Masala Vagabond: The Return of the Accidental Mountain Climber: Clumsiness Ensues

Hail, Hail Fellow!

I've developed this bumpkin sort of habit here in this small village of Bhagsu of watching the night sky as the moon travels across it. Last night's show was even better: a thunderstorm of epic proportions. My new neighbor, a roaming English teacher for the last eight years, pulls up a chair and joins me as the sky fills with lightening for over an hour. We exchange those stories that are only possible between people who have seen the absurdity presented to travelers: the time he was mugged by a monkey (although to be fair, it was a very tasty cinnamon roll), coming up from a swim in the Ganges to realize that he's completely surrounded by sadhus, learning to drink Tibetan butter tea (try dipping bread in it!). As we sit and watch, rain turns to sleet turns to massive hail balls, bouncing of the metal of our roof with satisfying clings and pings.

Holi Invasion, Batman!

After a cold night's sleep, I find the world sunny, the sky bright blue. Little did I know, as I woke up bright and early and began climbing the road (first up, then down) to Mcleodganj, that my status had suddenly changed from tourist to attraction. It's the weekend of Holi, which means that a large portion of the surrounding population have a four-day holiday. The number of cars on the roads have increased exponentially, revealing women in punjabi suits and men in turbans. Behind them follow a dozens of motorcycles. All of the license plates sport the first letters PB. Punjab. We've been invaded.

The place is a madhouse with traffic and curious Indian tourists. In the last few weeks, I've forgotten what it's like to be stared at everywhere I go. Today I remembered.

After about the dozenth “Excuse me, madam. One picture, please?” and a growing annoyance at being stared at, I decide to put on my trekking hat again, escaping these tourists and the fog of pollution they dragged in behind them.

Back up Tipa Road, which is every bit as steep as I remember. I'm seeing fewer and fewer cars, fewer turbans; they're being replaced by tall evergreens and bird songs. The air is getting cleaner as I climb, and I finally sigh a breath of relief.

Stopping at the Himalayan Chai Shop is customary, so I say a quick hello to the friendly chai-man and enjoy a tall glass (much bigger than the first time. Loyalty most definitely pays here in India).

3. Monkeys, and Monkeys, and (more) Monkeys (Oh My!)

This time, like last, I'm determined to find Dal Lake, that big blue blob on my useless map. Every time I imagine the place, an image somewhere between a unnaturally blue watering hole and a heaping bowl of my favorite Indian food, yellow daal with little green chilies, comes to mind. I follow the same path, ignoring the alluring diversion of the slate covered trail I took last time, then the other forks, past the isolated ashram, past the prayer flags, and into an open field filled with dozens of piles of neatly arranged stones.

The six-year-old (or tricky trek guide salesman) who drew my map didn't include this spot, so I decide to take the only path I notice: up and over.

Lush green vegetation lines the way, clashing with the small piles of hail from last night's storm. I leave crane 95 in the blossom of a flowering tree (rhododendron? Where is my flora-loving mom to identify these things when I need her?). Somewhere down the hill, smoke from burning cedar wood climbs up from a cabin, a smell so alluring that I can't help but pause to enjoy it.

Now the footpath looks like it might be more of a migratory path for some sort of animal, but it's beautiful so I mentally shrug and once again unconsciously decide to keep going. Around an enormous boulder, suddenly, I'm faced with a troupe of monkeys.

Brown and grey, most the size of fat house cats to cocker spaniels, these monkeys are casually crossing the path I'm eager to tread. They notice me, but don't change their behaviors too much (one pauses above, perhaps acting as a lookout).

Somewhere between half a second and eternity, this flashes through my head: Okay. So the first time you met a monkey, it tried to bite you. That's okay. Here's what you're doing to do: don't do anything even remotely human.

Somehow that works. I keep my gaze low to avoid looking them in the eye, and I think something along the lines of: I'm a mountain goat. Just walk like a mountain goat.

Calmly, slowly, just like one of those bearded goaty fellows, I walk across the path. My mind strays to mountain goats: an earlier chai-time conversation with the shopkeep Taj led me to be the proud holder of an exorbitant amount of information about fabrics, including pashmina, which is collected by capturing mountain goats and shaving off their beards (I still have a nagging feeling that he was joking, despite his genuine expression). I briefly wonder how much money I could get and if I could even find a way to shave one of these fellows that share the mountain side with me. Then I remember the monkeys; some of them are as close as a foot away. Okay, stop being human.

It's only a few minutes until I'm out of monkey country and can breathe again. That is, until I come to the an opening in the forest, a panorama that is better than any I've seen so far. Crane 94 stays behind to enjoy the view.

I walk for about another hour, going deeper and deeper into the green of the mountain, when I run into two women in pink punjabi suits carrying large bundles of sticks for firewood. Lake? Dal lake? They point in the direction from which I had come.

Back to whence I had come. This time, there are only a few monkeys left at the boulder, and I carefully snap a picture of one at a distance. Back to the field with the stone piles. Here, I notice three young Tibetans taking a lower path, and decide to follow. The lake is somewhere out here, right?

Before I know it, I'm completely surrounded by monkeys. Now this is monkey country. Dozens and dozens of them line the path, hundreds more in the surrounding forest, and once again I'm a careful mountain goat, feeling a bit better as I see the Tibetans getting through unscathed.

Another half an hour, and there is no lake in sight. An ani (Buddhist nun) from New Jersey and her South-Indian companion pause to greet me. Once again I see a finger pointing in the direction from which I had come. Dal lake, this way.

My mind wanders, as it often does when I'm walking, until a stumble over one of the rocks wakes me back up. I get an eyeful of the sheer drop below me, and have little trouble staying in the moment for the next few miles. Mindfulness, thine name is mountain goat.

They're pleasant company, so I decide to take the path back with the ani and Baby (which is, honestly, his birth name), thinking that I'm somehow safer from the monkeys with these two (although how, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's her bright red robes that are reassuring). I happily relinquish my map when she suggests that she needs to get one; it's caused me nothing but trouble. Tip-toeing back through the monkeys, I step on the only clear space on a trail, two inches from a mother and her (very) newborn infant. She looks at me calmly, as if I really am a mountain goat.

The ani is loving the monkeys, even after a local tells her “No. Monkeys are not good.” She smiles and pauses to admire them. Perhaps these monkeys have better lives here than the ones in Haridwar (or just simply aren't as crazy). Either way, I'm happy to be out of there, my heart pounding in a combination glee and fear.

Ani and Baby tell me about the ashram at which they're staying, about the community (including musicians and a flute maker), and invite me to visit. It's peaceful and beautiful, and I tell the owner I'll come rent a room for a weekend in April. From miles below, at HH the Dalai Lama's temple, monks are chanting in that beautiful deep-throat way they do. The sound carries all the way up the hill to where we rest.

As I'm leaving, I ask Baby for directions to Dal Lake.

“Dal Lake?” he says. “It's the way you were going. But no point right now, it's as dry as all this,” he motions to the dirt road, laughing.

I suppose I will have to settle for some daal instead (although all of it is disappointing compared to Aunty's), and be content with my crazy monkeys, gorgeous panorama, and incredible trail.