On a pre-1947 map of India’s north-west border with Tibet, the Hindustan–Tibet road is clearly marked by a dotted red line winding its way up the course of the Sutlej River. In the nineteenth century the road was one of the most important trade routes between India and Tibet. Coarsely woven blankets, tobacco, horseshoes, saddles and even firearms were carried north along the precipitous trails where they were traded for salt and the highly prized supplies of fine shawl wool, the pashm.
The main impediment to trade was the terrain. In places the trail was hardly suitable for laden porters let alone mule trains. Following the Gurkha wars in 1814–15 the British were keen to open up trade throughout the newly acquired territories between Shimla, Kinnaur and Tibet. However, although plans were drawn up at the time, it still took the British the best part of forty years, until 1854, to complete a trail suitable for commercial trade. ‘Does the Lord Sahib think the rocks are made of soft cheese?’ was a pointed and often-repeated remark, as the villagers toiled for months at a time to clear the huge landslides. To complete the trail, the authorities relied heavily on the system of beggar, literally forced labour. Like most rulers in the hills, the Raja of Rampur had long considered a man’s strength to be a physical asset indebted to the state. It was a system exploited to the hilt and one that continued in some Himalayan regions up until the turn of the twentieth century.
The trail was no more than a bridle path until the Indo–China border war of 1962. Only then was the strategic need for a road justified. Even now it is in constant need of repair, as anyone who travels along the highway in the late spring will testify.
I looked forward to completing a challenging circuit of the mountain region of Kinnaur. My route would involve one difficult pass crossing before wandering down the modern day Hindustan–Tibet road—now known as National Highway 22—to the region’s administrative headquarters at Rekong Peo. The ten-day stage would provide a link between the alpine pastures and Hindu farming villages—the Summer Rambler’s country—that I had followed for the past two weeks and the Trans-Himalayan regions that border Tibet. After completing the demanding circuit I would be within a month or so of reaching Manali.
From our camp to the north of the Rupin Pass (4540 metres) I could see all that lay ahead of me. Immediately opposite were the glistening summits of the Kinnaur Kailas Range. Below me the tiny alpine pastures give way to dark forests of deodar, spruce and pine. In the depths of the verdant Sangla Valley the rustic villages awaited the morning sun. The view certainly compensated for the previous day’s efforts.
To reach Kinnaur, Almas, Jeet and I, together with our team of porters from Sangri, had ascended the upper reaches of the secluded Rupin Valley. That’s when the weather had closed in. Ominous clouds had built up in the early morning as we set off to cross the Rupin Pass on the crest of the Dhaula Dhar Range. To reach the pass involved ploughing through deep snow before tackling a steep and exposed 200-metre rock gully.
At the base of the pass Almas and I took stock of the gully. ‘It looks OK,’ mused Almas, even though he had not been over the pass before, and neither had I so early in the season. I nodded, anxious not to undermine the confidence of the porters who were by now sitting on their loads smoking their bedis—the local cigarettes—as they waited for the signal to go. ‘You lead and I will follow with the porters,’ I suggested. With that, Almas headed up the last snow slope beneath the gully. After heaving himself up the first series of boulders Almas waited for the porters and me to follow. The lead porters experienced little difficulty in finding footholds for their rubber-soled boots on the boulders but the porters at the back were less confident. Without waiting for them Almas headed upwards taking the lead porters with him. Jeet also went on leaving me cursing and doing my best to encourage the younger porters with the heaviest loads. Although there was no technical climbing, no tenuous hand or footholds, one false step by the front runners could dislodge a rock the size of a house brick with horrifying results.
‘Wait!’ I implored, trying my best to ensure that no porter stood directly below another when ascending particularly treacherous sections where the rocks were covered in a thin coating of ice. Several times I held my breath as I waited and watched them negotiate the tricky sections. I could hear my heart pounding and felt the sweat dripping off my back. Looking up, I noticed that any suggestion of blue sky had by now disappeared; dark clouds billowed above and the temperature in the gully had dropped dramatically.
For many of the porters this was their first serious pass crossing and I could see by their expressions that this was not what they had expected. Strong, agile, yet inexperienced, they would look to me for directions as to when to start and when to rest—something that should have come naturally to them. At last, after the best part of an hour, I could see Almas waiting at what I assumed was the crest of the pass. ‘How much further?’ I bellowed but to no avail. He had not heard me. It was only a few minutes later that I heard the muffled whoops of encouragement of the lead porters. I knew then that we didn’t have far to go. Just below the pass I left the final porters to rest and headed up to Almas.
‘Glad we made it,’ I gasped. As the porters exchanged hugs of sheer relief at reaching the pass I tried to get my bearings. There was no familiar ridge or valley or even a glimpse of the mighty Kinnaur Kailas Range to the north. Thick swirling mist precluded any sense of elation. I could not see more than 5 metres in front of me. There was no possibility of any photographic opportunities; we could have been anywhere. After less than ten minutes on the pass we decided to head down. The porters slipped and slithered down the snow slopes. Rolls of thunder could be heard in the distance and there was sense of urgency to get down to camp without delay.
We just made it. Within minutes of establishing our camp the first heavy spots of rain hit our tents. Then the heavens opened, testing the waterproofing of my nylon dome tent and Jeet’s dhaba. Judging by the contented expressions of the porters their canvas tent was up to scratch. Muffled comments were followed by shrieks of laughter as the porters reminded each other that they were within a few hours of reaching the town of Sangla and completing their trek the next day.
~~A Long Walk In The Himalaya -by- Garry Weare
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