TRUE CONFESSIONS — THE TREK TO SHAONE GAD

DR. BURJOR BANAJI

'Dad, are you going to die?'

This from my tearful six year old as I was reading him a bedtime story. He had correlated my going to the mountains with the Imax Everest (The 1996 tragedy) movie we had recently seen in London. To his impressionable little mind, those who climbed mountains did not return. After quelling his fears and tucking him to bed, I left the room deep in thought. I had been trekking the Himalaya since the early eighties, and never once addressed this question. I was forty now, with two young children and a fairly busy surgical practice. Did I really need to go to the mountains like I used to? Wasn't I being unfair to my family by pursuing what could only be termed an intensely personal and ultimately selfish sport? I tried to rationalise that it was not as if I was Chris Bonington, off to climb a Himalayan wall — but it held no water with my conscience. I knew all too well the penalty of a misstep. With these and other such uplifting thoughts, I boarded the train at New Delhi Station to join other members of the group.

We were a motley crew. Our leader was the irrepressible Harish Kapadia who has explored the Himalaya extensively. There was Suman Dubey, a journalist of international repute. Suman had been a member of the Indian team to Everest in 1962 and Nanda Devi before that. Pesi Dubash, a photographer from Bombay, Kekoo Colah, my childhood friend and real estate consultant, and myself, an eye surgeon.

I am the ultimate couch potato and armchair mountaineer. Brought up on a steady diet of classical mountaineering books, I had travelled the Alps, Karakoram, Hindukush and Himalaya extensively — in my mind. Shipton, Tillman, Bonnati, Terray, Lachenal, Bonington, Whillans, and Messner were all old and intimate acquaintances. The only time I got a semblance of exercise was when I was 'in training' for a trek. With my ample circumference on glorious display, I could almost hear the others think, 'how on earth is this fat bugger going to hold out?' To compound my discomfiture, all my equipment was spanking new and obviously expensive. Abhorring ostentation, this bothered me far more than my girth!

Colour Plates 9 to 12
Photo 13

Harish and Kekoo had trekked together in the Himalaya before and were obviously very comfortable in each other's company. Apart from Kekoo, I knew no one in the group. Two weeks would change that.

Changing trains at Kalka early next morning, we chugged in the miniature train 7000 feet up fir covered hills to the British summer capital of Shimla. I had studied for part of my medical career in Shimla and was nostalgic to return. Sadly, Shimla, like many other Indian hill stations, has felt the rapacious hand of unbridled development and was nothing but a slum clinging precariously to the side of a hill. Vowing never to return, we left the next morning by taxi for Sangla. Motoring through dense Deodar forests we reached Narkanda whereupon we descended steeply to the Satluj river. Being a recent convert to gardening, I was interested to see how rapidly the flora changed with altitude. Surprised to see Gul Mohur, Laburnum, and Fir trees co-exist, we were soon into Bougainvillaea country. Continuing our travels along the river, we started ascending to Sarahan some time in the evening. Harish had arranged for us to stay in a splendid government guesthouse. Harish got the 'presidential suite', which was large enough to float the Titanic. The other rooms were no less grand with magnificent views of the Himalaya. What impressed me more than the size of our accommodation, was the cleanliness. That night we were treated to a magnificent thunderstorm. I can think of no better way to participate in a storm than to slip under warm quilts listening to the rumble of thunder and the thrum of rain on a corrugated tin roof. Next morning dawned clear with views of Kand Mahadev peaks. Harish and Suman visited the Bhimkali Temple and we left to follow the Satluj till Kharcham where the road branched off to Rakchham. It was a treat to see apple orchards with trees heavy with fruit. It was a tragedy that we could not buy any of them.

The hydel projects along the river looked impressive, but were executed with the government's usual contempt for the ecology of the region. Huge six storey high stacks of wood were being accumulated by the roadside for use. How many thousands of trees had been felled? Had they been replanted? Who knew? Who cared!

Rakchham (3000 m) saw us staying in a small government guesthouse on the banks of the Baspa river. I get breathless after just a bit of quick exertion. Good god! Am I so unfit? The group is getting to know each other better now. Our growing friendship was in direct proportion to the profanity in our speech. Psychologists call it male bonding!

The next day dawns crystal clear. I hear what is to become our clarion call for the rest of the trek. 'Burjor... wake up... the light's beautiful... look at the hills!'. This from Suman who has been impatiently waiting for the sun to rise since 4 a.m. If he could, he'd shake the sun awake each day! Harish has been awake since 5 a.m. listening to his beloved BBC and Hindi music. I have been sound asleep since 8 p.m. the previous night.

Today's our acclimatisation walk to Chhitkul 12 km away and about 350 m higher. We start out together and walk down the motorable road for about an hour before stopping for some drinks in the forest. The granite cliffs to our left are stupendous and would be an alpinist's delight. On our right, the river curves its sinuous way down the valley, which is full to bursting with unharvested barley. The red of the barley making for a striking contrast between the grey of granite and green of the conifer forests. After some time the party strings out and I am (as usual) last. I feel quite strong and am keeping much in reserve. No use in expending energy speeding down the road! It's funny, how uncompetitive I am in the hills in contrast to a fierce competitive drive at work. Pesi is waiting for me down the road and we walk together till Chhitkul comes into view. I hail a passing jeep and ask him to drop me to the village. As I catch up with the others I can sense suppressed surprise from Kekoo and Suman and a not so suppressed disappointment from Harish.

'This is supposed to be an acclimatisation walk! Why did you take the jeep?! You should have completed the walk!' I am quite sanguine by the fact that I could have easily completed the remaining bit, but it was getting boring, the sun was beating down and I was getting thirsty. I was going to do this the Don Whillans way.

We visit a monastery in Chhitkul where Harish meets with a 100-year- old lama he had met on another trek to the same area 15 years ago. We all take a spine snapping jeep ride back to Rakchham. I am surprised at the distance we have covered in the morning. More good-natured ribbing from all, about the one member who did not complete the mornings walk in full.

By the light of the setting sun, Suman unselfconsciously practices singing a Schubert mass and Pesi joins him in a voice that sets my teeth on edge! I am touched by the gentleness and patience with which Suman shows him the intricacies of deciphering the oratorio. I would have lost my temper in a flash under the same circumstances. Two village youth look upon their antics with wide-eyed amazement. Pesi retires to play the mouth organ as I busy myself with taking pictures in the fading light. The setting sun lights the peaks with an orange glow. A rising moon makes for an ethereal end to the day.

We gather in one of the bedrooms and as is wont in male company, the topic turns to sex. Amidst much uproarious laughter we conclude that none of us has the time, inclination or guts to be unfaithful to our spouses. Suddenly, one member of our crew regales us with various stories of 'exploits' and 'adventures' with the opposite sex! If it weren't for his patent sincerity and matter of fact manner, we would have hooted him out. Seeing that he had a rapt audience, he continued in the manner of a schoolteacher. Never has a professor had his audience more enthralled. Amidst several exclamations of disbelief and guffaws of laughter, we passed time till dinner was served.

We start our trek today. Crossing the river from Rakchham village, Pesi, Suman, and I walk along the right bank for an hour in the rising sun. Harish is seeing to the porters and kitchen staff and will be leaving with Kekoo later. As usual, I fall to the back of the queue and am content to take pictures as the extremely pleasant walk unfolds. We leave the river as the path now takes a right turn winding upwards across rocks and glacial melt water descending down the Sahone nala. Suman forges ahead and Pesi and I are left alone.

My wife often despairs at my sense of direction. I was now at the tender mercy of my wayward internal compass. In a trice I had lost the path. Pesi's insistent and repetitive, 'I suppose we are now lost' did not help matters along. I finally find some path as we muddle through the rocks. I am going too slowly for Pesi. He marches on and I am left alone. I prefer it this way. The day wears on, the scorching sun climbs higher in the sky and I emerge out of the shade of the conifers. The slope is bereft of trees now and looks fairly gradual. But why am I feeling so tired?

'Drink water Burjor.. don't get dehydrated.'

I replenish my one litre bottle three times, noting that the river gets too far from the path to do so higher up. I dip my hat into the glacial stream and place it on my head again. Relief from the blessed heat. I follow the path, head down, and immediately take a goat trail that ascends almost vertically up the side of the hill. Totally out of breath, I stop, only to see that I have veered off at right angles to the actual path and have to descend fifty feet. I could have kicked myself - if I had the energy. Around noon, I find I am suddenly out of steam.

Puffing like an engine I'm down to one breath a step. Right foot - inhale, left foot exhale! I stop every four or five steps.

'Good grief! What's happening?'

'Relax man... it's just the altitude...'

'Or is it just you Burjor?'

'No you don't. no negative mind games now. Take a rest.'

I flop under the shade of an overhanging rock and have a long drink. I have been stopping for 5 minutes every hour. This time I stop for fifteen minutes. Once I start, I feel much stronger. I set a limit for myself. Rest after 40 steps. Good. I can manage that. Now make it fifty. I can manage that too. How about a hundred, can we make it a hundred? Hundred comes up. Ok now. double or quits.

So passes the afternoon in a blur. I look up, to see Pesi ahead of me — in the far distance. Taking out my monocular scope I am keen to see how he's faring. Gratified to note his frequent halts (and conveniently forgetting his age - 58), I don't feel too bad about my performance. Feeling guilty of taking strength from the perceived weakness of another, I stumble along. Soon I can see Suman too. Both seem quite close. Am I catching up, or are they slowing down? After an age, I turn a corner to find both Suman and Pesi flat on their backs fast asleep! Good heavens, how laid back! Envying their repose, I collapse on a rock nearby.

'Burjor, I can't go on. I'm done in.. we'll camp at that little pasture there'. This from Suman.

Suman has been going like a stallion the whole day. How come he's suddenly so pooped? I suspect that it's more a mental than a physical thing with him. I can empathise. I've been there before. Often.

'Come on buddy... let's see if we can make it to that nearby ridge.'

'No... I'm finished today'

With a little more cajoling and a drink of orange juice, he's firing on all cylinders once more. One of us shoulders his backpack and we reach a lovely flat pasture where we set up camp. I feel a flush of pleasure in realising that we've reached our camp (Rathiya Thach) as a cohesive little team.

Our tents are pitched and I get a lesson from Harish on how to adjust my guy lines. Then we sprawl on the springy grass to eat bucketful's of delicious bhel puri (a very Bombay snack of rice crispies, potatoes and various chutneys). The camp is suddenly invaded by more than a hundred very vocal goats milling around the tents and us. I have nightmares of the cacophony continuing through the night, but Harish quells my fears. 'They'll get quiet soon'. Sure enough they do. Slipping into my tent, I lie back in my sleeping bag letting the warmth relax aching muscles till I am roused by a call of some urgency from Suman.

'Hey Burjor come out, the lights fantastic and there's a rainbow emerging'.

I reflect in amusement that on every trek I've been on, it used to be me rousing the others to come out and 'see the light'. I would be the first out of the tent in the morning, the last to go in. I have finally met my match and happily so. I know exactly how he's feeling and marvel at his enthusiasm. I am also a bit sad to realise that I am perhaps not as moved by the sights as I used to be... or perhaps I was just tired... but again, whom was I trying to fool.

The next day we ascended up the valley to reach a flat pasture, Mathiya Thatch, which sported the skeletal metal remnants of an old geological survey hut. A glacial stream meandering through the valley surrounded on either side by barren rocky peaks made for a great camping ground. We pushed on further to reach another equally scenic spot about 45 minutes later where we set up camp. The hot sun and warm grass made us all drowsy and the afternoon was spent in our respective tents.

Our acclimatisation day today. We were to climb the moraine about 200 m above camp and 'explore' our next day's route. I set off with Harish and he is soon lost in the maze of boulders. When I next catch a glimpse of him, he's a speck on the horizon. On my own again, I decide to climb straight up to the lip of the moraine. Sighting on a landmark, I gasp diagonally toward it, then sighting another, and another I slowly zigzag my way up the steep crumbly slope. About half way up I find I am quite enjoying this and start to fantasize that I'm on a 'real' mountain (never mind that we were probably higher than the summit of Mont Blanc at this point). Suddenly I am confronted with a passage of loose rock and mud fifty feet wide and extending almost vertically to the rocks below. Shit! Drawing on my vast text book experience I decide that I would 'front point' across the slope. How much different could this surface be from snow I reason. Like an ungainly crab I start to traverse the slope. No sooner have I started than I start sliding downward taking what seems to be all the mud and dust in the world with me - and then I stop. Too scared to move a limb I stay frozen for a few moments and gather my wits. 'Not a good idea Burjor.. not a good idea at all!' I take a ginger step diagonally and dislodge a rock that goes spinning downward bouncing in ever larger circles till it smashes on the rocks below. There but for the grace of God go I! Too scared to move now, I study the slope intently for any vestige of terra firma and to my dismay make out a dozen easier routes that would have taken me to the top of the moraine without landing myself in this mess. Finally, throwing caution to the wind I rush across the slope hell for leather in a billowing cloud of dust debris and falling rock. Reaching the other side, gasping and coughing, I realise I am a good forty feet lower than I was when I started (later Harish tells us this is established protocol for crossing a scree slope). By now I'm tired but determined to reach the top. Face almost touching the slope, I crest the ridge of 'my mountain' to be confronted at the top . by an enormous mound of animal dung! So much for my wild fantasies. To further root me to reality there was Pesi sitting serenely on a rock, looking over the glacier into the distance. He had reached a good half hour before I and in a less dramatic manner. Pesi and I look around at the scenery. I am not too impressed by the never ending rocky glaciers extending in all directions. What ever our route tomorrow, I know its going to be one tough day.

I wake to the sound of the gentle drum of rain on taut fabric. Its going to be a slippery day. I make a note of stuffing some bandages and antibiotic solution into my vest. No rousting call from Suman today. Peering out of the tent I watch Harish pacing up and down the meadow looking at the sky and conferring with Suman. He reminds me of Napoleon .

'We stay here today guys. It will be too dangerous on the glacier.'

Great! I can listen to music the whole day today!

'So what's plan B?' This from the ever practical Suman.

'No bloody plan B. Just plan A. We go on!' Harish in Napoleon mode.

'But we have to have a plan B... '

Then begins a refrain between the two of them that persisted through the trek.

'Hey Harish, I've been looking at the map. if we cross this pass we go into the Rupin valley not the Supin.'

'Arre bhai... look here. this is the Lamiea pass.it leads into the Supin.. .you're looking at it the wrong way'

'But Harish have a look here.'

I watch in amusement as these two, one a veteran of Everest and the other arguably the most travelled Himalayan explorer squabble like two children spinning the pitiable map from one axis to another in an attempt to determine our route the next day. My amusement is tempered by the thought that if these guys get it wrong, we'd be spectacularly lost in some rather inhospitable terrain!

'Hey Burjor wake up you can see the stars.. still some moisture in the air... but looks like a good day', our reliable morning bulletin courtesy Suman.

'Chalo, Chalo... we make an early start.we have to be out of here by seven. Burjorji don't waste time. hurry, hurry', Harish is busy getting the porters sorted and then we are ascending the moraine once more. As usual the others steam ahead and have collected in a group at the top. Harish vows to keep me company till the ridge and I see he is having a hard time keeping his word. Suman gives us a shout from the top.

'Bad news guys'

I collapse on my ski stick, 'what now?!'

'We are going the wrong way.'

Large team meeting at the top of the ridge. Suman thinks we should be going in a direction 90 degrees away from our previous path.

Harish uses the binoculars, 'I think I can see three cairns on the pass'

Suman and Harish are in agreement and like a pair of race horses take off towards, the pass on the distant horizon. Before we know it they are dots on the glacier below. Kekoo, Pesi and I make our way down the crumbly lateral moraine at a cautious pace and I am at the back when a large boulder slithers down and traps my ankle between it and another rock. At first I just try and yank my leg out, but realise I am stuck fast. In fright, I yelp to Pesi and as I do so the lower and upper boulder start to slide downward and I free my foot in a flash. We are on the glacier now. I have never been in such an inhospitable place. It looked like a giant construction site with millions of boulders heaped on each other precariously and as far as the eye could see. The silence of the place punctuated by the sound of rock fall as the glacier shifted and grumbled below our feet. Kekoo tires of our slow pace and moves ahead. Soon the Sherpa who was supposed to stay with us suddenly puts on his turbocharger and takes off too.

Pesi and I were alone at the back of the pack. We had only a vague idea of where we were heading and none of us had been on a glacier before. Soon we had lost all sight of the porters and others in our party. Every time I would crest a rise I'd try to spot some movement on the unending madness of broken rock and ice. Finally I spotted a porter. then another. both headed in diametrically opposite directions. Now, where the hell were we supposed to go?

We were out of water and dehydrating fast. it was maddening to hear the inaccessible gurgle of glacial melt water under the boulders. Its turning out to be a tedious wretched day. a twisted ankle here would be a nasty business. The afternoon wears on. Sun beats down. Jumbled thoughts pass through at random. appreciate the bizarre patterns of lichen on the rocks, bright green to rust brown and blacks. Amazing how organisms live and thrive in this hostile environment. I crest yet another rise in this rock jungle and step on a large flat boulder. Thankfully this rock is as large as a dining table. I scan the glacier with the binoculars just as I feel the rock tilt under me with a deep thud. Feeling it start to slide I jump off. With agonizing slowness the rocks upon which it has been balancing, shift and then in slow motion the whole slope starts to slide. I watch transfixed as the slope dissolves into a chaos of granite and dust. The acrid flinty smell of colliding rocks fill the air. The hours pass slowly, Pesi is looking ashen and has fallen far behind. He is making a heroic effort in his canvas shoes. I can't see how he does it. We are quite lost, but strangely I feel quietly confident and am already preparing a mental checklist for the eventuality of a bivouac on the glacier. I make the mistake of mentioning this possibility to Pesi. After several gulps and furious blinking he turns a shade paler but gamely plods on. We sit down for a rest. On a distant crest, I think I see a human figure. Yes . it looks like Kekoo. I am sure he's looking for us. Equally sure he cannot see us. We must be specs of brown in a jumbled sea of broken boulders. I hear a rustling behind me and watch Pesi pull out a fluorescent orange Parka from his sack. I grab it and wave. Kekoo sees me and waves back. That's a relief. Also a bit of a disappointment. No more adventurous sleeping out on the glacier. We are soon meandering again but with some direction now. I finally spot Suman pacing a distant ridge with a bright red Anorak. I am sure he's trying to catch our attention (as it turned out, he was). An hour later we stumble into camp. Suman looks relieved and plies us with hot cups of tea. I am pissed off that the Sherpa had scooted off leaving us alone and make my feelings felt to Harish.

'Ah Burjor. it is a terrible day like this that you will always remember. Who remembers the good days?'

Bloody hell!! A philosopher in our midst no less!

Creeping into the tent with Kekoo, I stretch weary muscles just in time to escape a thunderous hailstorm, which lasts for a half-hour. Ever the enthusiast, Suman calls me out to watch the sunset and I'm glad he did. The mountains are lit in the most delicate coral pinks contrasting vividly with the deep blue sky and a rising moon. The colours seem almost unreal and I watch in rapture. till I realise that I've forgotten to remove my goggles! When I do so the colours seem more realistic. We are camped directly below the pass, which looks impossibly steep to my inexperienced eyes. Suman tells me that this is foreshortening and we can look forward to green meadows on the other side. That's a relief after this bleak world of rock and ice. After drinking several mugs of soup, I fall into a deep sleep as Kekoo listens to Tchaikovsky on my CD player.

We leave early the next day as Suman and Harish traverse the lateral moraine above the icefall and begin ascending the treacherous loose shingle and rock wall of the pass. Kekoo, Pesi and myself ascend with a Sherpa in a more deliberate manner. Here again we are in difficulties. Sliding down the shale. Fearing the release of loose rock above. The higher we ascend the higher the stakes become. Finally Kekoo crests the ridge and shouts down to me, 'Come on up Burjorji... but I don't think you'll like what you'll see.' I stagger up to the ridge and catch my breath in dismay at the sight that unfolds before my eyes. I was expecting green meadows. What I got was cirque of towering jagged rocky peaks and a precipitous fall to a never-ending mass of rocks below. Now what?!

Harish and Suman beckon us from a distance. We have to traverse above an icefield before we reach them. At last I get to walk in some snow... I climb up a small hump of snow .. fantasising that it's the summit of Everest (well... my Everest anyway). Harish and Suman watch indulgently. Soon my eyes start smarting. Oops! I change glasses. Fine thing it would be if an eye surgeon went snow blind! Harish and Suman disappear over a crest and start their descent. But they're heading in the wrong direction! The verdant valley is down to the right and these guys are heading left. The only thing in that direction is another treacherous looking pass. Kekoo and I decide to walk down to the valley.. but then are summoned to Harish's position by one of the Sherpas. I reach there in a fine froth!!

'What the **** are you up to Harish?! Where are we heading?' Ever the democrat Suman suggests we take vote on where we head tomorrow. Ever the autocrat Harish announces, 'Whatever you guys decide I am going over the pass. because that will save us several days on our return.' That was that!

We agreed to go Harish's way. not without some considerable misgivings on my part. The traverse to the pass looked treacherous in the extreme. Far worse than what we had covered today - which was bad enough! Still. a luminous moon and an eerie yellow sunset put at rest our moaning. We were soon our old selves joshing and joking with each other. That night I left my tent flap open to watch the moon slipping behind the bizarre rocky spires.

We get up early but leave a little late as we wait for our tents to dry out. I have absolutely no idea as to how I would manage the crossing today.

Harish puts his arm around me. 'Chalo Burjor, today you walk with me'

'For all of ten minutes, before he puts on speed and buggers off', I think silently.

Kekoo, Harish, Pesi and I start out over the sea of broken slate and granite. Harish starts talking about his other passion.. Cricket. Soon we are all engrossed with his yarns and the ground flies beneath our feet. It is hairy in parts but far simpler than I thought it would be. Harish's stream of chatter certainly helped in distracting us from the strain of crossing this terrain alone. I remember thinking that he was showing leadership when it was needed most and his trespass of leaving us to fend for ourselves on the glacier two days ago, forgiven, if not forgotten.

Soon we join Suman at the crest of the new pass. I am amazed at the speed at which we did the traverse. I guess it's really all in the mind. Having herded his flock across the dangerous bit, Harish puts on afterburners and rockets down the slope on the other side. Through the parting mist I can discern the river, hair like, in the valley below. I gird myself for a knee knocking descent. Half way down we stop for lunch as Harish, Kekoo and Suman go ahead to recce the way into the valley. A tempting looking path down a promontory beckons the explorers. Soon they reach the end of the promontory to find their way blocked by two hundred foot high vertical cliffs. Much time spent trying to find a way down without success. Pesi and I watch the drama unfold from our perch higher on the mountain. Finally they give up and retreat. We enter a gully and follow a waterfall down to the verdant valley below. Pesi and I join the others after a couple of hours. Harish wants to proceed down the valley for some time before we strike camp. This valley is stupendous. Soft green grass, wild flowers in abundance, crystal clear brooks, and towering vertical heights on either side. I look back at the way we have descended and feel a stab of accomplishment. We haven't done so badly after all. The standard Nepal treks are truly pussycats compared to what we have done in the last few days. Renewed and refreshed, Suman, Pesi and I walk down the mist- shrouded valley till we reach camp. Tomorrow will be our last day in the mountains before we hit civilisation and I don't want to leave. We are all lost in our thoughts this evening.

I wake to the silent drum of rain on my tent. Today is a wet day. Kekoo, Harish and I set off together and walk for an hour with the river raging on our left and to the accompaniment of a myriad of wild flowers. I feel a sense of loss at my ignorance of botany and recognise just a few flowers amongst them being Strawberries, Michaela Daisies, Blue Bells amongst the Brahma Kamal (Sausurrea obvalata) and Fain Kamal (Sausurrea graminifolia) which we had seen on the higher icy slopes. I am quite enjoying the silent drizzle and walk for a while with Suman. We climb into a dense patch of Acongonium campanulatum, the white flowers of which ranged from chest high to fifteen feet tall. Suman called it the Garden of Eden. Lost in thought we suddenly turned a corner to find Harish and Kekoo huddled under an over hanging rock. Kekoo was having a hard day. His face looking drawn and pinched. I must have looked this way for most of the trek I am sure. After a particularly hairy crossing above the raging river below, we start our ascent to the village of Lewari. A local gives us shelter in his home. I wish I were sleeping in my tent!

The next day we descend down to the river and walk on a wide path along the contour of the hill till we cross the river and ascend to the village of Jakhol. A few minutes after I arrive, we pile into a jeep headed for Dehra Dun. Our adventure over, the longing to return begins gnawing at my gut even before we leave this sanctuary of the gods.

SUMMERY

A trek from the Baspa valley (Kinnuar), into the Shaone gad, across Lamea Pass and Ratangdi Ghati to the Supin valley in September 1999.

 

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