TREKKING

By: SHANTANU  MUKHOPADHYAY, India

One of the prettier sights in the hills is a couple of owns facing each other on opposite banks of a river.  The reason perhaps is that from either you can see in detail the houses and bazaars of the other rise vertically in a multitide of steps, something not quite possible in the plains.  Okhimath and Guptkashi on the Mandakini are one such pair; Chamoli and Gopeshwar on the Alokananda, another.  The mighty rivers rush down magnificent gorges to meet at Rudraprayag, the focal point of Garhwal.

There is an exhilaration fair-weather road that links Gopeshwar with Okhimath, offering a ringside view of Garhwal’s wilderness.  It’s the road we take as we leave sunny Gopeshwar and head for the clouds.  Our bus whines and splutters as it drives uphill through tunnels of seemingly impenetrable foliage.  Occasional clearings with sleepy hamlets provide a break from the dense forests all along the road; billowing clouds part suddenly to reveal breathtaking peaks of the Great Himalayas.  As the road ascends further, the vegetation gets sparse.  The moist deciduous forest with its rich undergrowth makes way for lofty pines, junipers and firs.  Around the highest point of the road lies Chopta (9,500 feet) – a tree-ringed alpine meadow with a handful of inns.  It’s the starting point of the short but steep hike to Tunganath, a temple to Lord Shiva.

When the bus drops us at Chopta after a three-hour ride, rain and sleet have brought the temperature down to near freezing point.  Breathing out streams of vapour we walk across the sparkling wet asphalt to the nearest tea shop before we seek lodging for the night at Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam’s Tourist Bungalow.

The GMVN runs a tourist complex at Chopta with a bungalow, cottages and tents.  But it is at the cluster of small spartan inns (called ‘chttis’) nestling below the ancient conifers, that one gets the flavour of the place.  Mangal Singh invites us into one his pleasant simian face all lit up with a smile of welcome.  His inn is a watering hole for local Garhwalis on their way to the shrine, nomadic Gujjar tribesmen seeking a break from grazing their buffaloes, pilgrims from faraway places, and of course tourists.

He regales us with anecdotes of the jungles and the hills (how he escaped from a rampaging bear in the nearby forests, for example) while he brews our umpteenth cups of tea.  A cold rain patters on the cobblestones outside.  We gather around the hearth and soak in the warmth, feeling reluctant to return to the cold, impersonal bungalow.  We start for Tunganath next morning amidst sparkling sunshine, and our spirits soar as we breathe in the cold, crisp mountain air.  Few people visit Thunganath these days.  As a result, the narrow forest path paved with roughly hewn stone slabs has remained unspoilt.  It appears to be longer than the 3.5 kilometres it’s supposed to be, due to the steep gradient that takes you from 9,500 feet at Chopta  to  12,000 feet at Tunganath.  The path traverses one forested ridge after another, allowing you glimpses of sweeping snow-clad ranges.  Halfway up the road there is a verdant undulating meadow, a thin stream trickling down through it and herds of sheep grazing contentedly.  You have to stop for a cup of tea in one of the huts there while you admire the spllendour of the landscape.

Resuming the walk, a welcome patch of flat rocky terrain soon greets our eyes.  Turing around a bend we see the Tunganath temple presiding over a small congregation of huts.  Soon we were stretching our limbs in the sun while an old man with a weatherbeaten face as rugged as the hills of Tunganath fussed over us.  Bachchan Singh, 85, the grand old man of Tunganath, has been spending the summer months there since he was in his teens.  Now his son Vikram Singh looks after the family inn, while Bachchan Singh fumbles with his memories and old visitors’ books, chatting up tourists by the fireside.  Vikram turned out to be a great cook; whatever we asked he would prepare to perfection.

The weather was sullen next morning and we whiled away the time strolling around the temple and the cliffs.  It was chilly even in the middle of June; no wonder Tunganath remains snowbound half the year.  At over 12,000 feet, it is the highest of the Panch Kedars – the five temples to Lord Shiva in Garhwal – but also the most easily accessible because you have to walk a mere 3.5 kms from the motorable road.  As we sat down to offer Puja at the rain swept temple, the priest chanted hymns to the glory of Lord Shiva.  Copper plate deities in the shrine, resembling prehistoric totems, glared down at us.  Shiva Pashupti, as we know, was not a part of the early Vedic pantheon but was a non-Aryan god drafted in much later.

The rain continued to play a cat-and-mouse game with us.  Wherever we came out for a walk, a quick drizzle would send us scampering away to the nearest shop.  We spent the better part of the afternoon indoors, and asked Vikram to wake us up very early next morning.  That he did, and just at dawn.  Stumbling out of the hut to check it the weather was clear, we stood mesmerised.  Yesterday’s clouds had vanished; a treasure-trove of snow-clad peaks towered over us.  The sky warmed a bit and the turrets of the Choukhamba massif blushed a pale pink.  Gradually the colour swept across the horizon, leaping from peak to peak and spreading downwards to paint the mountains.  We rushed up the bridle path to Chandrashila (13,000 feet) at the top of the Tunganath hill.  Slipping in the ground frost we scrambled up the steep slope to find the sun enveloped in a silvery haze away in the east.  A multitude of peaks – Nanda Devi, Choukhamba, Kedarnath, Kedardome, Mandani Parvat, Satopath, Jaonli & so on – stood glowing in the cold June morning.  Chandrashila itself was a tiny, flat rooftop with a few cairns and a red-and-yellow flag fluttering in the breeze.  We added stones to the cairns and made an offering of chocolates to the gods (who must have been somewhere very near).  Time had lost its meaning; we sat spellbound before the awesome majesty of the countains.

Dawn at Tunganath, a few pilgrims had started arriving already, taking advantage of the beautiful weather.  One was a turbaned young monk with shinning, hypnotic eyes.  Clad in flaming saffron he was circumambulating the  temple, chanting hymns.  When he saw our rucksacks piled on the roadside (we were about to leave), he glanced at me.  ‘Trekkers?’ he said.  I nodded.  ‘Doing the Panch-Kedar trail?’ he asked.  I told him we weren’t; we had just  finished one trek and were squeezing in a couple of days at Tunganath before we started on another.  ‘I will tell you about some remote places in these mountains; very few people know of them.  Just let me come down from Chandrashila’, he said, and walked away.

We waited.  My friends were getting restless, but I was curious.  What could a young monk, roaming these mighty mountains on his own, have to tell us?  A couple of hours passed.  Rain-clouds were gathering in the valley below.  My friends began insisting that we start on our way down if we were to avoid getting drenched.  As we picked up the rucksacks I walked towards the bridle path to Chandrashila to find out if he was descending.  Straining my eyes I spotted  a speck of saffron on the hilltop.  Once I looked through the binoculars, I could see a tiny figure, standing by the cairns of Chandrashila.  He stood perfectly still; but the wind blew his robes in such a way that he looked like some giant eagle flapping its wings.  I let out a sigh and turned back.  It was a pity we couldn’t wait any longer.  But then, perhaps we weren’t destined to meet him again.

Later that evening we were back in Chopta.  This time Mangal Singh was cooking our dinner as he bantered away with his jungle lore.  We gathered around the hearth; but the occasional gust of rain-soaked wind still sent us into bouts of shivering.  Small groups of pilgrims and visitors were coming in and Mangal Singh welcomed them like old friends.  In fact, Mangal Singh seemed to be an old friend of mine, too.  We’d have to leave Chopta next morning, and I was sorry about that.  But, felt eager as well, for another trek was awaiting us.

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