Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part II)

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Rambaugh Circle turned out to be at the other end of Mall Road, from where the road forks out and the one on the left leads towards Hadimba temple. As we approached the crossing, we saw a few youngsters with backpacks and guessed — rightly — that they were part of our team. They turned out to be one of the various groups from Mumbai. One of them called up our trek leader Akhil and he told us to enter the park that Mall Road straight led to. That was Rambaugh circle.

Many of the team members were already there. I saw a lean guy constantly busy on the phone and guessed it was Akhil. He was in army-fatigue-print cargos and a cap with sun-protection flaps on three sides that shadowed much of his face, leaving only the lower part clearly visible. Except for one occasion, that’s how I — and probably everybody else — saw Akhil for the next four days.

As the rest of the team kept arriving in ones and twos or in bigger groups, I went and introduced myself to Akhil. I asked him who the ‘sweeper’ was. With most of the team being bubbly youngsters, I was pretty certain I would need the services of the sweeper this time, too. And I thought I might as well make friends with the guy with whom I was likely to spend most of the next four days!

But Akhil said there was no sweeper. “There are other staff members, but I am the only team leader ma’am. There’s no sweeper,” he said.

“Firstly,” I said, “please don’t call me ma’am. Call me Urmi.” Akhil said: “Ok, Urmi ma’am.” To take revenge, I started calling him ‘Akhil Sir’ later. He completely stopped addressing me after that.

Then I asked him how many of us he would be managing all alone. “This is a big group,” he said. “You are 37 in all. Plus there will be around 40 porters and other staff.”

Thirty-seven! But isn’t 24 the largest group size usually? “Yes,” he said. “There was a problem during registration and extra people got registered for this batch by mistake,” he shared. I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. The more the people, lesser the peace.

I asked Akhil next whether we’d be able to cross the pass. The IH correspondent had already given us the bad news that the first batch hadn’t been able to cross the pass over to Spiti valley because of “record snowfall” (along with record heat!) this year. The Chatru road to Chandratal was closed as well. So the first batch had gone back the way they had come. Was it our fate too?

Akhil looked at my eager face and said very apologetically, “There’s still a lot of snow. We won’t be able to cross the pass.” Seeing my face fall, he quickly added, “Even the local shepherds haven’t been able to cross the pass yet this year. I don’t think anyone will be able to cross the pass for another 25 days at least.”

But that was little consolation. There is something wrong between the Himalayas and me. Every time I’m on a Himalayan trip, something has to go wrong. Something — the best part usually — remains incomplete. In Uttarakhand, it was Kedarnath; in Ladakh, it was Nubra valley; in Goecha La, it was Kanchenjungha itself and now, it was Spiti Valley, Chandratal as well as the return via Rohtang Pass.

One day, I hope to stand in front of one of the Himalayan peaks and declare a la Beatrix Kiddo alias Black Mamba in Kill Bill: “Mr Himalayas, you and I have unfinished business.” In our case, it would be “several unfinished businesses”.

The only good news Akhil had for me was that we’d be able to see some snow from the first day itself. I went and shared this with some of our trekmates. This brought some cheer because by then, most of them had got the bad news.

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It wasn’t before 1pm that in groups of eight in each car, we left for Jobra from the Manali bus stand. After crossing the bridge over the Beas just off the bus stand, the cars went on relatively plain land for around 15 minutes before starting to climb up a steep gradient round hairpin bends.

On the way, the cars stopped for permits and I got the opportunity to take a nice top-view of Manali. The driver later claimed photography was not allowed there. I argued that neither was there any signboard to say so, nor had anyone stopped me from taking the shots.

After going up some 40-odd bends, we reached the Jobra dam, from where the actual trek was supposed to begin. The rest of the IH staff and the porters were already there. On one side of the road was the dam and on the other was the trail leading through some beautiful woods that looked inviting at once. From the Jobra dam itself, we could see a snow-capped peak looming in the distance, towards which we would presumably be walking.

We spent some time there submitting our documents — an ID proof, a medical certificate and a disclaimer stating something like ‘I know about the risks of trekking and will not hold IH responsible even if I die’. As I stood in the queue, one of the young guys asked the porters, “Bhaiya, where is the washroom?” Though he put the question in Hindi, he used the word ‘washroom’.

I looked at the porters. I can bet a million bucks that they wouldn’t have looked more stunned even if they had seen a herd of triceratops passing by. Seeing them tongue-tied, I interjected: “For the next few days, it’s better if you forget that something called a washroom exists.” The guy did not comment, but the porters grinned from ear to ear.

We then handed over our rucksacks to the porters (whoever wanted to) and also had the option of leaving behind unwanted luggage in Manali (cloakroom facility) in charge of IH. Akhil then gave us a briefing saying we’d walk for some time, take a break to have a local snack and then start again. “Today’s trek is not too difficult,” he said. “We should be able to do it in two hours or less.”

Finally, we set out around 2.30pm from Jobra.

The terrain was slightly rocky, but quite easy to walk on. We met the river — the Rani Nullah (or Hampta Nullah) — after a while and she was to be our companion for the rest of the trek. It was a beautifully forested trail that opened out briefly into a clearing after a few minutes of crossing a bridge on the river before disappearing into the forest once again. The snow-capped peak was clearly visible again from the clearing.

After walking for around half an hour, we stopped at a well-shaded spot in the forest for a detailed briefing by Akhil and a taste of ‘siddu’ — a local snack made of almond paste dough with a filling of poppy seed paste. It was much like a dry momo and went with a delicious chutnee.

As we relished our siddu, Akhil introduced the other IH staff members — Polu Thakur, Panna Thakur and Chander Thakur. (There seemed to be an overdose of Thakurs in Manali. Even our driver Kaku was a Thakur.) Akhil said Chandan was his assistant. Polu bhai, he said, had completed mountaineering courses and assured us that we were in safe hands. We were asked to introduce ourselves, too.

Akhil gave us a few tips on how to use our trekking poles and how to hold the rucksack — not by the long straps as most of us were doing, but by the small strap near the neck specially made for the purpose. “Otherwise you’ll end up tearing the straps,” he said. He also told us how to pack the bags — to put the heavier stuff in the middle and leave the top and bottom lighter. “Otherwise, the balance gets messed up and you will hurt your back.”

We had not got such lessons in Goecha La since the entire team, expect for Eti and I, had been experienced trekkers. The trek leader hadn’t bothered to take the trouble only for the two of us.

Lessons over, Akhil now asked if any of us smoked. I looked at Rita at once, but she sat there with an angelic expression on her face. I knew why Akhil was asking this; Kuntal had already told me that Akhil was a big-time smoker. “Rita may find a smoking pal in Akhil, but I doubt if her stocks will last till the end of the trek then,” Kuntal had messaged along with a laughing smiley.

Seeing no one owning up, Akhil finally said in his usual good-humoured way: “Ok, I presume no one smokes. But even if someone does, they won’t do it near the campsite. They will do it out of sight of the other trekkers. Smoking and drinking are not allowed by Indiahikes.” There were muffled giggles all around.

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It was around 3.30pm when we started off again. The trail continued for around 10-15 more minutes through the forest, which mostly housed deodars. Akhil and Polu bhai later told me that it also houses pines, jamun (berry), oak (green and yellow varieties), maple, walnut and birch (bhurjipatra) in the upper reaches.

The forested trail led straight into a vast green meadow. We seemed to be at its far side and it continued the way we had to go, but we did not take that route. We crossed the meadow instead and on the other side, where the Rani Nullah was flowing down to meet the Beas somewhere downstream, we met out first patch of snow.

I was surprised because I hadn’t expected to get it so early into the trek. It was a patch of old, hard, muddy snow, which acted as a bridge over the river. There was an IH member standing to guide us over the snow patch and he kept telling us not to veer too much towards the river. At that time, I had only guessed that there was a risk of the snow giving way under our feet.

I know now from the pictures of later batches that there’s a foot-wide bridge of wooden planks on the river there. But when we went, the five-metre-wide (or more) chunk of solid snow had covered it completely. That’s precisely why we were being guided over the invisible bridge as closely as possible so as to cut the risk of the snow giving way. None of the trekkers probably had a clue that there was a bridge underneath.

The snow patch made a moderately steep gradient, up which we would have to climb to meet the trail again, which went up a gentler gradient. This was the first test for my new shoes.

My fitness had so far not given me a reason to complain. Unlike Goecha La, where I had started gasping for breath 10 minutes into the trek, I had been walking here for around 45 minutes and was yet to feel even remotely tired. True, the Goecha La trail starts off much steeper than the Hampta Pass trail, but still, it felt good.

As I started climbing up the patch of snow, I noticed that the shoes were slipping slightly and asked one of the IH members if it was normal. Thankfully, he said it was. “The snow is hard and it will slip slightly. Unless it’s slipping too much, it’s ok.” My shoes seemed perfectly fine.

After the snow patch, the trail continued through grassy undulating tracts dotted with rocks and interspersed with brief thickets. We crisscrossed our way through large flocks of grazing sheep and as we went on, we started meeting large patches of snow on the slopes, off which water was trickling to form torrents that made their way down to the river. Up ahead was the snow-capped peak, and the river never let us out of sight. Behind us cascading down the hills were the tall deodars and, what Akhil told me later, rhododendron bushes. In all, calling it ‘beautiful’ would be an understatement. 

The trail was remarkable different from the Goecha La trail, which is much more forested in the first two days. In fact, the first campsite in Sachen is in the middle of a rain forest and though it has its own beauty, it restricts the view and doesn’t tell you where you are going until you are a few feet from your destination. Trekkers do not get to meet the meadows until they reach Dzongri on the third day.

To put it poetically, if the Goecha La trail is like this mysterious veiled woman who will entice you with a whisper, a motion of her finger or a rustle of her robe, Hampta is like a lively, cheerful teenager who will giggle, dance down her tracks and wave and shout at you to follow her towards the snow-capped Himalayan peak on the horizon. 

The only steep (slightly) ascent we experienced on the first day was up a grassy slope. As I hiked up, I noticed the difference in my breathing. Unlike Goecha La, where I would start panting within five minutes of a climb, I went up the slope relatively easily, stopping a couple of times to catch my breath, which didn’t take more than a minute at the most. Most importantly, I could take deep breaths even while walking up, which had been completely impossible for me at Goecha La. 

We had walked for only around 2 hours after the siddu break when we saw the Chika campsite. And we had all been walking at quite a leisurely pace, with shutterbugs like me stopping for lots of photo breaks.

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Nestled amid the mountains, with the Rani Nullah gurgling past and flocks of sheep grazing past the tents, Chika made a dream campsite. It gave a fine view of the snow-capped peak, behind which, Akhil told me, was the Indraquila peak (16,000+ feet). Layers of deodars swathed the mountains we had left behind. And the ground was strewn with wild spinach, which grew everywhere just like grass.

Only in one trek, Eti and I had had a tremendous role reversal. We had been the rookies at Goecha La; here, with 95% of the team first-timers, we were the ‘experienced’ ones! We had been among the first to reach the campsite. And I did not feel half-dead either. I remembered Dr Bichkar telling me at Sachen, “I can walk for another few miles, but you can’t.” This time, I knew I could.

We were greeted at Chika with delicious watermelons and tea, which was followed by steaming hot Maggi. After the rest of the team arrived, Akhil gave another briefing, explaining how to use the toilet tents. “No one will use water. It will make the tent even stinkier. Soak the toilet paper in water and your job will be done,” he said, drawing chuckles and giggles from all around.

We were all getting to like Akhil. He had an open face, intelligent eyes and a very good sense of humour. He said whatever he had to say very plainly but with a dash of his own brand of wit. Later I found that he was also very dutiful and went around the campsite every morning with his first-aid kit, asking everybody how he or she was feeling and even dressing people’s feet. He was nearly always present at the toughest stretches of the trail, helping trekkers cross it, and worked as the ‘sweeper’ himself unlike some other team leaders who designate their deputies for the purpose. To me, Akhil was perfect leader material.

Akhil also told us to keep en eye open for bears. Apparently the previous batch had sighted a bear (I don’t know what kind) from the Chika campsite further up the trail. “No one will go to the toilet tent alone at night. They will take someone along,” he said.

Immediately someone asked, “And what will that poor other person do if the bear comes?” “Shout at the top of his or her voice,” Akhil grinned.

Though later I saw pictures of the Himalayan Griffon vulture being posted by a member of the previous batch, we didn’t spot any. I only sighted a white-capped water redstart by the river, though from quite a distance. I took some shots but owing to the low light and the distance,

It was pitch-dark by the time dinner was served and I was pleasantly surprised to see that IH has made a lot of changes in the quality of food it serves — in fact, it has gone overboard with it. Not only has it increased the number of options — e.g. included both rice and chapatti in the menu apart from two kinds of curry/dal — it has, more importantly, incorporated fruits and milk in the diet. Breakfast always comprised bread with butter and jam, milk-cornflakes, and sometimes even omelettes, pancakes or porridge.

Thankfully, the oily puris and paranthas that we were sometimes served at Goecha la were completely out.

At Goecha La, every small thing had seemed daunting. Rolling and packing the sleeping bags had seemed so tiresome that I had named it World War III, which has stuck to the trek like an epithet. This time, packing the sleeping bag was no sweat at all. Even the toilet tent did not seem so repulsive like last time, though I still felt like a dog (rather bitch) heaping the loose earth into the pit with my feet every time.

Surprisingly, Eti and I were actually feeling a little sad. We had nothing to crib about. That essentially meant no excuse to enjoy our crazy, drunkard laughs.

Rita adjusted to camping life well for a first-timer, though the altitude was bothering her. She had a niggling headache, which a dose of paracetamol couldn’t take care of. And she was also having trouble breathing — just like I had had at Goecha La, and with the same effect, too. It was slowing her down.

Both Eti and I woke up around the same time — around 6am. There were no mad whistles this time and no one hurried us up. But we went about our morning tasks just like we used to the last time. By 7.30am, both of us were ready for the day — sleeping bags rolled, rucksacks packed, though breakfast was probably served a bit later. I even took some time to sit by the river again hoping to catch the redstart. It was there, but so far that it did not give me a very good shot.

I can’t remember at what time we were supposed to start off (probably 9am), but I recall clearly that only Eti and I were standing at the designated spot at the exact time like valiant, hardened warriors. Daypacks on our back and trekking poles in hand, we looked exactly like those statues at war memorials of the soldier with the helmet on his head and hands resting on his rifle. Many of our trekmates were still lazing about, some were having trouble with their sleeping bags, others were dilly-dallying...

I realized then that Goecha La had battle-readied us for life. But ironically, that’s also why World War IV will probably never happen.