Brahmmah - Return to Kishtwar

Nineteen thousand feet on the south east ridge of Brahmmah I is a pretty cool place to be. The view downwards is stupendous: the ridge plunges down in an elegant sweep of snow and ice to the col with Flat Top and when you raise your eyes upwards it is met by the impressive bulk of Brahmmah II flying a plume like a pennant from its summit pyramid. Clouds swirl amidst the crenellated ridges, lurking in the hollows between giant rock buttresses, the sun shines from an achingly blue sky and heaven seems to lie just beyond the next rise.

Brahmmah II ( 6485m ) as seen from the South East ridge of Brahmmah I ( 6416 m )

The problem was that I might reach the other world sooner than I had reckoned if I did not prise my right foot out of the hole in the rocks where it was jammed. Try as I might, my plastic climbing boots seemed to settle in further and deeper the harder I pulled. I was exhausted from the effort and appealed to Harsha who had by now come up to assist with the task. He grabbed one of the big rocks under which my boot disappeared and hauled with all his might, hoping to dislodge it just a wee bit, just enough to wiggle my foot out. The rock did not budge. We attempted it a few more times, without making any difference. Fifteen minutes had passed by. As we rested between heaves, we could see the silhouettes of Ravi and Faruk recede further upwards into the distance as they approached the first of the three rock pinnacles which guarded the upper mountain. It occurred to me that if I did not get my foot out of that hole pronto I might, like the pinnacles, become a permanent fixture on this twenty one thousand foot mountain.

Brahmmah I (6416m) from our Base Camp at the head of the Nanth Nullah

But Brahma, the God of Creation, could not conceivably be the cause of my destruction, so I was granted a divine reprieve: the next combined heave of the boulder managed to rock it slightly, giving me that window of opportunity which I grabbed as I pulled my foot free and lay panting on the snow, beads of sweat on my brow cooling rapidly in the mountain chill.

Close shaves and brushes with death had been a constant feature on this attempt to climb Brahmmah I in Sept 1989:

1. We had watched in shocked disbelief as Faruk had skittered on the ice and then shot off like an arrow down the slope towards the Kibar Nullah thousands of feet below. He had been scouting around for level ground to pitch our camp on when he suddenly encountered hard ice and his foot slipped from under him. As I watched his attempt at self arrest with his ice axe fail, an unpleasant thought raced through my mind - "What do I tell his family?" Before the answer could occur to me he was brought up short by a pile of old snow lying at the very edge of the cliff : he would live to tell the tale!

2. While descending from our col camp to Advance Base I had also taken a potentially fatal tumble. Again, I was spared.

3. On a routine ferry up the mountain I had almost collapsed with a flu like fever and had visions of dying on the slope of talus that I was resting on. While Kamlesh and Harsha had continued up I had lain supine, contemplating the scudding white clouds as my body continued to weaken. After laying there for about three hours, I decided to haul my feeble body back to our Advance Base Camp at the head of the Brahmmah glacier at the foot of the mountain.

The expedition had turned into a series of misadventures since that hot day in August when we drove out of Jammu in a Mahindra jeep on our way to Kishtwar. Harsha, who loves to drive, took the wheels from the driver of the vehicle and we roared off towards Batote on the Jammu - Srinagar highway. As always, leaving the plains behind and ascending into the cool of the hills was a welcome relief. Leaving the crowded streets of Jammu and motoring through the neat and tidy cantonment of Udhampur up towards Patnitop pointed us firmly in the direction of the peak of Brahmmah in the Kishtwar Himalaya.

Kishtwar was a name which evoked fond memories : in May 1976, the Youth Hostels Association of India (YHAI) had introduced me to the delights of Himalayan trekking as the route wound over the Margan and Synthen passes. It was the very first time in my life that I had seen and walked on snow and like all First Times, that trip remains very special. On the rapid return to Delhi that year I had succumbed to heat stroke in the capital city and had to be hospitalised for a couple of days!

Kishtwar kids in May 1976

Now, thirteen years later (there was a sign, right there!), I was heading for Kishtwar again.....this time in the company of Faruk, Harsha and Ravi - climbing friends from Mumbai. I had met Ravi and Harsha for the first time during my near-death disaster on the cliffs of Mumbra ( http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/06/mayhem-at-mumbra.html ). Faruk was a good friend with whom I had spent many happy hours rock climbing and we had attempted Menthosa three years earlier ( http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/08/menthosa-climb.html );  Ravi had been my partner on my very first Himalayan climb ( http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/06/lion-peak-seed-is-sown.html , http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/06/lion-peak-into-den.html , http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/06/lion-peak-lion-tamers-or-tame-lion.html ).

The peaks of the Kishtwar Himalaya are stunningly beautiful, steep, and technically challenging. Though of modest height by Himalayan standards (mostly in the 6000 m - 6500 m range), they offer excellent objectives for the ambitious climber on a low budget. Brahmmah I at 6416 metres may not have been a test piece for the expert alpinist, but it was hard enough for us! It had been first ascended by the legendary Chris Bonnington and Nick Estcourt in an alpine style push in August 1973. They had come up to the south east ridge from the Kibar Nullah whilst we were planning to approach the route from the Nanth Nullah and the Brahmmah glacier.

Sketch map of area. Heights in metres

At Batote, we left the main highway to Srinagar and took the fork going to Kishtwar. The road soon deteriorated to a gravel surface and shortly thereafter we had a flat tire! At Doda, Harsha used his contacts and commandeered a Gypsy to carry us the rest of the distance to Kishtwar where we arrived late in the evening. During my previous visit more than a decade earlier, a hailstorm had greeted me as I alighted from the bus and made my way to the YHAI  campsite. Sometime in the night it had stopped and the skies cleared and the moon rose above the field where the tents had been pitched. When I emerged from the tent the hailstones had completely covered the field and now shone like a million diamonds scattered nonchalantly by some divine whim.

This time we spent the night at the Tourist Rest House where we met up with the lads from Bangalore : Kamlesh, Chiddy, Niranjan and "Doc" Krishna Mohan. Kamlesh was responsible for having put the trip together and the Mumbai quartet were happy to leave all the organisational details in his able hands.

We drove the next day the short distance to Patimahal from where our walk to Base Camp would begin. Ponies were hired from Ghani Chacha ("Uncle") and our little expedition was soon on its way. Our permanent members had been boosted by the addition of Shashi, a young Nepali lad of seventeen or eighteen. I am still not clear as to how we ended up employing him as our camp cook, but he was to prove an asset to the team. If ever I had had delusions about myself being a sort of casual adventurer, Shashi's story soon put things in the correct perspective: he had run away from his home in Siliguri (at the eastern end of the Himalayan foothills) at the age of ten and had led a peripatetic life, working odd jobs like being the tea boy in roadside dhabas, finally ending up working in circuses! He had worked as a trapeze artist in the Raymond and Gemini circuses, two marquees I was familiar with when growing up. His wanderings led him to Kishtwar and when I asked him why he wanted to come along with us, he answered - "I've never been in the high Himalaya, I would just look at them from a distance all my life. This gives me an opportunity to see the snows up close!" End of interview, he was hired! To me, people like Shashi are the true adventurers in our midst, people whose life is lived like a throw of dice, who do not let mundane worries like Where is My Next Meal Coming From, or How Am I Going To Pay My Rent, bother them. They bash on regardless!

The four day approach walk to our Base Camp at the head of the Nanth Nullah was idyllic. We were briefly spared from the monsoon rains so we could appreciate the beauty of this valley. I tried to recall memories of my passage thirteen years earlier but failed. Perhaps it was all for the good: I could appreciate my stunning surroundings with fresh eyes and loved every vista that a turn in the trail presented.

The Nanth Nullah opens up to gorgeous scenery

The Mughal emperor Jahangir is said to have quoted an old Persian couplet when he saw Kashmir : "If there be a Paradise here below, this is it, this is it, this is it!"

Wading our way through meadows sprinkled with wildflowers, waterfalls cascading hundreds of feet and creating ever changing rainbow displays as the sun caught them in its rays, breathtaking glimpses of glittering snowfields perched at impossible angles high on a towering peak, breathing in the heady mountain air with each upward step, we had to admit that the emperor had a case.

The names of the settlements we passed through had poetry resonating in their names : names like Ghunghat and Sattarchin, Hawal and Haunzar, Sueda and Sonder. Kamlesh even found the time to flirt with a pretty shepherdess who was herding her flock of sheep with the help of her little sister. The girl was stunningly beautiful and totally guileless, a true child of nature. She fitted in perfectly with her fairy tale surroundings. She thought we were a pair of crazy idiots carrying our heavy rucksacks and going up to spend a couple of weeks among rocks and snow and ice. We apologised for our misguided outlook on life and  reluctantly took her leave. As she passed us by I noticed that her feet were filthy with mud.....ah well, no one is perfect! We could hear the girls' shrill voices calling out to their charges for a long time.

Village of Sonder

The tinkling of bells announced that our pack animals were catching up with us. We quickened our pace and had to stop again to admire the view ahead : the monolith of the Eiger (6000 m) dominated the skyline as we approached Mirchin, where our Base Camp was to be. On 24 August 1989 we camped on a sandy flat with a miniature lake at one end and the moraine ridge of the Brahmmah glacier on our right. The kitchen was set up under a huge boulder and Shashi got to work, passing out steaming mugs of welcome hot chai. Ghani Chacha collected his fee, rounded up his mules and ponies, and headed back down the valley. We were now alone, at the mercy of Brahma, the God of Creation.

The last lap to Base Camp

Kishtwar Eiger, 6000 m

Menthosa - The Climb

We packed some food and fuel for a camp we hoped to establish above the couloir and set off with great optimism on 28 August. The lower part of the gully was moderate in its angle but reared up steeply the higher we climbed. I shall not risk my integrity by trying to guess the true angle of the ice. In his celebrated instructional book "Climbing Ice", the ace French climber Yvon Chouinard makes the very insightful comment that when the angle of ice begins to exceed about 55 degrees, to the climber who is trying to balance his way up on the front points of his crampons, it appears well nigh vertical! And if you are carrying a bit of a load and there are tottering towers of ice threatening to detach themselves from their moorings and come hurtling down, the precise angle does not really matter as you look at the sweep of icy white that drops away below your heels.

Faruk heads out from the camp on Urgus Pass

Taking a break as the angle steepens

I traverse across to join Faruk at the bottom of the couloir

Our Camp 2 was pitched between two crevasses

But we managed to cope fairly competently with the terrain, considering neither of us had any vast alpine climbing experience. As we neared the ice towers looming above us we began to traverse to the right, then climbed over some features which resembled giant white mushrooms. By afternoon we had topped out over the highest of the mushrooms and suddenly found ourselves in a trough of hard snow cradled between two crevasses and backed by an icy wall festooned with glittering icicles. We decided that this would be an appropriate location to site our next camp, and left our supplies here. We guessed - correctly as it turned out later - that the wall above provided access to the huge snow plateau of the upper mountain upon which was perched the summit.

We had to climb the ice wall behind the camp to gain access to the plateau

We moved up with bag and baggage the next day. It was hard work and in places the leader opted to climb without his sack. Once secure on a better footing, he would haul the sack up via a simple pulley system we fashioned with some carabiners and slings. By the time we reached the proposed campsite, the weather was turning ugly and once again we had to pitch our tent in driving snow. Once inside the little fabric shelter we proceeded to thaw out our numb fingers before putting on a brew. Late in the evening the skies cleared and we could truly appreciate the grandeur of our surroundings.

The location was one of the most spectacular places I have ever camped on. There was a fair amount of space to move around outside the tent even though we were sandwiched between two crevasses. The view from the zippered door of the borrowed tent (Satish Patki had been kind enough to part with his prized possession on condition that if I were to damage it in any way, I was to buy him a new one!) was nothing short of gorgeous : the slope in front of us dropped away into a void and across the vast emptiness rose hundreds of peaks whose names I would not be able to recall. From the few that I could identify with a degree of certainty was Phabrang (6172m / 20250ft) its vertical northwest face and airy north ridge soaring into the sky like a giant comb to the southeast. Above the Khanjar nala to the east two beautiful and icy peaks pierced the heavens. To our right, the shelf of ice and snow was contained by the filigreed wall of the crevasse at our back, and to our left the mountain sloped away, again into an unknown abyss. Reaching this point had been a strenuous challenge and we were extremely happy that we had made it so far without incident. The conditions had been great and the towers of ice ringing the upper parts of the couloir had desisted from obliterating us. In short, it was great to be alive and boiling water for a  dinner of instant noodle on our little gas stove. We had a very limited stock of the butane cylinders; this was 1986, and what climbers and trekkers in the western world took for granted was hoarded like precious metals by the minuscule community of self funded mountain climbers in India. We would sigh with envy every time we heard or read about the generously funded climbing expeditions from the Indian Mountaineering Foundation or the military who could import climbing and camping equipment rather freely - and best of all, the climbers did not have to pay for it! Ordinary mortals like us had to save our hard earned salaries, scout around for used climbing gear in the bazaars of Thamel in Kathmandu or in the hill towns of Darjeeling and Manali and use up vacation time to indulge in a little mountaineering. All climbers are definitely not created equal!

We settled down in our sleeping bags as delicate pastel hues coloured our world of ice, rock and snow. We were lulled to sleep by the smug feeling that perhaps the most difficult part of the climb was over. All we had to do was get up on to the summit plateau and trudge upwards toward the summit. We had forgotten that life tends to teach us lessons in humility at just the right moment.

We were up early with the dawn and Faruk set to work with gusto tackling the ice wall above whilst I belayed him from just outside the tent. The morning was cold and sunny, the sky was blue above Faruk, and the chunks of ice flew into the air as he hacked at the slope with his ice axe and plunged the front points of his crampons into the slope. He put in an ice screw along the way and threaded the climbing rope through the carabiner which he had clipped into the screw. With a little less distance to cover in case he fell, he kept on climbing, a little more confidently now that his security had been enhanced. This was a moment to savour : perfect weather conditions, the two of us climbing in perfect unison and in silence alone on a gigantic pile of rock and ice also known as Menthosa, eager to see what would greet us as we crested the wall.

What greeted us was the wind. It slammed into us as it swept across the wide snow plain and threatened to sweep us off our feet. We tottered away from the edge to try and get into the lee of an undulation in the snow and took stock. The summit block towered on our left hand side in a series of big snow slopes, separated from the top of the plateau by a huge crevasse. The ridge to the right seemed to offer a shorter, but perhaps steeper access to the summit area, so we began to make our way in that direction. However, we were stopped short by the gaping jaws of the crevasse. Crossing that wide gulf, with its attendant risks, did not appeal to us at all, so we retraced our steps and began to move slowly towards the left hand ridge. The snow was soft, we were sinking up to our knees and progress was extremely slow. We realised that this sort of terrain was best tackled in the freeze of predawn. By now the afternoon was well advanced, the altitude was probably around 20,000 feet, making us gasp with each step as we lunged ahead. We stopped for a short pow-wow and were unilateral in our decision to get down to our tent and make an early bid for the summit on the morrow. We were satisfied with the result of the reconnaissance, because that is what this was. We had determined that we would try and climb the mountain via its east ridge (the left hand side). In a little while we were back at the top of the ice wall down which we abseiled back to our little tent.

Determined to make an earlier start, we were out and climbing the ice wall at a quarter to six. The weather looked dubious - the clouds that had rolled in overnight refused to go away. A bitterly cold wind and spindrift stung our faces as we reached the plateau. The rising sun touched the summit with gold but we were too miserable to truly appreciate its magnificence. We hoped that the wind would pack in the snow, but it was not to be so. The snow was as soft and deep and as powdery as the day before and for hours we toiled up this, across a few well disguised crevasses and over endless humps and detours. Ragged clouds whipped across the east ridge whither we were bound. After about five hours we finally gained the ridge, through knee deep, then waist deep snow. The summit appeared to be near, but we knew that under the present conditions we would probably take another four to five hours to get there. We also had to factor in the rising altitude which had already slowed us down and would continue to do so the higher we climbed.

The altitude dictates a pause...

The East Ridge appears close

The bergschrund at the bottom of the West Ridge as seen from the East Ridge

We stopped for a rest and considered the alternatives : if we pressed on we would be absolutely fatigued by the time we reached the summit, always assuming that there were no hidden obstacles to overcome higher up. It would be close to sunset and we would not have sufficient time nor energy to make it safely back to camp before darkness enveloped the mountain. It was a no-brainer as far as we were concerned. Yes, summits are important to climbing; but returning to the everyday world below in one piece is a far more attractive proposition. We decided to turn around.

We were exhausted by the time we reached the tent and lay around in a torpor for some time. When I could think straight again, I knew that the only way we could climb to the summit safely would be to establish another camp high on the plateau above from where we could make a quick dash to the top and retreat again. This option was not very attractive, since it meant hauling our heavy backpacks again up a very steep wall and on to the plateau, and then floundering in deep snow till we found a place to camp. Faruk had been coughing up blood for the last ten days or so and it didn't seem a healthy sign. When I quizzed him about this, he said he had a problem with his stomach, he told me not to worry, he could handle it. His bowels too seemed to have a life of their own and I knew that we should not be lingering at this altitude for longer than was absolutely necessary.

The wind died down a little after sunset and I opened the zip of the tent. The panorama in front of my eyes was magnificent. I stepped out to admire the view and take pictures. As I edged close to the crevasse which we must cross to go down, I noticed that a rather alarming crack had appeared on the snow bridge. That, for me, clinched the issue. I rushed back to the tent to deliver the glad tidings to Faruk. If that bridge collapsed, we would be trapped on our little camping spot, unable to go down the mountain. We packed up that night, waiting for the dawn to vacate what had now become a rather uneasy perch.

This snow bridge over the deep crevasse had developed an alarming crack.

The mountains always seem to mock you as one prepares to vacate their sacred turf. The morning dawned  brilliantly sunny, implying that we should get the hell out of there while the going was good. We were in no mood to argue: we were out of fuel, we had only a couple of snacks left, and we were exhausted after our little attempt to reach the summit.

Ready....Set....

Go!

To speed things up we rappelled down some sections and were relieved when we reached the bottom of the couloir. We could now saunter down to the Urgus pass. When we arrived at the pass, there were a whole lot of people milling around : a large team from Assam had arrived at Base Camp in our absence and were in the process of stocking up the camp on the col. We were surprised at the considerable number of High Altitude Porters they were employing, but refrained from comment. We looked around for a familiar face and sure enough there was good old Bir Singh flashing us his ingenuous smile. He and Franklyn had returned from the village the previous night and Bir Singh's instinct had told him that Faruk and I would probably be descending the mountain by now...and he had come up to help. We gladly parted with some of our loads for him to carry. Lightened in body and high in spirit, we raced down to Base Camp. One of the great things of climbing in the Himalaya is that your body is pared down to the essentials by the exertion at altitude and the aerobic workout boosts your lung power. The increase in red blood cells in the veins delivers a rich cocktail of oxygen and air when you go down to lower levels and this leads to a wonderful heady feeling of being truly alive.

A whole lot of tents had sprung up around our little kitchen shelter and we no longer enjoyed the luxury of exclusivity. Voices wafted around the camp, and snatches of conversation, loud laughter, the crunching of boots on gravel and grass. It was time to go down to Gompha.

Bir Singh carries his wife Saraswati across a torrent

Lion Peak - Retreat plus R & R

After the heady euphoria of climbing my first peak, I was eager to get back down the glacier for the simple reason that we did not have much food left! But when we woke up the next morning our little summit camp was plastered in freshly fallen snow, we were enveloped in cloud and could not see very much. Prudence dictated that we wait for the weather to clear before descending the crevasse ridden glacier. In the event, we had to wait the whole day. We brewed tea and nibbled the few almonds and other dried nuts we had left, and lay around in our sleeping bags chatting. Being stormbound in a small tent with your fellow climber offers plenty of time for conversation, especially if neither of you have your ears plugged with the ubiquitous pieces of audio devices so prevalent these days. Back in 1985, neither of us had the luxury of owning even the humble Sony Walkman, so we were oliged to converse.


Occasionally, I would poke my head out of the tent to see if the snow had stopped falling, then fall back into my siesta. We spoke of various things, none of which I can remember now....but the day passed pleasantly enough, except for the hollowness in our stomachs, which of course increased the tendency for producing flatulence: this in turn called for more incense sticks to be lit by Ravi and we inhaled a potent mixture of clean mountain air flavoured with body emissions and "aggarbatti"(joss stick) fragrance!

We spent a lot of time watching the clouds roll up the glacier

The next day, 31 August dawned not so bright but fair enough to move. We also had no choice as we had run out of food! Moving as quickly as we could with our heavy packs, we were soon at the Camp 2 site. We paused briefly here and then kept going downhill till we arrived at the Hawa Mahal camp in the afternoon. We had managed to leap across most of the crevasses unharmed, though I did slip on the ice once and took a small tumble and hurt my knuckles. You can see why I've named my blog The Accidental Climber...I seem to attract mishaps all the time! Thankfully, they are mostly minor in nature and rather embarrassing to report. As for the more serious incidents, so far I have survived to tell the tale!



Ravi strikes a farewell pose below Lion



I am ready to go down



Ravi takes the plunge!



Bir Singh and Rinzing now came up to help us and by the end of the next day we were camped at the snout of the Bara Shigri where it flows into the Chandra river. Bir Singh was a young lad of 16 from the village of Urgus in the Miyar Nala and was portering to earn some money in his school holidays. Rinzing worked out of Manali through a trekking agency. We had met them earlier with the Bengali expedition and they had agreed to help us when we were done with our climb. Both were extremely fine gentlemen and very very strong. They were also very bold, unlike the two porters we had brought out of Manali and who had rather inconveniently abandoned us in the middle of the Karcha Nala.

Thanks to Rinzing and Bir Singh, my journal for 2nd Sept reads : "This morning we left the Bara Shigri glacier snout at 6:30 am and walked quickly to the Karcha Nala which we reached at 9 am. Crossing it was a piece of cake. I brushed my teeth and had a head wash on the other side."

16 year old Bir Singh

Rinzing Lama

Ravi Kamath

Bir Singh fording the Karcha Nala

Rinzing helps Ravi across.
Dharamsura and Papsura glitter in diamantine splendour in the distance.

We walked leisurely to the tea shop at Batal which also doubled as the bus stop. Here we bumped into Ravi's old friend Tashi who was  chaperoning a group of French trekkers to Chandratal, the lake that is considered the source of the Chandra river. And so an idea was born : why don't we make a quick dash to the lake ourselves since we were running ahead of schedule in our plans? The French group left the tea shop at 10:30 am, Rinzing boarded the bus to Manali at 11:15 am with most of our luggage and the three of us settled down to lunch before boarding the bus going to Kaza at 1:50 pm. The 11 km to the Kunzum La (the pass that divides Lahul from Spiti) was covered by the bus in an hour as it grunted its way slowly up the gravel road with its short and steep switchbacks. We got off the bus at this 15,060 ft (4590m) pass, posed for a few photos and visited the little shrine, then marched for 3 hours, mostly downhill, to reach the tranquill waters of Chandratal at 6 pm.

Shrine at the Kunzum La with the peaks of the CB (Chandra Bhaga) group behind

The dry and arid landscape of Spiti from the Kunzum La

One of the CB peaks from the pass

Bir Singh with Spiti background

Unfortunately, it was cold and windy as we put up our tents on the shores of the lake, though this did not deter a couple of ducks from flying around the far shore. Bir Singh woke us up at the crack of dawn (5 am) with a welcome cup of tea and we were packed and ready to go by 6. An hour later we came across the camp of Tashi's group - they had trekked up from Batal with their mules. They offered us tea which we gladly accepted. They were an obviously well run outfit - one of them was enjoying the luxury of shaving with hot water! We thanked them for their hospitality and sped on our way, munching on puris and peas bought from Batal the day before. We soon intercepted the road descending from Kunzum La and continued at a crackling pace. We were just in time to hop onto the Kaza - Kulu bus at Batal; A nice lunch followed when the bus stopped at the Chatroo tea shop and we were in Manali by 5 pm.

The rapid transition from the serenity of Chandratal to the bustle of Manali was a little distressing, though  adequately compensated by a princely repast of mutton curry and rotis at Lakshmi Dhaba!

For Ravi this was the end of his mountain holiday. Before catching the bus back to Delhi he took me to visit his old friend Nalini. Nalini lived in the very first (at least in those days) cottage on the right hand side of the road as you drove in from Kulu. The cottage was called SNUG and was a charming structure, very traditional and very old world. Nalini herself was full of  old world charm and it was a delight to meet her. She was originally from Mumbai (then of course still Bombay), and had been the principal of a school there. She was one of the earliest women to complete a mountaineering course at the Western Himalayan Mountaineering Institute in Manali. She had so fallen in love with Manali then (the early 1960s) that she decided to sell off her property in Bombay and settle down here with her two other friends Shashi and Gautam. Hence the name of the cottage SNUG : the U linked their initials together! Gautam was no more, but the name did not change.



Ravi with Nalini in her orchard



Nalini treated us to tea and biscuits and a stroll in the little apple orchard at the back of the house. She was a great storyteller and filled us in with the goings on in the little town and of course some of the gossip. It was a wonderful afternoon interlude, but we could not linger: Ravi had his bus to catch whilst I had to prepare for the next phase of my adventure : a trek across the Sara Umga Pass, where I would ascend from the Tos valley and descend into the Chota Shigri glacier. Bir Singh had agreed to accompany me on this walk and I looked forward eagerly to the delights of an unhurried stroll through gorgeous alpine scenery and to cross the challenging 16,000 ft pass...

The Hadimba Devi shrine in Old Manali