Masala Vagabond: The Accidental Mountain Climber

This, my friends, is the story of how I accidentally became a climber of the Himalayan Mountains. And how I made it to an enclave above the world.

1. Another Short Trek?

My last trek, to the waterfall, was hardly strenuous, yet I somehow managed to accumulate enough sweat for the entire Village of Bhagsu. Thinking of pushing myself a little harder, I decided to climb to the nearby village of Dharamkot, where a scenic lake and Temple awaited me.

So early on Saturday morning, I put on my backpack and walk to Mcleodganj, ready for a little uphill-action.

It's a steep trek and I pause often (to, um, admire the view). After some time, I come across a mile stone: 1,807 meters altitude. Grinning, thinking this something of an accomplishment, I keep going.

Earlier, I purchased a trekking map from a local “Adventure” store, where you obtain services of guides, horses, etc. I examine the map closely as I sit between a fork in Tipa Road; the map, snickering silently, tells me that no such fork exists. Turns out this was one of those maps, a loose sketch that is about as helpful in telling you where you are as the moss on the side of the tree. I wonder how many trekkers regularly give up and return to hire a guide (clever plot!).

After landing in someone's backyard, I get directions, backtrack, and head down the other fork. Winded, sweaty, and worn, I'm tiredly ecstatic to find that I have made it to Dharamkot, it's location marked by the presence of the Himalayan Tea Shop. I pause to have some chai, because, after all, this is India, and am served by a chatty fellow. "We need you here in Dharamkot!" he tells me when he finds out I'm staying down below. I later stop by after my hike, and I promise to come again (and I actually mean it).

The lake is relatively nearby, so I finish my chai and follow my "map" (while cursing it) to the left of the Tea Shop. After a relatively flat and beautiful walk, I stop a monk to ask if I'm going in the right direction. “Lak,” he says simply, and points from whence I had come.

2. Curiosity

Back past the ashram, past some Tibetan flags, I watch as a dreadlock-headed young woman disappears between the flags, up a tight dirt path. Curious, I follow. By the time I get up to the ledge she's long gone, but in her place is a path of state slabs heading upward at a medium grade. It seems to be curving around the village, and as I look at my map, I note the thin line around the settlement leading to the lake. Seems like a nice way to get to the other side of the village. Either way, I want to know where this goes, and why someone has taken the trouble of building it.

For about half an hour I climb, the grade getting steeper and steeper. Away from the road, the view is breathtaking; I'm surrounded by towering cedars, pines, and other evergreens, the ground speckled with light and sparse short green vegetation. Birds of prey spread their enormous wingspans and float above. A deep blue bird pauses in it's grub hunt to take a look at me; as I sit and catch my breath, I'm surrounded only by this pure serenity and the sound of birdsong.

So for another half an hour I climb. Two locals and their three donkeys pass me on the trail, giving me a curt “namaste.” By this time, I've decided that this trail cannot be the one which loops the town, yet I have no desire to turn back. I'm not worried about the destination any longer.

Some time later, never mind how long (for time passes in a strange way in these forests), the trail ends at a bumpy road. Now I can see why the locals took the slate path, as uneven and difficult a climb as it may have been, for the road is treacherous, more like a riverbed than a road. At times, water dribbles down from some unknown location and turns the road into an actual stream bed. I see one jeep attempt the pass, it's passengers bouncing around like popping popcorn, moving forward at a rate that's only slightly faster than my own.

Looking down, there's no doubt that this path is the one which leads to the summit. I've been hiking for nearly three hours; at this point there's no way I'm not going to try. So up and up and up I go.

It's getting more difficult as the air thins, but with plenty of pauses I make it to a clearing. A teashop awaits, as does a sign: “YOU ARE WELCOME IN THE MOUNTAINS OF DHARAMSALA- THE DHAULADHARS. This place is 2300 Mtrs above sea level.” I've made it, I've climbed between 500 and 600 meters to reach the top. As I look over to the side, where two trekkers sit enjoying the view and their water, I see another path. Up, up, up. There's more.

I'm not going to stop until I reach the top. It's not a question. It's far from a conscious decision. The path is thin and somewhat steep, and in a short time I come to an even thinner, steeper path. At first, I think it must be a goat path, so thin and precarious it is. But from here, I can nearly see the top. This is the way up, up, up.

I climb over rocks and crumbling soil, through pricker bushes and past bees pausing at tiny blue flowers, stabling myself in stooped position with both hands and feet grasping for firm ground. The path opens up into a small grassy patch, above which a small Temple awaits. Short white bricks and a flag: a temple for Shiva.

All directions are open to my vision now, mountaintops above and below, villages and trees small like toys. The wind cools me and carries on it a smell only granted to those few who climb up. Peaceful and beautiful.

3. The Place I Go When I Close My Eyes

As I slowly explore the summit, I notice another mountain, slightly taller and connected to this one by a precarious landbridge. The top is covered with trees and bushes, with Tibetan prayer flags are intermingled. Allured, I climb down to the land bridge, and tentatively make my way to the other summit.

The pricker bushes are thicker here, and it becomes a challenge to make my way to the top. There is no path; the only sign of civilization is at the very top. As I make my way through, memories of childhood and The Secret Garden flash by.

I emerge in a clearing, covered with thousands of colorful prayer flags. They are strung from every bush, they litter the ground. All around me, people's hopes and prayers sway with the mountain winds.

Time passes slowly up here, and I sit for what feels like forever, surrounded by colorful prayers through which I can see the outlines of surrounding mountains. The Tibetan Four-Line Refuge Prayer comes out of me naturally; I sit and sing and exist in pause above the world, in this perfect little enclave.

Nothing has ever been more beautiful or more perfect. Somehow, once again, I blindly followed the draw of some unknown path to find, at the end, the indescribable. The unforgettable.

As I slowly climb down, a tear rolls down my cheek, so overwhelming is the desire to stay.

Tomorrow I will buy my own prayer flags and before I leave this place, this mountain will be home to a piece of me: my hopes, my prayers, although, I need leave nothing on this summit for it to retain a piece of me.