The Mother of All Drives - Part 8. Chango - Chitkul - Narkanda - Delhi.

 The village of Leo is a patch of green as seen from Highway 22

10 July 2001. Chango - Poari - Sangla - Chitkul - Kinner Camp.

With a lump in my throat and my eyes on National Highway 22 I drove out of Chango at 7:50 am. I was bidding farewell for the fourth time to this little village and I knew in my heart that I might never return to this oasis in Kinnaur above the Spiti river. Fortunately the stretch called the Maling  Slide was in negotiable condition. In 1998 Ravi and I had been stranded in Chango because the slide had taken out the road and we had to return home the long way via Kaza, the Kunzum La, the Rohtang Pass and Manali. Chokdup accompanied us up to Yangthang where we stopped for breakfast and then it was hugs and heartfelt goodbyes.

Sketch map drawn by the late Arun Samant for the Chango 98 expedition
( See http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/02/the-chango-chronicles-1998-third-time.html )

A vehicle negotiating the Maling Slide in July 1998

At the top of the Kah Loops

The road at Khab

Descending the Kah loops we rapidly lost altitude and were soon at Khab, the junction of the Spiti river with the mighty Sutlej which swallowed the contents of the former in a seething, frothing tussle of rapids. It was a different union now than the one I had witnessed at the end of September 1993. At that time, the Spiti had already been transformed into a pellucid ribbon of aquamarine blue as the summer melt was over and the crystal clear water raced over the rocky river bed in a mobile work of art. Even after its meeting with the muddy brown water of the Sutlej, it had continued to flow as a distinct entity for a couple of kilometres before finally being forced to give up its celestial hue. Now, at the height of summer, both the rivers were swollen with snow melt and both were carrying enormous amounts of gravel and mud and stones as they plunged down their respective gorges.

Reo Purgyil (6816m), the highest peak in Himachal Pradesh, is visible up the Sutlej gorge from Khab

The terrain began to change as we lost height and travelled along the deep and narrow gorge of the Sutlej. The sense of infinite skies and endless possibilities of the high country of Spiti  begins to give way to a different sort of ruggedness: the cliffs and ridges enclose one into a tighter space, with occasional glimpses of snow capped mountains seen through the gaps as the road twists and turns to find a safe contour on the slopes; these slopes now begin to accommodate sparse forests of evergreens as the climate changes to a semi arid category.

On the road below Rekong Peo

Distance and altitude chart at Poari

The road along the Sutlej from Akpa onwards had been washed away in the floods of 1998/99. This meant that we had to go halfway to Rekong Peo and then descend again to rejoin the highway at Poari. Poari had a fuel pump so we took advantage of it. The atrocious conditions encountered in the next 8 km stretch to Karcham was a test for the sturdiness of the Gypsy as well as my nerves. We were glad to leave this section behind and ascend the 1000 metres to the entrance of the much touted Baspa valley. A lunch stop at Sangla was followed by a smooth dirt track all the way to Chitkul, the head of this beautiful part of Kinnaur. A number of interesting treks can be made from here, crossing some great mountain divides like the Charanghati to Lalanti and the Lamkhaga to Garhwal.

Chitkul

Franco at the end of the road in Chitkul

We parked the Gypsy and walked around the village. It was very quiet. There were a few men busy sawing logs of wood to build a house and two little girls fetching water from the village tap giggled when they saw us.

The Accidental Driver poses with the Accidental Photographer!

It would be dark very soon and we were keen to spend the night at a tented campsite we had passed on the way up. "Kinner Camp" was the name of this refuge located about 7 km from Sangla. For Rs. 300/- per tent (with two beds) per night, it was a steal. Situated in a field bordering the road, Kinner Camp consisted of permanent tents with low stone walls for sides, held up by centre poles made up of from the trunks of birch trees, two meshed windows on each side and a zippered door. There were stone walkways between the collection of tents which were named after birds (Minivet, Sunbird etc).

Kinner Camp

This tented resort was apparently quite new and that night and the next we were the only guests, barring Ameya Gokarn, a professional photographer who had spent a year in Rishikesh photographing birds and wildlife. While at Rishikesh he met Pradip Negi, the owner of Kinner Camp and was now spending a month in this beautiful place.

Our finances and our time constraints restricted us to spending only one day relaxing in these sylvan surroundings, feasting our eyes on the green after weeks of drifting through the stark yet stunning scenery of Ladakh, Lahul and Spiti. While the chirping of birds and the distant roar of the Baspa river catered to our aesthetic sensibilities, a delicious and generous helping of fresh mutton curry took care of more basic needs. We followed this up with an afternoon siesta from which we rose and went for a short ramble across a boulder field and sat down to soak in the views up and down the valley.

That night, as we chatted with Ameya over dinner, I could feel a sadness creep up on me. My two months in the mountains was now coming to an end. We would be heading back to Delhi via Rampur, Narkanda and Shimla the next day and life would return to the usual mundane and depressing pursuits of the plains, accompanied by the cacophony of the multitudes.

What I had not reckoned with, however, was the fact that The Mother of All Drives was about to throw a monkey wrench into the works that would add a memorable sting to the tail end of the trip!

12 July 2001. Kinner Camp - Sangla - Karcham - Rampur - Narkanda.

A flat front tire on the right hand side greeted us in the morning as we prepared to load up the Gypsy. Since we had a spare it was only a short time before we had replaced it and were ready to leave Kinner Camp. All the staff waved goodbye as we took to the gravel road again, heading for Karcham to rejoin the highway.

The traffic increased as we passed through the areas affected by the Jhakri Hydel Project, trucks moving men and machinery relentlessly to help the engineers bore tunnels to create enormous chutes through which the waters of the Sutlej could be diverted and their hydraulic energy could be converted into electricity by massive turbines. I had witnessed the progress of this long term infrastructure dream from 1993 onwards, each time that I had passed this way on my way to Chango. The project certainly had left scars in its wake, as roads were blasted up side valleys and slopes lost their forest cover, landslides followed inevitably, and a rapid and haphazard urbanisation of the area was set in motion. Since the project involved the participation of global corporations with enormous economic clout, backed by the government's blessings, a whole township had sprouted up on one side of the road to house the technicians and consultants; satellite dishes looked to the heavens to connect them with the other side of the world. Meanwhile, thousands of feet above, on the ridges guarding the gorge of the river, shepherds still tended their flocks in the manner of their ancestors and still headed north to the lush pastures beneath the snows across high passes. It is true that the ancient and the modern can co-exist quite comfortably in India.

We passed Rampur and halted for lunch a couple of kilometres later, looking forward to the cooler climes of Narkanda at 9000 feet. Rampur is at an altitude of only 4000 feet and it can get quite warm here in the summer months.

The road began to climb again and as I changed gears to tackle the incline the engine died. I turned the ignition on again and it fired robustly but sputtered away each time I engaged the gears. We looked under the hood. Everything seemed all right. I poked around a few wires, checked the connections, peered at the various parts of the distributor, the carburettor and the alternator without really hoping to be able to diagnose the problem as I am not a mechanic.

Getting ready to be towed with a steel cable attached to the truck.

We flagged down a truck carrying stones and requested a tow to the nearest repair shop. This meant going back towards Rampur! The auto service facility was typical of the sort you can find along India's highways and even some lesser roads - a sort of makeshift structure where mechanics with no formal training, education or certification but with loads of hands on learning and experience can fix almost anything on wheels.

We were informed that the clutch plates were worn out and that they needed to be replaced. The owner of the shop took out a cardboard box with "Maruti Genuine Parts" printed boldly on it with the accompanying logo of the automaker.  Four hours later the job had been accomplished, after the whole gearbox had been dismantled and the innards exposed. Our stomachs were full of the endless cups of chai that we drank in a nearby teashop as we waited for the mechanics to do their work. Now, with our wallets considerably lighter, we took to the road again.

We were climbing up the gradients that eventually would lead us to Narkanda when the clutch problem resurfaced. It was an exact replay of what had transpired earlier and our frustration reached new heights. With a combination of push starts and a judicious use of the gear shift we managed to roll into the Tourist Lodge at Narkanda run by the Himachal Pradesh Tourism Department in the dark at 10 pm. We had to pound on the doors to wake up the caretaker who then kindly let us in.

In spite of the knowledge that we still had a mechanical problem on our hands, we fell asleep easily. Narkanda, with its altitude and its forests of evergreens stretching upwards, was a welcome relief from the near tropical heat of Rampur.

13 July 2001. Narkanda - Shimla - Ambala.

After breakfast we coasted down the road from Narkanda and as soon as the road levelled off and gravity would not provide us with any more momentum, we sought the assistance of another passing truck to tow us to the nearest roadside auto service facility. We explained the problem to the man in charge here and informed him that we had just had the clutch plates replaced the day before near Rampur. He listened patiently to our story, then went into his store and brought out two identical cardboard boxes with brand new clutch plates inside and both boxes bearing the Maruti Genuine Parts logo.

"Which box did that mechanic sell you?" he asked. "The blue box or the red box?" We looked again and realised that the logo was printed in blue ink on one box and in red ink on the other. We pointed to the red box.

"That is a spurious product," he stated emphatically. "The blue box is the one which has the original part."

"So why do you stock the spurious part?" I wanted to know.

"Because some customers don't mind paying less for the fake part and it does work for a little while."

"Well, in our case it worked for barely a couple of hours!"

Since we had no choice but to experiment with the blue box, we told him to go ahead and have the new set of clutch plates installed.

Money changed hands again a few hours later and we began the slow descent to Shimla with plenty of apprehension, hoping that there did not exist a third green box on the planet with Maruti Genuine Parts emblazoned on it! The Gypsy seemed to be behaving normally and we were soon past Shimla and heading down the excellent highway towards the plains.

The shop where we had the genuine clutch plates installed (between Narkanda and Shimla)

We had lost time again due to the clutch replacement. By the time we had come off the hills it was dark and I realised that we would not be able to make it to Delhi before 2 am, a rather inconvenient hour to wake up my brother Raj and his wife Sushma who had work to go to in the morning. I stopped at a telephone booth and called him up, asking for suggestions as to where to eat dinner and spend the night. He recommended Ambala.

We stopped at a dhaba on the highway a few kilometres away from Ambala and ordered dinner. The time was well past midnight by the time we were done. We enquired of the dhaba owner if there were any cheap hotels where we could bed down for the night.

"Why do you want to go to a hotel?" he said. "There is a gurdwara just down the road. Just ask if you can spend the night there, I am sure they will not mind."

We found the gurdwara quite easily. There was a big open concourse with a marble floor which felt cool to the touch. We found one person and asked for his permission to sleep for a couple of hours on the floor. He said that it would be absolutely no problem, we could park the Gypsy in the little compound adjacent to the temple. We took out our sleeping bags, I took my camera gear and wallet and  made myself comfortable on the cool stone.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, there was a clap of thunder, flashes of lightning lit up the dark skies and big drops of rain began to fall. The rain soon settled into a steady and soothing rhythm, the perfect lullaby to fall asleep to.

Sometime later, a human voice reciting the sacred chants from the Granth Saheb to the accompaniment of a harmonium, was added to the sound track - thus we dozed till 4 am when we decided that now was an optimum time to leave the temple and complete The Mother of All Drives.

14 July 2001. Ambala - Delhi

We drove bleary eyed all the way to Delhi and reached my brother's house around 8 am, in time for breakfast. While unloading our baggage, Ravi realised that the expensive camera (borrowed from his friend for the trip!) that he had inadvertently left in the Gypsy during the night and some money in his wallet were missing. Someone had expertly stolen the camera and the money in the course of the night in a manner that had left no signs of burglary.

Thus ended a dream of a drive. We had managed to squeeze in some breathtaking scenery and encountered some wonderful people on a route just under 3000 km and as a bonus even climbed a peak of 20,000 ft during the trip. I doubt if any future road trip of mine will ever match the excitement of this one.

In spite of the unfortunate incident in Ambala there was a happy ending to this tale : even after detaching the air conditioning unit from the Gypsy, Raj was still able to sell the vehicle for a little less than what I had paid for it two months earlier. He kept the aircon unit and installed it in his Maruti 800 and it did cool the small interior for a couple of years!

Concluded.

The Mother of All Drives - Part 7. Kaza - Tabo - Chango.

The road through the Tabo valley as seen from the caves (left) used by monks in the past for meditation.

One of the supreme male delights at the end of a climbing or trekking expedition is the ritual of heading out to the barber shop in a small hill town in the Himalaya and treating oneself to the Deluxe Package. You can close your eyes and luxuriate in the sensuous feel of shaving foam being applied vigorously to your face and chin with a brush that spreads the lather in a comforting mask, burying your sun burnt skin in a white layer. Then, as the barber's razor gently carves a swathe of clear skin like a mini bulldozer pushing a mix of bristles and foam, the exposed area is caressed by a wafting, cooling, menthol-scented micro zephyr. Meanwhile, old Hindi film songs play on a transistor radio suspended on a nail, jostling for space with a plethora of garish posters displaying movie idols and divine images from all the major religions of India and some off beat cults. Thus the serene Buddha is juxtaposed with Kali with her garland of decapitated heads, Jesus Christ and Guru Nanak co-exist harmoniously with a bare chested Salman Khan and an air brushed, impossibly perfect portrait of Karishma Kapoor sporting tinted contact lenses.

Kaza Gompha. We were privileged to spend the night at this complex.

The barber then applies a block of alum, massaging the cheeks, chin, and forehead with this soothing balm. A head massage follows, executed with an energetic thumping of the skull with the palms of his hands intertwined. He then grasps your hair and pulls upwards, the force just short of what could easily turn into a good old fashioned scalping! Just as you are recovering from these pleasure-bordering-on-pain sensations, he grasps your head by your chin and the back of your skull and torques it quickly to the left and the right. You feel that your neck will break, but of course it doesn't. Refreshed and a little limp from his ministrations, you gladly pay the fee and walk out into the gorgeous sunshine outside and take a deep breath of mountain air!

8 July 2001. Kaza - Tabo - Chango.

Somehow we had missed out on this ritual in Leh after the Kang Yaze jaunt (see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/10/kang-yaze-trekking-peak.html ). After a great night's sleep at our lodgings in the Kaza Gompha, we proceeded to the bazaar for breakfast and to seek out a barber shop. Franklyn and Franco opted out of this self indulgence, so Ravi and I took our place on the chairs.

We emerged a half hour later, hair trimmed, clean shaven and ears tingling with a delicious electric charge. You could say that there was a spring in our step as we walked back to the Gypsy whose new front suspension matched ours, leaf spring for leaf spring! We drove to the Indian Oil fuel pump to tank up on our fuel supply, keeping in mind that the next opportunity would be at Poari, a long, long way away. A sign proudly proclaimed it to be the world's highest retail outlet. Kaza is about 500 feet higher in altitude than Leh, hence the honour...

The Kaza fuel station.

The road in this part of Spiti was a sheer delight, often fringed with stands of poplar and willow, stone walls separating the road from meticulously cultivated oases of green, crossing shallow and sometimes not-so-shallow effluent streams which gurgled forth from gullies and fissures in the cliffs above, a result of the summer melt of the glaciers hidden from view. The clarity of the air matched that of Ladakh, as did the ruggedly arid landscape.

Tabo valley

The thousand year old monastery at Tabo seemed like an appropriate place to halt for lunch. Like all places of spiritual significance, Tabo too emphasised the fleeting nature of human existence and our efforts to create a road map of meaning.

A convenient little cafe redirected our attention to the here and the now and a tasty meal of fried noodles and fresh vegetables helped us to focus on living in the moment.

The village of Hurling

Driving leisurely through the villages of Hurling and Shelkar, we arrived at Chango, five hours after leaving Kaza. The village of Chango, perched on the left bank of the Spiti river and cradled between the life giving arms of the Kuru Tokpo stream and the Chango nala, has morphed in my mind as a kind of Shangri La after my previous three visits here and I was looking forward to meeting up with Chokdup Negi, the young man who had helped us arrange mules and donkeys to carry the expedition baggage up to the stony wastes of the Chango glacier for our adventures and misadventures.

The Rest House (belonging to the Irrigation Department) was locked. Knowing where Gimmet the caretaker lived we walked up to his new concrete house next door and located him via his wife. We then drove up to Chokdup's house. He had received my letter more than two months ago and had even tried to phone my house in Mumbai from a new long distance telephone booth installed in a little tea shop, little knowing that I had left for my extended Farewell to the Himalaya tour on 5 May!

It was a happy reunion - both Ravi and Franklyn knew Chokdup from our previous trips here. We crossed the Chango nala to the other side where his father lived and while sipping tea a thunderstorm passed overhead, spattering the dry earth with big drops of rain. When the storm had passed a rainbow appeared and we all rushed outdoors to admire the suspended spectrum of light. A small everyday miracle like this is all that is required to remind us of the beauty and transience of our lives.

Dinner was a generous event at Chokdup's house later in the evening. His sister, a "chomo"(Buddhist nun) and Ramgopal, the young lad who had climbed his first Himalayan peak with us in 1998, joined us for this memorable meal. Karma, Chokdup's little daughter who was a year and a half old, kept us entertained with her happy smile. I was amazed at how independent she was, even to the extent of eating her dinner all by herself with panache, a feat which I had never seen a city bred toddler ever accomplish!

Karma smiles happily as her mother shells fresh peas and Chokdup slices radishes in preparation for dinner. 

At Chokdup's insistence we slept in his house that night, looking forward to seeing the famous lake at Nako and the Sookha Lama at Gue the next day.

9 July 2001. Chango - Nako - Gue - Chango

I had read glowing historical accounts of the trout filled lake in the village of Nako, nestling high above the Chango - Yangthang road. We arrived trailing a cloud of dust behind the Gypsy and Chokdup and his daughter greeted a host of people as we walked towards the lake. Chokdup's wife was a native of Nako, so inevitably there were many cordialities exchanged en route to the water. Regrettably, the lake paled in comparison to Chandra Tal which we had visited just two days ago.
(See http://accidentaldriver.blogspot.ca/2015/02/the-mother-of-all-drives-part-6-chattru.html)

Nako

Seeking more excitement than a placid body of water, we boarded the Gypsy and drove to the village of Gue, home to one of Chokdup's aunts and also home to the shrine of the Sookha Lama. A sudden rain squall loosened the slope of loose mud and scree along the final stretch of the road to Gue. Chunks of mud and flying pieces of slate slithered down the slopes, some hitting the roof of the Gypsy and others bouncing off the windscreen. We just about managed to avoid further damage by waiting under a rocky overhang till the thunderstorm had passed.

Gue

The shrine of the Sookha Lama was locked. The keys were kept with the small detachment of ITBP (Indo-Tibetan Border Police) soldiers posted in the village and one of them escorted us up the small hillock to the shrine and unlocked it for our benefit. We had to crouch to enter the low slung room and could barely see a thing until a devotee who was just behind us lit the butter oil lamps in front of the skeletal remains of a monk - this was the Sookha Lama. The story goes that a long time ago there lived a very holy man in this village and like all mortals holy and otherwise, had completed his time on earth and passed away and was buried. Many years later there was a massive earthquake (probably the one in 1975 which had its epicenter in this part of Kinnaur - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1975_Kinnaur_earthquake for more details) which caused the earth to rupture and a peasant found the lama's remains sitting in a meditative pose in his field. It was taken to be a manifestation of the divine.  "Sookha" in Hindi means dry and it was a convenient way to name the phenomenon in a land where the chilly dryness of the air can preserve things for a long, long time, perhaps even for eternity.

As the dim light flickered in that shrine, I asked the accompanying soldier if I could take a photograph. The sacred scene bordered on the macabre as my camera flashgun illuminated the interior, clearly showing the strands of hair on the skull, the strands that the woman worshipper had touched as she sought the blessing of the lama.

Shrine of the Sookha Lama

For our part, Chokdup dragged us to the home of his aunt where we were served tea and refreshments. The generosity and hospitality that one encounters in people's hearts and homes all over the Himalaya is something that the rest of the world can emulate and be the better off for it.

One more visit to the Gue Gompha and we were ready to go back to Chango. The Gypsy got bogged down in a particularly muddy section of the road but the 4WD managed to extricate the vehicle out of the morass.

Our time with our friends in Chango was drawing to a close. Ramgopal invited us over to his house for a round of strong locally brewed spirit. Franklyn and Franco sportingly knocked down a couple of pegs. I took one sip out of politeness, then excused myself, pointing out that I did not wish to suffer from a hangover during the next day's planned drive to Chitkul in the Sangla valley.

to be continued....

To understand why Chango means so much to me you have to read the following:

1. http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/01/the-chango-chronicles-1993-first.html

2. http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/01/the-chango-chronicles-1995-grip-on.html

3. http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/02/the-chango-chronicles-1998-third-time.html

Karma

Chokdup's aunt weaving a rug at her loom in Gue.

The Mother of All Drives - Part 6. Chattru - Chandratal - Kunzum La - Kaza.

The exquisite Chandratal

07 July 2001. Chhatru - Batal - Chandratal - Kunzum La - Kaza

It was uncannily quiet as we prepared to depart Chhatru in the faint cold light of pre-dawn. We soon realised that the Israelis had succeeded in inducing their driver to take them to Manali in the middle of the night while we slept.

Waterfall at Chhatru

At 4:20 am we hit the road once again, excited to be on the move and looking forward to the drive to Chandratal. Sixteen years earlier, I had trekked to Chandratal from the Kunzum La as the road to this high altitude lake did not exist then.
(See http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/07/lion-peak-retreat.html )

It took us a little over two hours to cover the 30 km to Batal. The gravel road deteriorated as it wound in and out between boulders, crossed flowing stream beds and at times almost disappeared in the jagged landscape. The Chandra river to our right soon became a broad swathe of braided streams. The terminal moraines of the Chota Shigri and the Bara Shigri glaciers hove into view at a distance on the far bank and as the sun rose the summit snows of Dharamsura and Papsura reflected it back to the world below in a blinding silver light.

The terminal moraine of the Chota Shigri glacier looms on the other side of the valley

The terminal moraine of the Bara Shigri glacier across the Chandra river

The tea shop at Batal was a welcome break for an omelet and bread breakfast. The road now wound its way up to the Kunzum La in a series of switchbacks. At one of these, we left the main road and took an offshoot headed in the direction of Chandratal.

The fast flowing Chandra river at Batal. The sharp pointed peak in the background is Dharamsura.

The stretch of approximately 15 km to the lake was terrifying in parts as the Gypsy wobbled slowly in 4WD mode, tilting dangerously to the left where the extremely narrow road dropped sheer to the Chandra river flowing hundreds of feet below. A bad manoeuvre here would have been disastrous for men and machine alike. My fingers clutching the steering wheel visibly relaxed as we cleared the perilous passage and the road debouched on to a broad valley.

We stopped at the designated parking spot, about one kilometre before the lake, as the Himachal Tourism sign urged us to do. In fact the sign went on to state that driving up to the shores of the lake was prohibited and that trespassers would be prosecuted. It further explained that visitors should be consciously aware of the fragile ecology and be mindful not to cause further damage.

We walked the remainder of the distance to the lake and were surprised to see two Sumos, one Safari and one motorbike parked close to the shore. The persons in these vehicles obviously had no fear of being prosecuted.

There were two tents pitched in the area, another big mess tent and, close to the water, a small dhaba under a blue HDPE sheet. The dhaba was manned by a shepherd who had decided to capitalise on the revenue that tourists and day trippers now brought to Chandratal, thanks to the construction of the road. Though Chandratal had lost some of its magic since my last visit, it was still gorgeously beautiful. While the building of much needed infrastructure in the Himalaya cannot be denied, providing easy access to hitherto remote places of pristine beauty and wilderness is a debatable point - the increase in the number of human visitors throws up some serious conservation challenges. For the record, I do feel like a hypocrite stating that, having myself taken advantage of such conveniences to reach places which, without access roads, might have taken weeks or even months of effort on foot!

For the moment, we took advantage of the cuisine that the dhaba offered: tea, biscuits, and Maggi noodles! We could not help but remember the young American fan of Maggi we had met the morning before at Karzok as we shovelled the noodles down our throats.
(See http://accidentaldriver.blogspot.ca/2015/02/the-mother-of-all-drives-part-5-tso.html)

With our bellies full, we walked back to the Gypsy and began the drive back. We were barely a kilometre on the road when we noticed three sturdy men walking on the road in our direction. As they stepped aside to let us pass I noticed that one of them looked rather familiar. I stopped the Gypsy, stepped out of the vehicle, and greeted Narinder Chauhan with a hearty hello and a hug. We had climbed together just two years earlier in the Kumaon during the Burphu Dhura expedition.
(See http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/07/burphu-dhura-part-2-fin-too-far.html)

Narinder Chauhan in the centre. Franklyn on extreme left. Franco (right) and I 

I had also met with his wife and son at their home in Bhagsu at the end of a trek in the Dhauladhar.
(See http://accidentaltrekker.blogspot.ca/2013/06/across-jalsu.html).
It was truly an incredible coincidence that I had three encounters in the space of three years with someone who lived in a world far removed from the urban jungle of Mumbai. Narinder and his two companions were on their way to guide a trekking and climbing group from the UK who were already on their way to the glaciers beyond Chandratal.

We wished them luck and were soon on our way again. In the distance, we could see the stretch of perilously narrow road above a sheer drop. A billowing cloud of dust indicated an approaching vehicle on that portion. We waited at a place broad enough for two vehicles to pass.

The approaching vehicle turned out to be a white Gypsy with two doctors from the town of Mandi on their very first outing. They stopped when they saw us, we exchanged greetings and then they popped the question.

"Would you have any spare fuel to sell to us? We did not budget for this distance to Chandratal from Manali and were under the impression that there would be a fuel pump somewhere along the road! Now we are not sure if we have enough to get us back safely to Manali."

Being their first time out like this, I could understand their oversight.

"Ten litres is about all we can spare," I said. "We still have a long way to Kaza where the next pump can be found."

We drained the ten liters from our spare 30 litre can, they thanked us and gave us the money and their business cards, we wished them luck and a safe journey, and headed up towards the Kunzum La, the 15,000 ft pass that separates the Lahul and Spiti districts.

The Kunzum La

The Kunzum La in August 1998, when I crossed it on the Kaza - Kullu public bus

View towards Lahul from the Kunzum La - August 1998

View towards Spiti from the Kunzum La - August 1998

Descending to Losar by 1:40 pm, we were in time for lunch at this small village, our first stop in Spiti. The afternoon drive was enlivened by roads that seemed to be made of constantly crumbling mud. The overall colour scheme was pale yellow laced with brown.

Losar

We encountered some rain when we reached flatter ground and as we passed the village of Rangrik, 12 km before Kaza, there was a sudden and loud metallic sound. A piece of our Gypsy parted company with the chassis. The rattling noise continued to emanate from the front underside and we stopped to investigate. The front left leaf spring had broken and the remaining flat sheets of metal comprising the unit had only the bands holding them together. We walked back on the road and found the missing part and threw it in at the back with our luggage.

Not really having any options, we continued to drive the remaining distance to Kaza, the extra rattling now adding a metronomic, albeit harsh, cadence to our journey.

The final stretch to Kaza

At 5 pm we drove into Kaza, the district headquarter town of Spiti, and were lucky to locate an auto repair facility. In two hours the industrious mechanic had fashioned new springs to replace our broken unit. We found some excellent accommodation at the Kaza Gompha, treated ourselves to a hot water bath followed by thukpa for dinner.

The STD/ISD telephone lines were down so we could not make any calls to friends or family. This was in the era before the cell phone revolution, but that did not really bother us. After all, one goes to the mountains to escape the chains that bind (and occasionally choke!) us. Night descended and we surrendered ourselves to a blissful slumber.

to be continued...

The Mother of All Drives - Part 5. Tso Moriri - Polongka La - Pang - Chhatru.

Descent from the Polongka La

5 July 2001. Karzok / Tso Moriri - Polongka La - Pang.

I have always considered the ubiquitous omelet, made Indian style with freshly cracked eggs, chopped onions, chopped green chillies and chopped tomatoes - all whisked into a glutinous semi liquid paste and poured directly on to a pan sizzling with hot oil - a great way to start the day when at altitude and when the morning is crisp and cold. The last thing I worry about are the calories and the cholesterol.

The enticing aroma of just such a treat wafted through the small tea shop in Karzok where we sat ourselves down for breakfast. There was a sprinkling of people, intrepid backpackers and globetrotters included, hunkering down under the parachute cloth ceiling. Our omelets soon reached us and as we began to wolf it down, we were interrupted by a petite young girl speaking with a distinctly American accent.

"Oooh! Eggs! That is just awesome, I didn't know you could get eggs here!" she said.

I glanced up and saw a Chinese face looking at our plates.

"Sure you can," I said. "Just tell the cook to bring you some before his stock is depleted!"

"Oh my God! Thank you, thank you, I will, I will!" She ran over to the kitchen side of the establishment and when she returned she looked extremely pleased with herself. It turned out that she and her friend (also Chinese) were from New York and their staple food during their sojourn in Ladakh had been Maggi noodles. The third person in their group was a pleasant middle aged English woman who had decided to see Ladakh after attending her daughter's wedding to an Indian in Kerala.

"Are you serious?" I said, "You have been living off the instant 2 minute Maggi noodles all this time?"

"Ooh," she squealed again, "I think they are delicious! I have never tasted anything like it in New York. I am going to take a whole box of Maggi packets when I go back!"

I looked at her incredulously, shook my head and went back to eating my omelet.

It was a perfect morning perfectly suited to the pursuit of soaking in the gorgeous landscape.

Tso Moriri in the morning

But we had plans to make it to Pang before the curfew was clamped down on the Leh-Manali highway and so, reluctantly, we drove slowly out of Karzok. It was 8:30 am and we reckoned we had ample time to cover the distance. We passed some cyclists on the rough gravel road and admired their grit and tenacity.

The road on the shores of Tso Moriri was an absolute delight

In two hours' time we came to a fork in the road and took the one which would lead us over the Polongka La and into the valley of the Tso Kar. We drove through a stretch of country that was bristling with salt deposits and we even passed the remains of what seemed to have been a salt processing plant. Now it stood mute and disused, perhaps a forlorn testimony to the challenges of trying to do business at these altitudes and in the harsh climate.

The salt flats beyond Puga

A very rough stretch of track followed, rising steeply to the pass. The Gypsy required the 4WD low setting and the first gear to tackle the terrain all the way to the crest. My Suunto watch altimeter indicated a height of 4950 m / 16236 ft at the pass. Since leaving Tso Moriri we had not seen another vehicle or human, the route we had chosen was obviously rarely traversed. We reveled in the sense of isolation and remoteness. On the downside, if we were to have a mechanical breakdown, we would pretty much have to walk out of the area with just the clothes on our backs.

The Polongka La (4950m) 

A long gradual descent to the valley of the Tso Kar followed, the road becoming indistinct and often we would be following old and faint tyre tracks on the sand. Short grass growing in a sparse fashion added a green hue to the landscape, dominated by gentle brown snow clad  mountains under blue skies punctuated by beautiful white clouds. Various species of ducks populated the waters of the lake, often skimming over the surface in short bursts of flight. The Ladakhi pop singer Phunchok Dorjay's album Thundel played in the cassette player, his melodious songs wafting effortlessly into the ether.
(For a sample of his latest numbers check out http://www.saavn.com/s/Thundel )

Tso Kar

Finally we rejoined the Leh-Manali metalled road on the More Plains, about 40 km before Pang. The fuel indicator showed that we were running low on petrol. Using four wheel drive and low gears had been steadily eroding the supply in the tank. We refuelled about 6 km before Pang, emptying the contents of our 20 litre container with the help of a short length of rubber tubing attached to a plastic funnel. The day before we had used up the contents of the 35 litre container on the way to Tso Moriri. I  hoped that we would have enough to last us up to the pump at Tandi bridge.

We reached Pang at around 3 pm, only to be told that the "gate" for further travel to Manali had closed at two o'clock. My driving license had to be surrendered to the check post for the night, to ensure that I did not entertain any foolish notions of slinking out of Pang in the cover of darkness. This was a regular procedure. We were not the only ones to miss the deadline. There was a little collection of jeep taxis and vans and cars clustered around the little village of parachute-cloth tents which spring up in the summer months to cater to stranded travellers. We found accommodation in the form of sleeping space in one of these and spent the evening going for a bracing walk above the highway.

Walking above Pang

On our return to the tent lodge, I was impressed by the young lad who was single handedly cooking and serving hot rice, dal and vegetables to a hungry clientele. His cooking was excellent and his service skills even better. It was not the first time that I had marvelled at the talent of people like him slaving away in unknown corners of the world. They would never make it to the glossy pages of Conde Nast Traveller, but they would always leave a lifelong impression on me.

The cook and innkeeper

6 July 2001. Pang - Sarchu - Bara Lacha La - Chhatroo.

Outside our tent motel

I was among the first in queue in the morning to retrieve my license from the check post guards. We set off at 7:30 am after a quick breakfast (of omelets, what else!) but within 20 minutes of driving the Gypsy sputtered to a halt.

I alighted from the vehicle and opened the hood with trepidation, not knowing what I would find. Everything seemed in order. On closer inspection I noticed that the wire attached to one of the battery terminals had worked itself loose. I reconnected the wire, tightened the clamps holding it in place with a small spanner and turned on the ignition. The Gypsy came to life. We all sighed with relief. Since it was a gorgeous morning in a gorgeous location, I was compelled to take a picture before moving on!

The rest of the drive passed pleasantly enough and without incident: a coffee break with Vijay Dutt at his Northwest Adventures camp site near Sarchu, lunch at Bharatpur below the Bara Lacha pass, a refuel stop at the Tandi bridge pump and onwards through Khoksar and Gramphoo towards Batal where we planned to spend the night before crossing the Kunzum La into Spiti. My plan was to return to Delhi via Spiti and Kinnaur and Shimla, thus avoiding repeating the drive from Rohtang and Manali to the plains.

The distance from Pang to Batal was only about 275 km but I had not reckoned with the mountain roads, our leisurely pace of travel and our frequent stops. The sun had set and it was getting quite dark as we tackled the stretch from Gramphoo to Chhatru. The stretch along the Chandra river in this part of Lahul is extremely rugged. There were waterfalls cascading off the cliffs to our right straight on to the road and driving through them provided us with a free car wash. The headlights picked out the potholes  as we progressed slowly and the sheer drop on our left to the torrent below kept me alert and nervous.

We crossed the bridge at Chhatroo to the true right bank of the river and immediately halted at one of the few teashops for dinner. We asked the owner if we could spend the night here and he agreed. Relieved of the anxiety of further night driving we relaxed and settled down to enjoy the simple and wholesome dal bhat sabji dinner.

Chhatroo owes its importance to being the pit stop for travellers taking the Kullu - Kaza bus. I had camped here with Bir Singh on a meadow above the road in Sept 1985 after descending the Chota Shigri glacier from the Sara Umga Pass.
(See http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/07/sara-umga-la-follow-sheep.html). Running out of kerosene for my little Primus stove, I had bought some diesel to keep it going and I can still remember the acrid flavour of our dinners laced with the sulphur fumes of the fuel!

Now, sixteen years later, our entertainment arrived suddenly in the form of five Israeli youth - four males and a female - who tumbled out of a Sumo at around ten o'clock in the evening in the darkness. They were having an animated argument amongst themselves and seemed quite agitated. The driver of the Sumo followed, shaking his head in a gesture of resignation.

"What's up?" we asked him.

"These people hired me to drive them to Chandratal from Manali. We left at 6 in the morning, reached Chandratal by afternoon, they spent a couple of hours there - more than they should have done, given the fact that they wanted to be back  in Manali this evening - and now they insist that I drive them all the back in the dark to Manali!"

"That's a bad idea," I cautioned him. "I have just driven the stretch from Gramphoo to here. There has been a lot of rain up above the road and it is in pretty bad shape. You would be risking your life and theirs by tempting fate. "

"They are offering me five hundred rupees more if I get them to Manali tonight. I've told them that I am exhausted."

"Five hundred rupees is not worth your life," I tried to reason with him. Spend the night here and go back at first light."

We entered the teashop where his clients had already ordered some food. We exchanged cursory hellos and I reiterated that they should not coerce their driver to drive in these conditions, the risk was unnecessary. It was well past ten o'clock and we rolled out our sleeping bags, sought out some appropriate spots in the inner recesses of the shack and promptly fell off to sleep. It had been a long day for us and we planned to make an early start on the morrow.

to be continued....