'Not all who wander are lost'
My strategy for surviving the last two years of lockdown was to double down, burying my inclination to roam and ignoring documentaries or anything else from the rest of the world except for essential news.
Despite exploring and re-exploring the new area I'd just moved to before lockdown, my body folded in on itself and I became convinced that whatever stresses or strains I was experiencing were manifesting themselves in bizarre aches and pains.
When restrictions began to lift and a full-on adventure looked within reach in January 2022, I set about building up my stamina again over day and weekend hikes, joining hiking meetups for the first time. I also started seeing a chiropractor and began the work of putting myself back together, while plotting my escape. I knew it had to be something spectacular.
I'd been to the Nepalese Himalayas back in 2016, and before the pandemic, had been knee deep in trying to write a fictional book about the Indian Himalayas that needed reviving, so I'd been fantasising about going there to 'do research.'
Then I discovered that my enterprising maternal grandad, before he packed his bags and went off to Kenya to seek his fortune, had grown up in Chandigarh. From this northern city in the Punjab, I'm told, you can see the foothills of the Himalayas. It was meant to be.
I wouldn't have time on this trip to stop in Chandigarh, but there's an itinerary for the rest of India burning a hole on my desktop that I'll get to one day.
The land of high mountain passes
Ladakh is a territory in the northwest corner of India that borders with Pakistan, China and Tibet (or also China, depending on who you speak to). I hadn't realised it was a well-known trekking destination until I saw that the meetup group GO London had a trip to do the Markha Valley trail there in September 2022.
This horseshoe-shaped trail is at the top of Ladakh's Hemis National Park, and passes through high-altitude desert terrain, through valleys and remote settlements, past stupas and barley fields, along the Markha River and over Ganda La Pass (4,985m) and eventually its highest point at Kongmaru La Pass (5,236m).
The adventure was to begin in the town of Leh, which lies 3,500m above sea level, and is already high altitude and requires acclimatisation, so I decided to arrive early and take an extra day to adjust. After a long and tiring journey non-stop from the UK via Delhi, which ended in one of the most dramatic aeroplane landings I've experienced, I emerged blinking into the bright sunlight of IXL airport.
With my gear strapped to my front and back, and breathing heavily from the lack of oxygen to my sea level-adjusted lungs (London is 11m above sea level! Yes, the number 11) you could probably have poked me and I would have toppled over. Even walking up the slope to the taxi rank was laborious, which was alarming.
I made myself comfortable at a hotel in the centre of town in Fort Road at the bottom of the hill and used the time to rest and stretch after the flight, and read up on our journey ahead. The night was difficult as it was hard to fall asleep with the lack of oxygen, and my Fitbit unhelpfully insisting that my heart rate was over 90.
The next afternoon, still feeling short of breath, I hauled myself up the road to meet with the people I'd be trekking with for the next couple of weeks who were staying nearby. Led by experienced mountain guide Sara, we were a small group of seven, which had briefly looked like it would be fewer because of the convoluted and paperwork-heavy Indian visa application process. However, happily, we were all present and correct.
My usual anxieties about who I'd be trekking with were allayed pretty early on - my fellow adventurers were an interesting, eclectic and affable group of people. That night they walked me to my hotel down the hill after dinner, which was a lovely surprise.
After an inexplicably terrible night's sleep, I gathered my stuff together to take it up the hill to join the others at their hotel. I was pleased to find that walking was at last a lot easier, and although I was tired I was breathing just fine.
Lobi, our Ladakhi guide (Credit: Mick Davidson)
We met our local Ladakhi guide, Lobi, who dropped by the hotel. A small, trim man who clearly meant business, he appeared in army issue boots (borrowed from his brother) on a motorbike. He was there to do a kit inspection - he told us in no uncertain terms that our sleeping bags were totally inadequate which was dispiriting, but he had obviously dealt with chhilling (foreigners) like us before and promised that he would provide us with extra sleeping bags on the trail.
'Om' - the sound of the universe
Our first official day of the tour was spent acclimatising while taking the opportunity to visit three major Tibetan Buddhist monasteries in the area: Hemis, Thiksey and Shey.
Buddhism is the majority religion in Ladakh. In the 4th century BC, when Alexander (known as 'the Great' to us in the West, but 'the Accursed' in Asia) and his troops withdrew from Kashmir and the Mauryan Empire filled the vacuum, Buddhism spread into Kashmir under the Emperor Asoka.
Thiksey monastery. The Maitreya Buddha is 15 metres high
We spent the day looking around the monasteries, where some things were familiar to me from Nepal, and others were new. The vibrant colour alone in these places was mesmerising - not only the familiar, friendly prayer flags fluttering in the wind, but the buildings themselves. There were also wall paintings to discover inside the dimly lit gompas (Tibetan monastery) showing the various students of the buddha, his/her manifestations, and demons (most of which you aren't permitted to take photos of).
I was most struck by depictions of a dark, protective demon that fights with and devours 'ego,' which Buddhists consider to be the ultimate threat to harmony and enlightenment.
When entering a gompa, or passing by mani stones (stones carved with mantras) or stupas (commemorative monuments), you must always move in a clockwise direction, which Buddhists believe will purify negative karma.
Mantras are written and stored in prayer wheels, which you must turn clockwise as part of meditative practice. I asked Lobi about whether it was ok for me, as a foreigner and non-Buddhist, to participate. It's something that anyone can do, as long as you do it with respect.
I may not be Buddhist but there are many things that the Tibetan Buddhists believe that I can identify with, not least of all a connection to, and respect for, all things rather than mastery over anyone or anything.
This is especially potent in the mountains, and makes complete sense for the people who live there and must survive in harsh conditions. Understanding and respecting nature, not trying to conquer it, is the ultimate lesson you can take with you when you're trekking, as I've discussed elsewhere on this blog.
Leh itself is a melting pot. Tourism (domestic as well as international) is a growing industry, as was evident from the number of guesthouses that were being built alone. It felt to me like a more laid back version of Thamel in Kathmandu, but I can imagine that in a few years time it will be much busier. There are shops with trekking gear, but also shops selling pashminas, rugs and products made from apricot. Many of the shop owners seemed to be Kashmiri refugees, or from other parts of India. There were also plentiful Tibetan refugee markets too.
I happily whiled away some free time in a cafe on the main bazaar, watching the throng of people going about their business.
Scary toilets - day one
Our first day on the trek saw us drive over the Indus to the start of Hemis National Park. On our way out of Leh we caught sight of various military encampments, a sobering reminder that we were not all that far from the border where disputes with Pakistan often flare up.
The van left us and our day packs by the side of an empty road, surrounded by a desolate rocky landscape.
Due to continued lack of sleep it took me a bit of an effort to keep up in more ways than one on our first day of trekking. In an inauspicious start, I stupidly left my water filter in the van that dropped us at the start of the trail, but thankfully Lobi managed to phone the van driver and get it to me later on in the day, as luckily we were walking along road for a while.
The rest of our gear was to be ported by horses; the team of horsemen and cooks Lobi had hired to look after us on the trek would get ahead of us to the campsite where we would meet them.
The road cut through valleys of slate, revealing a surprising and beautiful rainbow colours of red, green and yellow which were difficult to capture on my camera.
I accessed my secret weapon (music) to help my flagging energy levels, which really does wonders. I may be dragging my feet but if I plug into the right tune I'm usually able to crack on. In this case my running playlist did the trick, but I needn't have used it as we came upon the campsite extremely quickly in the mid afternoon.
Going to the toilet on the trail can be an ordeal for women. I thanked my lucky stars that it seemed my period had decided to shut down as it usually does when I'm at altitude, however I was wary about my stomach after Nepal, as it felt slightly off again. Normally I love food and will try everything I've never heard of but I realised that this wasn't going to be that kind of trip. I'd decided to go vegetarian just to make sure I wasn't going to risk any upset.
Our water closet for the night was perched outside the camp, up a short flight of rocky steps, in which you could feel a breeze from the dark abyss below. My tent buddy, Oli (a yoga teacher among her many other pursuits), appropriately nicknamed it the 'scary toilet.' I did my actual washing in the river, which was ice cold but beautifully refreshing.
We shared our camp with some tourists who were there for snow leopards. In the early hours of the morning we heard excited shouts, and sticking my head out of the tent, I could see people scrambling up a rise behind the camp. However, most of us were still adjusting to the altitude and even a short extra walk up there would be a drain on our energy, so we missed out. We later discovered that they'd seen a snow leopard make a kill and drag it to her cubs, which sounded incredible. It was gratifying to hear afterwards from Lobi that we wouldn't have been able to see anything without binoculars anyway.
Just passing by - day two
We woke up to surprisingly wet conditions - it rarely rains in these parts but it did so on us. Even Lobi and his team of cooks and horsemen were unprepared, and didn't have wet weather gear.
Mornings are always hardest; I can't seem to get going on a full stomach and although I had a lack of appetite, I had made myself eat, purely for fuelling purposes. We hiked over wet, rocky riverbed into the grey morning and I found myself struggling up the valley, trying to gulp down enough oxygen and keep up. I knew I'd be ok but needed to go at a slower pace, and began to have doubts about my decision to trek with a group.
I slogged and slugged along, every step feeling like I was traversing through mud, and inwardly I cursed the fact that I was at the back of the group. However nice or patient anyone is, it's still galling to be the one holding people up. It got so bad at one point I almost cried (almost!). The worst thing is when everyone waits for you.
Slogging up the hill (Credit: Olivia Kpodo)
Lobi clearly had an agenda and it turned out that we were going up and over the first pass, Ganda La (4,900m), a lot sooner than we'd thought. Somewhere in that desolate valley, around 4,300m, it started snowing. But really there's nothing you can do but keep going, so I did. As the snow came down and the gaps between our party grew as others started to struggle as well, I fell into the trap of guessing where the top of the pass was. It never is just around the corner.
At about 4,700m I finally got the second wind I was hoping for. I was able to engage in a game of what I like to call 'rock-bush-rock' with Andy (who only discovered hiking about a year ago), which involved spotting a landmark rock or bush about 10-15m away (there was not much else to choose from as the visibility was poor), gunning for it, resting and then repeating. Amazingly, this got us to the top of the pass.
I was so relieved that I practically ran down the other side. I'm normally slow on descent, and careful about my footing, but I was desperate to get some oxygen into my lungs.
Cheeky marmots made an appearance to watch our progress but to be honest I was so wrapped up in getting down that I barely noticed Lobi chasing one.
We spent an extremely cold and damp night in the campsite, with another toilet which was definitely scarier than the last one (a long drop surrounded by tattered white plastic sheeting, so frightening Oli had to photograph it) but on the plus side, I was so exhausted I slept like the dead.
The Markha Valley - day three
We woke up to beautiful sunshine and realised just what a stunning valley we were encamped in. Thawing out felt wonderful, and as we started out on the trail I realised that I was properly enjoying the trek for the first time. We'd reached the Markha Valley, and were following the river, passing through lovely trees on the riverbank that wound it's way through some dramatic vistas.
We hopped back and forth and back again, over the river - hot work but satisfying. At one point Lobi's team and the horses passed us by, reminding us that for them, it was just another easy day in the office.
Next to our campsite was a homestay, the busiest we'd seen on our trip, with a mixture of domestic tourists and westerners, both homestayers and campers. Welcoming as many tourists as they can is important for the local people, because this income helps see them through the harsh winter months, when there is no footfall at all.
Where normally we'd all crawl into our separate tents when darkness fell, this time most of us briefly gatecrashed the homestay room that Oli and Mick had decided to check into, as they were taking a break from camping. It was warm and had electric lighting, and sitting around chatting together before dinner felt like a luxury. Even after a few days on the trail, being within four walls felt strange but nice.
The stars were out that night in full splendour, an astonishing sight for a big city dweller, and I spent some time drinking them in before returning to the tent.
Hot and bothered - day four
The next day was also relatively easy, but punishingly hot. Even Vasilis (a PhD student studying in Norway who made everything look easy with long-legged lope) had slowed down. The dry ground in the bottom of the valley that we traversed radiated heat as much as the sky and I found myself downing a lot more water. I'd been oblivious to essential things like making sure you replenish your electrolytes, until observing what my fellow trekkers were doing (I tanked up on Dialoryte which seemed to work just as well). There's always more to learn.
We crossed a wider section of river than before, taking off our boots, tying them together by the laces and using our poles to balance as we picked our way over the stones barefoot in the cool, deliciously clear water.
That evening the shadows were long in the valley and we only enjoyed a sliver of sunshine at the campsite in Markha, the highest village on the trek (3,810m), before the light disappeared altogether. Oli and Mick hiked on up to the homestay, which was further up the valley. The rest of us were encamped next to a barleyfield and exchanged pleasantries and curious glances on both sides with the Ladakhi lady who was working in it, a member of the family that owned the homestay and campsite.
By this stage, each of us had some travail of our own to deal with: Andy, who had been suffering since the start from altitude sickness seemed to be coming out of it, Mick who had a bad back was feeling worse, my neck had developed a crick that had spread to my shoulders and I was still paranoid about what was causing my stomach upset. But we were warriors, and our guide Sara's good humour and encouragement kept us buoyant.
Nobody to hear you scree-am - day five
Afterwards I admitted out loud that I sort of enjoyed it. 'Well that's because you're a masochist,' was Mike's response as he glared bitter revenge at the sheer rock face we'd just stumbled down. I said nothing and hid a deranged grin, fully aware that this was true.
Tibetan mani stones engraved with Buddhist mantras, a common sight on the trail in the Himalayas
This was the day that we glimpsed snowy peaks up close for the first time.
Also for the first time in a few days, the sun was overtaken by thick clouds and as we trekked higher, the temperature dropped and spots of rain started up. There was a palpable feeling of exhaustion among us as we silently battled the altitude in our own separate ways.
The trekking day was relatively short and ended at a campsite not far from the rushing river. Knowing full well nothing was going to dry anytime soon, I washed some knickers in a pool anyway, partly for something to do that wasn't in the tent and didn't take up too much energy, and partly because I was overly hopeful that even if not tonight, there might be chance to dry them later on. I was feeling filthy, and unhappy that Oli, who was now back to being in the tent, was having to share the aroma.
My stomach troubles that had been lurking came on in full and I was forced to admit that although I'd escaped a headache and my breathing was actually ok, symptoms of altitude sickness for me seem to present in unwanted bowel movements. This time, however, I had come prepared and had all the drugs I needed.
'I'm just going outside and may be some time' - day six
The next morning dawned grim and wet, with low-slung clouds and an ill atmosphere, which might have been pathetic fallacy.
We made it no more than about 20min into the trek, with Oli, Mike, Vasileos and I halfway up the rise above the campsite, when disaster struck.
Down below, too far for us to hear anything but close enough to see, we watched as first Andy stopped, then Sara walked back to him, put down her pack and gave him a big hug. We knew it was over for him, and as time ticked by, we watched in dejected silence as the tableau below us played out. Lobi went back down, and when our horses came up from the campsite, he stopped one of them and got Andy's stuff out for him. Sara came to update us that Andy was having chest pains and she was going to take him back down to Markha, from where he could get a car back to Leh and go to hospital. But then we got a shock when we realised that Mick had also joined them and was also walking back down. His back had been seriously troubling him, but so had the altitude.
We were six days into the seven-day trek, and so close to finishing it was heartbreaking to watch, and undoubtedly far worse for Andy and Mick. But knowing when to call it a day and stay safe is of course much, much more important. Your body will tell you when it's had enough and when it does, you must listen because altitude sickness, if untreated, can have fatal consequences.
After around an hour, with heavy hearts and leaden legs, the remaining four of us and Lobi plodded on upward into the growing misty moorland in the upper reaches of the valley. Our morale had been dealt a blow and it was hard to see what lay ahead, both literally and figuratively. The sickness can come for anyone, at any time, as I've learned the hard way.
Our severely reduced party finally made it to camp at Nimaling (4,700m) at the bottom of the pass, at around lunchtime. For me, this was the hardest day of the trek so far. It was not so much the cold and altitude, which had become closer and settled around us more intimately and threateningly, but more to do with the depressing fact that we'd lost people who had worked hard and stuck it out for so long.
The air was damp and thick with mist, and the terrain mucky, with the odd clot of snow. Finally, Mike turned back to me and made a tent signal with his hands, and we exchanged delighted glances. However our happiness was short lived - the sight of tents across the high, grassy plateau was a mirage. Around an hour later we staggered into camp, throwing ourselves onto the ground or on camp seats in a brief moment of sunshine.
Pikas popped up with obscene energy out of holes in the ground every so often to observe our fatigued movements about the campsite.
Somehow I managed to blow up my sleeping mat and arrange my stuff in the tent, hurried along by the black looking clouds in the distance that seemed to have followed us from below.
By three o'clock the sun had disappeared and it had started to snow. Oli and I crawled into our sleeping bags to try and keep warm.
Back in the bag, I had on my thermals, pyjamas, down jacket, buff, gloves and two pairs of socks, mummy liner, sleeping bag and other sleeping bag that Lobi provided. And a hat of course. Thankfully, this turned out to be more than adequate, and later in the evening I found I had to divest myself of some of it.
The snow went on and on throughout the night, and being cursed (or blessed?) with an overactive imagination, I began to wonder how we were going to get out of this. Would it be safe to hike over the pass the next morning? Or would it still be snowing heavily? Would we have to wait for it to stop, or just go? If we went would we have to rope up to each other so we didn't get lost? Or would we just have to stay here and wait for a mountain rescue? Was there even a way of calling mountain rescue? Meanwhile what had happened to Mick, Andy and Sara? There was no way Sara could catch up with us on foot, let alone by horse, as we'd initially been told.
Throughout the night, Oli and I banged the walls of the tent every so often to shift the snow and stop it from collapsing in on us. Somehow I did sleep on and off (I maintain that despite the conditions, I still slept better on this trek than I ever do at home) and in the morning we woke up to a thick blanket of snow and bright sunshine.
Up and... over? - day seven
It was beautiful. Unbelievably, birds were out frolicking in the snow and pecking about outside our mess tent.
As we climbed higher and higher, the burning blue sky weighed down on us. Each step and each breath was laborious like it hadn't been before. But somehow, the sun had energised me as well as those sheep, and although each step was a monumental effort I could see what was definitely the top of the pass, and summit fever kicked in. I actually felt good - more than good, thrilled - and completely oblivious as to what was to come, I turned on all my gas cylinders and stomped on upwards.
We continued slogging up the glittering, white pass, with the great peak of Kang Yatze on the Tibetan border, glaring down at us from 6,500m high. You could actually see where, aeons ago, the side of it had blown out leaving a massive crater like a wound from some ancient battle of titans, who have long since been banished to the centre of the earth.
I've always wanted to walk in high mountain snow, and I was so over the moon I felt I could fly. I had a playlist all lined up for this moment, but somehow never got round to plugging it in - there was just no need. The crunch of new snow and my own rhythmic breathing was enough.
With a final push we made it to the top one by one.
Epilogue: 'Please could you pass the peanut butter?'
For a long time, I've been a self-imposed, solitary hiker. My first instinct has always been to hike a particular place or route that's been calling me, whether I have company or not. As most of my friends and family aren't really into hiking, or at least aren't addicted like me, this often meant I hiked alone.
Alone I notice things more. I'm much more observant and thoughtful, and if I'm not listening to music, I absorb the colours and sounds of the woodlands or coast or fields, passing them by in a meditative state. However, when I see something unexpected or exciting, I often want to turn to others and say - 'do you see what I see?' - and share it with them.
It never seriously occurred to me to join a hiking club because I wasn't sure I could call myself a proper hiker, which seems ridiculous now, but I didn't feel like I knew what I was doing half the time.
It took me about 13 years and a pandemic to finally go out and find people to hike with, and it's been well worth the effort. I've learned that, yes, I do still like to hike alone sometimes when I'm in the mood for throwing myself into nature. But I also enjoy being around people who love doing what I do too.
I ended up with a lovely bunch of people in Ladakh. I learned that we each enjoy challenging ourselves in nature for variations on the same reasons: nature's healing and restorative properties, its ability to make us feel alive, the thrill of accomplishment, and the pure joy we find in its beauty (in this case, a most fearsome and awe-inspiring beauty). But most of all, we are fellow adventurers.
And actually, that also means companionship, big and small. Whether someone was waiting for me when I was labouring up a slope with the altitude pressing down on me, or passing me the peanut butter at breakfast, I felt found.
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