Pardesi Pahadi: Splendour and Survival at Sahastra Tal
Photo: Zachary Conrad
‘I was overcome with fear and awe, witness to a power I could feel but couldn’t comprehend’. In another account of his adventures in the Garhwal Himalaya, Zachary Conrad recalls a treacherous trek to Sahastra Tal.
Author’s Note: The Himalaya 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.
“You don’t understand,” he told us, leaning calmly on his long, wooden staff, “This is what I do. There are things you can do that I can’t do—but I do this. And if even one goes missing, I notice. And I bring her back.”
It was late in the afternoon and Ady and I had set camp in the bugyal (alpine pasture land) Kush Kaliyan, high above the Bhagirathi river in the Garhwal. Mist danced around the tops of the trees and the sky promised to rain again. Our site was shared with hundreds of sheep and goats, brought here to feast in a sea of green grass.
A few of the shepherds had come over to watch us put up our tent and smoke bidis, commenting on our gear and asking the usual questions about where we were going, if we had a guide, or needed one. Ady had been curious about the flock; it seemed an impossible task, watching over hundreds of sheep and goats spread over the vast bugyal. With so many, how to keep track of them all?
Photo: Zachary Conrad
These Himalayan shepherds, who lead their animals up and over mountain passes to the bugyals above, wandering the mountains for months without maps or Goretex, have always been an inspiration. Spending so long in the mountains, unsupported, is a level of independence and freedom totally unknown to those of us tangled up in a modern world. The mountains are something to visit for us; they, however are a part of the mountains themselves. Ady and I had just managed to squeeze a quick trip into the higher Himalaya between the end of school year, where we worked, and our summer jobs in early June. The yatra for the shepherds, however, would last months, until the snows returned to the high meadows.
I wished we could stay that long. Still, I was thankful for the opportunity to be out here. We had organised eight days of food for ourselves before heading out, borrowed a tent, and hired Balbir—a local jeep driver—to take us to Malla, a village just north of Uttarkashi. From here we planned to trek to Sahastra Tal, a group of lakes high in the mountains, then cross the ridge, finishing our journey in the Khatling valley.
These Himalayan shepherds, who lead their animals up and over mountain passes to the bugyals above, wandering the mountains for months without maps or Goretex, have always been an inspiration. Spending so long in the mountains, unsupported, is a level of independence and freedom totally unknown to those of us tangled up in a modern world.
Now on our second day, we had already gained over 2000 m of elevation, near a stand of bhanj at the southern edge of Kush Kaliyan.
According to the people we met along the way, we were the first trekkers of the season. We started walking in the afternoon, the sticky pre-monsoon heat weighing as much as our rucksacks. We slowly plodded up a steep path to a village called Silla, chatting with children returning from school and men on their way back from the town. They would walk quickly and calmly up the stony path, hands folded behind their backs, stopping often to smoke beedis and laugh together at the sides of the trail. As we gained elevation the air cooled and clouds moved in. By the time we reached a small chhat at a crossroads above Silla, the sky was dark. Thunder ripped through the sky and rain felt heavy and cold. We huddled under the metal roof with a woman, a dog, a goat, and three children, waiting for the rain to stop.
“Kahaan jaa rahein hai?” the woman asked, over the drumming of the rain. Where are you going?
“Sahastra Tal,” we replied.
“Bahut chadai hai,” she said. There’s a long way up. It was the first of many such remarks. The trek to Sahastra Tal climbs over 4000 m from the banks of the Bhagirathi to the shores of the lake, passing through some of the finest bugyals in the Garhwal region. Though not technically demanding, the trek is strenuous, often climbing 1000 m in a day and moving over rough terrain. Locals often make the trek as a pilgrimage in the warmer months, when the upper valleys are free from snow and brahma kamal blanket on the rocky slopes.
Each wave of the massive flock would approach within five meters of our tent before crying out in confusion, bleating and circling our tent as the next wave followed suit. Within minutes, the smell and the sounds were overpowering, an ovine melee more garbled than Rajiv Chowk at rush hour.
Locals showed concern when it became clear that we had no guide, and that we intended to trek all the way to the lakes. Many people gave us instructions. After suggesting we come back later, they would say, “Go slowly. Stay on the path. Don’t go right. Don’t go left. Stay on the path.”
The next day, our climb continued through deodar forests and small clearings and chans. Rain fell off and on, and we stopped a lot to drink tea with farmers or wait under the cover of the trees. We rounded a corner in the late afternoon and stepped into a vast meadow enveloped in clouds.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
Our campsite at Kush Kaliyan was near the ‘hotel,’ a rough stone building whose solitary caretaker could make daal, paratha, and chai. We were happy to keep the camp stove packed away and eat a simple, delicious meal. It was raining hard again with thunder and hail, so we stayed inside—even though the smoke from the chulha stung our eyes and made my nose run. Like the night before, the storm was powerful but brief, and in its wake the Himalaya shone in the light of the setting sun. What had been rain here at 3000 m was snow further up; Jaonli glowed white, then golden in its new coat.
The next morning was clear and cold, with frost on the grass and the inside of our tent. I lit the camp-stove with stiff fingers and boiled water for chai. We were warm soon enough, as we made our way up the steepening path. This was the day we left the trees for good, passing the last stand of banj at the edge of Kush Kaliyan. The path became rougher now, narrower with crumbing stones and wildflowers peeking through a dusting of snow. We climbed in stages, a long steep section would lead to a flatter kharak, then steepen again until we crossed the ice-crusted Khayrki Khal at around 4200 m in a sea of clouds, making camp in a bugyal of the same name. This bugyal too played host to a few hundred sheep and goats which confounded us by surrounding our camp as we cooked dinner. It was baffling and comical as wave after wave of sheep and goats descended on our camp, first jubilant, then puzzled. Each wave of the massive flock would approach within five meters of our tent before crying out in confusion, bleating and circling our tent as the next wave followed suit. Within minutes, the smell and the sounds were overpowering, an ovine melee more garbled than Rajiv Chowk at rush hour.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
“They think that we’re their dera. [settlement]” Ady surmised as we imitated shepherd sounds and gestures to keep them from trampling our meal. We laughed at the absurdity of it all, but we could see the herd growing more uneasy with each passing minute. The bleating and pacing continued as the sky dimmed. Then we heard a long, clear, call from the distance. Every head turned at once, then in perfect unison, bleated a call of joyful relief. It almost sounded like they had called “Dad!”
In the soft grey light, we could just make out two men trotting down the grassy hill. As they reached our camp, the herd enveloped them and the younger shepherd began leading them back to their true camp. The elder stayed for a few minutes to ask us about our plans. He offered us beedis, and explained to us that they were planning to bring his sheep below Shastra Tal the next day, and offered us to join their troop. We thanked him for both offers, and sat together a few moments, watching the last light leave the sky. He returned to his dera, and we crawled into our tent, huddled against the cold.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
Photo: Zachary Conrad
The next morning, we learned why the shepherds had placed their camps high on the eastern facing slopes and not at the bottom of the bugyal like ours. We looked up to see them glowing in the warmth of morning light while we shivered in the shadows. The cold was a perfect motivator though, and we worked quickly to break down camp and continue our climb. We warmed as we worked over the next ridge, peeling off layer by layer until we hiked only in our t-shirts. We met the sun at the ridge-top and turned to admire a stunning view of Bandarpunch. with its twin summits, and neighboring Kalanag rising over the valley below, appearing to be as much a part of the sky as the earth. With our eyes, we traced the line we had taken to the summit years ago, trying to connect features we could see with our various camps and events singed into our memories.
Remembering the difficulties of that expedition made our current travails seem easier, and we shouldered our bags to continue the climb. As we climbed the green of the grass faded to yellow and then brown. Further still, the ground was sodden with snow melt, and soon after, deep patches of snow punctuated our route.
Being June, we hadn’t prepared for snowy conditions and pitched camp just before the snow line, continuing with light packs to open the trail ahead. It was slow going. We had neither crampons nor ice axes, so I used my umbrella as a self-belay and kicked big steps for Ady (who wore lightweight hiking sneakers) into the snow along the steep hillside. We made it to a group of lakes beneath what we thought would be the last high ridge before heading back to camp.
Contending with the snow made us reconsider our itinerary, and we decided that instead of traversing the lakes, which would require us to cross these snow slopes carrying heavy packs, we would go back the way we came, making a quick push to the lakes and back the next morning.
Photo: Zachary Conrad
We planned on an early start but woke to find the wet snow from yesterday transformed into hard ice. We weighed the risk of a slip against the many troubles of leaving later in the day and proceeded carefully. Thanks to our work the last afternoon, we were able to reach our previous high point near Lama Tal quickly and set to work on the snowfields above. The snow had softened some but still required hard kicks to set steps, tiring work near 5000 m. We continued to pick away at the steepening slope, finding the most secure route through ice, gravelly scree, and loose blocks of rock. Our feet were cold and wet as we crested the high ridge. Clouds swirled as we pulled warmer layers from our backpacks and peered into the mist. Brief clearings revealed the pointed spire of Shastru, and our intended route to the group of lakes at its base.
From here our path tumbled down a steep face of wet snow and scree, followed by another steep, snowy traverse and a substantial climb. The elevation and the inadequacy of our equipment meant this would take a lot of time, and a rough calculation had us climbing back over the ridge we sat on sometime around 2 PM. The sky told us we wouldn’t have that long. If the storm that promised to come was only rain, we would be soaking and cold. If it brought snow or ice, we might be trapped on the wrong side of this imposing ridge, too steep and slippery to safely cross. We were also concerned with lightning and thunder, as anywhere on this ridge would put us in a very vulnerable place.
It was clear what we had to do; we spent another few minutes enjoying the summit and turned back toward our camp.
It was the prudent thing to do, but I still spent the way back agonising over our decision. The pull of high places is strong, and though arbitrary, reaching these goals is important to me. Choosing to back down was hard to accept.
Shortly after returning to camp, however, the skies convinced me we did the right thing. It was the meanest storm I have ever experienced. We hunkered in the tent for hours unable to talk over the cacophony of wind, rain, and thunder. Rain and hail pelted us, falling in sheets of growing intensity. Being swept off the mountain seemed a real possibility as the tent walls trashed and the metal poles bowed against the gale. Up there in the sky, with only thin fabric between us and the storm, I was overcome with fear and awe, witness to a power I could feel but couldn’t comprehend. Only long after night had fallen did the sky relent, and I peeked out the tent to see stars shining brightly behind a wisp of cloud. I pulled on my coat and boots and stood outside, overwhelmed by the silence in the storm’s wake.
It was the meanest storm I have ever experienced. We hunkered in the tent for hours unable to talk over the cacophony of wind, rain, and thunder. Being swept off the mountain seemed a real possibility as the tent walls trashed and the metal poles bowed against the gale.
Ady stayed in bed while I lit the stove and began making some khichdi for a late dinner. Cooking is difficult up high; water boils at a lower temperature (around 85℃ at our high camp) and the stove burns less effectively due to lack of oxygen. It takes a lot longer than at home, and it’s cold, wet, and dark.
All the same, mundane tasks like this are essential to being happy and healthy in the mountains. When leading treks for students I tell them, only half-joking, that out here you need to be your own mom. Make sure you eat enough, even if you don't feel hungry. And drink plenty of water, and put on sunscreen, and wash your hands, and wear enough clothes. Paying attention to little things like this does a lot to prevent most problems. Crouched before the stove, I clicked my headlamp off and pressed my hands against the pot lid for warmth.
There, in the quiet night, I felt very far from the normal world below, but closer to something important I cannot put into words. Another perk of mundane tasks is that they give us time to think about the universe. Waiting out the storm was good for me. It helped me to move past the disappointment of not getting to the lake and reconnect with the deeper reasons I go to the mountains.
It seemed to have the opposite effect on Ady, however. The hours spent in our tent left Ady drained like he had gotten too much sleep or not enough. He told me he wasn’t hungry and wanted to stay in bed. “Come on beta, ek-do chamuch kha lo,” I teased, imploring him to eat a little more. We both knew we needed to eat, at least to try, to keep our energy up and stay warm through the night. I spooned the khichdi into our bowls and we topped it with namkeen, a delicious tip we learned from Ady’s father. We wiped our bowls clean with the hailstones that blanketed our camp, brushed our teeth and crawled back into our sleeping bags.
My down sleeping bag was old and worn; too many monsoons had clumped its feathers, and on nights like these, I struggled to stay warm. I was awakened by the cold and rummaged to find my wool shirt. I noticed Ady snoring as I was doing up my buttons. I didn’t think much about it, though I don’t think I had heard him snore before. I nestled back in my sleeping bag and tried sleep, but my mind would fixate on Ady’s snore, a strange gurgling wheeze that was impossible to ignore. Neither of us slept well that night.
The skies had cleared by morning and we busied ourselves preparing to go down. Ady’s wheeze continued and we were worried about a serious altitude-related illness like HAPE (high altitude pulmonary edema). This was before either of us had much training in wilderness medicine but we knew to be wary of altitude. Each day, we had been monitoring ourselves and each other for symptoms of mild acute mountain sickness, a common ailment in the higher mountains. Things like headaches, dizziness, nausea, lack of appetite, and difficulty breathing under exertion. Until yesterday, we had been doing alright. AMS tends to be a progressive sickness: it starts mild and if you don’t treat it (by descending or at least resting and not going any higher) it can get more severe.
Ady’s current condition was cause for worry. He had trouble breathing even at rest, was coughing and wheezing, and felt very weak. These symptoms, coupled with our rapid gains in elevation (we began walking at about 1000 m above sea-level 4 days ago, and just passed a night at ~4500 m) pointed to HAPE. This conclusion came as a surprise and neither of us had shown any signs of AMS before this. At this moment, a diagnosis wasn’t important. Since we were at altitude, and Ady was showing signs of altitude sickness, we needed to go down—and do so as quickly as possible.
I tried to carry more of the group gear, but Ady refused. Since we were just going down, he reasoned that it would make much difference. We were moving as quickly as we could—which in Ady’s condition, wasn’t very quick. We stopped often for breaks, and at each one, I would take a little more of Ady’s gear. This was the trip I finally admitted I needed a larger backpack.
Waiting out the storm was good for me. It helped me to move past the disappointment of not getting to the lake and reconnect with the deeper reasons I go to the mountains.
We met our shepherd friends back in Khyarki and gave them most of our food and the rest of the fuel for our stove. We continued to descend slowly but steadily. The short stretches of uphill, unavoidable even when descending in the Himalaya, were especially trying for Ady, but he managed somehow. By late afternoon we had made it back to the hotel in Kush Kaliyan.
Using the hotel-wallah’s phone, we were able to call Balbir and make arrangements for pick-up. We recalled a few long stretches that would be uphill on the hike back to Malla, so we decided to hike out to a more rugged road head to the south. Ady still wheezed and coughed but his symptoms were less pronounced now that we were some 1500 m (nearly 5000 ft) lower.
That night, I reflected on our choices, thinking about what mistakes we might have made. Usually, on trips where we know we’ll be staying above 4000 m I always plan on spending two nights around 3000 m to give bodies time to acclimate. Afterward, uphill progress is usually slow. There aren’t many times I’ve slept at or over 5000 m but in those cases, we spent two nights between 4000 and 4500 m for the same reason. I’ve been lucky in my experiences and have always acclimated quickly. Ady, on the other hand, is more sensitive to altitude. During our summit day on Bandarpunch Ady pushed himself to his limits, and his lips were beginning to blue (high altitude cyanosis). With this in mind, it seems clear that we had chosen a too-ambitious itinerary.
The fog hung thick and heavy then next morning as we picked our way through the bugyal and into the forest below. We took our time, stopping in villages along the way to drink tea and play with the local children who would peek at us from behind trees and dart away when we met their gaze. Ady sat near a small mandir at the edge of a field. This was the last clearing before the road and we had only another hour or so of walking on a well-maintained path.
“Let’s stay here a while,” Ady said. “I want to enjoy the mountains a little longer.”
I couldn’t agree more. The snow peaks were just visible through the afternoon haze and a soft breeze carried sounds to us from the village below. I removed my backpack and sat down beside him.
***
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 and worked in Guiyang, China. You can follow him on Instagram: @zachonrad
