Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part III)

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Continued from previous post...

Day 2: Chika (9,800 feet) to Balu Ka Gera (12,000 feet) 

The second day promised to be longer and more action-packed than the first. We could expect to be amid more snow and closer to the mighty Indrasan peak (6,221 metre/20,410 feet), but before that we would have to cross two fast-flowing mountain streams on the way. For an aquaphobic, it wasn’t a very pleasant prospect.

As I went about the preparations, I kept sneaking glances at the stream. It wasn’t too deep; I could see the rocks underneath and it did not seem more than knee-deep at the most. But it was swift and made rapids where the water hit the rocks. It did not look inviting at all.

But it had to be done. So, instead of wasting time, which was likely to only increase the anxiety, I decided to just go for it. We were told to hold hands and make a chain to cross the stream, though IH staffers had placed themselves at strategic points where they could give us a helping hand. I ended up being the third in the chain with two other girls leading and several trekkers following me.

I rolled up my pants to the knees and took the first step from the rocks into the water gingerly. God! It was ice-cold. And then suddenly, before I could even realise what was happening, I was being dragged into it headlong by the two bravehearts leading the chain!

The rocks underneath were slippery. And through the churning water, I could hardly make out where they were. I had to feel them with my feet, which had gone numb within moments of hitting the water. I was also worried for the fractured toe. The good part was that even it pained, I was not in a state to feel it.

But the two bravehearts gave me no time to feel my way through the water. They were dashing through it like a bulldozer.

“Ruko, ruko,” I kept screaming. ‘Ruko’ happens to be one of my favourite Hindi words. It stands for both ‘stop’ and ‘wait’. And I often find myself in strange situations where I have to shout ‘ruko, ruko’ at the top of my voice. But no one was in the mood — or even situation — to either stop or wait. The human chain seemed to have a brain of its own and it was cutting through the water like a chainsaw.

Stumbling and slipping, somehow I kept up with the chain, negotiating the rocks, braving the current and turning a deaf ear to the constant shouting by the IH staff to “not look down at the water” because it would “make us giddy”.

I had already had that experience years ago, in 1995, when I had gone on my first trek from school. We had had to cross a river much wider and swifter than this one. And I had nearly staggered my way through it like a drunkard despite holding on to a rope. Thankfully, this time I did better than that. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages — though it must have been 10 to 12 minutes at the most — I was on dry ground again. It took all of us a while getting back sensation in our feet under the sun.

Despite rolling them up above the knees, the legs of my pants, like everybody else’s, were soaking wet. That reminded me of my beloved camera and I nearly freaked out when I found the bottom of the pouch wet. Thankfully it had not penetrated to the camera itself. At the next river crossing, I wrapped it in plastic and put it in my bag along with the shoes.

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Once I was back in my element, I looked around and realised it was a beautiful spot with a carpet of marsh marigolds spread out a little off the bank, where tiny rivulets of melted snow were making their way down to the Rani Nullah.

From here, the trail became rockier, steeper and tougher. The snow patches kept increasing in number and so did the number of streams flowing out of them. But the tract was still green and adding to its lustre were clusters of purple iris.

As we kept going upstream, the Rani Nullah gradually disappeared under a thick cloak of snow. But it was summer and holes were starting to show in the river’s precious winter garment. A few more weeks and it would vanish completely. There were distinct cracks in the snow already and it had broken up in chunks in places, revealing the gushing water underneath.

This was the reason we had to veer off the usual Hampta trail that continues right next to the river. To bypass the frozen stream, we had to climb a little up from the trail. We got to walk on the frozen river, too, but that was further upstream where the snow was still thick and hard.

We kept crossing one stream after another, jumping over the rocks, and I never managed to do it without getting my shoes wet. Luckily, the weather was good and the shoes would always dry under the sun at the campsite. Or, I would have had to make do with squelchy shoes every day.

Very soon, we came across the first patch of snow that we’d have to cross. We had to follow the footmarks that had already been made by the IH staff and place our feet exactly on them as far as possible. The slope did not make it very easy.

After crossing several of them and with some tips from Akhil and others, I gradually realised the trick — one has to place the foot as ‘straight’ as possible. For instance, if the downward slope is from left to right, one has to dig in the left part of both feet while walking to keep the balance. It will be the right one if the slope is from right to left. But it’s easier said than done.

The worst part was stepping on the snow patches from the rocks or vice versa. The spots where the patches ended were the most vulnerable. Very often, the snow could not hold our weight and simply gave way. It happened with me twice. Both times I was lucky enough to get away with no injury.

But one of our trekkers wasn’t so lucky. He fell and injured his knee in the rocks beneath. He completed the trek, though it must have been very painful because it later turned out to be a hairline fracture.

All through the walk, the mountains, which looked more like a massive wall of snow, beckoned us from behind the undulating ground that led straight up ahead. It seemed that we’d bump straight into it if we simply kept going. That’s the mischief of the mountains. No one ever manages to hit the wall.

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A couple of hours after starting off, we came to a small waterfall in front of which the path was blocked by a huge chunk of snow, one end of it jutting out over the rocks in a mere 1/1.5-foot thick layer. We would have to jump on to it from the rocks; there seemed to be no other way out.

When I arrived, ice axes were being tested on the jutting-out layer of snow, probably to check its strength. On being sure that it was strong enough to allow all of us to pass, the IH staff and other helping hands started making a pile of small flat rocks just below the ‘snow bridge’. The pile would serve as a step for jumping on to it.

Eti asked me to come along as she prepared to cross the bridge, but I refused. No photographer worth his or her salt would miss the chance of clicking this fantastic part of the journey.

The stone step was wobbly from the beginning. And it started getting wobblier with every step as one trekker after another used it jump on to the snow bridge. After the eighth/ninth trekker, it completely disintegrated and the last one just about managed to escape a fall.

I wondered if the step would be rebuilt, but the idea was cancelled. So, the rest of us had to jump on to the bridge off a single rock, though there were two men to pull us up. It was a much better idea than the shaky step.

Around half an hour later, we stopped to have our packed lunch on a grassy spot that was teeming with the purple iris. It overlooked the valley and was surrounded by snow patches and lofty mountains. I don’t know if Art Davidson, who famously wrote that he climbed mountains “to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in peace”, had enjoyed his precious meal here, but I have never felt happier nibbling on dry chapatti rolls coated with only a thin layer of jam.

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We came to the second river crossing around 45 minutes later. The water was deeper, the current stronger and on taking one look at it I got butterflies in my stomach. I wondered if we’d cross this one in a similar fashion, but no. The staff felt it was too risky to let us do it by ourselves and they took us one by one to the other side.

When I stepped into the water, two men holding my hand on either side, it seemed the human chain had been better after all. Because, paying scant regard to the laws of physics, both were pulling me in opposite directions and expecting me to walk straight — that too through slippery rocks, a terribly strong current and freezing water. And to top it all, I wasn’t supposed to look down.

I simply don’t remember how I managed to reach the other side — once again shouting “ruko, ruko” at the top of my voice — but I got an idea later from a fantastic picture Eti took of me crossing the river. I looked exactly like a convict being dragged to the gallows.

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On the other bank, the soggy ground, crisscrossed by thousands of tiny rivulets, was strewn with clusters of marsh marigolds and the Himalayan meadow primrose. We were now in Jwara at 11,000 feet.

As we kept going higher, the flowers gradually disappeared. It was all rock and snow now with patches of dry brownish-green grass on the slopes. Even the ubiquitous jungle crow had deserted us long back.

Sometime later, we had to tackle a steep climb. I was already halfway up when I realised the situation. The gradient was around 75 degrees (or more) in certain sections with no rocks to step on — just slopes of loose pebbles and dry grass.

While walking I had inadvertently joined a group of guys from Mumbai. I was just behind the one who was leading them. His name was Devansh and he gave me a helping hand as he did to his friends, too.

A little way up from where we were, we saw one of our trekmates trying to negotiate one of the thousands of rivulets that we had to keep crossing. But walking across a stream is one thing. Crawling across one, however small it might be, is a totally different ball game altogether — that too with the ground sloping at a 75-degree angle behind you.

The poor chap was down on all fours. He tried to crawl over the stream once, failed, tried again, but went back. Again he tried to clamber across it… He was setting a totally new benchmark for “try, try, try again”.

I could have stared at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed for several hours, only to find out how he finally succeeded (he must have, because all 37 of us reached Balu Ka Gera). But given the situation I was myself in, this was no time to enjoy a spectacle. One slip on the loose pebbles and I would go tumbling down all the way to the frozen river below, which was likely to crack up and send me down into the icy water, making me a fine spectacle for others.

I tried to figure out a way to bypass the stream. Looking carefully, I saw that we had already crossed it once. It was flowing down diagonally and obviously had taken the easiest gradient down. So following it was the best route no doubt, but then we’d have to keep setting new standards for “try, try, try again”.

The only way to avoid the stream was to climb up a very steep vertical section. I saw that Devansh had come up with the same idea and was already on his way up. He saw me following him and asked very doubtfully, “Are you sure you can manage? It’s very steep.”

Any other time and the feminist side in me would have flown off the handle, but this was no time for isms. I simply said, “Let me try.”

The worst part was that the trekking pole was of no use in this situation and had actually become a burden as it kept one hand partly occupied. It was better to climb on all fours, using the hands to grip whatever provided a grip. Strangely, it didn’t seem all that tough. With a bit of help from Devansh, I made it in fairly quick time.

I suddenly remembered my days at Goecha La, especially Phedang, and smiled inwardly. I had indeed come a long way. But the tests were far from over.

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From here, the snow patches started getting longer and more frequent. Most of them continued all the way to the frozen river. Some of the stretches were on such a steep slope that it was difficult maintaining balance.

One of our trekmates had taken just a few steps on one when she slipped. Instinctively, she dug her fingers into the snow and hung on for dear life until two guides ran to her and helped her up. Yes, they could RUN on snow, though they had none of our fancy gear. Instead of trekking shoes, most of them had flimsy canvas footwear.

Stopping to catch my breath on a rare dry patch, I found a group of our porters taking a break on the rocks. They were looking intently at something towards the river. It was one of their men. The lone figure was inching his way up the frozen river with a 20-25kg load on his back. He was struggling a bit to come down a slope and was taking his steps gingerly. One misstep and he would tumble down with the heavy load on his back.

As I watched him with bated breath, his friends next to me were least concerned. They actually cheered him on to fall. Every time the man slipped a wee bit, they roared with laughter.

But the porter kept his balance and with slow, measured steps, crossed the treacherous stretch and continued on his way to Balu Ka Gera. Denied the opportunity to enjoy a fine show, his friends — looking very disappointed — got going, too.

At Goecha La, mules and yaks were used to carry our stuff. For Hampta, usually mules are used, but since these animals cannot manage on snow, porters had to be hired for us. Only man can go everywhere.

These Nepali porters are an amazing community by themselves. I have never seen them let go of an opportunity to laugh out loud, even if it’s for utterly sadistic reasons. They will carry the heaviest of loads in the toughest of terrains with a smile and, at the same time, lend a helping hand to struggling townsfolk like us.

All the Nepali helping hands we had met at Goecha La were all-rounders. They could all cook, work as guides and porters and evacuate the ailing/injured on stretchers down precarious mountain trails if necessary. And, they can sing, dance and make merry with equal ease. Trekkers and Himalaya-lovers down the ages have had the same experience with these men.

“Learn trekking from them. These men are the best trekkers in the world,” Akhil had told us. “But they are rustic folks and their manners may not always seem agreeable to you. Teach them etiquette. Share with them your urban ways of life. Interact; don’t avoid them.”

It’s one of the best things I have heard in my brief trekking experience.

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A little while later, I found Akhil waiting for us at one the longest stretches of snow. He started escorting us one by one across it and after a while, we realised it would take a long time if he had to keep coming back for everyone by turn.

It was difficult because the slope was somewhat steep. To make matters worse, some of the guys were not wearing the right shoes. Neither did they have trekking poles, which were helping us keep balance. Those who had the right shoes and poles could have managed by themselves better than they did in the chain, but it certainly helped those who didn’t.

Akhil led the chain, followed by two girls, then me and behind me were Devansh and some six/seven other youths. Midway, Devansh fell and I felt guilty to have let go of his hand after all the help I had got from him. I had not been holding his hand too firmly. Not much harm was done, though, and he got up himself and we continued.

With slow, measured steps — and me getting ample opportunity to shout “ruko, ruko” for the third time in the day — we finally crossed the stretch. We were all proud of this little bit of teamwork.

At the penultimate stretch, Akhil, after accompanying me for a while, said: “You can do it yourself. Go slowly while I help the others.” I crossed it carefully without any mishap and was so buoyant by the success that at the next and final stretch, though there was someone to help everyone across, I decided to go it alone.

The campsite was like an oasis in a desert. With barren snow-covered mountains on both sides and the mighty Indrasan peak looming ahead, the only greenish patch was the campsite. It was right next to the river, which was not frozen here. Even in the harshest of conditions life finds a way. Growing all over the green stretch were blue and white anemones, which gave Balu Ka Gera a breathtakingly beautiful look. We had to trample them all the time while walking and it would break my heart.

Eti was already there and we grinned at each other as I went and sat down on the rocks beside her and polished off a couple of chocolate bars. “It was one **** **** of a day,” I winked, finally getting to use the Jaintia expletives I had learned from her on the train. But I felt happy that despite the seven-hour walk, I was still not half-dead. I knew I could still walk a few kilometres more.