During my first visit to Spiti, I walked the snow-covered road between Dhankar and Kibber. There are no hotels in all of Spiti and accommodation can only be found in government rest houses. I had stayed in the houses of the villagers whose warmth and hospitality never ceases to amaze me. They were mostly farmers who worked hard during the brief summer months to raise their crops of barley and peas. Sitting around the family fireplace, a wood stove in the middle of the kitchen, and sharing a simple meal with them, one felt that the outside world was unimaginably remote.
Returning to Spiti now, after many years, I saw a very expanded Kaza. I was fearing and preparing for the worst, but was relieved to discover, despite the inevitable signs of progress, that the old town still retained some of its medieval charm, with its traditional mud houses and narrow alleyways. The bazaar was lined with shops and stalls and there were even the ubiquitous STD phone booths, which made long distance calls possible.
Rab’s barking woke me up. I looked outside my tent but couldn’t see anything in the morning light. The sun was still behind the ridge in the direction Rab was looking. Giles, the school teacher, looked through his binoculars. ‘It’s an ibex… one… two… three… oh, there’s a herd of them,’ he yelled.
The view was magnificent. High cliffs jutted from the hillside where the mountain goat clung; Wisps of cloud swirled high above the cliffs, weaving a soft blanket against the now blue sky. The animals’ tawny-brown furs were camouflaged against the brown rocks. Their short dark tails flicked. Huge horns rose from their tiny heads, tipped with sharp points. We thanked Rab for letting us see these magnificent creatures and offered him a special meal.
We were now in the remote Pin Valley of Spiti. Whitewashed villages appeared periodically, surrounded by patches of fragile fields. Rough, rocky mountains towered above them in singular walls. There were no trees or bushes, just a great roughness that made up its own beauty.
After eight days of trekking from Kibber, we were convinced that we are ready for an assault on the Bhaba Pass. Tashi made breakfast a little early, and before the morning sun had time to get too hot, we began our long march. In three hours we could have done half a day of walking, but Bhaba was a much harder and slower proposition.
The trail was pretty flat for the first hour, turning into a climb about halfway up. And the higher we went, the steeper the angle of the summit became. Nearly four hours and minutes after we set out, we crawl over the last rocks, high above the glacier, and find ourselves facing one of the most supreme views on earth.
A cold wind was blowing in the pass and I felt dizzy due to the height. The drive around the southern edge of Bhaba in deep snow was even more tiring and precarious. I kept losing my footing on the loose surface, and when we finally reached the bottom, the waterfall coming down the mountain refreshed our eyes. There was green everywhere, monsoon clouds bringing wisps of rain, the dew on our bodies glistening in the afternoon sun. We follow a long winding road through forests and meadows of wildflowers, camping by a stream. Later that day, while our tea and crispy pakoras were being made, we sat outside in the sun and watched bearded vultures and imperial eagles circle overhead.
Suddenly, Stephanie noticed that Rab was nowhere to be seen. The porters said that he could have died of cold. But I think Rab was too smart to continue. It is possible that he just turned around and headed to the last camp. There, having rested, he would have found his way back to the last village or other human habitation. This was the way Himalayan dogs exist: they hunt for themselves, find their own water, travel from village to village and master to master, earning their keep by playing watchdog.
However, the sense of accomplishment was overwhelming and that night we built a fire and sat outside singing songs. I raised my cup of tea in a toast to my absent friends, too tired to move and too in love to leave.
