After our day of rest in Ringmo it was time to move on. I was certainly keen to get back on the trail and I think others were too. The end of the trek in Juphal was still over 25 miles away over less rough but still demanding terrain. While we could have done that distance in a day if necessary we would have arrived very late in the day and would have had less time to enjoy the increasingly green and verdant surroundings. Instead we decided to head for Chhepka around 15 miles away, which would make the walk to Juphal as an easy final half-day or so. In light of this breakfast was at a leisurely 8 a.m. and we enjoyed the last of our sheep with tea and bread.

At an equally leisurely pace bags were packed and loaded. Then by around 9:15 we were on our way, warm-stoned dwellings reflected golden morning sunshine and the distant grey-brown mountain ridges cut a sharp and vivid contrast to the clear blue cloudless sky. As we prepared to leave the matronly lady had a few brightly-coloured hand woven scarfs for sale then we bade her farewell without ceremony. Children were already playing in the dusty courtyard as we headed for the track south and as we were by now a common sight about Ringmo our departure went unremarked.

It was great to be walking again. The dusty animal dropping-laden streets of the village soon gave way to a stony track with low scrub on either side. Ahead was a pine forest backed by a mountain ridgeline in stark silhouette against blue. Striding past a huge ochre and cream chorten we soon caught up with a herder and his yaks and followed him along the pathway to the forest. Not being in any hurry we were content to wait but the herder soon waved us past and we had the forest path to ourselves, bright sunlight filtering through the green making subeams through the dust kicked up by passing feet.

The trees soon gave way to the kind of terrain we were more used to; a narrow sandy track clinging to the side of a mountain. Ever since we lost height heading towards Lake Phoksundo the surroundings have been less stark and there has been more evidence of habitation. The track itself was indented with the footprints of many animals and their herders while from time to time prayer flags of red, blue, yellow, green and white drew our gaze upwards from the drabness underfoot to the glorious blue sky. From our perch high above the Phoksundo Khola, while our view south remained dominated by the jagged 5000m (16,000ft+) ridgeline to the south-east, deep down on the valley floor there were settlements and walled enclosures. Both looked barren in November but their presence showed that in spring life would return. Meanwhile on our side of the valley, in the vicinity of Nepal’s highest waterfall – on the Suli Khola, a tributary of the Phoksundo Khola itself and whose dimension proved impossible to photograph meaningfully without a wide-angle lens – a colourful shelter appeared seemingly balanced on a small pinnacle ahead.

Taking the appearence of the shelter as an excuse to prolong today’s relatively short journey we stopped for a while to admire the stunning views. Although eyes were initially drawn to the waterfall to our left and the settlements of Rike and Maduwa in the Maduwa Khola valley snaking around the feet of the mountains to the east there were a succession of passers-by. While our laden ponies grazed the thin scrub nearby the herder we had passed earlier in the day hailed us as he drove his yaks past at some pace. A few minutes later 2 men passed us with 4 yaks adorned with load-carrying paraphernalia but no actual loads, followed a while later by the mens’ families; a lady in traditional dress carrying a youngster in a black and blue scarf papoose on her back and 2 young boys careering down the track without fear of the drop to their left.

Thirty minutes down the track we came upon a small settlement that appeared only recently vacated and whose inhabitants we took to have left to head south, although from there less than a mile ahead, several colourful roofs could be seen.

Just 15 minutes later we were alongside the Jharana Hotel and Lodge. This 4 room, 15 bed, 1 toilet establishment is basic and guests will need their sleeping bags in lieu of bedding, but it boasts 24 hour electricity, presumably due to the large array of solar panels in the garden, and running water. Next door the lodge sported a sign saying (curiously given that the colourful roofs we saw from the deserted settlement turned out to be nearby village of Sanduwa) “Wel-Come To Chunuwar (3134m)”. It went on to advertise: Lodge, Food & Beverages, Campsite, Garden, Vegetable, TeleCom.” It looked pleasant enough with sturdy walls, wooden-framed windows and doors with good padlocked bolts.

Next door was a suspension bridge across the river to Sanduwa. This splendid bridge, built in 2014, bore a sign saying “Donated by KADOORIE Agricultural Aid Association British Gurkhas Nepal.” The KAAA is the Kadoorie Charitable Foundation’s Nepal field team and has a close relationship with British Gurkhas Nepal. The KAAA is a long-term implementing partner of the Gurkha Welfare Trust and provides funding towards the trust’s community medical camps in remote areas. The KAAA has an extensive programme of community aid projects that develop the basic infrastructure of Nepal, improving village economies and quality of life, and this bridge was just one example. In 2015 and 2016 alone Kadoorie provided 5 micro hydro projects to support remote villages, built 20 bridges, built 20 remote medical camps and completely rebuilt 3 villages following the Nepal earthquakes. The KAAA was founded by the late Sir Horace Kadoorie CBE, a Hong Kong-based industialist, hotelier and philanthropist. Well done Sir! From Sanduwa there were many more river crossings as the path zig-zagged along the increasingly rapid and channelled Phoksundo Khola. With a Scandinavian appearance the terrain became more green with evergreen trees predominating. Conveniently, at around lunchtime we stumbled upon a small military base whose cooks were happy to sell us delicious Dal Bhat (Nepalese lentil curry) and some fairly cool San Miguel after which it was further criss-crossing of the river on normally, but not always, safe-looking wooden bridges.

It was after one of these crossings we saw a group of people and their pack animals ahead. We didn’t recognise these people as those who passed us earlier. They were in a small clearing to one side of the river and had makeshift campling equipment. A small group were higher up the mountainside to the rear of their camp and they were immediately recognised. To my delight it was the Boy in the Orange Jacket and his blue-scarved mother with a few others. They were gathering firewood and when they saw and recognised us little waves were excahnged and ‘Namaste’s’ called. Tim exchanged a few words with a girl wearing glasses. We had seen her before and she was notable as glasses are not common in Dolpo. How extraordinary that we were still in the footsteps of the transhumant family from Saldang. We were touched at the small recognition.

Moving on down the river there were periods when we were in a flat but still narrow part of the valley…

… and others when it was distinctly vertiginous and great care was needed to avoid a calamitous fall to the river far below.

Mercifully those narrow sections became less common as the surrounds, in the space of an hour or two, went from looking Scandinavian to looking more British. Deciduous tress became more prevalent and the terrain underfoot went from rocky/sandy to rocky/earthen. Were it not for the obvious lack of British species we could have easily been in familiar woodland.

The cross-river hop-scotch and occasional revertions to steep-sided and thickly evergreen-wooded narrow gorges continued for another hour or so until we reached Chhepka at late afternoon. Chhepka is a single-street settlement of half a dozen dwellings and in the photo below Tim appears to be surveying it with a degree of scepticism despite the sign welcoming travellers to the Yak Hotel and Lodge.

While it lacked the running water promised at the Jharana Hotel back up-river, and it certain lacked the other’ sunny disposition, it did have electricity and we were welcomed, found rooms, and fed. I shared with Tim in the best room. I didn’t dare enquire after the rooms which Lizzy, Mark and Jovi had, but they survived.

The hotel dining room was across the street, outside of which Gyalbu is showing Sangye where the toilets are – in a shed to one side of a field 50 yards away. The sign on the side of the dining room, on the wooden wall next to the shop (yes, that’s the settlement shop), was in exactly the same style and bore the same text as that which advertised the Lodge next to the Jharana Hotel. Except this one said “Wel-Come to Chhepka”.

And welcome we were. The style of the dining room was what we had come to expect with a central stove and low benches to act a tables while diners sat on mats on the floor. We enjoyed black tea while waiting for the horses to arrive with our gear and once they had, and our gear was in our rooms, we ate. Meat and potatoes in a tasty rich sauce was washed down with more San Miguel and we played cards in the gloom… …while our horseman, Sangye and Gyalbu looked on in amusement beneath a sign unexpectedly saying ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’.

The day, a day which saw us lose another 1000m (over 3000ft) in elevation while experiencing a range of different terrains in less than 20 miles, ended with a final unexpected pleasure. The lady owner open a cupboard in the corner of the room to reveal a small television. She explained that as it had been a sunny day she had plently of solar electricity and we could watch football on TV. So we did. San Miguel in hand, no sound and with a picture that was scratchy at best, we sat and watched football, while the lady owner spun yarn by the fire. 

Today, Saturday 19th November, was a rest day.

It began quietly enough with delicious egg banjos being served with tea. The banjos were omelettes rather than fried eggs between 2 slices of Nepali bread and they were going down very well. Until, that is, there was a bit a commotion outside. Further investigation revealed it was a sheep making a fuss in the courtyard; and not just any sheep but our sheep. Sure enough the sheep of which we had bought half the previous evening had just been swiftly despatched, skinned, butchered and halved. Each half was now drying on the end of a plank of wood in the corner of the enclosure where yesterday the yaks had been snuffling. Meanwhile the butcher, the owner of our guesthouse-cum-hotel, was cleaning the entrails and the fleece on a wooden platform close by where he could attempt to keep the flies off of the meat.

After breakfast and our introduction to the realities of butchery in Dolpo, in mid-morning while Mark went in search of photographs Tim, Jovi, Lizzie and I went to the lake for a wash. Passing to our left the site of our post-San Miguel disorientation yesterday evening we once more faced the limpid Lake Phoksundo.

Unseen in the photo above there was a Bön temple on a promontary to the right. The Bön religion pre-dates buddhism and is believed to have arisen in the 11th century. While Tibetan people and those of Tibetan ancestry such as the Dolpopa are predominantly Buddhist it is estimated that around 10%, known as Bonpo, follow Bön. These include the people of Ringmo.

At our side of the lake, a sensible distance from the outflow river – the Phoksundo Khola, we enjoyed the water’s freshness. Variously washing ourselves and our exceptionally grubby clothes we established discreet distances along the bank. My underpants were sensible black and had a similar cut to normal swimming trunks so I stripped to them and to the amusement of the others waded into the lake. To their astonishment I then submerged and, trying to make light of the effect the cold was having (the water having recently arrived from the icy mountain streams on either side) bobbed around for a while. This was my first all-over wash since the ‘stand-in-a-bucket’ event that resulted in my foot going into the long-drop toilet in Saldang and a less than relaxing wash. Sure, the lake was freezing cold but I felt clean for the first time in ages and was soon back on the bank drying off, supressing a shiver or two. With clean pants donned I lay like a large pink lizard on a large flat rock while my washing dried. After 30 minutes or so we were joined by Gyalbu and Sangye and chatted in the sunshine.

Shortly after noon someone suggested refreshment. Although lunch wasn’t long away such treats shouldn’t be missed when you’re not sure when the next may arise and adjoining the restaurant visited yesterday there was a small shop. Amid speculation as to whether biscuits, chocolate, or perchance another chilled San Miguel, were to be found we headed uphill as though we hadn’t seen a shop for weeks. The last we had seen was in Kagbeni at the start of the trek nearly 3 weeks before. Although we had made good use of the travelling tent-shop in Shimen just a week ago that seemed a long distant memory, being several passes and adventures in the past.

It was now clear from the sign above the door, proudly announcing in English, Nepali and Tibetan that this was the ‘Kanjirowa Traders & Suppliers with Restaurant’. Inside we found Dolpo retail heaven. There were drinks aplenty including bottled San Miguel and canned Lhasa beer. There was Ruslan vodka and Pepsi in cans, Frooti fruit juice, plastic bottles of Coca-Cola, Fanta and Sprite. There were bottles labeled ‘Virgin’ that I don’t think was oil. There was Khukri rum from Kathmandu. There was even Royal Stag, an Indian whisky. I mention this as it was so unexpected. There is not a road for miles and all of this must have been brought in on foot. But never mind the drinks. There were other more useful things too such as, to mention but a few, torches and batteries, lighters, crisps and other dry snacks, pony harnesses and adornment including a red-dyed yak’s tail, locally woven scarves, tins of vegetables, jars of peanut butter, trays of eggs, and clothing including trainers, flip-flops and more beside.

But I have left the best to last. An item of sustenance and joy that I last enjoyed many days ago and which is my staple mountain snack. The shop had just one, for an amazing 150 rupees (that’s about £1.10p). It needs no further introduction (cue drum roll…..)

Yessss! Cleaned from the lake and wearing fresh clothes, warmed by the sun, in the company of great trekking buddies, refreshed by chilled beer (Lhasa on this occasion) and munching a Snickers. Does it get better than that?

Next to the shop was a tent in front of which 3 people were working. A woman in a purple jacket and black dress was sat cross-legged on the ground spinning yarn. Next to her on stools was the a couple we first saw in the the hotel kitchen/diner yesterday. Then they were preparing food and the woman was memorable as she was wearing strident green trousers and a pink jacket. Now she and her partner, also dressed exactly as previously, were making rugs in the sunshine. The photo below shows the scene. It is not my finest as the colourful lady is obscured by our horseman but hopefully youl’ll get the gist.

We were then shown into the tent and there were about two dozen chickens inside. The mystery of the appearance of the eggs had been solved. This part of Ringmo was a veritable hive of activity.

After a lunch of fried lamb (ours) and more wonderful Nepali bread I put my solar charger on the roof to ensure my camera had power for the next few days. Actually that was my iPhone but coverage was a rarity so it was never turned on. I then took out my contact lenses to give my eyes a break for the first time in several days and spent an hour or so re-packing my main bag so that the items needed during the last days of the trek were to the top. Through the window of our room I had a good view onto the roof next door where women were making ‘corn dollies’ although the significance of this would not become clear until later.

Down in the courtyard before dinner Gyalbu and I found the matronly lady who greeted us upon our arrival working. She was grinding grain with a sizeable decorated pole in a hollowed out slab of stone in the same way we might grind pepper in a pestle and mortar.

Before dinner in the hotel we were joined by a travelling Dolpo-pa businessman. He was from Dho Tarap 20 miles or so away to the east. That town of over a 1000 people used to be the capaital of Dolpo before the region was annexed by the King of Gorkha in the 17th century. We had not visited Dho but passed within about 10 miles of it when heading north from Chharka Bhot towards Tinje just over a week previously. He was trying to establish tea houses and other services for trekkers in Dolpo so that local people could generate more income. He was concerned that while trekking was on the increase the revenue generated by the compulsory purchase of trekking permits went to the government and was not ploughed back. He went on to say, and I have no corroborative evidence but report just what he said, that in many villages where health posts, post offices or schools (for example) are built by foreign aid they frequently fall into disuse. This was because they were often not supported with Nepalese government funding to pay staff to run or maintain them.

At dinner the hotel owner and his wife were joined by their daughter and son, his son’s wife and their child, and by the matronly lady I saw grinding grain earlier. These were the same people we had with us at dinner the previous day, with the addition of the child. The child caused much amusement by running around the kitched with sheep intenstines on a stick occasionally touching the stove to cook it, in the same way children elsewhere might do with dough on a green twig around a campfire. To complete the picture, and don’t read this while eating, handkerchiefs and tissues have no place here and the child’s runny nose was cleared from its face with a deft lick from Mum. Meanwhile the owner, that is the man who butchered the sheep in the morning, refined his work on the floor with the meat on a plastic grain sack. Oblivious to all this the lady of the house quietly sang songs while spinning yarn by the warmth of the stove.

After a while we were joined by the travelling businessman’s 16 year old son, Urker. He told me that he would leave Dho Tarap for school in Kathmandu the following year and he would be there for 5 years. He then showed me his swollen thumb which he had broken several days ago when he fell from a horse. I asked him if he liked football and he said that he had never played, nor watched, a game of football. Some of his friends had seen football on TV but he hadn’t. While there were some families in Dho with a television his family didn’t own one as his father disapproved. Urker said that when he left school he would become a monk in Kathmandu like his older brother. His older sister was working in Kathmandu now and he could join her but he wanted to be a monk. He was interested in my life and work and smiled broadly when I showed him photographs of my wife, children and grand-children. We had quite a chat before he was taken to his room by his his father. His passing comment was that he thought Chinese clothing was rubbish because it didn’t last. I was left to reflect and be very grateful indeed for the opportunity to meet that young man who, without formal schooling, spoke very passable English in addition to his native Nepalese and the Tibetan of his ancesters. Good luck Urker.

Following a very tasty dinner of lamb and potatoes and a more modest amount of Roxy than Friday evening it was time for bed. The women were still at work on the roof next door, now illuminated by 3 battery-powered lightbulbs. There were 4 people in a square alternately threshing barley by hand in the weak light. The rythmic threshing was quite restful which was just as well as it went on all night. These people were working 24/7 with only short breaks to try and finish the harvesting over the next 2 weeks as by then the weather would have closed in and they must leave Ringmo. Once more I was stunned by the hardship of life in this region. Even some of the residents of Ringmo, on the face of it and by Dolpo standards a relatively prosperous village, were transhumant. Despite the increasing revenue from tourism as evidenced by the new hotel, the restaurant with its remarkable shop, and the climate being more clement than further north, some people in Ringmo cannot sustain themselves during winter and will by early December join the annual exodus south.

After the thrill of trekking the lake path in the company of the transhumant Dolpo-pa family from Saldang our afternoon in warm and sunny Ringmo was no less fun; just less precipitous and somewhat warmer.

Ringmo, shown on some maps as Ringmogaon, is a traditional village with a seasonal population of about 200. Quite populous by local standards its principal businesses were yak herding and general trading but increasingly tourism is a source of welcome revenue to an otherwise still poor area.

Characteristically dry and dusty under a sky as blue and crystal clear as the lake Ringmo nestles on the banks of the Phoksundo Khola on what is becoming one of the most popular trekking routes in Dolpo. While electricity remains provided entirely by solar power there is one telephone, presumably in the post office which must have been cunningly concealed. Such is the hope of the residents that a new hotel has been built by the headman to attract more visitors.

I understand there were enquiries made by the owner when he learned we weren’t staying there, instead electing to spend a couple of nights with another family who had added bedrooms to their existing house and called it a ‘hotel’ and which was recommended by our horseman. Leaving to one side the basis for that recommendation, while the new hotel stood on high ground with a pleasing view over the village and its surroundings, our chosen abode had more homely qualities; think rustic guesthouse. Reached down a series of alleyways between low, flat-roofed stone buildings variously housing people, yaks and grain, and often all three, dodging goats and inquisitive grubby children we were led to an open courtyard.

There in front of us was a delightful house. Backed by the azure-crowned mountains  and forests was a two-storey building. Its lower floor was of original construction newly fitted with shuttered wooden window frames and doors while the upper floor was all new. Sympathetically built of local stone and rough mortar and also fitted with new windows and doors, one of which was reached by a wooden corner balcony, this floor featured a reassuringly waterproofed roof. Around the courtyard various articles of clothing were drying draped over stacks of firewood, yaks were snuffling around an evil-smelling enclosure, and by the entrance was the customary long-drop toilet. Despite first appearances and any thought of staying up the hill in the new hotel having been banished, we soon warmed to the guesthouse with its cheery demeanour, colourful flags and sunny countenance and our ponies were immediately at home.

We were welcomed by a rosy-cheeked matronly lady in traditional dress who invited us to leave our gear outside for now and go to the kitchen, first on the right through the door in the corner. Inside we found a younger couple preparing food. The room was what we had come to expect in Dolpo. There was a central wood- (or dung-) burning stove (this one with a rickety stove pipe) on which were placed saucepans, frying pans and a kettle. The man sat to one side cross legged on the floor while the woman, in bright green loose trousers and a white-trimmed pink anorak, was on a low stool. Thanks to the new windows the room was not as dark as some and we could see many shelves bearing all manner of cookware, flasks, jugs, plates, bowls, cups, utensils and dry foodstuffs. In one corner was a cupboard which at first sight appeared to be filled with food. The quantity of hardware suggested this was indeed a guesthouse-cum-hotel and we were promptly seated on the floor behind the usual low benches upon which was placed some tea. We were soon joined by other members of the owners’ extended family, 3 men and 3 women in total, who proceeded to laugh and chatter with Gyalbu and Sangye. Then, joy of joys, lunch was served; an awesome omelette! We and eggs had been strangers for some time and their re-appearance was as welcome as it was unexpected.

After lunch we were shown to our rooms. I was to share with Mark in the room on the left in the photo above – the one reached by the balcony- and jolly comfortable it was too.

It was a dry and clean room which smelled of new wood in which were two single beds with thin but adequate mattresses, pillows and clean bedding, and enough room for our bags. Once settled we met the others downstairs and headed out to look around the village. We had heard there was a restaurant towards the lake and set off to find it. By now it was about 4:30 and the sun had gone down so big jackets were donned. Heading back towards the lake without bags and having secured our beds for the night, we were more inclined to take in our surroundings. While there were some new buildings in Ringmo, or at least newly renovated buildings, the majority were unimproved single- or two-storey traditional dwellings and we were eyed curiously by the yaks while their owners went about their business unmoved by our passing.

Sure enough, on higher ground at the northern edge of the village with a view over the stunning Lake Phoksundo and the Ringmo monastery to the east, we found the restaurant. It was an older building but fully renovated inside and out in new light wood. There was even a television although we couldn’t confirm that it worked as the precious electricity was being saved for the evening and we were the only visitors. It still being quite early and having agreed to eat back at our accommodation later, we were nonetheless delighted to find some beer available. And not just any beer but chilled San Miguel! As they say, one is never enough although as it turned out perhaps it should have been. Nonetheless we had a fun and relaxing time, on this occasion without Gyalbu and Sangye but having been joined by our horseman, as you can see below…

It was dark when we left a couple of hours later and although we should have been better prepared we had neglected to mark our route back to the guesthouse and managed to get lost. Eventually, after a considerable time stumbling around in the dark and probably more by luck than navigational skill, we made it back in time for a dinner of fried meat (unspecified) and rice washed down with monsoon quantities of Raksi, or Roxy as we preferred to call it.

According to our hosts we ‘partied like Tibetans’ before falling into bed and sleeping soundly. In the absence of substantive evidence to the contrary and all having been unaccountably robbed of our memories during the night, we took that as a good thing. That was until we learned that amidst the revelry we had bought half a sheep for dinner the following day. Ah well, I guess it could have been worse.

The morning of Friday 18th November dawned very cold indeed. We were fortunate that the campfire had retained some heat and could be restarted by Gyalbu and Sangye while boiling some water for tea. The tsampa porridge was no more appetising than usual but eating it around a fire accompanied by hot tea seemed to make it more palatable. Possibly our shaking cold hands made a better job of stirring the customary lumps out of the mixture. Apart from the crackling of the fire and the occasional snorting of ponies as they foraged in vain for edible grass or more leftover Smash from dinner, the campsite was silent. We had neither seen nor heard any wildlife among the sparse and bare silver birch, nor on the steep mountainside to our rear; littered with dead trees and branches that had succombed to the grip of winters past. Even the diminutive evergreen bushes that might have offered cover to a small animal appeared devoid of life and the leaf mould around us bore no footprints other than ours and those of our ponies.After breakfast we quickly packed our tents and other gear and made for the footpath south. Today we would follow the Phoksundo Khola for about 7 miles to the lake about which we had heard so much, and then take the precipitous western footpath to the village of Ringmo on its southern shore.

Sangye and the horseman with his string left camp at about 8:30 and we followed shortly after. Our track remained within the gorge for the first while. Although this river valley was wider than yesterday’s tributary and the escarpments either side were progressively softening we were initially in shadow with hats, gloves and thick jackets essential. Through the valley ahead, beyond the V-shaped silhouetted rock faces and grey boulder-strewn footpath flanked by the ice-cold river, we could see snow-covered mountains above green forests in sunshine. The silver birches to our side seemed to be begging; their gnarled upper branches reaching into the crystal clear blue sky above, as anxious as we to escape the starkness and bitter cold of the morning shadow.

After 30 minutes or so our wait for the sunshine was over and we stepped into a different world. The air was no warmer but the sun’s rays warmed us enough to remove a layer or two of clothing and enjoy our walk along the flat, broad and sandy riverbank. The mountainsides left and right were at a gentler angle enabling small forests of pine to take hold and smaller deciduous trees and bushes to flourish. Many of these were bare due to the time of year but for the first time in many days we could see evidence of life.

Our first river crossing was via a ricketty wooden bridge. Most of the footway planking had fallen off and been swept away so three quarters of the crossing was made balancing along one of the two main bridge spars; rough-hewn tree trunks. We later came to regret that this was the only bridge encountered as all subsequent crossings, of which there were many, were un-bridged.

The first of these were taken ‘boots on’ by Tim and Jovi, while Lizzie and I decided to remove ours to keep them dry and wade across. As a result Tim and Jovi were well downriver before we had crossed, boots tied across our shoulders, slowly and gingerly trying to find a route without painful sharp rocks underfoot while ignoring the growing lack of feeling in our toes. Mercifully the crossing was accomplished in less than two minutes and we gratefully dried our feet and put our boots back on; toes now very clean but still numb. Mark was with Gyalbu behind us making slower progress due to taking many photographs so Lizzie and I continued in pursuit of Tim and Jovi who were by now out of sight among trees.

Before long we had to cross the river again and went through the same boots off-boots on process. The difference this time was that our feet were still frozen from the previous crossing. Nonetheless, we stuck to our belief that in the long run our policy of retaining dry boots would pay off. This time our feet were seriously complaining and the second dunking in icy water while teetering over sharp rocks proved to be the last. It was just too slow, too cold and too painful. The rest of the crossings were accomplished at speed, with boots on, trouser legs rolled up and with much laughter, as demonstrated here by Lizzie.

Unsurprisingly, without having to stop and recover after every chilly crossing we then made much faster progress as our feet gratefully carried us to the lake along pale sandy footpaths. Flanked with sunlit fresh small pine and other evergreen trees, low scrub and with the mountain views around we could hardly believe we were still in Dolpo – it was such a change from the previous 2 weeks and so beautiful. We could have almost believed we were in Northern Europe or Canada.

Then about 10:30 we reached Phoksundo Lake. Wow! Just wow!!

Directly ahead in the distance, beneath a sky that still refused to carry a single cloud, were stark grey mountains in silhouette; jagged-ridged and riven alternately with sharp arêtes and steep-sided valleys. Either side were pine forests on craggy mountainsides. In the foreground was grassland, now rendered parched and withered by the lack of rain and the determined grazing of countless sheep that use this route south, strewn liberally with rocks and boulders. And in the middle, oh my. In the middle was Lake Phoksundo, a striking, magnificent sapphire blue almost mesmerizing in its intensity.

As we approached we could see people and ponies too. The ponies were pack animals. They were not ours as our main packs were not evident and Sangye and the horseman must have already moved ahead. To one side Tim and Jovi were stopped for a break and to their front were a group of a dozen or so people. As Tim and Jovi saw us they waved and we returned their wave. The other group, we could now see they were Dolpo-pa taking a break too and it was their ponies that were grazing, must have thought we were waving to them and they waved back. I recognised one of the group as someone I had seen before – a younger woman wearing glasses. Spectacles are a rarity in Dolpo which is why I remembered her. At the edge of the group was an older lady wearing a blue scarf wrapping a blanket around a child. It was the boy who I exchanged nods with at the pass yesterday – the boy in the orange jacket. While Lizzie and I and the others were on our trek the boy was with his mother and wider family heading south. They were not on a holiday as we were but had left their home in Saldang for the winter because it could not sustain them. As a result of us deciding to avoid the increasing perils of the northern passes in winter we had become witness to the reality of life in Dolpo. I was truly stunned at the time at the realisation of what we had stumbled into. I remain very grateful to have been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

Once Lizzie and I had taken a break with Tim and Jovi, and once Mark and Gyalbu had joined us, we all moved on. The Saldang family were showing signs of moving on too and we assumed their sheep would move slowly so we should move ahead of them. This would enable us to make faster progress and not have to walk in the wake of the inevitable cloud that would surround them on the dry dusty paths ahead.

Each step we took as we ascended the pathway that snaked around the western side of the lake brought views of even greater majesty. Sometimes our view of the lake was through stands of pine trees dappled with sunlight.

Sometimes we stopped, stunned anew with wonder in the presence of such beauty.

Stopping was important not just to better appreciate the view and take photos, but because the path was becoming increasingly ‘airy’ and I knew only too well the impact of not watching one’s footing at height. Indeed we were stopping so often that Mark and Gyalbu caught us up, as did the Saldang family and their animals, so we redoubled our attempts to stay ahead of them. We had a degree of success and looking back could see the Dolpo-pa taking great care along one of the paths we had just skipped along, engrossed in talk of our surroundings. In this photograph the ribbon path may be seen with some of the Saldang ponies at top-centre. Seeing this we gulped and decided to slow down.

Roughly half-way along the path we rounded a bend to the right and for the first time could see Ringmo at the southern end of the lake, surrounded on its other 3 sides by forest and mountains. Not long after the sound of the neck bells that adorned the Saldang ponies became more pressing. They were moving fast and we needed to move at their pace or let them past. We chose the latter.

We had just arrived at an incredible viewpoint that demanded time to appreciate. Lizzie grabbed her camera (again) little knowing that she was about to take one of her last 20 photos. Her camera battery was destined to expire later that day without any chance of re-charging it. Here she is making the most of the view and the battery life.

And here’s why. We were on a rocky promontary from which Ringmo had come into view. As it was the high point of the path it was adorned with prayer flags rippling in the stong wind and bringing into sharp contrast their surroundings. Next to us was the slippery rocky sandstone path – too steep to hurry down. To the right was a rocky mountainside dotted with trees but too steep to sustain a forest beneath which was the southern end of the lake glinting in bright sunshine. Beyond the lake was the village and its flanking forests. As we gazed in rapture the first of the Saldang pack animals appproached our position. A grey pony with a red decorative headpiece, a red-dyed yak’s tail about its mane and a collar bearing 20 or so bells this immensely strong animal, bearing 2 enormous sacks of grain, was the leader of the string and barely faltered when it saw us. 

Driving resolutely past us at a distance of about 5 feet the leader was followed by other ponies and mules; unadorned but equally heavily loaded. After a dozen or so had passed people joined them. First was the Saldang horseman, or at least the person fulfilling that role on this section of their journey. All the time my camera was recording the scene but the best shot of all was taken by Lizzie as the boy in the orange jacket passed with his mother and family. They looked quickly at us with some recognition but without emotion as the path dropped away and their gaze was focused ahead.

Some time later, once the remainder of the pack animals had gone a dust cloud grew in their stead as the sheep were driven past by several women herders. There were 2 older women at the front wearing traditional dress and headscarves to protect them from the dust. Thery carried their bags with tump straps on their foreheads.

Behind the flock was another woman also wearing a headscarf. She was the young woman with glasses I recognised earlier and she wore trousers and a green jacket and carried her things on her back in a blue rucksack.

Once the family had gone Lizzie and I followed, amazed at the speed with which the Dolpo-pa descended the tricky path. To think we had started ahead of them so as not to be delayed!

The next section of the route was something I had looked forward to ever since I knew we would come this way. In the film ‘Himalaya’ the older yak caravan leader, Tinle, tries to catch a younger caravan leader rival (Karma) by taking his caravan on a short cut along this very path. In the film it was called the ‘lake path’ and other members of Tinle’s party were dramatically horrified that he was going this way. Shorter it most definitely was, but far more dangerous as the path was steep and very narrow and a slip would be fatal. While Tinle was ultimately successful his use of the lake path it cost the life of a yak and its salt when a bridge dramatically collapsed and the yak fell to its death (only in the film – not for real!). We followed Tinle’s footsteps over that very section. Here is Lizzy being (very) careful over the path that collapsed in the film, now packed with supporting boulders underneath. You’ll notice I took the photo from some distance as it wasn’t a place to lose concentration!

Not long after this we arrived at Ringmo where we were to have lunch then rest. It was not yet 2pm but we’d already had a very full day. Extraordinarily, by pure chance and amazing good fortune, we had followed the migrating family from Saldang and their animals over the lake path so dreaded by Tinle’s yak caravan herders in ‘Himalaya’. While the film dramatised the path brilliantly with the help of a dummy yak floating in the lake after its ‘fall’, to be frank we found it quite dramatic enough in real life. And all before lunch too!

Suddenly the frigid campsite where we had spent the night and departed in gloomy shadow just 6 hours before seemed a lifeltime ago.