Up and Down the Dhauladhar Day 2

(...continued from Up and Down the Dhauladhar Day 1)
Rain fell in violent gusts all night. It had become quite cold. I was more or less comfortable in my foam sleeping bag, but Oli was shivering in her flimsy sack, and KP was positively suffering. He'd caught a cold and the previous day's sudden gain in altitude had not helped either. I gave him some analgesics to help ease his headache. At some point we managed to get some sleep.

Pic: Jagdish and shaggy dog wait in vain for the rain to abate. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

The day dawned with the weather in an even worse state. Everything was dank and gloomy and heavy rain was falling in a continuous sheet of loud grey. Outside, Triund was a sight of thick clouds being tossed about the ridge. Clearly there was no hope of making an early start for Laka. Gulab and Jagdish were already up and we were greeted with lovely cups of tea. While the others got up, I lazed around in my sleeping bag and dozed for a while before making my way to the kitchen. All our wet stuff was still wet so that was another thing to get used to. Jagdish's prognosis of the weather was not too good. He was skeptical of the rain stopping anytime soon and figured that the main nala that we'd have to cross between Laka and Lahesh would be in spate even if the weather did break later in the day.
We felt quite gloomy at this turn of events. Suppose we had to call off the trek? I couldn't bear thinking of that possibility, but we couldn't wait indefinitely at Triund either, waiting for the weather to turn and eating our way through our supplies.
It was pointless to sit around in the hut and mope. After a few biris smoked in companionable silence, Jagdish and Gulab wandered off to chat with other paharis. KP wandered off to get wet. He had gotten over the night's unease and that old familiar serenity had returned to his face. Oli was driven to distraction by his behaviour, but it seemed like a perfectly normal thing for him to do.
Every now and then the rain would slacken and I'd step out in the sloshy grass to take a few pictures of stormy Triund. And it was beautiful. Above us, nothing could be seen save the ghostly outlines of the Laka ridge, across which gossamer thin strips of cloud were being hurled by a strong East wind. The forest hut itself was protected from this onslaught by the main ridge of Triund. I climbed up this and was immediately buffeted by the wind as I struggled to keep my ears warm and camera working.

Pic: The Kangra Valley drowning in a sea of clouds. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

The Dhauladhar for all intents and purposes might not even have existed, so thick was that impenetrable curtain of clouds strung across its face. It occurred to me that since a brief glimpse of the Mon early the previous morning when we were rolling in to Dharamshala, I hadn't had a single view of the range. It was dispiriting, but my surroundings didn't allow me to dwell on this for too long,
Unless you go looking for it, its difficult to come across such an elemental scene of wild beauty. Facing the Laka ridge, to my west lay the steep path we had climbed to Triund. Far below, around the edge of a spur seemingly poised on the brink of a great plunge into the tangled construction of McLeodganj, hung the tiny Magic View Cafe. It kept wavering in and out of view as banks of clouds swallowed it up momentarily, and then, driven on by the wind, moved on leaving it visible again. High above that spur ran the wall-like broken ridge-top of Laka, dotted with weirdly contorted rhododendron and pine trees amidst extensive boulder gardens. To the east lay the thickly wooded valley of the Chauran nala, some 2,000 feet below, flowing down from under the south face of Mon. Looking down the mountainside into that mysterious shifting landscape of deep mist and thick vegetation and the occasional massive rocky outcrop was a thrill in itself.

Pic: Tendrils of cloud blow up the thickly wooded Chauran nala valley. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

However it was impossible to stand for too long in that driving rain and I ducked back down under the protective curtain of the ridge-top. It was afternoon now, and though the light had improved, the weather remained as bad as ever. Oli, the eternal pragmatist, was well into her carefully rehearsed acclimatisation routine. After a hearty breakfast, she had settled down to write. I had tried keeping a journal as well, but I tired after one page, and the notepad was too soggy to write in anyway.
KP had gone off in the rain to meet Sunil, and the great, wet shaggy dog who'd been a refugee at our doorway had also tired of the inactivity and had wandered off. Leaving Oli to her writing, I went to look for KP. Little mirrors to the sky had formed on the path along the ridge and I made my way through the wet grass to Sunil's shack. KP was sitting outside the shop, rolling. The interior of the shop was occupied by an excitable gaggle of English voices discussing ephemera, so I stood outside under the flapping tarpaulin, watching the capricious clouds play on the ridge above. One of Sunil's many (apparently) ponies wandered by, dutifully grazing. Scattered groups of cows ate their way up and down the grassy slopes, resembling for all the world massive, mobile vacuum cleaners.
I stood there spacing for what seemed like a very long time. I was feeling very lethargic for some reason, so I made my way back to the hut, only to find Oli in the second stage of her steady acclimatisation process- she was lying in her sleeping bag and trying to feel warm, while reading a book on rock climbing, and trying out different knots with a wee length of rope. It felt pretty funny, hanging out with these two mountain lovers with their radically different approach to life on the heights.
Me, I'm the worrying kind, and I'd been worrying a fair bit since we'd started the day before. And one of my main worries was this matter of acclimatisation.Thanks to my two visits to Tunganath last year, I had successfully breached the 4000 m barrier, but then that was nowhere near as physically taxing as this would be. Although I'd only mildly felt the effects of altitude back then, I wanted to be absolutely sure this time around. Also, KP just had to acclimatise, as he'd never been anywhere higher than Laka, which is approximately 3,200 m. So when Oli instructed me to lie down and take a nap, I obediently crept into my sleeping bag. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard KP calling Oli out. Apparently it had stopped raining.
As soon as I'd fallen asleep, it seemed, I was rudely awakened. It was Oli of course, in that cheerfully steely voice of hers, instructing me to get up and come for a walk. It turned out that I'd been soundly asleep for a good 45 minutes or so. In that time, the weather had cleared somewhat. Most importantly, it wasn't raining. Outside, it was quite gorgeous. The Dhauladhar was still hidden. However, the overhanging cloak of clouds had receded a fair bit and was now draped over the head of the range. The snow fields, mini glaciers and the ice colouirs that can be seen pretty much all the year round had melted into forceful waterfalls and streams. Just the sheer number of waterfalls coming down from the all-pervading cloud was quite mind-boggling.
The cloud canopy stretched out from its tether on the Dhauladhar all the way to the distant Punjab plains, shimmering blue in the afternoon. Sandwiching us from below was a vast sea of blue clouds, filling up the entirety of the Kangra valley.

Pic: Oli, KP and Gulab deep in conversation. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

Oli suggested that we climb some way in the direction of Laka, and so we did, picking our way up the steep trail, trying our best to outflank the copious shit that that the cows had been depositing all day. The weather was so fine, that the three of us seriously considered making a dash for Lahesh. Even Gulab, who'd joined us for the ramble, made some noises  to that end.

Pic: Happy dogs keep watch on the Laka trail. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

Suddenly I looked up to see a grave furry face regarding us from a rocky outcrop. It was one of the Gaddi dogs- invariably called Tommy, or Johnny or Bhalu. We climbed up a bit higher till the point where the Triund spur united with its parent ridge of Laka. Oli bounded off ahead. She was obviously feeling this need to keep moving, but I, as usual, stopped to take yet another view of my surroundings. Closer now to the main range, I could get a good look at the giant flanks of the Dhauladhar. The mountainside was a jumble of massive rock falls and boulder fields. The rain-fed Chauran nala was gurgling down in the forested ravine below me. To the easte, running parallel to my Triund spur, were others much like it. Each of these ultimately lead up to the various passes that punctuate the main range. What fun it would be, I thought, to wander about these spurs, traversing the breadth of the range.
In fact, I'd been seriously thinking of turning our little project into a treeline trek, going all over the Southern face of the Dhauladhar. But that route just didn't possess the joy of crossing two passes, even if it would be a worthwhile way to explore the land. But I still held some hope that the weather and Indrahar would relent.
KP and Gulab were sitting a little way below me deep in conversation, brilliantly silhouetted by the blue cloud-sea that was the Kangra valley.

Pic: The Dhauladhar, smoking hard. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

Oli returned in a bit, looking as energetic as ever. Her exuberance is quite infectious, so we decided to climb up to the Tibetan prayer flags festooned at a point on top of the ridge that marks the area where the Triund spur merges with the Laka ridge. We'd gone a little way when we saw two figures bounding down the Laka track. They were an American hiker and his Gaddi guide. A shouted conversation with the guide ensued. They were returning from Lahesh and according to him, the trail was perfectly safe as of now. The nala that had so haunted our plans was in spate, but was crossable. According to him, we could still try for Lahesh.
This further added to Oli's restlessness and she rushed down to Triund to discuss this with Jagdish. He'd been full of doom the entire day, not trusting the weather- or was it our capability? Anyway, since it was getting on to 4 pm, and we weren't exactly travelling light, I thought it would be better to spend another night here and start tomorrow morning despite the weather.
It was a lovely afternoon to be at Triund, so me and KP sat around, chatted in fits and starts and took some pictures. Then we started down at an easy pace, while KP filled me in on Sunil's fifty horses and the envy this caused among the other paharis. A couple of years ago, when KP had first come to McLeodganj, some of his Gaddi friends had brought him up to Triund in a direct line that climbed the 3,000 feet from Bhagsu along the entire length of the Triund spur. Ridiculously steep in places, it had both enchanted and scared the living daylights out of KP. We decided to check it out.
We met Oli as she was coming up to us. She'd managed to get Jagdish to promise that we'd make an attempt to get to Lahesh the next morning. She seemed a lot calmer as a result. That particular load off our heads, we truly enjoyed ourselves for the next couple of hours, walking around on the beautiful rain soaked green turf of Triund while the world below us seemed to be drowning in an ocean of blue. Oli got me to climb some rocks too, and despite misgivings, I did fine, aided a good deal by my veteran boots which, after some eleven years of rough use, still retained a fantastic grip. KP, extremely disinterested in all this exertion, took to impersonating a human rocky outcrop. Every now and then I would see him standing on some rock, dramatically framed by the seething blue clouds, quietly contemplating the void.

Pic: KP contemplates the void. Picture by Bibek Bhattacharya

The wind was picking up, gently blowing tendrils of clouds from the layer below us to the one above. We sat in perfect silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Before our eyes, the Mon began to do a striptease. At first only a ghostly outline, the high winds near its summit slowly blew away the clouds obscuring it from view. Presently the peak and a large portion of the summit ridge slowly revealed itself in all its stark, brooding glory.
Owing to the time of year, the snow-less Dhauladhar resembled a fortress made of tiers and tiers of black rock. Not for the last time, the scene reminded me of something out of Lord of the Rings. Indrahar was a tiny notch to the left of the peak, one that you'd easily miss if you weren't looking for it.

Pic: The Mon finally reveals itself; Indrahar Pass is the notch to the peak's left. Picture by Bibek Bhattacharya 

From here the south face looked so sheer and perpendicular that the thought of actually being on it made me involuntarily shiver a bit. With the weather we were having, this looked like serious business. But instead of being freaked out, I felt a desperate urge to be on top of the damn thing. If I could've started out right then, I would have.
Meanwhile, Triund was having a regular day. After the day's 'Garbage In Garbage Out' the cows had retired. There was one standing motionless while a tourist filmed it. Young Johnson, a sweet Gaddi dog who'd been accompanying us all afternoon was trying to turf out the cow by barking furiously. The tea shops were buzzing with talk, laughter and endless cups of tea. Now that the day trippers had returned to McLeodganj, there was a fair degree of fellow feeling among those who'd stayed back.

Pic: Evening clouds climb ominously, with the Pong reservoir in the background. Picture by Bibek Bhattacharya

It was getting cold and windy, so we went back to our little hut. I was getting pretty fond of this little place, it felt like home. Gulab got some tea going while KP and Oli pottered about doing nothing in particular. I sat on a rock next to a blasted tree and spaced, looking out to the far distance where the massively swollen Pong reservoir was glittering blue. Then the thick clouds covering Kangra slowly started climbing up, ominously obliterating everything in their path. Spooky. Another evening of desultory conversation, dinner and early to bed. We would make an attempt to get to Lahesh cave the next day.
To be continued...

Up and Down the Dhauladhar Day 1

Winding down the twisting roads through the highlands of the Kangra valley, the sight that greets you about an hour before you hit Kangra town is breathtaking. Up north, the gentle swell of the rolling uplands suddenly come up smack against a high jagged wall that dominates the horizon. And it goes on forever, running in a long unbroken stretch from the east to the west, like a mythical barrier guarding some forbidden paradise.

At an average height of 14,000 feet, the Dhauladhar range isn’t as big as the other Himalayan sub-ranges of Himachal Pradesh, but it is certainly one of the most dramatic. Rising up some 12,000 feet from valley floor to ridge-top, this serrated range looms over everything, clad in a thick coat of snow and ice that only relents in the monsoon months.

It’s a sight that has enticed me for many a year, due to my frequent trips to McLeodganj, which has to be one of the nicest hill-towns within reach from Delhi. Hiking up to Triund, a grassy meadow high up on a subsidiary spur of the main range is something that everyone does, and a great hike though it is, its just the approach march to a great trek that leads you over the Dhauladhar range to the Ravi river valley in the Chamba district. Triund is where my fascination with this trek was born some two years ago, and it was only this year that I had the chance of going there.

Monsoon is hardly the best time to go for this trek, and with the heavier than normal rains this year, we were told roundly by all comers that it was madness. However, two things were in my favour. My guides were of local Gaddi stock, the dominant community of much of the Chamba and Kangra region. Mostly traditional shepherds, they know every valley and pass around the Dhauladhar and Mani Mahesh ranges, which form their old homeland of Gadderan. The second was that one of my companions, Oli, was a trained mountaineer who had the experience of quite a few big expeditions. Brought together, these two factors played a big part in assuaging any fears I might have had.

As we limbered into McLeodganj on a Monday morning, the signs were not encouraging. The Dhauladhar was cloaked in thick clouds and it was raining hard. In a way, it was better this way- once you’re soaked through, you pretty soon get used to the idea. The first thing to do was to meet Jagdish and Gulab, our companions for the next 10 days, so we quickly boarded an auto to Bhagsu, which lies a couple of kilometres above McLeodganj.

Pic: Gulab (left) and Jagdish (right). Picture taken by Amrita Dhar

Jagdish, a stocky, solid man with a shy, retiring nature and a faraway look in his eyes had been guiding in the area since 1979. His compatriot Gulab was a wiry 26-year-old father of two with ankles of steel; an irresistible charmer and an ardent believer in the powers of direttissimo- the most direct route over any obstacle. Although we had planned to stay an entire day at McLeodganj and re-pack our sacks and shop for fresh vegetables and other foodstuffs, Jagdish was of the opinion that in weather like this, we shouldn’t waste any time and make for Triund immediately, some 10 km and around 3,000 feet above us. We scattered in different directions for a last burst of provision shopping. A breakfast, numerous cups of tea and ruthless repacking later- where we discarded most of our extra clothes and other luxuries- we were off climbing steep country tracks through the resin-scented pine forest of Dharamkot. 

Pic: Walking up through the pine forests of Dharamkot. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

Since we could only start off at noon, the high sun had slowed the rain to a steady drizzle, although a thick ceiling of clouds still hung over the range like a shroud. 

Pic: Runaway monsoon vegetation on the Triund trail. Picture taken by Amrita Dhar

The path to Triund is one I’m very well acquainted with, but it was still a pleasure to walk up this steep trail, heavily laden though we were with 10-12 kg rucksacks and stopping occasionally for breath. To get to Triund, you climb up the Dharamkot spur above Bhagsu and then traverse the Laka ridge onto the Triund ridge, rising steadily all the time. The southern slopes of the Dhauladhar are beautiful, but the mist and rain of the monsoon add just that right hint of mystery and elusiveness that makes the surroundings seem positively magical. 

Picture taken by Amrita Dhar

Although I was a bit worried about weather conditions on the pass, I was certain that this approach march would be the most exhausting one, as our bodies got used to the steep gradient and the extra weight. We met familiar faces along the way. Anil owned a tea- shop aptly titled ‘Magic View Café’- though there was hardly any view to speak of right then- and welcomed me and KP (my other companion and another McLeodganj veteran) although he was a bit downcast. One of his cows had fallen awkwardly and had broken her back. A couple of cups of tea, a quick goodbye and we carried on through the deepening mist and intermittent rain up the final steep1000 feet to Triund. The track wound up between massive boulders and landslide zones, around and through carcasses of massive pines and rhododendron trees. 

Pic: KP trudges up through the rain. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya

Occasionally we'd have to jump over little rivulets, or wade through some mushy ground. I really struggled the final kilometre, stumbling up through the oppressive mist, struggling with the weight on my back and sweating profusely. Gulab, predictably, had reached a good while ago and came down to relieve me of my rucksack as I huffed and puffed my way up the final rise onto the green alp of Triund. The tremendous backdrop of the rocky south face of Mon peak was invisible in the threatening clouds, but as always, the soft springy turf of Triund gladdened my heart. The four tea shops that are a fixture here were busy with day-trippers and foreign tourists, though, thanks to the rain, the crowds that normally ascend everyday to Triund were absent.

All I could think of was my intense sugar craving; I was lusting after sweet biscuits, anything really, to satisfy my sweet tooth and get some much needed energy. So while KP trudged off in the rain to say hi to Sunil, who owned the tea-shop on the southern end of the ridge, and Oli went off with Gulab to secure the old forest hut and get some tea going, I rushed into the nearest tea-shop and promptly devoured a packet of Hide’n’Seek. Feeling human again, I sloshed my way to the hut. The Forest department runs a new bungalow on the saddle of the ridge which one needs to book from Dharamshala. However, just behind it is an old British-built log hut which is open for any happy camper that chooses to pass through. That's where we camped for the day, glad to be finally dry, sipping hot mugs of tea around a smoky hearth-fire, while Gulab and Jagdish got busy preparing an early dinner.                                           

Thick clouds were passing over the ridge as daylight faded and it was raining incessantly. Below us, the Kangra valley was overrun with heavy blue clouds, though far away out in the valley, I could make out sundry Dhauladhar rivers like the Bhated nala making their way to the Beas. Above us was an unmoving blanket of dark pregnant clouds. 

                                               

Pic: The rain lashed Triund ridge. Picture taken by Bibek Bhattacharya
Our plan was to leave the next morning for Lahesh cave on the main range if the weather cleared for a bit. There were, of course, many factors that we had to take into consideration. The first was acclimatization. If we hoped to do the Indrahar crossing the day after, then it was of paramount importance that we acclimatised as quickly as possible. At a height of 4350 m, the pass was one of the highest in this pass-riddled range, and to try and cross this very exposed ridge in this treacherous weather without acclimatizing was unthinkable. The second most important factor was the weather itself. We could expect a lot of boulder scrambles over the next two days and to do so in the rain wouldn’t be a good idea. So we had to move whenever the rains let off a bit. Accounting for this, we had kept a couple of days in hand for unforeseen breaks, but now that we were on the move, I didn’t really wish to rest. We turned in quite early after a hearty meal of khichdi and prayed for a clear dawn.
To be continued...

The love of mountains

Durga Pujo is around the corner. When I was a kid, the very thought used to make me go weak in the knees with happiness. Tired as I grew of it, Cal's pujo is still something to behold. In my opinion, it is the closest one comes to a carnival in this country, apart from the actual Goa carnival of course. Great memories, happy memories.

Right now, all I can think of is one thing- going to the mountains. If anything can be said to have usurped Durga Pujo's place in my affections, it has got to be the mountains. In fact, the joy I get from altitude far outstrips my childhood fondness of Pujo.

Why? Well lots of reasons really. But if I were to really put my finger on it, it would be this- the Himalayas- and other hills and mountains- are the only places which are truly spiritual to me. I mean, to walk for hours up or down mountains, through the humming quiet of the roads and forests and rocks and fields; to see geography crumpled up and refashioned on such a gigantic scale; to see the high peaks glistening unimpeachably in the sky, and to look down to see deep blue valleys emerging as if out of some primordial dream of belonging- that is the closest I come to any sort of religious epiphany. I mean, if the beauty of the land can bring tears to your eyes, isn't that something to cherish? Outside of the Bengal-Bihar countryside, where I grew up- no other place affets me as deeply.

Hence, not a month goes by without me feeling eternally grateful for my life- to be able to live and work in a place from where the mountains are just six hours away; and the high Himalayas a mere 14 hours.

My parents travelled ceaselessly, or so it seemed to me as a child. From our home in Purnea in North East Bihar, Siliguri via Kishanganj was only a six to eight hour drive away, so I'd been going to Darjeeling from the age of two. Puri was the other favourite, us being Bongs, so many a holiday was spent there as well.

But some of my favourite trips with my parents has been to the mountains. I remember the December jaunt to Manali- my first snowfall!!- in 1996 and the absolutely superlative Kedarnath-Badrinath trip of 1999. That's when I really started to see the mountains as something beyond the promise of cool climes and snow peaks. The sheer sensory experience of the Garhwal was something. I'll never forget the Kedarnath massif rising out of a cloudy dawn behind the temple of Kedarnath, or Nilkantha floating like a shark's tooth in the air above Badrinath. But it wasn't just the peaks. What I loved best was the journey to get there.

Kedarnath from Gaurikund was the first trek of my life and quite unforgettable. You start among the thick forsts of Gaurikund, and over the next 14 km, you rise up inexorably to finally emerge into the high valley above the treeline, springy turf under you and exhilirating vastness all around you.

While in college, me and some friends made our way to the Valley of Flowers in 2001. A magical land if I've ever seen one, this was high altitude all right, and I realised that the Himalayas are a most happy addiction.

Imagine my plight then, when for five long years various circumstances kept me apart from my love. Only in 2006 could I go again, this time to Mussoorie. I was aghast to find the same spoilt Delhi brats whining in a Cafe Coffee Day store on the Mall Road, but heck I could not argue with the bits of clouds playing hide and seek with me around the lush mountains of Tehri Garhwal.

Another long wait of two years. By 2008 I'd had enough of all this dicking about in the city, trying to earn a livelihood and all that. So I took off to McLeodganj to meet my friend KP who was staying there. Took another friend of mine, Debo, along.

Pic: Dharamshala and Kangra Valley shrouded in clouds, seen from McLeodganj

This was it, mountain madness had finally caught up with me and had claimed me for its own. In fact I can pinpoint the moment when it happened. The first was when I awoke at dawn on the bus to Dharamshala to find us in the middle of the Shivalik highlands of Himachal Pradesh, going past a beautiful river, on the way to Kangra. In the distance, through the clouds I could see the giant ramparts of the Dhauladhars sweeping up to the sky. At that moment, I knew exactly what I'd been missing all this time.

Pic: Triund, on the ramparts of the Dhauladhar Range.

The second moment came a few days later. Debo had returned to Delhi, and me and KP were making our way up to Triund on the shoulders of the Dhauladhars, on the way to Indrahar Pass.

Trekking up after so many years with a spoilt body full of smoke and repose was always going to be hard. The fact that I was shit stoned didn't help much either. In fact, considering the difficulty, I insisted on getting even more high, and KP was only too willing. Half way up Triund, at around 2 pm or so, wheezing and pulling my tired, screaming legs up the next boulder with my heart threatening to jump right out of my body, the clouds which had surrounded us for much of the trip burst and rain came pouring down. My predicament just got worse. Not only did this meant that the going got even tougher, as veritable rivers of mud were flowing down the quagmire of a track but my dope paranoia made me imagine that the mountain was for some reason trying to shrug me off its back. Still, we kept trudging, past immense boulders and even larger dead tree trunks in a shadow land of cloud, thunder and rain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we came around a bend and-Triund! A high altitude meadow, with a gentle mist hanging over it and myriad little flowers blooming in the grass. That's when I was convinced that this was the life for me.

Fortunately, that trip pretty much opened the floodgates. Next I went to this place called Viratkhaai above Chakrata in Western Garhwal for an adventure sport camp. I lost a tooth falling off a bike and got ravaged by leeches, but the place was magical.

Pic: The Yamuna coming down from the mountains north west of Mussoorie.

The monsoon had just hit and the various valleys were wrapped up in a shroud of mystery, as our Press bus went up along crumbly roads over horrid precipices up to the camp, past beautiful waterfalls and entire river systems swollen into floodwaters thanks to the incessant rain.

Pic: Mountains of Tehri Garhwal at Dhanolti near Mussoorie.

Next I went to Mussoorie again, which was pleasant. Come October, and I was off to Bhuira, this charming hamlet in the Shimla hills of eastern Himachal.

Pic: A cairn atop a hill in the Shimla hills near Bhuira

While there, us friends trekked up this local hill top. Crisp in the fall sunshine, I tugged at my beard and spaced staring off into the middle distance.

Early this year, in March, while it was still cold enough to discourage tourists, me and a friend of mine, Priyo went off to Binsar, a forest sanctuary above Almora in the Kumaon hills. Having missed a bus, and then having travelled for a full 12 hours through North UP (hell on wheels), when we woke up to a stunning Himalayan panorama (pic below) it was all worth it.

Pic: Nanda Devi and other giants at dawn, seen from Binsar.

Each and every moment of my time there was sublime- whether it was staying in a century-old forest guest house in the middle of an oak and rhododendron forest with some immense cedars for company, or the sight of the majestic Kumaoni peaks- Trishul, Nanda Devi, Nanda Ghunti, Panchachuli among them- or a fabulous trek of some 20 km through the beutiful valleys and ridge-tops of the Almora hills to the ancient temple town of Jageshwar from there.

Another trip to McLeodganj followed in April. This time there were quite a few of us, and the pace was less frantic. Indeed, for once, I was happy not to try and cover too much ground and just relax instead (I still forced them up to Triund though!).

Then in May, on my birthday along came the big trip to Tunganath and Chandrashila, again in the Kedarnath mountains of Garhwal.

Pic: The high Himalayas of north Garhwal, Tunganath.

I'd never been this close to the Greater Himalayas before, and although because of unseasonal bad weather I couldn't do the extensive trekking that I'd planned, climbing up to the top of Chandrashila at over 4000m was heady enough.

Over the next month, making my way through work and bad news I felt so horrible in Delhi, that I made another quick jaunt to McLeodganj. I have friends there now- especially a group of young locals who run home stays for European and American backpackers in the villages of upper Bhagsu and Dharamkot, above McLeodganj.

That was in June. Haven't been back to the mountains since. All I've been able to do to keep my mountain-starved mind from going insane is to read countless fabulous books on the mountains, my favourite ones among these being my hero Eric Shipton's collected travelogues and Journals, and the travel writings of my other mountain hero Umaprasad Mukherjee- some of whose peerless Bengali essays, I've tried to translate.

So, why all this talk about mountains at the end of September? Well, it ties in with what I said at the beginning of the blog. Durga Pujo is around the corner again, and this time, I hope to be back in Tunganath, staying in Sujaan Singh's lovely choti- with probably one of the best alpine views in the world- and meeting the irrepresible Biru.

Pic: The view outside Sujaan Singh's unassuming choti at Tunganath.

I intend to hijack him and make him take me to Madhmaheshwar and Deoria Tal, two absolutely fantastic places in the deep valleys and high ridges of the Kedarnath mountains along one of the greatest watershed areas on earth.

I've got my fingers crossed.