Pardesi Pahadi: Ascent to Bandarpunch - In search for wonders, real and imagined
Photo: Zachary Conrad
‘The yeti is the mountain. He’s the mountain’s teeth and the mountain’s claws, a manifestation of the power of nature, and a reminder to act with respect.’ Zachary Conrad recalls an awe-inspiring hike to the Himalayan summit of Bandarpunch
Author’s Note: The Himalayas are my favorite mountain range. I know that must sound obvious and banal, like being a Yankees fan, or being really into the Beatles. But they’re more than just the tallest mountains in the world. For the seven years that I lived in Landour, Mussoorie, these mountains were a constant presence, a beckoning horizon I could always look up to, and disappear to whenever I had the chance. These trips into the Himalayas were the best part of my life in India and how I connected with its people and its culture. These mountains are like nowhere on Earth, and I hope to share them with you.
“Let everyone mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made. Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854).
Jagmohan Singh has never seen a yeti. I haven’t seen one, and it’s safe to assume you haven’t seen one either—but then, we haven’t spent over twenty years climbing up and down the rugged mountains that the yeti (supposedly) calls home.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
Jagmohan, however, had achieved the latter. He, Gyalpo, and indeed many Sherpas, porters, and Himalayan guides believe that the yeti is real. I met these men in June to climb the mountain Bandarpunch (6,316 metres) in the western Garhwal, along with the Nehru Institute of Mountaineering (NIM) and Woodstock School. These men spoke of footprints, and of the howls in the night. But nobody who sees a yeti returns to tell the tale.
The Bandarpunch climb was my first big trip into the Himalaya, in June 2011. The major summit had had been visible from my then-home in Landour, Mussoorie, in the Himalayan foothills. Its name, in Hindi, literally means ‘tail of the monkey’, in a reference to the Hindu god Hanuman who flew up to the summit to extinguish his burning tail.
For me, mountaineering was first and foremost an exercise in humility. Each morning I read a passage from the Tao Te Ching that begins “A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving.” You really need to pay attention and listen to the mountain. The mountain lets you climb it. It’s not up to you.
Our expedition started in Uttarkashi, a temple town on the banks of the Bhagirathi River in Uttarakhand. It was here, at the NIM headquarters, where we acquired the necessary accoutrements to summit a mountain: parkas, helmets, plastic storm-trooper boots (called Kofalch), crampons, ice axes, snow gaiters, harness, jumaars, small bits of rope, and lots of other stuff. We learned to tie a few knots and got packed to go. The next day we bussed along the steep sides of the Bhagirathi canyon, following the Gangotri pilgrimage route to the military outpost of Suki where our hike truly began.
On the first day we hiked over the 11,000 ft ridge behind Suki and into the wild. I kept making references about the Last Homey House and Wilderland, but nobody else was going for it—so I shut up! The distinction was clear though; stepping over that ridge brought us from a land of pastures, smooth paths and cultivation to a place with head-high ferns, rockslides, and dense, tangled forest.
The enormous scale of the landscape is exhilarating and hard for me to describe. Looking out from that first ridge was a view of cold bright mountain streams tumbling down tree-clad ravines, and mountains rising to mix with clouds, and snow, and then higher mountains behind it all… all of it conjured up such feelings of adventure, joy, and reverence for the majesty of the terrain.
We arrived at camp near dark, cold and wet, but were soon comforted by a cozy fire and cups of hot chai. The climb to Bandarpunch was not easy, but for the most part, it had been pretty cushy. Some people—usually experienced mountaineers—climb a peak in what’s called ‘alpine style’. They carry all their own equipment, set their own camps, and cook their own meals.
Blue sheep at base-camp. Photo: Zachary Conrad
We didn’t do that. Instead, we went ‘expedition style’, with a support crew of guides, cooks, and porters to tend camp and take care of us. We lived like the Raj, with hot breakfasts, packed lunches, and hot dinners every day—and of course, there was always chai. The cooks and porters were truly wonderful: they kept us comfortable with clean camps and good food. And they kept us humble, too: it’s hard to complain about your hiking boots or your pack (heavy though it may be) as you’re passed by a man in tattered tennis shoes carrying a full-sized gas cylinder hung from a strap on his forehead.
In total, the expedition lasted fifteen days and we made five camps. One at Suki; the next, “Jungle Camp” beside a mountain stream; Base Camp, in a glacial rock-garden at 12,400 ft; Advanced Base Camp (ABC) at the edge of the snow at 14,600 ft; and Summit Camp, astride a glacier at 17,000 ft. Climbing a mountain of this size is different from something like walking the Appalachian Trail. Except for the Jungle Camp, we spent multiple days in one spot, resting, acclimatising, waiting for weather to clear.
Mountaineering is essentially just going uphill and then resting; however, as you go on, conditions tend to favour the latter. For this reason, many people hold the view that mountaineering is a sport for macho tough guys who like to stubbornly push and prove themselves. I won’t flatly disagree with this sentiment, but I would like to point out that some men always have and will continue to turn any endeavor into a dick-waving contest.
A short, incomplete list includes things I like: writing, painting, holding a hand over fire, swimming in very cold water, drinking alcohol, and playing the guitar. The idea of conquering the mountain never entered my head. I had accepted at the outset that I was going to climb the mountain, not necessarily to get to the top. There are so many powerful variables at play in an undertaking like this that no amount of skill, stamina, or determination can assure success.
So, for me, mountaineering was first and foremost an exercise in humility. Each morning I read a passage from the Tao Te Ching that begins “A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving.” You really need to pay attention and listen to the mountain. The mountain lets you climb it. It’s not up to you.
And this is where the yeti comes in. In a way, the yeti is the mountain. He’s the mountain’s teeth and the mountain’s claws, a tangible manifestation of the power of nature and a reminder to pay attention and act with respect. If you watch TV, you’ve probably noticed that the Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, and stations of similar ilk have become overrun with cryptozoology programs, even though amazing creatures like grizzly bears, orca, and tigers already exist. A likely explanation for the popularity of these programmes is that they are cheap and easy to produce: follow some dipshit around Kentucky for a few days to look for Bigfoot, point the camera through night-vision goggles, and end with an inconclusive “Still, the mystery remains,” speech.
Jumbled crevasses at the Bandarpunch glacier. Photo: Zachary Conrad
But at a certain level, I think we need these creatures to exist. All wild places must have their beasts, some acknowledgment that they are powerful, they are important, and that they deserve our respect. This is especially true while traversing a glacier, where one cavalier step can send you careening over an ice-fall or into a crevasse.
As we moved onto the glacier, our steps became more methodical, and the camp felt less comfortable. Anyone who has slept in a cold house or gone camping in the winter knows what it’s like when the bed is warm and you need to pee. The dilemma always ends the same way—but how long can you fool yourself into believing that you have the power to will yourself into not having to go, before you concede to fumbling with zippers, finding your shoes, and trying not to step on any one on your way out?
And then, things got hard. We changed from deep, soft snow to steep, wind-scoured ice. The final ridge was relentless, pitched around 40 degrees and slightly convex, so the summit was always just hidden from view. For two hours we climbed slowly, kicking our crampons into the ice, sliding our jumars up the rope, and breathing heavily.
The reward here for the mid-night bathroom breaks were the stars, brilliantly bright. We spent three nights at Summit Camp and the starlight was reflected so clearly on the snow that you could see nearby peaks even in the absence of the moon.
On summit days, we would wake up just after midnight. Summit attempts begin early because weather on the peaks can turn mercurial by midday. We tried for the Bandarpunch summit twice, but our first attempt was quickly aborted due to storms. We feared that this would happen again the next night. As we forced cold fingers to tie frozen boots, the sky lit up and thunder rumbled. Jagmohan, however, just waved his hand and said something in Hindi which translated roughly to: “Don’t be a wuss; the wind will carry it away.”
And he was right. At about 8:30 that morning we were standing on the shoulder of Bandarpunch. The glacier and its crevasses were behind us. The air was clear and the summit seemed just within reach.
And then, things got hard. We changed from deep, soft snow to steep, wind-scoured ice. The final ridge was relentless, pitched around 40 degrees and slightly convex, so the summit was always just hidden from view. For two hours we climbed slowly, kicking our crampons into the ice, sliding our jumars up the rope, and breathing heavily.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
In total 21 people reached the summit that day. Usually, ‘conquering’ a summit would end with some photography, by planting a flag, making an offering, and then, quickly, heading back down. But at Bandarpunch, some of us decided to stick around up there for nearly two hours.
I began the descent in a state of terror, sure that I would slide off a cliff while trying to walk down this mountain of ice. With time, however, I grew more confident in my crampons and began to relax, and even, feel a little happy! Soon I was loping down the hill like Kerouac’s Japhy Ryder, “You can’t fall off mountains you fool!” just elated to be going down down down until my exhaustion caught up with me. We reached camp again as it was getting dark and slept like lambs made of rocks.
This snowman was build to ward off mountain madness, a condition of extreme silliness brought on by the elevation. Symptoms include talking with made-up accents, singing guitar solos from Rush songs, and mild euphoria. - Photo: Zachary Conrad
The next morning, I woke up feeling like I’d spent the night drinking tequila and getting hit in the face. (A word of advice: put sunscreen on your lips. Seriously.) The sun was out and it was hot as we walked/slid on our asses to ABC, where we had lunch and gathered the rest of our gear.
Then, it started to rain. Going down is the most dangerous part of climbing a mountain and there were many falls. Some of us managed to escape with just our trousers a little dirty; others went tumbling down and are honestly lucky to still be alive with us.
After a rest day at Base Camp we walked back to the road. Monsoon had begun and by the time we reached Mussoorie. The clouds had taken up residence full-time amidst the mountains. Even from our vantage point in the foothills, nobody saw Bandarpunch again until September.
From afternoons in base-camp listening to rain fall on our tents, then clambering out to see the peaks emerge from the fog in the fading evening light, learning to hold an ice ax and to self-arrest, the porters and the cooks who were so rugged and cheerful, I was in love with all of it. I wanted to see and know everything about these mountains, and to keep going back. I am forever grateful to Hanifl Centre, Woodstock School, Nehru Institute of Mountaineering, and K. Krishnan Kutty for making the Bandarpunch expedition possible.
Viewing Bandarpunch from Landour. Mussoorie. Photo: Zachary Conrad
I had never known that the mountains could be so big or so beautiful! Now, nine years later that we’re all stuck in our homes, waiting out COVID-19, I’ve been thinking a lot about these trips to the mountains, how they fit into my life, and why I keep venturing out. Nothing about these trips is easy. They take time. And money. And most people don’t seem to see the value in it. It seems frivolous and irresponsible to ask for time off from work, or deciding to spend my money on gear and travel. I used to think that I would “get it out of my system” at some point, and do something more ‘reasonable’ with my time. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Looking back, I don’t regret any of these trips; I wish I had done more!
It is obvious now that I have excluded myself from real or imagined expectations, be they reasonable or responsible. Log kya kahenge? It doesn’t really matter. The sudden and radical changes brought about by the current pandemic clearly show that we’re often wrong about what we prioritise in our daily lives, and a lot of what is really important gets pushed to the side.
The pandemic has afforded us all the opportunity to, as Henry Thoreau encouraged, “consider the way in which we spend our lives.” Are we doing what excites us? What gives our lives meaning and joy? And, how can we do that more? Are these limitations real, or imaginary?
Our lives and our society are more fragile than we like to admit. When this is all over, I hope we don’t go back to normal. I hope we all do better.
***
Zachary Conrad is a teacher, hiker and climber. Raised in the woods of Vermont, Zachary spent 8 years in the Himalayan foothills of Landour, Mussoorie. He is now based in Guiyang, China. You can follow him on Instagram: @zachonrad
