Monday dawned - how else? - bright and sunny. After breakfast we gave the things we were leaving behind (such as Rob's new white cloth bag) to Ashraf; he would send those things to the hotel where we would stay upon our return to Leh. We finished packing our duffels and waited for the jeeps which were, unsurprisingly, late. We would start our walk from Stok.
Brooding over the town of Leh is a giant, ruined and deserted castle, Leh Palace, former royal residence of the rulers of Ladakh. It can be reached by a short, steep trail that climbs about 1500 feet. Even higher beyond the castle is a monastery. Ladakh was once a province of Tibet. In the tenth century it became an independent kingdom, and remained so until the 1500's, when it was conquered by a descendent of the kings of Tibet; in fact Ladakh is still "ruled" (in name only) by a member of that family.
In the late 1600's Mongol forces invaded Ladakh; Ladakh requested help from the Kashmiris, and received it, for a price - tribute was paid to Delhi until Ladakh was completely conquered by Sikhs from Kashmir in the early 1800's (the Dogra Invasion). At that time, Leh Palace was partially destroyed, and the royal family was sent off to Stok. Today the Rani of Stok lives on in Stok Palace with children and servants (her husband is dead). Scot had once seen the Rani, and had been very impressed by her beauty. Her palace is only partly occupied, and part is open to visitors. When our jeeps arrived we piled in with our duffels and packs, and headed southwest, across the Indus River to visit Stok.
It seemed to me that large buildings in Ladakh were invariably situated in spectacular natural settings. Stok was no exception; the palace is about the only thing in town, but it is wonderful, large, colorful and exotic looking. After leaving our gear in Ashraf's care, we climbed numerous stairs to the entrance. The courtyard where we waited for our guide was one of the few places within the palace where we were allowed to take pictures. It was small, surrounded by walls and open to the sky. Ornate painted designs decorated the walls, and an antelope skin was stretched along a wall, lending an air of barbaric splendor. In the center two little dogs were enjoying the sun. One resembled a Tibetan Terrier; the other looked like a Lhasa Apso. It seemed strange to see a breed of dog so far away, that I think of as "American" because I have so often seen it in the States. But Lhasas originated in Tibet, where they were known as Abso Seng Kye, "Bark Lion Sentinel Dog", and we were seeing them in something close to their natural setting.
Soon our guide appeared to collect the entrance fee and show us through the public rooms of the palace. What we actually saw was a museum; we didn't see any living areas, and to our disappointment, we never caught a glimpse of the beautiful Rani. The palace was old, the ceilings were low, and an aura of antiquity surrounded every stone. Our guide showed us many interesting pieces of jewelry, pottery, furniture, and the remains of the former King (or at least the container for his earthly ashes). There were even stuffed animals up there; I liked the yak, the first yak I had ever seen, but the poor thing was sadly the worse for the passing of time and poor taxidermy techniques.
The most interesting things we saw were the tankas (or thangkas). Tankas are pictures that tell a story. They are painted by hand, and the best ones are painted with "stone colors"; the colors are made from ground stones - blue, for instance, might be made from ground lapis lazuli - and they do not fade with time. Most of the tankas we saw centered around religious themes. The Buddha is a favorite subject; because he has so many lives, one has many choices of what to paint. There are colorful gods and demons to choose from in the Buddhist theology. Historical subjects are often treated. Lessons might be represented in a series of tiny painted scenes. This museum possessed a splendid collection of tankas, very old, in perfect condition, hung with a cloth covering the front of the painting for additional protection. Our guide was happy to explain each scene to us; the paintings were elaborate, filled with tiny figures. Scot told us that those tankas were worth a fortune. I found them fascinating, and I would have been happy to spend hours looking at them.
Before we left, we were invited to visit the roof. What an incredible view! The air was clearer than any air I had ever seen before. The brilliant sun was set in a sky of deep turquoise blue. The mountains seemed as sharp edged as paper cutouts pasted against the sky, crowned with snow above their dusty brown flanks. The valley at our feet was the most vivid green imaginable, broken into abstract patterns of individual ownership, and set with occasional gems - brilliant yellow mustard fields. From strings hung on the roof, prayer flags flapped; yellow, blue, pink, faded soft colors that contrasted with the diamond-hard brilliance of the day and the landscape of Ladakh.
We descended into the lower levels and found Scot, who told us it was time to go. I was reluctant to leave the view and those beautiful, interesting tankas - but once outside I felt eager to go, ready to walk, excited to see more of this beautiful land that is called "moonland" by some, because it is so remote, and because it appears so dry and inhospitable that it might belong on another planet.
Scot didn't seem concerned about us finding our way; he pointed us in the general direction of the mountains and told us to "go that way". So off we strolled, Ann, Mary, Rob, Colleen and I. We wandered down dry river courses, wondering if we were on the right track, but not too terribly worried about it. The day was so beautiful, it didn't seem possible that anything could go wrong! The mountains made a big target, after all. Across a little river we noticed a group of monks washing their clothes. They were small figures at that distance, but their laundry caught our attention. Their maroon robes were spread on the bank to dry, like giant butterflies come to earth to feast on the yellow mustard.
Sure enough, we had trouble finding our way; there were many dry watercourses that confused us. We walked slower, and finally we stopped, waiting for Scot to catch up. He came along with Ashraf; the other staff members had gone on ahead with most of the horsemen and most of the gear. We could only hope they knew the way, and we'd all end up at the same campsite that evening!
After we had walked a while, we came upon a couple of people resting with their horses beneath a tree. These were a few of our horsemen and pack animals, and some of our duffels lay on the ground beside them. They were friendly, and offered us some of their refreshment. Chung! The Tibetan beer I had been hearing about from Scot and Nat. This was my first opportunity to sample it. A cup was offered to us. It was strange looking stuff - milky in appearance, with little things floating in it. Well, what the heck! I downed an adventurously large swig and passed it on to Scot. Strange taste. A little sour, a little sweet, different than anything I had ever tasted before (not surprisingly). Rob didn't think it looked appetizing. I suppose it didn't, but when in Rome...I took another taste. It got better! Definitely tastier the second time. Chung is beer brewed from grain, flavored with pepper and sugar. It isn't strained, hence the little surprises floating in the liquid. And it definitely grows on a person. By the third taste I was starting to agree with Scot and Nat. This was pretty good stuff! Much to my surprise, our upright friend Ashraf joined in too. He helped the horse people pack the horses, and sipped more chung, and by the time we set off down the trail Ashraf was in a pretty cheerful mood.
We walked for some time along the stream bed, crossing and recrossing the stream. Then we began to climb the canyon walls, following the trail that had appeared. The trail went steadily upward; it felt great to be walking again, and I forged ahead, feeling strong, exhilarated by the dry air, the beautiful landscape and the feeling of being first down the trail. Once again Rob wanted to walk slower than I did, and when I looked back I saw that he was walking with Ann, and deep in earnest conversation; he wouldn't notice that I was gone, so I walked as fast as I wanted to along the trail and was the first to arrive in camp.
That was perhaps the prettiest campsite of the whole trip. It was beside the swiftly rushing river, on a rocky shore. Some grass was growing there, the shortest grass I have ever seen. Traveling herders take their animals up into the mountains in the summer to find forage, and I assume their animals had cropped the grass so short. The day had been a relaxing one, and we still had light to use for talking, marveling at the splendid rocks around us, and washing. There was plenty of water here, though there might not be for the rest of the trek, and I took the opportunity to wash my hair. The rivers in Ladakh are fed by melting snow in the mountains; there isn't enough rainfall to sustain year-round rivers.
Late that afternoon a man and boy came by with some goats. Mountain Travel advertises that they try to liven up the menu with local foods. I had been asking Scot for a cabrito (goat) roast ever since we had gone on trek, but we hadn't found any goats for sale in Kashmir. He remembered my request though, and Ashraf sallied forth to try to make a deal for some dinner. He talked with the man, and the boy listened, and none of us paid any real attention, until Ashraf came back to the tents, goatless. What had happened? Someone told me that the little goat Ashraf wanted to buy had been a favorite; when they began to discuss selling it for dinner the boy started to cry, and good old soft-hearted Ashraf didn't have the heart to take the little boy's pet away from him. That was Ashraf, all right! He was a goodhearted person. Well, there was always chicken...
Tuesday morning dawned cloudy and rainy. We couldn't understand it! This was Ladakh the Dry. Moonland. As arid as the Sahara. But no one consulted us about our preconceptions, and whoever was making the weather hadn't read the same books. Scot told us that the area we were walking in received an average of only three inches of rain a year. I used to live in southern New Mexico where it rains about seven inches a year, and a rainy day was extremely uncommon. In fact I don't remember a single rainy day in the years I lived there; rain usually fell in quick storms, and the sky quickly cleared. Ladakh, though drier, superficially reminded me of southern New Mexico; therefore I thought that the weather might be similar in the two places (not necessarily a logical deduction, considering all the differences between them!), and I harbored hopes that the weather would clear up. We all kept our fingers crossed. We were looking forward to some splendid views of the Himalayas, and didn't want clouds to spoil the vistas.
Rob also didn't want rain to spoil his belongings carried in his zipperless duffel. He checked to be sure that everything was double bagged in plastic inside stuff sacks, and wrapped the big piece of extra plastic carefully around the lot before tying the whole duffel up again with ropes. His careful precautions paid the dividend of surprisingly dry clothes and gear inside of all that makeshift protection.
The trail, such as it was, ran along a big old dry river bed. The area was desolate, wild and beautiful - it would have made a perfect setting for a movie about another planet. It was hard to imagine anyone living there, but the rare patches of grass were mown down as impossibly close to the ground as our grassy campsite the night before had been, so we could tell that animals had been there. As we walked along I spent most of the time looking at my feet, because we were walking on rocks and stones of varying sizes, and the footing was slightly unstable. And beneath my feet was a whole treasure of beautiful rocks! All sorts of rocks, any color you might imagine; conglomerates that were a mosaic of smaller beautiful conglomerates, pink rocks, black rocks, white rocks, green rocks...I was fascinated by the variety, and I picked up a few exceptional individuals to keep.
Our path continued to climb. We were headed towards the valley of the Markha River, a well known trekking route, though we would not be able to go that far. Around noon we stopped for lunch. The clouds were threatening, but it was no longer actively raining, and we sat on our ponchos spread on closely-cropped grass. Near where we stopped we could see a tent set up. Ashraf and Scot went to investigate, and talked for a while with the people there, three Westerners. They were headed for the Markha Valley to do some hiking. I envied them.
The horsemen had not yet passed us, and Ashraf wanted to wait to be sure they were on the right route before we continued on, because we were at an intersection of routes and it was important not to lose our horsemen. Our lunch break metamorphosed into a two-hour siesta, because our horsemen were lagging very far behind. Rob felt sleepy and lay down to rest. Mary was resting too, with her eyes shut, and I learned that she hadn't been feeling well; she had a bad headache, and her stomach was upset. We thought she might have a touch of some stomach ailment. We were still below 14,000 feet elevation, and altitude sickness seemed possible but not likely.
Scot and I talked for a while about geology. Scot has a Master's in geology, but school was a long time ago for him, and not surprisingly he had forgotten much. It was frustrating. In that region of naked rocks, one could not help but be curious about the forces that had shaped them, and I wished for more information. I knew a little; the Himalayan Mountains are being formed as the subcontinent of India moves north on its plate, crushing into the continent of Asia, on a different plate. The Himalayan land mass is pushed continually higher as that vast, slow, unstoppable collision continues through the ages. The great forces generated by that titanic clash twist, bend and distort the rocks. I explained to Rob that the vertical rock strata we saw around us had been laid down horizontally - the mountain building forces had pushed them up into a vertical posture, broken them off at the ends, and bent them. Some of the rock surfaces were smeared and distorted, from the tremendous friction generated when they were forced past another rock face. I often thought of my friend Beatrice, back in Ithaca. Her field is Geophysics, and she would have so enjoyed reading the fantastic, starkly exposed record of geologic forces that met our eyes everywhere. And I would have enjoyed listening to her explain it all to me!
Finally Ashraf spied the horsemen approaching. They were on the right track; they had simply been very lazy about packing up and moving out in the morning. We set off then. We had to cross a little rushing stream that barred our path, and a convenient little bridge was set over the water; two sticks were lashed together to keep them parallel and laid across the stream, and flat stones were set atop the sticks. Ashraf was such a gentleman! What followed was very amusing, and Rob captured it on film. The little bridge was just a bit tippy, so Ashraf crossed first. Once across, he stopped, turned and extended his hand to assist the next person to cross. Of course all the trekkers but Rob were women. Gallantly, he handed Mary across the bridge. Then came Ann, who could easily have jumped across if the bridge were missing entirely. She meekly took his hand and allowed herself to be helped. Nat and Colleen followed. I was next, and I stopped for a moment, and looked at Ashraf. He looked at me. Then he stepped back and folded his hands in front of him with a smile, and I walked across without his help. He had spent some time walking with Rob and me, and he was getting to know me pretty well!
The threatening skies hung over us all afternoon, and it rained on and off. Visibility remained poor. So much for the New Mexico/Ladakh Coherency Theory! Late in the afternoon we arrived at our camping spot. Some people were there before us, herders who had taken their goats and cattle up into the mountains for the summer. It was amazing to me that they could find enough fodder to keep the animals alive, let alone to allow them to prosper! This was evidently a semi-permanent camping place for them, because there was an interesting structure there that the herders seemed to use for a shelter. The structure was built of stones. It was very large, round in shape, and less than five feet high. It looked like the ruin of a building to me, but then again it may well have always looked as it did then. There was a low wall around most of the area, and pieces of cow dung were drying atop the wall. I presume the herders use animal dung as fuel for their fires; there is no wood at all. Inside the wall and continuous with it were rooms walled off with stones. Some of the rooms were roofed, some not. The "building" was thus a warren of interlocking walls and rooms.
The first thing I noticed upon approaching the rock shelter were two absolutely charming, tiny little goats. They must have been very young goats, offspring of small parents, because they were about the size of small French Poodles. They were jumping from one wall to another, playing together, and their antics were most amusing. A few of us watched the goats for a while, and Rob took a picture of them. When the goat lady appeared, he asked if he could take her picture, too; "One rupee" was her reply, so a rupee changed hands, and he got another picture.
Our group of tents was set up a little distance from the stone structure, near the edge of a narrow, steep-walled valley perhaps a hundred feet deep. The walls were steeply sloped but walkable, and our toilet area was situated part way down the slope. Since there were no trees, bushes, large rocks or anything else to use as an anchor for the plastic, the toilet tent metamorphosed into a toilet pole; a staff was stuck in the ground to mark the spot, a pit was dug, and that was that. Well, the privacy might not have been noteworthy, but the view was great, and there was plenty of fresh air!
All the tents were set up and we unpacked our gear. Sibra and his assistants busied themselves in the kitchen tent preparing tea. All seemed normal, but I could feel an undercurrent of concern about Mary. She had disappeared into her tent to rest. Scot spent some time talking with her, and with Ann, and they came to the conclusion that Mary was suffering from altitude sickness and would have to be evacuated. That was a great blow to Mary! She was very disappointed, but she was also very sick. Scot would take her back along our trail; often a drop in elevation of a thousand feet or so relieves the symptoms of altitude sickness, if the disorder has not progressed too far. Yasim was chosen to go with them, and he began packing a couple of horses with equipment. Mary was the most experienced mountaineer among the trekkers, and had been at higher elevations than any of the rest of us, except for Nat in Nepal. Because of her background we were all surprised that she had gotten sick, but previous experience at high elevations without difficulty, and being in good physical condition, do not guarantee continued freedom from altitude sickness.
Altitude sickness is a capricious and mysterious ailment of mountaineers. It has been known to strike at altitudes as low as 7,000 feet, but is more common above 10,000 feet; this camp was at approximately 14,000 feet. Often a small decrease in elevation alleviates the symptoms, hence the mountaineer's adage, "Walk high, sleep low". The root of the problem is the lower barometric and, therefore, oxygen pressure at higher altitude. Because there is less oxygen in the air, you need to breathe more often to get enough. But human bodies are stimulated to breathe by the amount of carbon dioxide that we need to get rid of, not by a lack of oxygen in the air. People are in the habit of breathing with a certain rhythm, and during the day conscious control over breathing keeps oxygen intake sufficiently high. But when people are sleeping automatic controls have to take over, and those automatic controls are misled by the changed ratio of oxygen in the air to carbon dioxide in the lungs. Often people have problems with periodically suspended breathing, and this can cause insomnia. All of the trekkers (though not Scot or the Indians) were taking Diamox (acetazolamide), a respiratory stimulant that helps regularize breathing patterns.
An additional problem of increasing altitude is improper water handling by the body. People who adapt well to altitude find themselves losing extra water; people who have problems at altitude exhibit water retention. The chemical balance of the body is changed, for a variety of complicated reasons. Diamox helps altitude adjustment by causing excretion of some of these chemicals, helping the body's balance return to normal.
The first symptom of altitude sickness, and often the only problem encountered by travelers, is headache. As altitude sickness progresses, nausea and anorexia follow. If a victim develops Pulmonary Edema, swelling of the lung tissues due to abnormal water influx into the lungs, coughing starts, bloody sputum may be produced, and death follows if the individual is not evacuated to a lower elevation. If abnormal swelling occurs in the brain instead, the trekker is suffering from Cerebral Edema. The headache will become much worse and will not be relieved by aspirin or codeine. The person may have problems using hands or fingers, or suffer loss of motor coordination; vivid hallucinations are common. The symptoms vary with where fluid is retained in the brain, which varies between individuals. Untreated Cerebral Edema causes death. Mary had been suffering from vomiting and severe headache, and her coordination was affected. Scot decided that he could not afford to take any chances, and she would have to be brought out.
We were very sorry to see Mary, Scot and Yasim head back down the trail the way we had come. It was certainly a decimated trekking party that gathered for dinner that night! Ashraf was our leader now, and he did his best to be cheerful and convivial. But only Nat, Colleen, Ann, Rob and I were left; there were too many people missing for us to manage much gaiety. We retired early.
That night it was cold, and we had snow and hail. It stormed hard and the wind blew for a while, but no tents blew down. Later it quieted and I got to sleep. I woke up shortly after midnight; once again, because of the Diamox, I had to answer the call of nature. It really wasn't any fun climbing out of my warm sleeping bag, pulling on my clothes, and venturing out to visit the toilet tent in the middle of every night. And tonight it wasn't a toilet tent, it was only a toilet pole! It was cold, too. So I was in a grumpy mood as I wiggled out of the half-zipped tent flap. But when I stood up, I forgot all about being grumpy. I was looking at a snow-powdered scene of unearthly beauty. The precipitation had stopped, but the clouds were still low, racing before the wind and parted in some places. The moon was almost full, shining through a break in the clouds like a searchlight. A heavy fog clung to the low places like a tattered shroud, gleaming a dull pearly white from reflected moonlight. The scene took my breath away. I woke Rob, and he dressed and came outside with a camera. We set the automatic shutter control for a long exposure, and took a few pictures.
The unexpected beauty of the night more than repaid me for having to visit the toilet pole, but unfortunately none of those pictures came out. We had several rolls of film, including that one, developed in Great Britain. We were quite unhappy with the quality of the developing, and I will always wonder if someone else could have saved those pictures.
As late as it was, there was a light on in the mess tent, and we could hear a low murmur of voices. In the morning we discovered that several staff members had suffered from bad headaches, and had been awake most of the night. Their quiet talking kept a few of us awake. Also, in the middle of the night, the camp area was invaded by cows and horses, some wearing tinkling bells, stepping between the tent ropes, snorting, looking for grass. I was sure that one of them would tangle a hoof in a tent rope and bring a tent crashing down, but nothing of the sort occurred.
Wednesday dawned threatening, but not yet raining. This was the big day, the day we would go over the pass! I was excited. Everyone was excited. After breakfast we set off.
I could definitely feel the altitude, now over 14,000 feet. Ashraf took his responsibilities as leader very seriously. He cautioned us to walk slowly, take small steps, and rest if we felt tired. He started off in the lead, setting an example with his small, slow, deliberate steps. All the trekkers lined up behind him, like baby ducks behind their mother, copying his method of walking. I tried it for a while. I couldn't stand it! I didn't care about anyone else, I was too enthused about climbing to the top of the pass to creep along at the snail's pace Ashraf was setting. So I forged ahead. The trail was plain to see, worn by the feet of animals, and I continued at a comfortable pace. I wasn't running, but I didn't stop either, and although the path began to head pretty steeply uphill, I kept moving along. When I looked back, the others were perhaps a half mile behind. I don't know if Ashraf disliked my forging ahead, but there was nothing that could happen to me. The land was free of vegetation, the path was plain to see, and there was only one way to go. Up!
I passed a man with a herd of donkeys. He had just come over the pass. The trail began to get a lot steeper, and I followed the hoof prints of the donkeys, thinking they would have taken the best route. Because of the hills, I could not see my companions. It was completely silent, except for the unending whisper and sigh of the wind and the crunch of my footsteps. I could hear the pounding of my heart as I kept moving up the now very steep slope. I felt exhilarated, uplifted. I felt lightheaded and invulnerable, as though I could have run up the slope. I was almost sorry to finish the last scramble, and find myself atop the pass.
I felt like a god on Mt. Olympus. I could see for a very long way, and no other human being was in sight. The only sounds were the wind and my heart beating. The ground was covered with black, cinder-like material; not a single growing thing was in sight. There was a shrine beside the trail, a heap of stones, some painted red, with antelope horns and prayer flags piled on top. I added my stone to the shrine in a traveler's prayer for good fortune.
The pass was a wide ridge, and to my right were swellings of rock. Feeling powerful and exhilarated, I climbed over a few of them, and to my astonishment, came upon a few tiny plants. I have never seen plants growing in so hostile an environment. This day was cloudy, but clouds there were rare, and at 16,000 feet the insolation must be fierce. Three inches of rain a year is a negligible amount of water. They were rooted, not in soil, but in what looked exactly like volcanic ash. Yet somehow they survived! One plant looked like a tiny Boston Fern. Rob was carrying the camera, back with the rest of the group, so I noted the position of a few of the plants carefully. They were so small that from only a few feet away they could not be seen.
The other side of the pass was like another world. The hills were tinted in pastels - green, brown, colors muted by the clouds across the sun, a thin skin covering the sharp bones of the land. There were no trees to mar the view. The land sloped down, away from the pass, in folds that grew ever deeper until they coalesced into a deep cut, far away, that enclosed the river that we would follow back to civilization. The restless wind parted the clouds, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of higher peaks beyond - white snow capped peaks - before the clouds closed down again. Supposedly, when the sky is clear (as it is most of the time), the view of the Himalayan range is grand from that pass. Somehow though I didn't mind that my view was spoiled. What I was seeing was so beautiful that I wouldn't have wanted to miss it; if the day had been sunny, with tall peaks marching away into the distance to the edge of vision, I might never have noticed those beautiful, soft, muted pastels.
After perhaps twenty minutes the others arrived at the top. I felt a little strange. Partly I felt as though they were invading my private, quiet world. Partly I felt a little self-conscious at having charged ahead, to be the first one up the pass. I know I hadn't been first because I was the strongest person in the group; certainly Ashraf deserved that title. Among the trekkers Ann and Rob probably had more stamina than I did, but they all said they were tired and strained from the steep slope at the high altitude, and I had felt uplifted and infinitely strong. Maybe high altitude agrees with me, or maybe I was a little drunk on lack of oxygen, or perhaps I just had the strongest desire to get there first. That brief time on top of the pass was the only time in India that I was alone.
While the others were resting and soaking up the splendid view, I took the camera from Rob's pack and found my tiny plants again. I really cherish the pictures I took of those plants. Then I rejoined the others, who were rested by now and ready to go on. Everyone started down the slope but Rob and me; we stayed behind for a few more pictures. One of us took a picture of the country we were headed into that is, I think, the best picture we took in India. It is strange that we can't recall just who took that picture. We both took pictures on top of the pass, and it could have been either of us. Sometimes I have a real strong feeling that I was the one to take it, and I feel like announcing to Rob, Hey! I remember! It really was me, I am absolutely positive. I had a feeling like that the other day. But at other times, like right now, I am no longer so sure. Perhaps Rob has moments of feeling positive he took that picture, too. I am content to let the ambiguity of authorship remain. The picture is my favorite picture from India, and since the creation of it remains a mystery, it is uniquely our picture. For me it symbolizes the trip that we took together.
Reluctantly Rob and I left our high place and headed down into the everyday world again. We caught up with Colleen before long; we had a lot of downhill walking to do that day, and Colleen was taking it easy for the sake of her knee. The ground was covered with stones and small plants, grasses and shrubs. One shrub in particular interested me. It looked a lot like tumbleweed, only smaller and more succulent, and it was very shallowly rooted. Ashraf proved that to me by giving one a kick; it was easily dislodged from its resting place. When I protested his behavior, asking him not to be unkind to plants, I think he was amused. But he didn't kick up any more plants.
Perhaps water erosion was a very slow process in that country of little rain, but we saw proof that other erosive forces were active. I imagine the winds could be fierce there. Giant boulders perched high on slender pedestals, where the material beneath the rock had been less resistant to erosion than the rock itself, and had almost disappeared. Only a slim column remained to support many of the boulders. Other boulders whose support had finally crumbled lay strewn around on the slopes, like monstrous marbles discarded by a giant child.
Once again we stopped early for lunch, because Ashraf was concerned about our horsemen. We stopped in a little valley near a stream, and Indrapol and Sibra busied themselves making tea for us. It was a rare treat to have hot tea with lunch. Usually our group was all strung out along the trail; it was equally rare for everyone to be together. The staff had all been up most of the night, some of them with bad headaches, and they were very tired. Perhaps they wanted hot tea themselves. In fact, after lunch, Ashraf stretched out for a nap. Several of us took a picture of him - with his arms crossed over his chest, his cap pulled low on his forehead and his umbrella stuck upright into the ground next to him, Ashraf presented an interesting sight, out there in the middle of nowhere. Somehow he had the knack of always appearing more well groomed and composed than anyone else. I wonder if his elegance was natural to him, or something he worked at? I tend to think the former.
We had a bit of entertainment while we were resting and eating lunch. Or maybe I should say we provided some entertainment; both statements are true. There was a group of children, goatherds, that spotted us and came to visit. They were well (warmly) dressed, sturdy, attractive children. One of the boys had a ball point pen in his pocket. After the usual "Jullay!", Rob showed them his binoculars. He used his binoculars to make friends with children more than once. They were enchanted with the glasses' power to make things larger. They were also enchanted with something about our trash. Each of us carried a small bag to put inedibles in, to be discarded later. They made motions that said - as interpreted by Rob - "You throw down, we pick up," as they pointed to our bags of trash. Someone among us (probably Rob) realized that they wanted our juice cans. So we gave them the empty cans. Well, that was O.K., we were on the right track, but we hadn't yet hit the bullseye. Finally we got the idea - we were supposed to use our Swiss Army knives to take the tops completely off the cans. Aha! Rob, Ann and Nat worked hard to convert our juice cans to little cups. The children found their efforts acceptable, and in return allowed us to take some pictures.
After lunch we continued on, always downhill, headed towards the river that we would follow out of the mountains. At last we reached it; a rushing mountain stream, shallow and rocky, hurrying along between the steep walls of the canyon. Rob and I were the last walkers of the group, and Ashraf walked with us as we continued down the canyon. Once again it began to rain, and we opened our umbrellas. Trees and bushes were growing beside the river, and wild roses in bloom filled the air with a sweet scent. As I followed Ashraf down the path I was suddenly struck by how incongruous he looked; except for his pack, his tweed cap, neat clothes and umbrella seemed to proclaim him an English gentleman, out for a rainy day's stroll in Hyde Park among the roses.
After we had walked a way along the river we caught up with Colleen and Indrapol. Colleen was really suffering because of her knee; we had spent hours going downhill, and I'm sure that put quite a strain on her. Indrapol had been walking with her, cheering and encouraging her. The five of us continued on together. We came to an area where for a while the path wound back and forth across the river, and we had to cross it many times. The river was swollen because of the recent rains, and larger now than when we had first joined it, and some crossings were harder than others. I remember in one place there was no way across but to jump from one rock to another, and it was a far jump. The only alternative was to wade through the rushing stream. I thought for sure I would never be able to jump so far, but I had to try - everyone was watching - so I made the mightiest leap I could, and I made it! I was so proud of myself. For me, that jump was a lot harder than climbing over the pass! Colleen was next, and she wasn't as lucky as I was. Probably because of her hurt knee, her jump was clumsy, and she landed in the water. Indrapol had been standing on the far rock with his hand outstretched to lend whatever assistance he could. He helped her out, but she got wet, and her hiking boots were soaked. She was irritated with herself for not changing to her lighter shoes and just wading across, but nothing seemed to have the power to destroy Colleen's good spirits and equanimity for long. She always managed to retain her even temper.
After Colleen's accidental bath she and Rob walked slower. Rob was once again not feeling well; he was very tired, and wanted to sit for a while and rest. I wanted to keep on walking and get out of the rain, so there was a mental tug of war going on. We passed the horsemen having tea with a group of herders. Ashraf forged ahead to see about the campsite, and after a few more miles of very wet walking - the rain was coming down hard now - we arrived at the intended stopping place. Ann and Nat were there, sitting in the rain on a boulder, soaked and not in wonderfully good spirits. Once again I relearned the lesson that it really did no good to hurry. Especially when the weather was bad, it was warmer and more comfortable to be walking than to be sitting, and there was no advantage to be gained by arriving at the campsite ahead of the horsemen carrying our gear.
It took a while for the horsemen to arrive and for us to set up the tents. (It was technically the staff's job to set up camp, but most of us were willing to set up our own tents if we were around.) By that time it had stopped raining. We were all soaked and dirty. No one felt like bathing; tomorrow we would be back at the hotel anyway, so it was easier to stay dirty. The camping area was a flat place amidst giant boulders, perhaps fifty feet above the river. No toilet tent was set up, and no one bothered to ask about it this once; we just found privacy behind the big rocks.
Dinner that night was a change of pace. It was a celebration! It was Colleen's birthday. We had celebrated Fred's birthday in a more conventional way, in Srinagar at the Tibetan restaurant of Scot's friends, with a birthday cake, rum, gin, and in comfort. Today we were wet and cold and had no facilities for a party, but Ashraf and Sibra were not without resources. Sibra prepared a birthday cake - a pound cake (I suspect he may have bought it for the occasion in Leh before we left on the trek) imaginatively decorated with frosting in various colors and shapes. We all sang Happy Birthday and thanked Sibra, then Ashraf produced another surprise - a birthday present! Colleen was touched. The Trisul Expedition was a book about a climb that Ashraf had participated in, led by Colonel Kumarr. As I recall, this was a skiing expedition, they had climbed up a 20,000+ foot mountain and skied down much of it (but I may be getting Trisul confused with another expedition). I haven't read the book, but it sounded interesting, and best of all, our friend Ashraf was in it! It was signed of course, and Colleen seemed pleased and surprised at the thoughtfulness. I wished I had thought to find a gift for her in Leh before we set out! We had found out back in Srinagar, at Fred's party, that her birthday was coming up, but I forgot about it.
Next morning Rob got up before anyone else and, gathering all his courage together, walked down to the river and bathed. He took his thermometer with him; the water temperature was 37 degrees, and the air was only ten degrees warmer. I couldn't believe that he went through all that discomfort when we'd have a warm shower later that day! But he just felt too dirty to stand himself any longer. He enjoyed the day a lot more because of his fortitude, I suppose, and he certainly impressed everyone with his determination!
Wouldn't you know it, now that we were down out of the mountains and ending our trek, the weather began to clear. All we had to do today was to walk along the river until we came to the road, and the group quickly spread out, with Rob and I walking last as usual. For the first time the sun came out and the weather grew warmer. After a few hours of walking we came out of the river canyon and could see ahead for a long distance, into a great valley stretching away before us. The river bed we were following became wide and flat. The trail crossed the river a few times, but the water was shallow and slow here in its wide bed, and crossings were easier. All along the river green irrigated fields made beautiful patterns, enlivened by frequent splashes of vivid yellow color from fields of mustard. In the distance rose the Himalayas like a wall holding up the sky, tipped with white, remote, unreachable.
We had an enjoyable walk that day. We began to see more people, and for the first - and last - time saw live yaks. Scot told us a little Tibetan joke about Yaks. You have probably heard of Yaks, big hairy herbivorous creatures that mountain people use for bearing burdens. Herds of the animals are used also for producing milk (and I imagine skins and meat, when the time comes). Anyway, if someone ever asks you a question about Yak milk, you can display your erudition by informing him that Yak milk does not exist. If the person turns to you in puzzlement and insists that Tibetans do drink Yak milk, you can wisely inform him that he is mistaken - only Nak milk is drunk. "Yak", you see, refers to the male of the species; the females are called Naks.
As we walked we admired the stone irrigation canals that honeycombed the area near the river, making it possible to grow crops in that arid land. It seemed that we walked for hours along the river, trying to keep our feet dry, before our trail became a road and we reached a monastery. Ashraf was waiting for us at the bridge that crossed a wide irrigation ditch and led to the monastery. He would wait there at the road for the jeeps that were to pick us up. He told us that Colleen, Nat, Mary and Ann had gone up the hill to visit the monastery; he offered to watch our packs if we wanted to visit the gompa also.
We crossed the river and came to the garden around the base of the monastery hill. We sat down on a low stone wall to enjoy the moment. It was pleasant in the shade, out of the hot sun. Birds flew from tree to tree and sang to us, wind whispered through the leaves, and the rest was welcome. But if we didn't bestir ourselves, we would never see this gompa. So we began to follow the winding, steep path up the hill. We were almost to the top when we encountered our companions coming down. They told us, in tones of disappointment and disgust, that they had been unable to get in. They had knocked on the door, and looked around, but no one came. They all seemed irritated that they had expended the effort to climb the hill for nothing. We decided to go on and see what there was to see, so they headed down without us as we continued going up.
It was another typical splendid Ladakhi setting. To one side, the green, irrigated valley gave color and the promise of life; to the other, barren, arid hills swelled into mountains in the distance. Great spot for pictures. I took a picture of a mani stone atop the mani wall next to the monastery; to my surprise, the stone shows up very well in the photograph. Mani walls are walls made of mani stones. The traveler must pass them so that the mani wall remains on the right hand. Mani stones are stones engraved with the mantra "Om Mani Padme Hum". Kashmir, Ladakh and Zanskar translates this loosely as "Oh, thou jewel in the lotus"; literally, "Thou God with the jewel-rose-garland in one hand and the lotus flower in the other, bless my life, soul and spirit". Scot told us that the stones are added to a wall by the families of people who have died. Mani walls are common in Ladakh.
We decided that, even if we couldn't get in, we could take a walk around the monastery and enjoy the view. We admired an impressive retaining wall, perhaps fifteen feet high, made of stones piled up, and supported at the bottom with massive beams. The weight of the stones was so great that the stout beams were actually crushed by the weight above them.
Around on the far side of the complex of buildings the trail got more precarious as it followed a rocky outcrop. We continued until we had gone all around the far side, and when we came to the front of the building again, what should we see but a junior monk sweeping the courtyard. We asked him if we could see the monastery; he didn't seem to understand English, but he knew what we wanted, and he made signs for us to wait. Before long he returned with a man who invited us in. This was the most impressive monastery we visited in Ladakh!
The courtyard was open to the sky. The wood of the buildings was elaborately carved and painted with beautiful colors and gold. We paid the entrance fee, and were allowed to see the Holy Room. The monks spoke very little English, but we managed to make them understand that we thought their monastery was beautiful. We were allowed to take pictures there. After the Holy Room, they had another room to show us. What a surprise! It was a brand new room. It still smelled of wet concrete and fresh wood. It had not yet accumulated the profusion of objects that always cluttered the older rooms; it was also very well lit with windows, so we were able to see things clearly. There were some of the usual paintings of gods and demons, and against the far wall there was a display of small golden statues of Buddha. There must have been at least fifty of the four or six inch tall statues, apparently all of gold. I was impressed! Of course there was also a photo of the Dali Lama; he always looks a bit incongruous to me. The combination of his traditional robes and his eyeglasses give him the appearance of a man caught in transition between two worlds, and perhaps he is. Outside of that room we saw an odd painting on the wall, and I took a picture of it. It was a geometrical design, the only one like it we ever saw. I described it as best I could to Scot and Ashraf, but neither of them could tell us what the symbol represented.
We were invited upstairs to what appeared to be a very old museum; a sign said that women were not allowed to enter, but no one prevented me from going in. The most interesting things in the room were the ceremonial costumes, carved masks and robes, for religious festivals; also displayed were photographs of celebrants wearing the robes. From a window set high in the wall we could look down to the road where we had left Ashraf and our packs; Rob spied a small group of jeeps gathered there. It was after noon, those were the jeeps brought by Scot to take us back to town, and we had to go. With regret we left the friendly monks in their beautiful gompa. All the way down the hill we congratulated ourselves on our cleverness and persistence. We had gained entry to that monastery; the others had just given up too quickly. When we told Scot about what we had seen, we felt doubly lucky - he had never seen the place either, and our description of the rooms piqued his interest. He thought perhaps in the future he would take groups to visit that monastery. Scot told us that Mary had been very ill, but was recovering satisfactorily, and was waiting back at the hotel. Thoughtful fellow that he was, Scot had brought cold beer with him, and we really enjoyed the refreshment on our ride back to town.
We were pleased to see that our new hotel was just a block away from the center of town. Hotel Kang-Lha-Chhen is probably the most expensive hotel in Leh. I was astonished when I saw the schedule of room rates posted outside the lobby; 310 rupees for a double seemed pretty steep to me! The price included three ample meals a day. It was far from luxurious, but it was nicer than the Hotel Shambala outside of town. Unfortunately it lacked an enclosed shower; the shower got everything in the bathroom wet. Even more unfortunately it almost totally lacked water pressure. I had more success filling a bucket with water and pouring it over my head with a cup to rinse my hair, than I did trying to rinse under the shower going at full blast. But there was hot water, and the drizzle that came from the shower head did have a symbolic relaxing quality to it.
We were all very happy to greet Mary. I was shocked by her appearance. She had left us only two days before, but those two days had obviously been very hard on her. She appeared to have lost several pounds, and there were dark circles under her eyes. It had been wise of Scot to evacuate her. She had been much sicker than any of us had realized. But she was beginning to feel better, beginning to get her appetite back again, and certainly her ever cheerful spirit continued to make the trip more enjoyable for everyone.
One important detail that had to be taken care of was laundry. It was always very expensive to have laundry done in India, but we didn't have facilities to wash it all ourselves - and besides, a sign promised dire penalties to anyone washing laundry in a room! So Rob arranged for someone to come for the clothes. The fellow who must have had the hotel's account - I saw him a few times each day there - came promptly to get our laundry. I was in the shower, so Rob took the bag of laundry outside to give it to the man. "How many pieces?" he wanted to know. Well, Rob didn't know - he suggested the guy just take the laundry sack. We'd trust him. "No, no, no!" protested this honest fellow. "We must have a count!" So off to the lobby they went. There, in the middle of the lobby of the nicest, most expensive hotel in Leh - in all Ladakh, I'm sure - the laundry man proceeded to empty the sack and count our laundry, piece by piece. One. Two. Three. Dirty laundry everywhere. Four. Five. Sweaty shirts, filthy pants. Rob was embarrassed, not surprisingly. Somehow that incident shows, in distilled fashion, the difference between what is acceptable here and what is acceptable there. When I heard of the incident, of course I found it tremendously funny!
With our return to Leh and city life, came the return to a pressing concern that we had managed to sweep under the mental rug while we were in the mountains. Would our flight leave on time? Today was Thursday, July 28. Our flight was scheduled to leave on Sunday, July 31, at 11:05 A.M. Rob and I had considered the possibility of going to the airport on Friday and Saturday mornings with our packed bags; in case a flight got out with two empty seats on it, we could take the opportunity and get to Srinagar early. Even though we might not be able to find two empty seats on an early flight from Srinagar to Delhi, we knew that those flights were dependable, so we could find a place to stay in Srinagar and wait for our scheduled flight to Delhi on Sunday. Colleen was also concerned - she had a group to meet in London - and the three of us considered alternatives. We discovered that Friday's flight was for Srinagar, while Saturday's flight was not. Our chances had narrowed to two: Friday or Sunday. Should we try to leave, or should we gamble and stay? All the days that we had been in the mountains had been nice days in Leh, and the flights had gone out and arrived on schedule daily. The weather was beautiful, and that (and the fact that we didn't really want to sit at the airport, perhaps for nothing, on Friday morning, or get to Delhi two days early!) decided us. We would let our Friday chance go by, and hope that our flight would make it out on Sunday. After all, Scot said reassuringly, three out of the four times he had flown out of Leh, the flight had gone as scheduled! (Or something like that.) Somehow a 75% success rate was less than totally reassuring to me, but we made our decision. We'd enjoy Leh for two more days, and keep our fingers - and toes - crossed for Sunday.