A midnight trek in bear country
I am feeling nostalgic today…
Google photos showed me some ancient pics. These are snaps of snaps; I’m trying to create a digital library of my old hardcopy photographs.
One pic specifically caught my eye: the pink blossoms in the Valley of Flowers. This is a valley nestled in the upper reaches of Uttarakhand, India.
To get to the Valley of Flowers, from Joshimath you either walk or ride a mule. After the roadhead, the trekking path paved with rough stones climbs up the mountain for about 10 km. The path bifurcates here: one to the Valley, another 4-ish km and another to Hemkund Sahib, the world’s highest gurdwara.
That day, 20 odd years ago, we were planning to drive on from Joshimath to Badrinath. Dad was settling the bill; Mom and I were still in the guesthouse room, lounging on the bed. Mom was telling me about the trek she and my Dad had made to the valley, 20 odd years prior! Way before I was born.
“Ma, you guys have had all the adventure; why not me? Now I want to go!”
My Dad entered the room then.
“It’s late now dear,” he said. “To trek in the mountains, you must start early morning. Now it’s already past 11. Let’s go another time.”
Mom cut in now, “Let’s just go! You can call ahead that we are coming, right?”
“It is too late now… see, by the time we start it will be at least 12. You are not used to the altitude now, so we will be slow…”
“Never mind! Let’s go. We may not get another chance to show Gayatri!”
And so we set off. It was close to 2 in the afternoon when we actually began the trek.
Dad was right, the high altitude and the uphill path made for slow walking. All the other trekkers were returning. And we got plenty of friendly advice:
“O! You’ve started very late!”
“Hurry! Try to reach before dark!”
“You know there are bears in the forest, right? Hurry!”
“I think you should turn back now. Start again tomorrow!”
Well, we didn’t listen… my mom and I being quite stubborn.
It was a beautiful afternoon and evening. The air was sharp and cold, with the scent of dust and pine trees. Strange little birds with high sweet voices called out in the woods…
The sun slanted behind the hills, and set.
The sky darkened…
We trekked on.
Night.
Dad switched on his flashlight.
We stopped chatting.
Crunch… crunch… our footsteps on the stones and the only sound…
We hurried on, gasping a little, muscles aching and screaming protest at the unaccustomed exercise in thin air…
The stars were out in the night sky. So clear, so bright. The tail end of the Milky Way was visible too!
A sharp breeze was blowing.
What was that…
Crackling branches off to the left, in the forest… Just cannot hurry any faster…
Dad looked grim. He kept up the steady pace, swinging the flashlight across the path every now and then.
Crackle… snap… crackle…. SNAP…
And then suddenly, many voices, and bobbing lights…
A search party from the guesthouse turned the corner.
“Sir! There you are! Come on, we are almost there. Let’s go!”
We reached the guesthouse week past midnight and collapsed on the bed, out of breath, exhausted.
Guesthouse was a grand name for the little house that stood by itself in the middle of the mountain wilderness.
But it was warm, had hot food, and friendly, disbelieving faces of people wondering at the mad city dwellers trekking through bear-infested forests at night!
We walked to the Valley of Flowers the next morning.
Mom was right too.
We never got another opportunity to go there.
Looking back now, I’m glad we took the rrisk. Foolish? Probably…
But what is life, if we don’t grab at chances?
What is life if we take no risks?
What is life if we never affirm its beauty, value, and transcience?
