A Trek to Laam Dal & Baleni Pass

Is there anything that compares to the sheer immensity and magnificence of the Himalayas?

Each year we spend about a week away from 'civilisation' pondering over this question. A week away from internet / mobile connections, roads, toilets and home comforts. This summer it was a trek to Laam Dal and Baleni Pass in the Dhauladhar Mountains of Himachal Pradesh. 

On the maps it did not seem like a difficult trail - the pass was at a height of less than 4000m, the terrain seemed quite all right, and Google Earth told us that in this season we would encounter some snow, mainly on the ridges and mountain peaks. However unseasonal, heavy rains - and snowfall in the mountains -  turned this 'easy' trek into a tough one. We had planned to cross from the Bharmour-Chamba region, across the Dhauladhar Range, to the Kangra Valley. Ultimately we had to turn back from Baleni Pass and retrace our steps because the snow-covered, steep valleys of Kangra were deemed to be too dangerous.

It has been raining all over North India for the past two weeks, and by the time we assembled at Chamba the chances of the trek getting called off seemed like a distinct possibility. Somehow the weather cleared up a bit when we reached our staging point off highway 154A - Brehi Village.

A few hour of trudging through forests and clambering over boulders and streams brought us to a Forest Rest House in Drakund. Here it was bright and sunny - a wide range of birds could be seen: the stunning blue Asian Fairy Bluebirds (Irena puella), golden orioles, yellow-billed blue magpies and parakeets. In the evening it was windy but the sound of distant thunder did not disturb us in our tents.

The next day too was sunny but thanks to the heavy snowfall over the past week we started seeing snow much earlier than expected. We had to cross about seven small glaciers to reach our next camping site at Dugga Goth, a rocky valley studded with massive boulders and ringing with the sound of streams emerging from under one vast glacier that spread from the camping site all the way to the snow-capped mountain peaks that surrounded us. 

This area was well above 2500m and home to the strikingly beautiful Monal pheasants. They have the habit of singing while flying so it was quite easy to spot them flying past in the valleys below, singly or in pairs. There were lots of smaller birds too - redstarts that hopped boldly from one boulder to another, bushchats and flocks of numerous other unidentified birds. The ground here was riddled with holes which turned out to be a vast network of condos belonging to the cute, shy, and elusive Himalayan Marmots!

With our camp at Dugga Goth as the base, we set off the next way to see the lakes. About four hours of climbing through snow brought us to a vast bowl shaped valley at 3395m. There was no sign of any lakes here - just a vast expanse of undulating snow that turned into a sea of blinding white under the afternoon sun. High on the horizon, beautiful cumulus clouds emerged from the far side of the Dhauladhar snow-peaks and drifted past the cobalt blue skies. On the opposite side dark rain-clouds could be seen coming in from the Pir Panjal range.

Mercifully we faced only a small hailstorm on our way back to camp. Tiny pearl-shaped beads bounced off our raincoats as we slid down the snow slopes. While walking on  the glacier the snow had loosened up and the guides kept cautioning us to be extra careful - large cracks could be seen in some areas and the areas near boulders and underground streams were particularly vulnerable to collapsing under your weight.

The next day we started early, hoping to cross Baleni Pass before the sun got too hot -- up at 04:00, a quick breakfast by the campfire and tents packed and ready to move by 05:30. The same snow that had buckled to your ankles (and, at times, knees) yesterday evening, was now hard as rock. As the climb got steeper kept urging us to dig our toes to get a better grip. An outcrop of rocks at Chid-Point provided a resting point where scores of crag-martins circled overhead.

It was 09:55 by the time we zig-zagged our way to the Baleni Pass ridge. What a different vista lay in front of us here! - unlike the snow-covered slopes we had just crossed on the Chamba side, a vast brown Kangra valley lay below us, with a river winding through it and disappearing into the haze. We were struggled to stand in the face of strong winds when the head-guide delivered his verdict - it was too dangerous to climb down the slopes leading to Kangra at this time. We had to turn back.

Climbing up had been a struggle and the very thought of having to go down the same route, at a time when the snow had softened under the sun, was rather disheartening. On the way down the guides urged us to follow their foot prints, digging in our heels first ("hill maro!"). Once the steep gradient had eased we all slid down the snow-slopes and soon we were back on the main glacier with not only our shoes soaking wet but wet bums as well!

It was a long trek back to Kathaid Valley, our last camping site below the snow-line, on the banks of Ravi river. It was 18:30 when we reached here - a welcome end a day of trekking for nearly 12 hours. Over here, our daily ritual of drying our shoes and clothes next to a bonfire, with a hot mug of chai in hand, was cut short by heavy rains. All of us slept well that night - cocooned in our warm, dry sleeping bags while incessant rains slapped the tent all night.

The downpour continued next morning so we had to pack out tents and move out in full rain-gear. Three hours of careful walking down slippery trails brought us back to Brehi. It was bright and sunny now but the guys at the tea-shop refused to believe (until pics were shown), that we had gone all the way up to Baleni Pass in this weather. 

Coming to think of it, climbing up those steep slopes without snow-shoes and crampons, would have been quite impossible if not for the skill and confidence of our amazing guides!

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REFERENCES & LINKS

* https://himtrailadventures.com/baleni-pass-lamdal-lake-trek/ 

* https://www.trekkinginindia.com/trekking-in-himachal/baleni-pass-trek.html

Climbing Mt. Fuji

Every now and then nostalgia bumps into wobbly memory cells, leaving you a bit tongue-tied. This happened to me last week when a friend, an ultra-marathoner,  suddenly asked me -  "I want to climb Mt. Fuji - do you know anybody who can arrange it in the off-season this year?"

While trying hard to remember details of my trip in 2009, I just said, "It all depends on when you are planning to climb..."

For a moment, I could not recall the dates when I climbed that iconic mountain. Nor could I remember the route I took, or the total expense for that trip. Instead, the memories that floated up immediately were -  the taste of the most delicious hot curry rice I'd ever had, at a quaint wooden inn high above the clouds; of the long lines of climbers trudging uphill in pitch darkness at 3:00AM; the cold wind and rains, and of a spectacular sunrise we saw, perched precariously on steep, dark slopes dotted with large chunks of pale, white ice.

Memories of the trek had receded to the bye lanes of my mind. It did pop up occasionally whenever I came across a painting, a photograph, or even an emoji that featured Mt. Fuji. A fleeting thought would then cross my mind - "I have actually been to the top of that mountain!"  A sense of awe and wonder that was, perhaps, bigger than the actual experience.

I had to go back to the notes written six years ago, to be reminded that I owed the trip to a gentleman named Sakata Yoshinori, and to an organisation named JISEDAI. In July 2009, I had responded to a notice that came up at Tsukuba University. I was the only one who registered, so  Sakata-san had traveled all the way from Tokyo, just to brief a single guy.

When we met at the Tsukuba TX station, he was standing next to the ticket counter, soaked in sweat. At a Starbucks table nearby, he had carefully handed me his visiting card, and then spread out his laptop, plugged in a thumb-drive, to explain how I should prepare for the trek.

"It would be a nine-member team this year", he had said "All the others were university students from Tokyo". He explained the itinerary, detailed the expenses (~JPY 20,000 which included bus-rides, boarding, meals), and pointed out the precautions to be taken and then offered to help me find the right equipment for the trip. I definitely needed a 35L backpack, a pair of waterproof trousers and, if possible, ankle-length hiking shoes.

Mr. Sakata even insisted to helping me get the right equipment and took me to a few shops at Tsukuba Centre. Apart from being amazed at his helpfulness, I remember thinking that his well-meaning advise bordered on being fussy and over-cautious. Having done some trekking in the Western Himalaya's, climbing a gentle-looking 3776m peak did not seem like a big deal. And then there was the cost of buying all the new gear...It is only later that I realized that Mt. Fuji was different, and that each item was necessary.

Eight of the nine-member team turned up. We all met outside the Shinjiku station and discovered that an interesting mix of people -- Yeo, a dude from Singapore; Melissa, a budding dentist from Indonesia, along with her two batchmates Pat and Thuy; A South American named German (pronounced Herman), and two other experienced Japanese trekkers - Chiaki and Hiroki.

We all took a bus from Tokyo to the Gotenba (2 hours), and then a local bus to a large facility called Fujinosato, an 'education facility' right next to the JSDF Takigahara camp. It was a sprawling campus with scores of tatami-matted dormitories, forest trails, an archery complex, camping sitesi in the woods, and even a spacious Onsen (hot-spring bath). School children, baseball teams, and various other groups in assorted uniforms milled about the place, waiting for their turn to climb uphill.




Our turn was early next day morning. After breakfast we walked to the base of the 7.8 km Subashiri Trail, downed a few cups of green-tea, and started trekking on  pathway that cuth through the thick forests.

At this point the ground was gently undulating - pathways that cut through the deep, dark volcanic soil and lush vegetation. As we climbed to 6th Station (2400m), and the 7th Station (3000m), forests gave way to sparse scrub vegetation dotting the slopes, and then none at all beyond the Old 7th Station (3200m). We rested for a while at this point at the Miharashikan Hut.  By this time it was cold and windy outside, and, at a time like this, what could be more welcome than a plate of hot curry rice? :)

Shadow of Mt. Fuji on the Clouds (Old 7th Station)

Early next morning, we padded ourselves with warm clothing, fitted head-lamps and walked out into the pitch darkness, to join a steady stream of climbers going uphill. It was between the 8.5th Station - 3450m (Goraikokan Hut), and 9th Station that we noticed that we were far above the clouds. This was also the meeting point of the Yoshida Trail (Yamanishi Prefecture) and, suddenly, it felt like we were all commuters at the Shinjiku Station!

Torches and lights were switched off as everybody settled down on the steep slopes, sitting down wherever they could find some space. As the clouds gradually gathered light, we all seemed to be sitting in a massive amphitheater, waiting for the drama of the rising sun to unfold...and what a sight it was!

Within seconds of the sunrise, a blanket of clouds rolled out reducing visibility to a few meters, and drenching us all in icy rain. We continued moving up at a snail's pace now, a part of a long line of colorful raincoats slowly bobbing to the summit. The last few hundred meters were rather steep and the ropes helped. Finally, when we reached the top, got past the crowds and eateries and looked down the caldera, it seemed so... ordinary.

After offering prayers are the Kusushi Shrine we started our descent. It was a lot faster than I expected because we were just wading down ash-laden slopes. Often our legs would just dig in, right up to our knees with each step.

Wading down the ash-slopes

This is where you realise that Mt. Fuji was quite different from other non-volcanic mountains. The weather was fickle, and the terrain even more so. Each and every item listed by Sakata-san turned out to be essential - the layered clothing, raincoats, and ankle-length boots. Our friend from Singapore made the mistake of coming in shorts and sneakers, and paid the price for it. He had been shivering from the 7th Station, and now, with the ash filling up his sneakers, he was feeling quite miserable all the way down.

In a couple of hours we were down at the Subashiri base station, and then on to the comforts of Fujinosato. After a soak in the steaming Onsen, a hot meal and a nap in the bus back to Tokyo, none of us doubted that Mt. Fuji looked a lot prettier from a distance!

For friends who are trying to climb Mt. Fuji during the off season, my suggestion is simple -- please don't. During the off season, all huts, toilets and first aid stations are closed and most of signs on the trails are removed. Unless, of course, you are part of JSDF, a scientific team or a team with special permission, your are quite unlikely to get beyond the 5th Station.

The climb is not difficult, but given the way the weather changes suddenly, the chances of getting lost in the forests, rain or in the cloud-covered slopes, is quite high, unless, of course, you are travelling with experienced climbers, and following a long line of colorful raincoats all the way to the top!

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LINKS

Official Website for Mt. Fuji Climbers - http://www.fujisan-climb.jp/en/season/

• Climbing season: Early July to Mid-September

Subashiri Trail - http://www.fujiyama-navi.jp/fujitozan/route/page/subashiri/lang/en/

For info on other trails - http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gail-nakada/how-to-climb-mt-fuji_b_3693642.html

A Manga Artist Vanquished

That strange Indian head-shake...

How does a foreign entrepreneur-artist experience !ncredible India?

For a quick and dirty introduction to cultural contrasts, there is no better book than Yukichi Yamamatsu's "Stupid Guy Goes to India" (Indo e Baka ga Yatte-kita).

It is the story is a 56-year-old, out-of-work, enterprising graphic artist who - despite all warnings  - decides to sow the seeds of a Manga-book industry in India. With of budget of JPY 1.2 million (~₹ 7 Lakhs / USD 10k) Yamamatsu flies in to Delhi in 2006, to try and publish Hindi translations of a few famous Japanese Manga books.

The author also happens to be a cancer survivor with a missing sigmoid colon, resulting in very weak bowels. In a country suffering a chronic shortage of usable public toilets, this becomes a formidable handicap. In spite of all odds, he rents a one-room-set in North East Delhi for ~₹ 5,000 / month and starts looking for translators, assistants, publishers and then, finally, retailers for selling the books.

As expected, he encounters all the troubles that beset foreigners to India -- dishonest, agressive auto-wallah's, beggars, filthy streets, and that strange Indian way of shaking heads to convey everything from consent to directions, and disdain. And then there are other spectrum of experiences that are reserved for only the most daring of Japanese visitor -- winning the odds at the Race Course, trying to hawk books at the second-hand market for books at Daryaganj, attempting to start art classes, a dabble in FMCG (cello-tape dispensers), and the grand finale - a visit to the prostitutes at GB Road!

Unfortunately, this is not a book with a happy ending. In the end Yamamatsu's efforts come to naught. He finds no takers for his translated Manga's or his tape-dispensers, and he leaves six months later with the question - "Even though there are countries where masses of people are illiterate, is there any nation so idiotic that they won't look at easy-to-understand, easy-to-read Manga?"

The sad part about this book is that it merely reinforces the incredulous, negative image of India. Its leaves you with yet another predictable glimpse of the yawning cultural gap that separates India and Japan.

And yet, it is certainly a book worth reading. Yamamatsu may not have succeeded in translating Manga into Hindi but Kumar Sivasubramanian does a fine job of translating the book from Japanese into English. Small mercies.

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LINKS & REFERENCES

* Yamamatsu Yukichi (2006): Stupid Guy Goes to India (Translated by Kumar Sivasubramanian 2011), Blaft-Tranquebar 2011
* 2012 book review - DNA -

http://www.dnaindia.com/lifestyle/review-book-review-stupid-guy-goes-to-india-1672968

* 2012 Book Review - The Hindu - http://www.thehindu.com/features/magazine/showcase-manga-comes-to-india/article2927589.ece

Chocho Michimichimichi = Tokyo Mitsubishi! :)

Up & Away: Para-gliding in Himachal Pradesh

"It is quite easy....just lean, put your weight forward and run."

In any other place this seemed like an easy instruction to follow, but I was standing on a cliff 2500m high in the Himalayan foothills, preparing for tandem para-gliding jump, with an instructor standing behind me.

A few minutes earlier, we had driven up from a Tibetan settlement called Bir, near Palampur, Himachal Pradesh. A friend had called up a people she knew and were now waiting for our turn to jump. On the barren hilltop called Billing, a young woman was screaming that she did not want to jump while her boyfriend giggled nervously, putting on a brave face.

While the couple sorted out their nerves, our instructors quickly laid out parachutes on the hilltop, strapped us to the bucket-like suits, and before we knew it, our family of three had 'leaned forward' and found our feet feet suddenly dangling limp as the parachute soared into the skies.

It was an amazing experience. Each of us swirled over the hilltops in gentle circles and slowly glided over thick forests, monasteries, villages and wheat-fields before touching down at Bir.

As soon as we landed, the pilots gathered up the billowing parachutes, folded them back into their bags and guided us back to our starting point.

We had a  hearty lunch, picked up a few bottles of fruit wine and drove back to Palampur, stopping for a few minutes at the picturesque Binsar temple.

A few days after got back home we got a bit of news that rattled us. Our friend in Palampur had jumped off the same cliff and his parachute had developed a snag. Both the instructor and the student had plunged into the forest below and had been lucky to get their parachute tangled on an oak tree. It took more than two hours for them to disentangle themselves and clamber down the 60ft tree.

Considering  the fact there there were plenty of bald, deforested hills in the Bir-Billing area, this had been a close shave indeed!

Now, looking back, we realized that there had been absolutely no paperwork involved in our little adventure. We had not registered ourselves with any adventure company, we did not know if our instructors and pilots were adequately qualified for tandem flying and we had not received any receipts for the Rs.1500 each of us paid for the jump.

Was there any accountability in this line of adventure tourism?

As always, there are two sides to the story. The entrepreneurs who organize these adventure camps are quite wary of government oversight. The tourism-department 'inspectors' have neither the stomach nor the aptitude to handle the outdoors. Most of them would just be interested in squeezing the entrepreneurs for handing out permits and clearance certificates.

So, as of now, it appears that the para-gliding entrepreneurs just "insure" themselves offering free para-gliding trips to friends and families of the local decision-makers.  If you want a free-ride, all you have to do is turn up at Bir and flaunt your 'connections'.

In the long run, we all lose. Fewer people will try out this amazing sport. The total absence of paperwork or any form of oversight also guarantees we will not learn the right lessons when para-gliders suddenly drop off the skies.