did not start out that way. For a distance, it was almost a ridge walk and one sort of started dreaming of casually sauntering up to Triund Peak and emitting a 'Yippee'. And, this time, with the companions I had, I sort of assumed that I could well be the first past the post.

Yeah, right, it did not turn out that way. After what seemed like a short distance, the trail turned out to be one of those which relentlessly climbed up. AND, Rammohan, blast him, was running up the slopes with me holding on to my sides, every now and then, and blowing like a bellows, with the blood thundering in my ears. ('Let me have about me men that are fat; Sleek-headed men as of waddle up mountains; yon Rammohan has a lean and hungry look; he runs too much; such men are dangerous' was the refrain running in my mind, with due apologies to Billy the Bard.) Chandru and Bala spared me my blushes, yes, but come on, they always do, so it does not say much now, does it?

Eventually, I did hit the peak to see Rammohan running about like a gazelle, clicking pics. (All the pics in these posts were sent by him, by the way.) Taxed with his abnormal speed, he gives a specious reason that his head was pounding and, so, he was running as fast as he could to get it over with. Sounded reasonable but for the direction. When my head pounds, I too run as fast as possible to get it over with but, damn it, I run downhill, not up. The headache must have addled his brains!

Bala and Chandru landed up leisurely and we lolled about, eating the ubiquitous Maggi and drinking tea, at the small shop there. And, then, the descent.

One generally tends to feel that, having hit the peak, the exertion of the day is done and all the rest is a cake-walk. Even after so many years of trekking, that subconscious feeling does not go. Which is why, every time, the descent seems so painful. (Sort of like you have written your school exams, think your job is done, and then get socked with qualifying exams for various courses? Yeah!) Age and creaking knees make it all the worse. The only entertainment is people on the way up asking you 'How much further?' and your smug feeling that THEY have to do the uphill part still AND then the descent. (The most interesting was the girl who, sitting on a rock, asked us this question and we said, 'One more hour'. Whereupon, she complained that she kept hearing that for the past hour from everyone. Well, if she had been sitting there for the past hour asking this question of various people, exactly what did she expect?)

Eventually, as it must happen, the descent was done and we, yes, motored back to Club Mahindra. A nice hot water bath and a couple of beers - now THAT was the sort of end to a trek that I really did enjoy, especially since it does not happen all that often!

Trekking near Dharamshala

There are those who feel that it is not a trek unless they crawl into a tent every night, stuff themselves into a sleeping bag and try to sleep on a sleeping mat carefully avoiding those couple of pebbles which lurk around on the ground waiting to give you an acupressure treatment when you least expect or want it. There are even those who believe that it is namby-pamby of you if you do not lug all your luggage yourself and erect your tent yourself before doing all that crawling in and stuffing yourself etc. However did you guess? I am not one of them.

So, when the offer suddenly came to go to Dharamshala, stay at Club Mahindra there and do day treks, I jumped at it. Walk up mountains, take in the Himalayan views and end the day with a hot water bath, a couple of bottles of beer and sleep in a comfortable bed?  And with good companions? Best of both worlds!

Well, as it turned out, it was more tourism than trek. It started out all right, bar the minor hiccup of a delayed flight from Delhi to Dharamshala. The first day we booked in for one mini-trek in the morning and one in the afternoon.

The trek in the morning was what Club Mahindra called the 'Waterfall Trek'. Buffalo that I am, when it comes to wallowing in running water, I was all enthusiasm to hit the waterfall. We duly motored down to the starting point and started the climb towards the waterfall. The entire path was full of rubble, slate is what the rock was called I think, but, barring that, it was practically a walk in the park. At the end though was this minor trickle of water falling down the mountain, with half a dozen people industriously chipping stone and shaping them in rectangular pieces. I do love plunging into water but...suffice to say that my idea of frolicking in water in not to lie around in water in a place that seemed more like a stone quarry.

The 'Himalayan Safari' of the afternoon was not something to write home about. Unless, of course, food bloggers consider Maggi and tea to be gourmet meals worthy of covering in loving detail.

We motored down (yes, again! If motoring down for a trek did not cause you to complain, what's your problem with motoring down on what is billed as a 'Safari'?) to pretty close to the stream which was to be the site of that Bacchanalian orgy (Remember? Maggi and Tea? That one). From thereon the guide took us on what was supposedly an optional trek. The others, rather wisely, decided that opting out was one way of exercising that option. Rammohan and I went ahead on the trek.

Somewhere around half-way, the guide pointed out a tree, halfway up the mountain, and said that THAT was the destination. Of course, I had to ask him what could be seen from there...you know, treks end up at some viewpoint. The guide said that you could see the tree from up close there. Naturally, we felt that we had seen the tree anyway from here and felt no pressing need to improve upon the acquaintance. Back we went. Well, Maggi and tea sitting on chairs in the middle of the stream was fun...though we could not really make up our mind about whether we thought it worth driving up and down for the pleasure.

The next day our program was primarily touristy. What with the Tibetan monasteries(Norbunligka and Namgyal), quite a few Shaktipeets and Siddhapeets (Kunal Pathri, Naina devi, Chintpurni, Bhaglamukhi, Chamundi, Jwaladevi),  and Shiva temples - one where Arjuna was supposed to have received the Pashupatastra from Shiva (Aghanjar Mahadev temple) and another which was supposed to have been built by Ravana(Baijyanath), there was no dearth of touristy things to do. Not to mention the Kangra fort and the highest Cricket ground. Anyway, those formed the program, not only of day 2 but day 4 and 5 as well.

(Lest I forget, there is an option to do some paragliding at Bhir-Billing. We had planned it for Day 4/5 but there was some doubt about whether people weighing over 80Kg were allowed to do it or not. Considering that all of us comfortably exceeded it and considering that we had a quaint aversion to plummeting down rather than gliding down, we decided not to put ourselves through a 150 Km drive on such a chancy proposition.)

The one real day of trekking was the third day. Which we shall see in the next post.

Trek to Hampta Pass - III

Nightmares? They were nothing compared to what that river crossing was really like. There you were, early in the morning, muscles still cold removing your shoes and socks preparing to step into the river. True, we had done one earlier in this trek, but it had been close to midday and the feet were hot from all the walking that had been done up to then. This, though...and it was a much longer crossing as well.

Holding hands as before, we stepped into the water and almost immediately people were rushing across to get to the other side out of the freezing cold of the waters. Devashis stumbled and would have fallen in but for being held by me on one side and Mudassar on the other. With the continuing drag of all the others, there was no time for him to extricate himself carefully so, as it became known later, he had severely bruised his toes.

Anyway, we were out of the river, after what seemed like eons, with both feet feeling more like blocks of ice suspended from the ankles. The guides set us to jumping around to restore circulation to the feet. If you have never felt the clawing pain of returning circulation to frozen extremities...

After that, whatever followed of that day's descent seemed like a breeze. We landed at Chatru, which seemed more like a fairground than a campsite, with the number of tents set up there. After all, it was motorable from Manali and, thus, it was not only trekkers who passed through it to visit Chandrataal.

The drive to Chadrataal, I am afraid, was quite the most painful part of this trek to me. Not only were the roads terrible for the most part, as indeed I had experienced on my Ladakh trek, but after the trek sitting with minimal movement of the legs ended up with the muscles shrieking in pain. The worst cut of the lot was to end up at Chandrataal and find that the lake was half-an-hour's trek away. (Oh! Yes! It is all fine to do the trekking but when you think that the trekking is all done...)

The lake, though...Words are inadequate a lot of times in life and this is most certainly one of them. There was that pristine green lake visible from the Kanchenjunga View-Point II in the Goecha-La pass trek and then there was this one...For once, let me allow the pics to do the talking. (I am there in the pics to provide the contrast to all that beauty!)

On the return journey, the ladies were asking everyone what they learned from the trek. Another of those idiosyncrasies of mine is that these questions leave me fazed. Everyone was replying eloquently to that question and I...I was like, "Is it possible to answer this one like a kindergarten kid saying, 'one ones are one, one twos are two' in reply to what she learnt in school that day?" Or, perhaps, I either do not learn as quickly as others do or am unable to just say things eloquently for the sake of saying them, either of which seems to make me less than the rest of humanity.

And then my dreaded turn came and I mumbled, "Life is what you make of it. So are treks."

That, at least, is what I live by...even if I did not specifically learn it from THIS trek!

Part-I Part-II

Photo Credits: Devashis and other co-trekkers.

Trek to Hampta Pass - II

I have always been a strange character. (I know, I know, you think 'crazy idiot' suits better than 'strange character'. You can keep your opinions to yourself, thank you.) I mean, I have thought of any goals in life merely as a direction-setter to map out my journey. Once having embarked on a journey, it is the scenery, the people I meet and the relationships, the way I change that are of interest to me. It is more the journey itself, and how I conduct myself on the journey that gives me joy. The goal itself? Once achieved, all it would mean is that I would have the trouble of finding myself a new goal to chart a fresh journey or keep stagnating! All the important goals are what happens inside me, not where I arrive in the external world.

So, trekking very seldom disappoints me. A lot of times, what seems like the point of the trek (as, in this case, the Hampta Pass) is not, of itself, something that you can snap a pic of and have people go 'Ooooh!' on Facebook. Beauty lies strewn all over the trail and, perhaps, the apparent goal of the trek is probably not its most beautiful point. Or, sometimes, it could well be the weather that plays spoilsport and denies you what could have been a wonderful visual experience. After having toiled up a wearisome six hours, if you expect a climactic experience, you may find it...or you may not. There could well be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow but, if you fixate on it, you may well end up losing on enjoying the beauty of the rainbow.

All of which is to say that a six hours wearisome climb ended up at Hampta Pass, which looked no more or no less than any stretch of the path we had taken up to there. Maybe the view into the valley would have been breathtaking but a mist lay all over it and it may as well have covered up the concrete monstrosities, that Delhi's winter mist covers, for all we could see of it.

My pleasure in the trek was no less for it, because the point of trekking for me is to BE there. To be conscious of my body, of the terrain, to breathe in the fresh air, hear the gurgle of the river as I walk or as I go to sleep, to look on the majesty of the mountains, to see beauty where I find it rather than search for it as a goal (much like they say about happiness in life), to feel for the time a serenity that bypasses me in the city. To meet new people, help them or be helped by them with no thought of future recompense (NO networking nonsense, in effect) sometimes to bond for a lifetime, sometimes to pass by each other waving a hello and a goodbye.

But, yes, I could understand Archana and, later, Devashis when they expressed a sense of disappointment, for that is how we are geared. If you have put in great effort, you expect to be rewarded at the end of it. Hampta Pass, of itself and at that time, probably did not seem a sufficiently rewarding experience.

Beyond Hampta Pass, we descended into terrain which was much more desertified. Not so much greenery in the Lahual Valley and the terrain reminded me of my trek in Ladakh in the rain-shadow region.

The rains had started all over again and descending was made a shade more challenging than it should have been. I stuck around to see Devashis managing the descent like a veteran and then went on ahead. The day's camp was at Shea Gahru, which we reached as scheduled.

The next day was to be a very easy 3-4 hour descent to Chatru from where we would drive down to Chandratal to see that lovely Himalayan lake and then drive back to Chatru to camp for the night. Easy-peasy? Well, just to give one nightmares, we were informed that the start of the trek would be to cross the river by the side of which we were camped.

Ye Gods!

Part-I Part-III

Photo Credits: Devashis and other co-trekkers.

Trek to Hampta Pass - I

When you go on treks quite often, you tend to take the mountains, the fresh air, the greenery and the views for granted. No, it is not that you ignore them WHILE you are trekking, you are there for it all after all, but when you are back and sit to write about it, these seem usual and you hunt around for the unusual to highlight.

The unusual, for quite a few past treks, has been untoward happenings for me. Either natural disasters, where I was stuck in the middle, or man-made issues, like the riots that struck Kashmir post the killing of Burhan Wani. This time I came back, happy to write about having broken the jinx but, just I sat to write, there was news on 45 trekkers in trouble on this self-same trek due to heavy rains(They are safe now, I believe). That put me off my stride which accounts for why this post is so delayed.

Not that I escaped totally unscathed either. Rain was a constant companion on this trek. As for the other companions, I was trekking with a school friend this time - Devashis Ghosh - who, as is the case with anyone who partners me, had the unenviable role of putting up with my musical performances every night. (Ah! No, I do not mean only the ones that I perform while awake.) There were seven boys and five girls from Gujarat - all first year medical students - who added much to the color and vibrancy of the group. There were a group of ladies from Jaipur, including Archana who, despite having recovered from 18 fractures in her lower limbs and with plates screwed on, was there to brave the Himalayas. There was another duo of school-friends, just short of my age, Rathi and Bunty Sethi. There was the lone ranger from Bangladesh - Mudassar.

The first day's trek was to Chikha and was reputed to be a walk in the park. In the past, the guide says this and then sets off on what seems like an interminable 45 degree incline up, leaving you huffing and puffing in his wake, too winded to breathe curses on his deceitful head. Not so this time. It WAS easy and, like with all easy days of trekking, we ended up lazing around for a long time, in between, on a grassy incline, soaking in the atmosphere, to give time to the trek organisers to get ahead and erect the next campsite before we reached. There was even a convenient tea shop offering some snacks as well. (Someone will have to explain why Maggi seems such a gourmet food in the mountains. I mean, mention that Maggi is available, as it was in this shop, and there are wails of 'Oooh! Maggi!' as though it was the Holy Grail, with people dashing to the shop.)

We had barely arrived at the next campsite, with rain pattering on us for the last part of the day's trek, when there was a noise of a cannonade. We looked up to see a huge boulder rolling and bouncing down the mountain on the other side of the stream, on whose banks we had our camp. Just a warning from Nature not to take things too easy I suppose.

The next day was a tough day of trekking. Six hours of ascent, with rains coming down intermittently to ensure that the trail got slippery enough not to get too easy for us. Not that it was very easy terrain, anyway, boulder-ridden trails seldom are, but easier certainly than slippery boulders slick with rain. Devashis had not trekked before on rough terrain, his one previous trek having been in Valley of Flowers and Hemkund Sahib, so I was a bit apprehensive. But then not everyone is like me, so ill-equipped with a sense of balance that he has to learn it over the years by repeated falling. Devashis was pretty good at managing his way, slowly but surely.

And I...given to normally huffing and puffing was this time handicapped by an ill-timed attack of Nasal Pharyngitis, causing me to breathe exclusively through my mouth. Even in the normal course, I am known for my imitation of a steam engine but this time...this time, with the whistling noises I was making, about the only thing I had to do was hold my hand in front of my mouth and Devashis would have taken it for my reverting to childhood, playing 'Koo! Chicku-bucku'. (Which, to explain to the kids of today, was one of those archaic means by which we twentieth century kids used to entertain ourselves, playing at trains, the other one being rolling a tire along screaming 'Drrrrrr' in imitation of a bike.)

Midway, we had to cross an icy stream holding hands to ensure that we did not lose our balance and get carried away by the current. A sunny day, and I would have found it fun, but with these brooding clouds and wind, the last thing one wanted was frozen feet. But, then, what you want and what you get always happen to be two different things on a trek. Like, you would want long rests en route when you are to ascend for 6 hours and are OK with short rests when it is a mere 2.5 hours but what do you get? Yeah! You guessed it!

Still, it was quite a decent day, not absolutely tiring but Bhalu-ka-Gheera was a much colder campsite. And the rains were not helping Devashis either, for he was feeling the cold rather badly. I...yeah, by now you know that cold is not one of the things that bother me too much.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining they say. AND this one had a...rainbow.

The next day was going to be the toughest day, an ascent of about 5-6 hours to Hampta Pass followed by a descent of about 3 hours before we reached the next campsite at Shea Gahru. But, meanwhile, we had the rainbow to enjoy.

AND, hopefully, a good night's sleep!

Part-II Part-III

Photo Credits: Devashis and other co-trekkers.

A trek to Kudremukh

 When you board a train for a trek and, within minutes find someone else claiming, "25 is MY berth" only to later find that his berth is 26, it can be smiled away. Half an hour later if another person comes and says indignantly, "25 is MY berth" and later discovers that he has 27, you may laugh it off as a funny coincidence. YOU may, I cannot. For, after all, when you have the reputation of a disaster magnet - natural or man-made disasters, as witness my presence when Leh got cut off, Uttaranchal faced cloud-bursts and Burhan Wani's killing set Kashmir afire - even when the start of the trek was not ominous, you start shivering in your trekking boots when a trek starts off like that.

When you land in Mangalore five minutes before time and anticipate a longish wait for the other guys to reach by their train only to find that THAT train arrives more than half-an-hour early, you may feel that luck is running your way. YOU may...ME, I start worrying about all that remains of my good fortune running out in this manner.

The journey to the home-stay was fun, though. My stomach behaved itself though I, as usual, kept singing all the way to ensure that the only thing that came out of my mouth was words. AND, wonder of wonders, there were even people in the van who actually found the singing good and, a miracle this, even said so!

Did I forget to mention, though? Chandru, who has made a habit of dropping off from the trek at the last moment these past few times by the painful manner of breaking a bone or so, did it in a less painful manner this time - he just missed the train! Vinod and his second daughter Deeksha had boarded the train but Varsha and her husband also managed the same feat as Chandru. Though, knowing Vinod, they SHOULD have caught the damned train instead...for missing the train only let them in for an all night bus journey and, of course, listening endlessly from Vinod (he was still at it when we parted ways after the trek!) about how they ought to have left in time to board the train!

The group I trekked with this time was the Trichy Trekkers - an offspring of the trek group with which I initially trekked in the Himalayas. Barring Ramesh Kamak and Ram Prabhu, the entire group was new to me - except, of course, Vinod and family. And what a wonderful group they were (NO! It is not only because they professed to like my singing!) The group was actually composed of people from Madurai, Coimbatore, Chennai AND Trichy, of course. The common factor seemed to be a couple of things - you could call for Gopal and have half the group turning to you or call out Doctor and find the other half paying attention - or so it seemed to me. Made it difficult to remember names, let me tell you, so I remember Sundars, Aravinds and Karthiks!

We arrived at the Home Stay by noon. The distaff side and a few of the males were put up in one home and the rest of us in the other. A light lunch and we were off to the nearby waterfall. Anyone who has so far been through my trek chronicles knows full well that a buffalo has nothing on me when it comes to wallowing in water. There would be no real point in belaboring the joy of getting into water that pummels you like a seasoned masseur, so let us give that the go-by. (AND thank your lucky stars that nobody sent me a pic of MY wallowing in the water else I'd have inflicted THAT on you instead of this one. If you are really masochist enough to want that, you will find enough evidence elsewhere in this blog, though not in Kudremukh, of course).

Back to the Home stay and I found that there are perils of being seen as the only one knowing Kannada. Apparently we had quite a few trekkers who were interested in decimating the population of chickens in the area whereas the initial organization was only for veg meals. So, the Brahmin (who must confess that chickens are not entirely free of HIS attentions either) had to set about organizing the slaughter.

There was a bonfire in the evening, more specifically to celebrate the wedding anniversary of a co-trekking couple after which...yeah, how did you ever guess, I was also asked to contribute to the festivities with my singing. A strange experience for me to meet with a group, near fifty strong, which manfully and womanfully restrained itself from hooting and catcalls while I wrung every single verse out of every single song that I 'sang' till it started bewailing ever having come into existence. I may have held them for hours more but for Vinod artfully asking me to sing 'Mere naina sawan bhadon'. Just as I had all my tonsils on view rendering 'Phir bhi mera man pyasaaaaaaa', the wind gently blew a lungful of smoke from the bonfire down my fully opened throat, ending that rendition with a 'Pyasa..huh..huh..huh'. THAT, thankfully, was THAT for the others who gratefully took to their heels before I recovered.

The next day we started on the trek. About 10 Kms of ascent and then the same 10 Kms to be retraced back to the Home stay. Sharan, the local trek organizer and guide, said,"Initially, we will be walking on flat terrain for some 4 Kms after which there will be a bit of an ascent. Then, after a while, there will be a zigzag path upwards. After that, it is again flat till nearly the end of the trek, where we will have a bit of a climb to the summit." AND, promptly, we start huffing and puffing up a 30 degree incline.

I really think someone has to take these trek guides in hand and teach them some common English. They have some weird ideas, really, of what constitutes a flat terrain. I mean, really, I know flat on the mountains is not exactly a road in Delhi but 30 degrees? They really publish a different dictionary for these guys - all of them use words in the same manner - as also witness their idea of what a half-an-hour walk is when you ask them how long it will take to reach the end of the trek!

After a longish bit of huffing and puffing the path actually eased out to what you and I could think of as flat - especially if you have just been crawling up an incline like that. I sped past people rushing onward, leaving behind awed comments about my trekking prowess. Well, whatever else being a 'veteran trekker' had taught me, the one thing it HAD taught me is to make speed where I can so that, when I am up an incline, with snails passing me contemptuously, I do not still have to spend too long in the sun.

I love streams en route a trek. There is something about a gurgling stream crossing your path under a canopy of trees, starting from some mysterious place above and heading to some mysterious destination below, always flowing, always there, that speaks to me. It speaks to me especially eloquently when I am steaming with heat and perspiration, for then I pour water over my head and down my neck, wet my hat, and feel like I can possibly live for a few more hours after all. The Kudremukh trek had us crossing multiple streams periodically and they were life-savers, let me tell you, absolute life-savers.

The problem, though, is that the higher you get the less your chances of encountering streams, especially the ones that flow amidst trees and give you the hope that the world is not always a hot and tiring place. So, while I was enjoying the brief bursts of coolness from the streams, I knew that it was too good to last and I would come to where the sun would have its way with me relentlessly. (If you are wondering why so much time is being spent on the Sun, you do not know me. I am the guy who finds the morning sun of a Delhi Winter too hot to handle. You ain't seen no sweat till you have seen me sweating. And to think I was brought up in Neyveli, not exactly known as a Hill Station!)

And, as promised, the incline duly arrived. (THAT's another grouse for me. When these chaps say 'flat', it never IS flat, but if they say something is an incline, then...). Ever seen a Bullet Train turn into a Bullock Cart? If you want to, just trail alongside me as I hit an incline after a relatively flat track, while on a trek. Of course, I huff and puff like a steam engine but then the bullock probably does the same, if you paid any notice to it.

And midway through that damn incline, disaster struck. Not anything minor like my twisting an ankle or such, which would have given me a graceful excuse to abandon the trek. The sole of my left shoe came off the front portion and started flapping around like the mouth of a crocodile. I did have a tube of FeviKwik (another of those veteran trekker thingies which you carry around to impress but hope never to depend on) and stuck the sole on with it. Well, the tube did live up to its name. It was as Kwik to come off as it was to stick on, so, within another 100 meters, the crocodile was flapping its jaws around hunting for prey again.

The next hundred meters or so gave me a good idea of what Hitler's soldiers suffered with their goose-stepping. About the only saving grace was that I did not have to shoot up my hand and scream, "Heil whatever". By then, I was ready for ANY solution so when someone asked me why I had not just yanked it off, I ecstatically carried it out. (As an aside, when I was whining to Vinod about the consequences of doing that, the chap tells me, no less than 20 times within the minute, that I should have tied it on with laces. I should have known better than to seek sympathy from him. HE is the guy who will sit by the bedside of a man recovering from a heart operation and tell him what he ought to have eaten since age 5 to avoid the problem! You know the sort who, when you are drowning, will be so busy berating you for not learning swimming that he will fail to notice when you are floating away free of all care).

And so, I experienced how it would be to trek with one leg shorter than the other by about a couple of inches. You either plonk the soled foot too hard or you shift weight to the soleless one when it is still in the air. No amount of pleading with the powers above that I found trekking difficult as it is, and there was really no need to add to the trauma, helped. So, where I used to stop to catch my breath once every ten steps, I was now stopping once every two steps. Of course, when someone else was nearby, I was only stopping to taking in the view. (This being known as a veteran trekker, I tell you. It turns you into a second-rate actor, if nothing else). Thankfully, even if my acting failed me, the views did not and, so, the idea of stopping so frequently to take in the sights was eminently believable.

On I trudged, lungs screaming and feet jarring on the ground with uneven steps, hoping forlornly that the trek would come to an end soon. Not before I climbed that zig-zag path, of course and I hit it fairly screaming at the thought of having to climb up that lung-buster. (To be honest, in the normal course, that sort of incline is what you eat for breakfast and ask for more. It is just the lack of soul...err...sole and, perhaps, age catching up. Young at heart and all is fine but it seems to cut no ice with the body.)

 By the time I hit the ridge, I was too tired even to enjoy the relative peace of the ridge-walk. No lung-busting, true, but no shade either and the Sun was at its noon-day high. I went on, the views around me the only solace in what seemed like an endless treadmill. (Whinging a lot, am I? Yeah, I know it was MY choice to trek and, in the normal course, this would have been very pleasant indeed, bar the heat, but I really had not bargained for the difference that the lack of a 'sole' makes to the body). But, yes...the views...

Eventually, you come to what you consider is the end of the trek and there rears a massif. Yeah, I know, on my return I did tell some trekkers who were walking up,"If there is no climb at the end, why would THAT be considered the summit?" but that is the sort of thing that you comfortably say when you have done it and are on your way back. Looking at it as a prospective climb, though...

Still, you know...that veteran trekker thingy. The idea is to look at your feet and put one in front of the other and keep going. To look up to see how much more remains is a surefire way to tire yourself even more than you already are. Still, you do look up at times and envy those cozily sitting up there.

Eventually, I did land up at the peak...at last. A pity that no pic of my feat is here, though.

Been there, done that! NOW the descent should be a breeze. "Oh! Yeah!" whispered some imp of Satan. AND, I started back down...

When there is only a couple of millimeters of leather separating your foot from the ground, it is not too much of a problem ascending...except if you step on a sharp stone or a thorn, which I had not. On the descent, though...

For one, without the sole, the shoe does not grip well. So, you tend to skid and slip on sand and gravel. For another, there are too many damn places where your next step is a foot or so lower and you land on stones. Not exactly the sort of joyous feeling that the foot is used to, with us city slickers, at least. So, there I went, trying to put the soled right foot forward in all such cases. The issue, though, is that it was a trek path not a bloody stairway. Most times the only foot that can land without your having to twist yourself in ballet poses is the sole-less one...and anyone who has seen me will die laughing with the mere mention of me and ballet poses in the same sentence. I mean Sumo Wrestlers are Sumo Wrestlers and Ballet dancers are Ballet dancers and the twain will never meet and all that...

But, needs must. So ballet poses it was, and the consequence was that, more often than not, my ankle turned or my left foot landed on a sharp stone or...enough said. It suffices to say that a running commentary of my descent would exhaust my entire vocabulary of swearing and, this time, I ended up at the Home Stay with pains in all parts of the body, including some that I never knew that God had seen fit to put into the Human anatomy.

The rest, as they say, is anti-climax. An evening of camaraderie - including finding that Arvind was ten years my junior at my school in Neyveli (THAT was probably the previous night, but there was more bonding this day) and Lourd had worked in Neyveli for three years...surprising to find two Neyveli connections in one trek. We traveled back to Mangalore the next day and scattered to the four winds.

Till the next trek brings us together...

Photo Credits: Co-trekkers. NONE taken by me, as usual.

The Great Kashmir Lakes Trek - III

This was the first time I was dropping out of a trek halfway. But, then, this was the first time I was about to do a High Altitude (OR any altitude) horse ride for any length of time. So, it was in any case a new experience for me - though I would miss not being to see those lovely lakes. (The pics in this post are the places I missed, and the one below is where Vinod misses me since I'd have been the only guy who would have given him company in taking dips in freezing waters)

To take the ponies for the way back, I had to cross the boulders, first. AND falling thrice in the process of doing so, thanks to that proud, unbending knee, underscored the wisdom of my having decided to drop off the trek (or I would probably have dropped off some abyss and, no, THAT would not be good riddance!)

I had this vision of my sitting on the mule in a trance, drinking in all the beauties of nature that huffing and puffing up and down would not allow me to do, while the mule huffed and puffed in my stead. THAT, apparently, was not how a mule ride would be. Shaukat, the guide who was along for our ride, kept exhorting me to keep my balance, lean backward when the mule was descending and lean forward when it was ascending. I nodded religiously, held grimly on to the pommel of the saddle and did exactly the reverse. The mule would probably had fared better if I had not got all that advice - I would have at least sat rigidly upright, praying to all the gods I remembered to keep me seated on the mule, instead of slipping off gracefully.

The mule, on its part, had its own problems. The poor thing kept looking back at me hoping that I would get off. It looked so piteously that I was reduced to telling the poor thing, "Sorry! If it were not for this leg..." It, of course, was not possible for me to shed some 20kg of weight on the instant and the sheer agony in its eyes made me cast apprehensive glances behind me to see if the SPCA was gunning for me.



I did not know how good this one was till we stopped off near the muleteer's current residence to change mules. (Evidence of the friendliness of the Kashmiris is the fact that we were given a glass of goat milk, each, which tasted...err...like goat's milk.) The next mule that I sat on reared high as my weight settled on it that I was thrown forward and, literally, bumped noses with it. THAT, though, was not the start of a beautiful friendship.



This one had its own ideas of travel. For it, the shortest distance between two points was a sine curve. The problem, though, was that I did not know whether its idea of the two points were the same as mine; whether it was heading where I wanted to head. The sight of a few resting mules would make it run towards them to partake in their leisure. At times, it would decide that going downhill, with my weight on it, would be easier, and head off the track. AND, then, there were those instances when it would run uphill AND why it should have thought THAT would ease its burden only it could know. Keeping your balance on the mule involved turning your body to where the nose of the mule points at any point in time but it would have taken a corkscrew revolving at high speed to keep up with the twists and turns of THIS mule. I was holding on so grimly and so tightly to the pommel of the saddle that I developed blisters in the hand.

THOSE were the only blisters I could SHOW, though. Any ideas that riding a mule was fun were blasted out of my hide, that day. The problem is that you get scant sympathy at the end of the day. Any attempt at showing off your blisters and wounds would have seemed like an invitation to 'unnatural sex'.

Suffice to say that by the time we hit Sonamarg, I was only too glad to get off that mule and the mule, rather impolitely I thought, pranced around in joy to exhibit ITS gladness at being rid of me.

Dushyant of India Hikes suggested that we stay at their place but with the knee the way it was I could not countenance the idea of an Eastern Toilet. With the Amarnath tourists backed up due to curfews across Kashmir, hotels were full and we ended up at Rah Villas.

The stay would have been very pleasant and enjoyable, with excellent food and a Coimbatore-born manager to talk to, but for the fact that the situation in Kashmir seemed so grim that we were wondering about whether we would get across to Srinagar and back to our homes. Rumors of Amarnath yatris being pelted and rumors of the  abnormal killing of a driver, who seemed to have disappeared after ferrying tourists, from Gund were not very heartening.

We stayed put, instead of advancing our journey, and Dushyant ferried us to Naranag where we would join the rest of our group. Four kilometers from Naranag, the road was blocked by locals and further travel by vehicle proscribed. After a wait, we decided to walk it. Just as my leg, which had been relatively all right since only THAT morning, started twinging again some vehicles from another route came along and gave us a lift to Naranag.

The rest of the group seemed to have had a gala time on their trek. The return to Srinagar, though, seemed fraught with risk. Eventually, we left Naranag in the middle of the night and hit Srinagar at about 1.30 AM. The rest of the crowd opted not to risk the possibility of a curfew making them miss their flights and headed straight to the Airport. We took the India Hikes rooms, snoozed till 5 AM and hit the Airport by 6 AM for our afternoon flights. (Yeah! We ARE foolhardy but not ALL that foolhardy!)

The Airport was like a fairground; passengers all over the place with luggage, vendors selling tea and snacks, the works. About the only things missing was jugglers, merry-go-rounds and balloon-vendors. We hung around till 11.30 AM, when we were allowed to check-in. The rest, as they say, is anti-climax.

Apart from the regrets of not being able to visit those lovely lakes, there is also the regret of not really bonding with the guys from Mumbai, Pune and Delhi. They seemed such a great crowd and it was such a pity that I could not spend those extra five days that would have made friends out of relative strangers. But, then, c'est la vie. Maybe I shall bump into them some time in the future.

Meanwhile, another trek over - even if not completed. AND, right now, the ONE unforgettable being that I added to my list of acquaintances is THAT mule!

Part I

Part II

Pics: Rammohan and Neha

The Great Kashmir Lakes trek - II

There is nothing that frightens me more than to go on a trek and have people exclaim, 'Oh! You are a veteran trekker!" Somehow, human beings seem wired to try to live up to the billing. What with finding balancing myself more difficult than standing an egg on its edge and with blowing like a bellows from the very first step on an incline, I cut a pretty sorry picture of a 'veteran trekker' and the unsightly blush that covers my face, due to all that slipping, slithering and blowing, is really no help. So, you can understand how I felt when I got accosted as a 'You are one of the tough trekkers' by Arpita. Veteran was bad enough...tough?? What would I have to do to live up to that?

After napping for four hours, holding in nausea for the next 3 hours till we hit the base camp, breaking fast on the food arranged by Dushyant - who was the local India Hikes coordinator - and hooking up with Vaisakh and his team, who would guide us on the trek, we were off. I, as usual, was doing my celebrated imitation of a steam engine right from the start but THAT was no help to the others, since they had to ascend on their own steam.

Weather plays such an important role in making a trek easy or difficult. With a drizzle going, the path had turned to slush and we were slipping half a foot for every foot climbed. On a more than usually slippery turn, Vinod slipped and, in trying to break his fall, dislocated his shoulder. The joint was pushed back in but the pain was so intense that he had to carry it in a sling. So, back he went...or THAT would have been the result with anyone else. Vinod?? Forget dropping out of the trek, he was not even willing to drop off his day pack on someone else. So NOW you know the sort of madcaps I trek with.

Of course, being Vinod's friend, I showed my sympathy for him by slipping and falling myself in the same spot. (AND dislocating my shoulder? No, thanks, not even I am THAT sympathetic.) Onwards we went, puffing and panting (I speak for myself, of course) till we hit a dhabha. The dhabha, where I was inspired to imitate Salman Khan by shedding my T-Shirt in full view.

To be sure, Salman would not have liked to own up to my physique, much like I would not like to own up to the things he - oops...his driver, bodyguard, nanny etc - is said to have done. AND, no, I was not under any illusion that my upper torso was something for women to swoon over - unless they swooned because they could not stand the sight. The problem was a maddening itch, possibly caused by something that had got into me when I tried to 'sympathize' with Vinod. All that I found, though, were rashes here and there with no sight of the culprit causing them. Eventually, and thankfully, the itching subsided.

Up and away, again. Thanks to the fact that we could not acclimatize overnight - because of the change in schedule enforced by the aftermath of Wani's killing - and the lack of sleep, quite a few of the trekkers were making heavy weather of the trek. Rammohan was throwing up everything that went in, despite having hydrated himself at the start. (Another of those nuts...he still kept up with us, despite the nausea and the splitting headache). I, the eternal believer in Electral (and the one who needs it the most, considering how much I sweat), was, as usual, carrying a bottle of water mixed with Electral and forced him to drink it, thanks to which he threw up once again. By the end of the day, he was fresh and healthy, which, of course, I attribute to the Electral I forced down his throat!



Trekking in Kashmir throws up all the challenges of trekking on a daily basis. In addition to the ascents on inclines, you end up descending also on the same day - thanks to the fact that every day, we went up to close to 13k feet and, then, ending up camping at somewhere around 11500 feet. You walk over snow drifts, you jump across boulders and, even, cross fast-flowing streams on a slippery path of stones. It is fun to do all that, not least because you get to see such wonderful sights en route (When you stop to take it in, of course. If you tried it WHILE you were trekking...) And, no, pics are not a substitute. To see the pics of those rolling green valleys, those lovely carpets of flowers, those rearing mountains, the gushing River Sind and to think you have had the experience is to assume that you have had the joy of eating by looking at the pic of food on Facebook. There is a vast difference between looking AT some natural beauty and being in the midst of it.

We camped on day 1 at Table Top. Rammohan, Shekhar and I shared a tent. Both Mohan and I believed in giving the world audible evidence of the fact that we are asleep, when we are asleep - what a cousin calls 'sound' sleepers - and, thus, there are no prizes for guessing who could not sleep soundly in our tent.

The next day, we started climbing up to Nichnai pass. Strangely for me, I was needing to take a break after every 10 steps (I know! It is your opinion that I do my trekking on the back of some-one else, sort of like the people who go walking in their SUVs. Malicious propaganda, I tell you!). By the time we hit Nichnai pass, I had a splitting headache to add to my woes. Around then is when it struck me that I had been so busy telling other people to hydrate themselves, on the previous day, that I had not found the time to do it myself. I downed my bottle of Electral and suddenly found that the trek was not as bad as it seemed, after all. Not even slipping and falling twice while descending down a snow-drift, changed my mind.

Around the time we reached a long field of boulders to cross, my headache intensified. Skipping lunch, due to the dehydration-induced nausea, was probably not the wisest of decisions but, then, I have very seldom been accused of wisdom. Arpita, who was then trekking ahead of me, was finding the boulders difficult going and, in the normal course, I'd have been helping her across them. (Yeah! Yeah! Being called a veteran trekker does do something to me). The way I was feeling, though, I could hardly help myself and I rushed on ahead.

By the time I hit the campsite, I was feeling ready to lie down and die. Vaisakh was all agog getting people to climb up a small hillock to take in the Vishnusar lake but I begged off.

After a snooze, I took a walk around the campsite, turned awkwardly, slipped on some slush and fell. Nothing new about it for me but this time the muscles of my right leg were strained badly and I could not bend my knee. Unfortunately, the rest day planned for the next day was rescheduled because it looked like rainy days were ahead and Vaisakh did not want to take a chance. An unbending knee may be the sign of a proud man but it is also a sign of a man who cannot skip over boulders.

I decided to take the call on turning back or continuing on the trek after a night's sleep. Well...there WAS no night's sleep with the pain keeping me awake almost all night, except for a few minutes of dozing now and then.

I did climb - if one can call dragging one foot behind you as climbing - up to see the Vishnusar lake. Shekhar, who had had enough of pushing himself, decided to turn back with me. THAT, then, ended the High Altitude trek. The saga of the High Altitude Horse Ride still remains to unfold.

Part I
Part III
Pics : Rammohan, Neha and Maulik Shah

The Great Kashmir Lakes Trek - I

Just as I was thinking that this Nemesis that was stalking me on every trek had turned its attention to someone else, up it pops again and says that it was only taking a break last year. Every trek I have been on in the few years before then have been brushes with disaster. Who goes on a trip to Badami when the entire Gadag region drowns in rain? Yours truly! Who is on trek in the Leh/Ladakh region when Leh gets cut off by rains? Yours truly! Who gets stranded in the middle when the Uttaranchal disaster strikes? Yours truly! Just as I was wondering whether the weather reporters should abandon following things like El Nino and start chasing after me, the treks of last year came as a respite. And now...NOW I am waking up with nightmares of Arnab Goswami screaming in my ears, "Where are you going next? India wants to KNOW."

It all started rather innocuously, though...boringly, in fact. I mean, if one lands up at 2 PM on the 7th  of July at the Srinagar Airport, and has to wait till 6 PM before the rest of the group can join in, it is unlikely that the said person will have an interesting time. Four hours of sight-seeing in the Srinagar Airport, lugging a couple of bags, was four hours more than I wanted to spend in ANY airport but, if you have no clue where the group has arranged to stay and have a non-functioning prepaid mobile, you have little choice but to admire the car-park, the tea-shop and the canteen till the rest deign to land. I even managed to snooze at the waiting hall, where the cabbies rest in between ferrying passengers.

We did, eventually, hook up and landed at the houseboat - Aristotle, if you can believe it, which was paired with Plato - by around 7.30 PM. Since it was not named Socrates, we did arrange for beer and dinner, without any fears of being served hemlock. Shekhar, Ravi, Rammohan and I were the tipplers with Hari Sethuraman sticking to the less elevating drinks. Vinod was expected the next day and Chandru, having crocked his knee back home, skipped the trek, leaving his brother Rammohan to hold up the family banner.

The next day, we left to take in the sights at Gulmarg, having informed the Houseboat chaps to admit Vinod into the boat, despite what they may feel about him at first sight. Ravi who, in his previous avatar, was a Colonel in the 'Golden Gurkha Gunners' - the only artillery Gurkha regiment in the world - had organised lunch at his regiment.

The gondola ride and the views from the top were amazing. For trekkers, though, I'd say it was more of an everyday affair since the views on a daily basis are equally as amazing and you do not either have to line up in haphazard queues to get tickets or have the serenity marred by screaming tourists. One of the things I never have managed to understand. Why does a sense of enjoyment involve making SO much noise?

The lunch in the regimental mess was an eye-opener. The military way of life is something that has been a closed book to me till then. (not that I have suddenly become the military expert who will come now on Arnab's show and plead with him to get a word in edge-ways.) It was an education to see the impeccable hospitality of the young CO, who was simultaneously engaged in handling reports from his men who were on patrol to nab a vehicle with intruders from across the border. The trophies of the regiment gave me to think. These were the guys, who were putting their lives on the line, to safeguard the country; the guys who carried out the orders of civilian governments in the process of carrying out their duties. Yet, when they risked their lives to carry out one set of orders, they were heroes to be lauded across the length and breadth of the country and, if they did the same to carry out another set of orders, they were demonized and vilified by anyone with a platform and a mike. The vice if any, one would have thought, was in the orders and, thus, the blame, if any, was that of those who gave the orders. Seemed to me that the journalists both want the military to be subordinated to the civilian government and, yet, question or refuse to carry out those orders that the journalists consider incorrect. Whether they ever bother to think about the inherent contradictions in their expectations, I would not know.

An interesting aside to that visit was the information that the father of Chetan Bhagat was once the CO of this regiment, and our Ravi was once his adjutant.

By the time we returned to the houseboat, leaving Ravi back at his regiment, Wani had been killed and the TV reported a tense situation. The cab that dropped Ravi the next morning was also pelted with stones on the way back, apparently. We were advised to stick to the vicinity of Dal lake, since the tourist areas are normally left alone by any rioters.

Vinod, who had come in while we were away had taken a long Shikara ride on the Dal Lake the previous day and, if you know Vinod, his joy in anything is communicated so infectiously that you regret the time you spent almost anywhere else except where he was enjoying himself. We took the Shikara ride on the Dal lake and the tour, especially the non-touristy areas, was so lovely and serene that it more than lived up to Vinod's billing. It is such a pity that the lake, in the vicinity of the Houseboats, is so full of the muck thrown in by the people who stay in them.

Around lunch-time, when we were supposed to leave for the base camp, the situation had still not improved and the trek hung in the balance. After a brief nap, we decided to go out for dinner, instead of having it on the houseboat, also in order to meet up with the other members of the trek who had come in from Mumbai, Pune and Delhi and were staying in other houseboats.

We took a long walk along the lake since the other lot was on a Shikara ride of their own and would be some time in getting back. In the meantime, Ravi talked to the India Hikes guys, who were the organizers of the trek, and we were informed that we should be leaving at 3.30 AM from Srinagar so that we could take advantage of the sleeping habits of potential stone-pelters to go over safely to the base camp. Since the arrival at the base camp would be in the morning, we would have to proceed on the trek, as per the original schedule, right away.

Deciding not to wait for the others, in order to maximize our sleep, we had dinner at a nearby restaurant. I was just stepping out of the restaurant when a crowd of lathi-wielding youth landed up. Luckily for me, the restaurant owner was swift to down the shutters and the lathis thudded into them. THAT was when I understood why the CRPF could not adopt a 'Now! Now! Don't be like that' sort of indulgent attitude when faced with stone-pelting mobs. After all, people have been killing each other with sticks and stones for far longer than with other weapons and I rather doubt that wearing a uniform makes them any less likely to get injured or killed.

We stayed put in the restaurant, shivering to the tune of drumming lathis for a while. Once all was silent, we crept out and went to the ghat to await the shikara from our houseboat to pick us up. The boatsmen at the ghat were telling us that, in thirty years, this area had been undisturbed and this was the first time that these rioters had asked them to take away the shikaras from the ghat. Notwithstanding that, they were still there to ferry any tourists. It is that part of Kashmir which was amazing - the friendliness of the people running in tandem with rioting.

Having to wake up at 2 AM is not one of my favorite ideas - THAT being the time I tend to go to sleep normally - but when needs must, one does have to adjust. The next day we would start on the main business of this visit - the Great Kashmir lakes trek.

Part II

Part III

Pictures : Neha

Trek to Valley of Flowers with GIO - To Badrinath, Mana and back

First Part : To Auli; Second Part: To Ghangaria; Third Part: To Valley of Flowers; Fourth Part: To Hemkund Sahib; Fifth Part: To Badrinath, Mana and Back

It rained all night again but, needless to say, we were much less perturbed this time since we had sort of assumed that the trek was ended. The only worry was whether the weather would cause the Uttaranchal government to stop people from traveling to Badrinath.

The next day's trek back to Govindghat was, as usual, not all that much of a cakewalk since descents have a way of testing knees and ankles. There still was some cavalry with us but a much attenuated one. Most of us did do the trek back. Thankfully, the day was sunny and the Badrinath trip was still on.

We hit Badrinath when the temple was closed, as was expected by our guides. Mahaveer was the only one of the three GIO Adventures guides to accompany us, since Yashpal and Hari had left from Govindghat to Auli to prepare for our nights stay there. The cooking staff, who had provided such great food at the camp stayed back in the same GIO camp for the next group.

Lunch was at the Sardeswari restaurant at Badrinath and we spent the time remaining in taking group pics.

The vehicle used by the other group had some fan-belt problems and, while it was being repaired, we walked down to the Badrinath temple. Necessarily in an unwashed condition, we visited the temple and had a darshan of Lord Vishnu.

After the darshan, we chose to also do the optional visit to Mana. This is the last Indian village before the border of Tibet/China. The place has the mythological significance of being the place where Ved Vyas is reputed to have dictated the Mahabharat to Lord Ganesh, who acted as his scribe. The Vyas Gufa and the Ganesh Gufa were the caves wherein the duo are reputed to have seated themselves during the composition of the Mahabharat. The day was when, apparently, the locals held a festival to worship the Pandavas and we witnessed the ceremonies for a while before we went on towards the scenic delights of the place.

The path to the caves of Vyas and Lord Ganesh forks upwards towards the caves. The other path leads to what the locals call the origin point of the mythical river Saraswati, which is then supposed to mingle with the Alaknanda. The roaring flow of the waters through the mountains was a sight to behold.

The gorge carved by the river was, apparently, impassable for the Pandavas when they sought to ascend to Heaven. The mighty second son of Kunti, Bhim, then uprooted a huge rock and made a bridge for the rest to cross. This Bhimpul still stands tribute to the tremendous strength of the son of Vayu.

A temple to the river goddess, Saraswati, is close by the gushing waters. As, also, is the 'last Indian tea-shop'!

After having soaked in the beauty of the place we reluctantly returned to our vehicle to what we fondly hoped would be a night's halt at the comfortable rest-house in Auli. We hit Badrinath and were stopped by the Police.

The Lord had, apparently, decided to wash the place clean of our unwashed presence with rains and the consequence was a landslide that had blocked the road some three kilometers further down. After the usual couple of hours of dithering, we stayed at Badrinath with a lot of nervousness about when and whether the road-block would be cleared. People with flights to board on the next day were busy with their calculations of how much the road-block could eventually cost them.

Thanks to the efficiency of the BRO, the road was cleared by 9 AM and we were happily motoring down (ME??? I am never happy on road journeys, particularly on mountains). Yashpal and Hari hired a vehicle to ferry the luggage we had left behind at Auli - which they shifted to our vehicle en route, so that we would not lose time in detouring to Auli to pick them up. We had a brief halt for tea at another of GIO's campsites, just ahead of Deva Prayag, After we left the place, we hit another unexpected problem at Devaprayag.

Apparently, some large piece of equipment had fallen there quite a few days back and the owners had picked this day to try and remove it. The stupendous logic of picking on a weekend day to block a pilgrimage route for hours on end beats me but that was the reality we had to live with then. Vehicles were piled up for a couple of kilometers. People sat on the roads playing cards; others were frantically calling up people changing travel plans; Chandru and I gave up on our 11.10 PM train back to Delhi and were discussing alternatives (Trek back? THAT was not one of the options, thank you).

At around 8 PM the road cleared. With just 3 hours to go, it was impossible to hit Haridwar in time for our train. Or so it seemed to us but our driver Kuldip, like Dhoni, had other ideas. So skilfully did he drive at speed to Haridwar that we never seemed in any danger and, yet, reached the Haridwar station with some 15 minutes to spare.

After rushed farewells, we boarded our train. Yet another wonderful Himalayan experience was ended.

Pics: Jaya and Chandru
Video: Chandru