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.

From the Nagdalo La the views were breathtaking. To the north was row after row of mountain peaks beneath a deep blue cloudless sky. Beyond the grey gritty pass the nearest peaks and ridges retained the familiar burned sand colour with occasional lighter exposed rock between bands of scree. In the middle distance the shading became lighter. With their outline and detail softened by distance they appeared rocky and too steep to support scree. Perhaps the blue sheep seen north of Saldang were still there among bushes and other vegetation but lower down than could be seen from here. Our view was of the upper ramparts and into the distance their shading tended to light grey. The most distant peaks were white with snow. To the south only the nearest peaks and ridges were in sight while those beyond, being mostly lower, were hidden from view. By now it was after midday so the sun was high, but the mountains were so steep that many of their northern flanks were still in shadow with extensive snowfields shining brightly in contrast to their otherwise stark blackness.

At around 12:15 Tim reached the pass, followed closely by Lizzie, Jovi and Gyalbu, and 5 minutes later we were joined by Mark. Despite our good acclimatisation this had been the toughest of all the passes so far with a height gain of over 1000m. The hugs and mutual congratulations we shared made it seem more like we had climbed a peak rather than a pass. For the next few minutes we ignored the elements and simply enjoyed being together surrounded by such magnificence, before Gyalbu led us down into the valley 600m below.

By the frozen Tuk Kyaksa Khola, Sangye had managed to extract enough water to make some tea. Tim and I, who with Gyalbu had descended quickly by scree-running most of the way, used the rest to prepare lunch of chilli con carne with kidney beans and red pepper with rice. This scene, in which Gyalbu is working with Tim to get the stoves alight while Sangye and I are opening bags of chilli con carne, was captured by Lizzie. We were all in a shallow depression to get out of the wind. Once the stoves were alight and windshields were in place a hot and tasty lunch was ready in no time.

As we would lose the sun early down in the valley we moved on immediately after lunch. We were heading south-west down the river to its junction with the Phoksundo Khola where we would camp the night. While the distance was a modest 5 miles or so, such was the height loss that the terrain changed dramatically.

When leaving our lunch spot the valley was broad and dry strewn with small sharp rocks. There was no vegetation. The only colours were the white of the narrow ice-bound river to our left and the serrated snow-covered mountain ridge ahead, our dirt brown valley bisected by a meandering pale brown track, and the big azure sky above.

The frozen river had to be crossed several times as we descended and the angle of descent increased. The valley became progressively narrower with the escarpments left and right looming more dominant and the rocks towards their base were larger. After a while the escarpments became so steep that the valley looked more like a canyon and we were often in deep cold shadow.

From time to time we would emerge blinking from the shadow into brilliant sunshine and in these places new colours emerged. We saw the tan and olive green of dusty thin scrub on the south-facing scree. Increasingly we also saw low bushes devoid of leaves or other sigs of life but evidence of our progression to a different altitude more tolerant of vegetation. Frequently our path became more of a climb and I found myself glad we were descending rather than ascending. Even our ponies and mules were uncommonly slow on these sections.

By mid-afternoon we were passing dry wild flowers and thistle, small stands of diminutive bare silver birch clinging by the tips of their roots to steep escarpment, and low evergreen bushes. Through our canyon to the valley beyond, while the Phoksundo river was still hidden well below we could make out small copses of pine on the mountainside opposite. But once back into deep shade these brief and valiant outposts of life were extinguished to be replaced by bare grey-brown rock left and right. The cold of the mountainside occasionally emphasised by its adornment with a white curtain. In summer the curtain would be a joy of dancing waterfall and spray but now, with winter advancing, it was solid, deathly white.

We felt the sun for the last time around 3:15. By then we had vertical rock to both sides and and spindly trees and bushes around. These would have flourished during summer when the depths of the canyon were breifly penetrated by the sun. Now their apparent demise was only belied by vestiges of evergreen on the hardiest. With gloves and hats adorned we moved quickly down towards the bottom of the valley which we needed to gain before it got properly dark around 6 pm.

In the event we reached the Phoksundo Khola shortly after 4pm, followed by Sangye and the horseman with our bags and tents. The nags had found the going tough and the horseman, having failed to pursuade us to camp earlier (er, where exactly?), had not pushed his string as hard as usual. We quickly set about putting up the tents while the ponies were hobbled and fed, and Sangye fetched some water for tea. Though still frozen in places the Phoksundo Khola, here at just under 3800m, had some flow.

Once the tents were erected our next priority was warmth and for the first time we were surrounded by wood. There was no greenery but the stand of trees in which we camped managed to survive previous winters and come to life in better weather. There were many dead and dried small branches on the ground and we put these to good use. For the first time we had the means to make a camp fire and everyone enthusiastically joined in the wood-gathering. In no time we had a sizeable pile of firewood and a fire was lit. We dragged rocks around it and sat on them, often wreathed in smoke but revelling in the warmth, drinking tea. Dinner was prepared by torchlight by Lizzie and Jovi. It was another treat from our rapidly dwindling supply of ‘Look What We Found’ ready meals: chicken casserole – this time with Smash – and there was plenty of it. Indeed there was so much potato that the ponies enjoyed some too! A perfect meal for a cold night under the stars made memorable by the heat and light of the campfire. It didn’t stop some people being cold during the long night but at least we went to bed with warm toes and filled tummies and I wondered how the boy in the orange jacket and his family were faring.

I am grateful to Lizzie for sharing these two photographs which capture part of the scene. We were in a cocoon of light and warmth so perhaps you could envisage the wider picture. The flames were dancing beneath a little smoke and if we lifted our eyes from the draw of the red embers around us we could see shadowy tents, ponies and thin boughs of silver birch beyond which there was nothing. The wind could be heard in the upper branches but at ground-level the air was still and away from the fire, freezing cold. There was no cloud and above was the darkest, starriest sky I had ever seen. The river was gurgling a few yards away and from time to time we would hear a pony or mule snort or stamp its hoof. By way of dessert after our tasty chicken dinner Mark had shared a few chocolate bars that he had somehow kept for such an occasion. While this situation wouldn’t suit everyone, for us it was heaven and our smiles were not just for the camera. Of course we enjoyed the challenge of the trek and our encounters with the extraordinary Dolpo culture but the high points, the pinnacles of our adventure, would for me at least be measured not by challenge but by the memory of moments like this.

This day, Thursday 17th November, saw the start of our third week of trekking and there was to be no respite. By lunchtime we would be crossing the Nagdalo La, one of the highest passes in Upper Dolpo at 5350m (17,553ft), following a height gain of over 1000m. The anticipated distance to be covered was over 20 miles with the pass being around half-way. In light of this, and an early call by the monk who needed access to the monastery shortly after sunrise, we were up and about early clearing our bags and sleeping bags from the monastery foyer where we had slept. We could still can hardly believe the monk had shown us around the inner and most holy part of the monastery the previous evening. It was exceptionally moving and yak tallow candles were lit in remembrance of loved ones and distant friends. We had then been permitted to sleep in the foyer out of the biting wind with a view over the valley to the Crystal Mountain.

Following breakfast of tea and tsampa porridge in the monk’s kitchen, by 8 am we were packing our gear, loading the ponies and looking forward to the day. After crossing the pass we would lose over 600m of height almost immediately down a scree slope and then lose another 1000m following the steeply descending Tuk Kyaksa Khola to its junction with the Phoksundo Khola where we would camp overnight at a mere 3750m (12,303ft), 600m lower and hopefully warmer than the monastery.

Shortly before 8:30 we took the path down into the broad, flat and stony valley confluence. During spring this would be awash with snow-melt and a crossing would demand care. Today there was barely a trickle and what water there was had been frozen solid, but we nonetheless took the traditional route west across the wooden bridge before turning south.

Even in the morning sunshine the air at this height was still cold as we made our way to the left of the substantial maniwall with its prayer flags hanging limp. As we walked up the Hubaiung Khola the still low sun cast deep cold shadows across the valley and our duvet jackets and warm hats stayed on.

After an hour or so we emerged from the steep-sided valley gorge into more open land. The mountains either side were still high with scrubby, sandy, and rocky lower slopes and precipitous upper ramparts, but they had at least opened up to allow the sun to warm us as we walked. Several times we had passed frozen tributaries on the the left and right which required care in their crossing due to the ice, but towards 10 am the valley became broad and I was able to pick up a faster pace and get a toe-warming leg-stretch. After a while I found myself alone and guessed the others had stopped for a bite to eat. They knew I carried my snacks to hand and preferred to keep going so separation was now quite common.

Ahead on a yellowed grassy plain between mountain and the river I could see a group of around 20 people and the same number of fully-laden horses. They appeared to be just moving off following a stop as some horses were being led on while others were still being packed. Not wanting to spook the horses I kept my distance and allowed them to complete their preparations and move on. I had seen no paths other than the one we had been following so reasoned that this group must have travelled south from either Pho, Bhijer or Saldang via Shey Gompa as that would be the only viable southerly route for them. We had not seen them go past the gompa this morning so I assumed they had camped in the valley overnight and that this was why they were still preparing to depart. I was however a little confused as, if these people were indeed from one of the more northerly villages heading for their winter homes then where were the rest of their animals? I could see no sheep or goats. Nor for that matter any yaks although that wasn’t a surprise as yaks don’t do well below 3000m. I figured if there were sheep or goats perhaps they had gone ahead with herders while families followed-on.

My thoughts about their purpose and destination had to wait as the map showed that the Great Himalayan Trail went south-east from here, up the escarpment to my left and then over the Nagdalo La. While I could see no path it wouldn’t be the first time that a path was hidden in shadow. I checked the GPS and that showed me to be in the right place and the more detailed mapping which overlayed the data also showed the path heading southeast about now. I was keen to see where the nomadic group were going so followed at a distance, keeping a very close view back down the valley to see where Tim and the others went once they arrived as I was cautious not to become separated if indeed there was an earlier side-track.

A few hundred metres ahead the group crossed the frozen river and made their way up a steep path to the left. The path began with 2 or 3 metres of steep climb that some of the horses struggled with and had to be unloaded. Some of the people struggled too but eventually they and the weaker horses were assisted up the step and continued their journey up the slopes towards the pass. I could go no further without losing sight of the path from Shey Gompa so I sat down at the top of a rise to wait for the others; and before long they appeared. When they reached roughly the place where I had first seen the travelling group, they stopped for a break as that would be the last before the upward toil to the pass. Although still at some distance I could see a few people and ponies and mules, but there seemed to be too many. Our trekking group should number 7 with 6 nags but I could see around 10 of each. I was sure this was the trekking group so I just waited to see where they would go next. After a while the group separated and those which I could now clearly see was a well-dressed group of trekkers with 6 ponies and mules moved in my direction rather than up a hidden track.

This was the good news I was hoping for; I was on the right path and could now follow the Dolpo-pa ahead.

After a while the horseman and Sangye and their string caught up with me and following a short exchange of words and encouragement they moved ahead at a sprightly pace while I plodded on. It wasn’t that the route was especially steep but it was relentless and couldn’t be hurried. Once over the crest of the first ridgeline the majesty of the higher mountains was laid out in front of me. The sandy and scrubby terrain lower down had given way to something much more tough. The ramparts ahead were grey rather than sandy and with the sun directly ahead they appeared black in silhouette. Looking smooth from a distance closer inspection revealed the ground to be covered by sharp, angular rocks through which a rough path had been fashioned by the myriad feet and hooves that had passed before. Occasionally larger jagged rocks punctured the ground and the surface was rendered shiny either by patches of snow and ice or the coal-like patina of the strewn rocks all reflecting sunlight; sunlight rendered untra-bright and piercing by the clarity and rarity of the air as we climbed above 5000m.

Though not evident from the photograph, I could see Sangye and the horseman with his ponies ahead toiling up the path from left to right before it zig-zagged up the final steep and icy section to the pass between the middle two knolls just to the left of the sun. I could also see some of the Dolpo-pa still pushing upwards too, while those at the front of the group had gathered in the pass itself which offered a magnificant view back down the mountainside.

I continued my climb alone, glad that nobody else would witness my laboured breathing and slow pace. It was getting towards midday when I reached the final steep section and realised exactly why those ahead of me had struggled so. The steepness of the final 100m was exacerbated by a very loose surface eased only slightly by the gritty path and patches of snow and ice. In particular there were long sections of the path which were covered in ice, and to move off the path invited a slide down the sharp and unforgiving scree. I found out the hard way and having arrested my slide, which was just painful and embarrassing rather than anything worse, stopped for another breather to regain some strength.

There was a group of 4 people and 4 horses below. From their clothing I could see these were Dolpo-pa rather than trekkers and realised these were the people who I had seen at the head of the valley earlier, with Tim and the others. They must have come on apace as the trekkers were much lower down the mountain. As I watched the Dolpo-pa approach I could see three adults. While they were all wearing trousers only one, the leader, appeared to be male while the other two appeared to be women. Traditional dress must be impractical outside the home environment. There was also a child of about 10. A boy in an orange jacket.

They were following the path I had slipped on a short while ago and at that very moment the lead pack-horse, a handsome heavily laden white pony with a garland of yellow, slipped and went down on its neck.

Fearing the worst all the group started towards the pony shouting and hollering, but the sturdy animal was fine. After a few feet of sliding it regained its footing and continued uphill.

My attention was diverted from this drama for a while as a party of trekkers appeared across the pass coming towards me. This was only the second party of trekkers we had seen; the first being the Australians on the second day between Pilling and Ghok. I called “hello!” to no response. Undeterred I tried “bonjour!” but struck lucky third time with “guten tag!”. They transpired to be a very tired Austrian group which had left Juphal 3 days ago and were going as far as Shey Gompa before returning. They were intrigued by the route that I described to them but our halting conversation was drawn short as their team of 10 mules were bearing down upon us at speed now they were going downhill.

Looking back up towards the pass through the dust created by the nags I could see that the boy in the orange jacket and the people I assumed to be his family had overtaken me and pressed on to the Nagdalo La in the rising wind. All bar one of the horses had crossed the pass with the leader. The final horse and one of the women were about to cross, leaving just two people to make the crossing on their way to lower and warmer climes to the south. These were the boy in the orange jacket, and his mother now wearing a blue headscarf.

Unaccountably the boy stopped and from about 20 feet away looked round at me. In the whistling wind no words were spoken. I kept plodding onwards and after a few steps I simply stopped, smiled and nodded. He nodded too – if there was a smile I didn’t see it. He just nodded and turned to follow his mother over the pass encouraged by calling and shouting from those already at the top.

I turned my attention down the path again as I could now see Tim, Lizzie, and Jovi, with Gyalbu and Mark not far below. I waited a few minutes to allow the distance between us to narrow, then headed for the pass, every steep step a struggle in the wind.

By the time I reached the pass several minutes later the boy was gone. There was just a chough battling to make headway in the wind, a string of wind-beaten prayer flags, the most extraordinary views all around, and me with my thoughts on what life in Dolpo was like for a 10 year old boy in a transhumant family.

Ever sinse we decided to go south from Saldang I have looked forward to going to Shey Gompa. In truth I was disappointed that our original route didn’t include this iconic location. The heartland of pure Tibetan Buddhism is the Crystal Mountain, or Shey, embedded with crystals that sparkle in the sunshine, and the 800 year old monastery (gompa) at its base: Shey Gompa. Known locally as the Shelri Sumdho Monastery, Shey Gompa faces the Crystal Mountain at the confluence of 3 rivers at a height of over 4300m. It’s importance to the Dolpapa cannot be underestimated and I was delighted that by the end of today I would be there.

Our night’s sleep on the gompa floor was fairly good being disturbed only by the creaking of the floor as first one then another of us tried unsuccessfully to tiptoe quietly to the door with dimmed head torch. A door with squeaking hinges, secured not by a latch but a block of wood leaned against it and which defied silent movement. Each series of small but significant night noises was repeated in reverse as the relieved individual returned. Relief was not simply due to liquid reduction but from having either successfully negotiated the trip into the valley looking for a suitable spot or opted for a closer location unmolested by the mastiff. At least by having everyone’s sleep reduced to a light doze the incidence of foundation-shaking snores was reduced.

Breakfast saw a return to tsampa porridge which didn’t encourage us to tarry, but the warm sunshine in the gompa courtyard was welcome while we packed our bags and the ponies were loaded. We didn’t see Mrs gompa-keeper during our departure but the keeper and the 3 children we saw yesterday were keen to be with us and were happy to be photographed sitting outside the gompa. We left shortly after 9 am.

The gain in height from Namgung Gompa to the Selma La was over 700m and we began to gain that height as soon as we crossed the Namgung Khola heading south-west. In no time the gompa looked like a model over our right shoulder and then slipped from view as we crested the first dry scrub and rock-strewn ridge. While the sun was warming down at the gompa it waned as we gained height and the windchill took over. Likewise the terrain became more barren. The scrub common lower down petered out and as our path contoured between the peaks around us the river froze. I soon found myself accompanied only by Jovi as others stopped to admire the views, rehydrate, take a snack or maybe a photograph, and in due course I was alone. I preferred to use a camelback, carry my snacks in a pouch on my belt and take photographs on the move so didn’t need to stop. While I still often walked with the group, on this occasion I relished a little solitude and strode ahead trying to catch up with Sangye and the horseman with the string. They had made a quick getaway from the gompa and covered ground fast so were a long way ahead. Each time I crested a ridge I expected to see them close, but each time they eluded me.

Towards midday I neared the pass at over 5000m. I could see no-one ahead and no-one behind. By this time the wind was screaming and was colder than I could remember all trek. Winter was definitely on its way fast and I once more gave thanks  for our decision not to go north. Taking the unusual step, for me, of donning my duvet jacket and hat I quickly crossed the pass and headed down the other side. But which way? While there was a single track before the pass there were 3 leading from it on the southern side. I took a chance on the path heading into the valley half-right, not because I was convinced of it being correct but because it disappeared over a minor ridge not far ahead which I thought might offer some protection from the wind while I checked map, compass and the GPS. As it turned out the area was a grit-bowl the contents of which were being driven hard, but I had to stop to confirm the route. The view of distant peaks, many snow-covered, was magnificent but one that had to be appreciated quickly.

Luckily my guess was right so it was off with the big jacket and a rapid descent. It was still blowing a gale but it was warmer and now on my back protected by a rucksack so I set a fast pace and once again scanned the distance down the valley looking for the ponies. After around 15 minutes I saw them. They must have been galloping to have got so far ahead, or maybe I wasn’t as fit as I thought. Either way I was delighted to have them in sight and doubly pleased to see they had stopped. I couldn’t see Sangye or the horseman but the ponies were grazing. When I had drawn level with them two behatted heads appeared from behind some scrub. The guys had been laying down in a depression to get out of the wind which was still howling. We laughed and I joined them, jacket on once more. After 30 minutes or so Tim appeared, with the others joining just 5 minutes later. We all then moved down the valley together for another few hundred metres to a more sheltered spot for lunch.

After the energy sapping morning and the chill at the pass we decided to have the best lunch available. This was selected from our ‘Look What We Found’ bag. More importantly it was Tim’s favourite which had been saved for a special occasion; and this was it. We made Lancashire Hotpot with mixed rice. It was awesome. Hot, tasty and exactly what we needed.

After lunch we continued our trek down the valley which would eventually lead us to Shey Gompa. By early afternoon our dry valley had joined that of the Sephu Khola which rose under the Selma Mukchun La to the east and in warmer weather flowed west to the confluence under the Crystal Mountain and Shey Gompa. As we followed the northern side of the Sephu valley the wind abated and our surroundings became more benign. Dusty sandy tracks bordered by scrub and low hills replaced the barren grey and gritty landscape higher up, although the few dwellings we saw looked empty and the river remained frozen solid.

As Tim and I made our way along a sandy track 2 or 3 miles from Shey Gompa Tim suddenly froze and said, quietly but with strong conviction: “ssshh … quiet!” He then dropped to one knee and studied the ground. “What’s up Tim” I said quietly. He just looked daggers at me, held his right forefinger to his lips and beckoned me forward to join him. As I came close he pointed intently at the ground and whispered hoarsely “snow leopard!”.

I froze, shivers running down my spine, and saw the clear fresh print inches from the end of his finger, shown here in the centre of the photo with 4 toes pointing down.
I mouthed to Tim “where is it?”. Tim just shook his head and rising to a half crouch tracked the animal print. He soon stopped and pointed again but the spoor was unclear to me. Tim pointed to several other, to me, less distinct prints. I looked quizzically at him with furrowed brow and a shake of my head. Tim said, quietly and almost into my ear, that he wasn’t sure but it appeared as though a mother and juvenile had been on the track recently heading east, but had doubled back and left the track heading north. Probably when they saw us. We continued looking for many minutes but there was no sign, no movement. The best that we could do was take a photo of the valley which we thought the pair has used to escape. To think that we had seen the fresh prints of a snow leopard within a few miles of where Peter Matthiessen saw his. They were up there somewhere. Honest!

Exhilarated at our find and saddened but not surprised that we had been eluded we continued the few hundred metres to Shey Gompa. We could see it in the distance from the snow leopard prints. The red bricked building is on the slope right of centre standing proud over the dry valley and the Crystal Mountain opposite but out of shot.

As we arrived at this most holy of Buddhist gompas Tim and I held back, allowing Gyalbu to approach first. 

Shortly after the horseman arrived with our bags and I waited pensively, well away from the gompa. Then from a side door firstly a woman, a nun, appeared followed by a monk. These were the guardians of Shey Gompa, the Shelri Sumdho monastery, and both were in working clothes. They smiled broadly and went to Gyalbu and embraced him. He was being welcomed and so were we all.

What an extraordinary day. Magnificent views from the Sela La, getting as close to a snow leopard as I am ever likely to, then being made welcome by a monk and nun at the heart of Tibetan Buddhism in Inner Dolpo.

I make no secret of it – there were tears in my eyes.

OM MA-NI PAD-ME HUM!

Freed from concerns about whether or not we would be able to complete our journey everyone had a good night’s sleep. The depth of the sleep was possibly assisted by a wee dram or two the previous evening. Capitalising on his success in selling us the bottle of sweet Spanish wine, our host the monk had miraculously unearthed a bottle of whiskey. Not just any whisky either; he had found a battered and very dusty but nonetheless intact bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. After several minutes of close negotiation with Jovi the bottle was ours and following a dinner of roti with a very tasty yak and potato stew we proceeded to pour a glass for everyone. That was we 5 trekkers, Gyalbu, Sangye, the horseman and the 3 or 4 villagers who had popped in on some pretext or other to get a better look at we visitors. Oh, and the monk’s son. The monk himself and his wife declined a drink which limited the round to about half the bottle. Of course there was a second round and by then the mood in the shadowy room, warmed by the central stove, was distinctly jovial.

Breakfast was a repeat of the previous day with the monk’s wife making enough roti for 2 each. There was plenty of jam for those who wanted it but the peanut butter purchased from the headman’s wife yesterday proved to be very popular too. The scene is captured in this photo in which Tim and Mark are tucking into their breakfast on the floor chatting to Jovi and Lizzie unseen to the right of the bench-table. The jam is on the floor while an almost empty jar of peanut butter is on the makeshift table among glass cups of tea and the thermos flask; universally used in lieu of a teapot in Dolpo.

From their slightly raised position Jovi and Lizzie had a good view to the other side of the room, now empty of other people save for the monk’s son who was having his breakfast too. He was having roti with tsampa porridge which can be seen on the floor in front of him and in which a piece of cheese is floating. The monk’s wife is obscured by the stove chimney pipe. Behind her on the bare wall next to the window are the customary Buddhist photographs, and in this house they were not accompanied by Wonder Woman. A typical array of cookware and stores are on, in and around the shelves. The cookware in this house was notable for being clean and shiny and to their right we saw plastic sealed containers; something not seen before and indicating the relative wealth of the family. To the left of the photo is a selection of flasks and next to the red jug which I had used yesterday to pour water over myself during my ‘shower’ there is an empty bottle of Nepalese ‘Ruslan’ vodka. When it last contained vodka I don’t know as this is an older style of bottle to the current Ruslan, but it was now used to measure Raksi into the kettle on the stove. Apparently Ruslan, produced in the Himalayan Distillery at Birgunj to the south of Kathmandu, many miles from the Himalayas close to the border with India, has around 90% of the market share for vodka in Nepal. But not in the monk’s house where Raksi or tea is preferred. Next to the Ruslan bottle is a churn for making butter tea.

As we were in no hurry the sun was high before we departed. While Namgung is a short walk, to make for the next village, Shey Gompa, in a single day would be too much as that would include traversing the Sela La, a pass of 5095m (16,715ft). There were two ways of getting to Namgung. One initially headed north from the village before broadly heading south-west over the mountains for a few miles. The alternative followed the Nagano Khola south to its tributary, the Namgung Khola, and then followed that upstream to the village. We were advised before leaving Saldang that the mountain route was best so we headed north. This took the same route through the village as had been taken yesterday when we went to the headman’s house. Having passed the monastery Gyalbu asked an incoming traveller to confirm we were on the best route. There followed some discussion as there was some uncertainty over the best way to go. While Tim and Gyalbu sought clarity two young boys who were with the traveller detached themselves from the conversation and came over to where the rest of us were waiting, seemingly intrigued by our attire. They could have been drawing a comparison between their clothes and ours. While our gear was quite grubby it was typically brightly coloured and in good repair. They by contrast were wearing very worn and ripped tunics. They did at least have laces in their shoes although they and their trousers, one of which had holes in the knees, had seen better days. Despite this they seemed in good spirits and smiled broadly at us. Most engaging was the hat that one of the little fellows was wearing; a silver-grey baseball cap sprouting horns in the style of a Viking helmet. 

Once the discussion on the route was completed we all went back down the hill past the monastery. The traveller and the boys continued their journey while we retraced our steps having now been advised the river route was better than going over the mountain. We followed the river for around 2 miles until we passed the small village of Kirathan nestled between steep terracing and the even steeper mountainside on the other side of the river. There were a few people in sight and one or two animals but Kirathan, like Saldang, looked as empty as its dry and dusty fields looked forlorn. I for one was now glad we were heading south, back into a world of people and vitality. The wilderness of the borderlands had been fascinating to see and challenging to traverse, but Dolpo had shown itself to be more than a series of barren high passes and our trek was more than an exercise in high-altitude survival.

Shortly past Kirathan we reached the Namgung Khola and turned to the south-west up the wide steep-sided valley that would eventually lead us to Namgung 5 or 6 miles away. We had to take care as this was not a recognised trekking route and the path was not shown on our map. The mountain track had been but this one wasn’t and there were several minor river junctions that would need to be navigated.

As had been the case with the Nagano Khola valley, the Namgung Khola valley was broad with signs of it handling a torrent in the springtime as the winter snow melts, but now the flow was much reduced. It was at least flowing and the degree of icing was less than we had seen further north. There was more vegetation too. The low sparse scrub was still evident but there were now larger woody bushes not seen before. Although these didn’t extend far up the valley sides which rapidly became steep and rocky, they and the occasional leafy plant in shady spots provided meagre grazing for our lead pony during a mid-morning break.

As the valley gained height so the vegetation reduced and before long the river’s flow reduced still more as we found ourselves in a canyon rather than a valley. Ahead we could see 2 people who had stopped for a break and shortly we caught up with them. We recognised the younger man as the monk’s son with whom we had taken breakfast earlier. He and his uncle, who we hadn’t met before, were woodcutters heading further up the canyon to where small trees were known to grow to gather fuel. We had noticed that the family stove was not fed with the dried dung common elsewhere but couldn’t understand where the wood came from. Now we knew. We exchanged a few words with them, typically Namaste and Tashi delay leaving more meaningful conversation to Tim and Gyalbu, then walked up the canyon together with the monk’s son leading. Before long the river reappeared, and in sufficient volume to warrant some care being taken in its crossing as there was no bridge. Why would there be? This wasn’t a recognised path although its use as such was clear by the narrow dusty track that we were following. Our new friends came to our assistance as they knew where to cross and fashioned a stepping stone causeway over the deepest part of the icy river. This spared another wet boots/dry feet or no boots/icy feet dilemma from which we had been saved when the rivers were frozen.

Shortly after the crossing we could see caves in the steep escarpment to our right, in front of which some appeared to have rough walling. Tim told us it wasn’t unusual for Buddhist monks to spend years, at least 3 but often much longer, as hermits in deep solitary contemplation. As there had been monasteries in this valley for centuries it was highly likely that the cave we could see had been, or indeed was, occupied by a Buddhist hermit. The walls would have provided a measure of security and warmth during the winter. Perhaps some food might have been grown in small unseen gardens but more likely there would have been some food provided from the monastery and left at a pre-arranged location for the hermit to collect without compromising their privation. The religious significance of this area was marked by chortens in the vicinity of the cave.

Shortly after we came to a river junction. Our route lay with the main river which turned west, while the woodcutters were taking a small tributary to the south so it was time to bid them farewell. But not before we shared our lunch with them and their photographs were taken, in this case with Gyalbu on the left.

As we continued up the Namgung Khola there were several more times that we needed to cross it, sometimes with the help of rocks cast into the water as stepping stones when the river was too deep to ford and too wide to jump. These crossings were accomplished without any dunking and after a while the river thinned to a trickle and we found ourselves once more in an area of more bushes and even small trees despite the now arid terrain.

In due course, as had happened before, the vegetation gave way to the more usual sandy and stony valley floor and we could see the ruins of a monastery built into the rocks to our right on the south-facing side of the canyon. Ahead we could see more chortens indicating that Namgung Gompa was not far ahead. Fifteen minutes later the river made another reappearance as the valley narrowed and the flow was even sufficient to support a small water mill which would have been used earlier in the year to mill grain from the millet, buckwheat or barley grown on the terracing around Namgung village.

Before we reached the gompa (monastery) we were greeted by some children; 2 boys and their older sister. They chatted with Gyalbu and led us to their father, the gompa-keeper. While Tim discussed food and accommodation with him, a man in his early 60’s, we enjoyed the last of the sun before it dipped below the mountain ridge. The gompa-keeper’s daughter, probably in her early teens and so too young to be dressed traditionally, particularly liked having her picture taken and even posed for us. She told us she had lots of brothers and sisters and the boys we had seen were her brothers.

Namgung is a small village; just a hamlet really, the centrepiece of which is the handsome red-brick gompa. Plain fronted save for 4 windows its main entrance was to the right. To the front of the gompa are terraced fields which in summer would be cloaked in green crops but now were dry and dusty, with access from the gompa courtyard guarded by a mastiff. What the dog was guarding, attached as its was to a very long chain, we weren’t sure. As it looked completely uninterested in us a couple of our number forgot the warning and ventured too close at which time the dog erupted in a cacophony of enough snarling and barking to make the intruders recoil and retreat very quickly. It didn’t appear too serious and no injuries were inflicted but a wide berth was maintained in future. Either side of the gompa were traditional stone dwellings with small windows, firewood on their roofs crowned with prayer flags. That on the left transpired to be where the gompa-keeper lived with his family. In front of the terraced fields close to the river were a few other small houses and behind the gompa were a series of significant chortens backed by a cleft in the mountain side through which a frozen waterfall could be seen. On the other side of the cleft were a few delapidated dwellings. Further down the valley was the old, now ruined, gompa at the foot of the escarpment above the scrubby scree.

Tim returned from his discussions with the gompa-keeper with a broad grin. The gompa was unused at the moment as all the monks were away; where he didn’t say. He would be very pleased to feed us in his kitchen, the one he (actually his wife) would normally use to prepare food for the monks, and we were welcome to sleep where the monks would if they were here; on the floor of the gompa itself! We were delighted. No need for tents in the courtyard! There was no toilet, longdrop or otherwise. The advice was to do as the monks do; climb over the wall of the top terrace into the cleft in the mountainside and find a sheltered spot.

The gompa-keeper then helped move our gear through the ornate doorway and inside. The room was colourful and ornately decorated with intricate and stylish embroidery around the walls, with drapes of gold, blue and red. The beams and supporting woodwork were richly painted in primary colours and there were rows of drawers containing religious texts above shelves of books, chalices, candlesticks and statues of Buddha. It appeared the monks had been away for some time as the room was also used for storing grain and other less spiritual artefacts. In this region even religious property has to serve more than one purpose and were it not for that we would have been sleeping outside. As it was I slept just where Tim is standing in the photo below.

Once we had laid out our sleeping bags we went into the gompa kitchen where Gyalbu and Sangye were making tea. We accessed this through a doorway to the left of the gompa and then down a ladder into a dark room. It was furnished as we had become familiar but this room was clearly poorer. There were few rugs, the walls were bare and there was little shelving as pots, pans and flasks were piled on the floor. Oddly there were a few nails in the wall from which hung a cheese grater, a ladle and a julienne peeler. This being a monastery there was no Raksi but, surprisingly, the gompa-keeper produced some chang.

Chang, sometimes written as chhaang, is a Nepalese and Tibetan beer-like drink homebrewed from barley or millet. It is usually drunk at room temperature in summer, but is often served hot when the weather is colder. We had it cold.

We spoke to the gompa-keeper and his wife over a dinner of Nepali bread and a thin soup containing pieces of gristly meat. We learned that the man was indeed in his early 60’s, 62 actually, while his wife was 48. They had 9 children, 5 of whom had left home. I suspect the Namgung cuisine and nightlife wasn’t to their liking. We on the other hand were grateful for the family’s hospitality in this poor hamlet nestled in the heart of Inner Dolpo. We seemed much further from the open and apparently prosperous (by Dolpo standards) Saldang than one short trek. These people were not transhumint herders. The gompa has to be looked after all year and our arrival with the means to pay for food and lodgings will have eased their struggle to make ends meet. We were seeing a different face of life in the Dolpo. A face that despite the hardship still smiled.

Despite the weighty matter to contemplate following yesterday’s bombshell, and the freezing temperature, the night passed quickly and comfortably. Being outside in the courtyard had the advantage of not being awoken at dawn by the return of the family we were staying with. At just after 7 am Gyalbu brought me some tea and by then the sun was already warming the tent. Ah, the joys of a rest day!

Breakfast was an unexpected change from tsampa porridge, with or without meat and cheese, as our host’s wife made roti. The name ‘roti’ is derived from the Sanskrit word for bread: rotikã. The roti is one of the most popular Nepalese foods. It is considered light and healthy and is normally served for lunch or dinner as it goes with just about everything including meat, vegetables and lentils. It is a flat bread. Not the buckwheat variety we were accustomed to but made from a wheat flour known as atta, with butter, salt, sugar, milk and water. Once kneaded and separated into small balls, the dough is flattened with a rolling stick into small circles and cooked on a flat iron pan called a tawa. Once it is cooked and a number of small air pockets have appeared so the bread starts to puff, it is taken from the pan and served hot. In addition to savoury, roti also goes well with sweet foods so we were doubly in luck as the family had some jam. What a treat! A roti spread with a little butter (yak butter naturally but good all the same) then smothered in jam, followed by another, washed down by normal black tea with a little sugar. The day was starting well indeed. We would need to discuss the way forward, but not until later as there were a few more enquiries to be made first.

After breakfast I headed out for a walk. Although this was a rest day I wasn’t actually tired and my camera, i.e. my iPhone, had been playing up yesterday and I hadn’t been able to capture all the pictures I had wanted. It was now fixed and that was all the excuse I needed to get back into the mountains for a couple of hours, retracing our steps from yesterday. The ever thoughtful Gyalbu offered to come with me but that was declined as his skills would be better employed trying to find a way for us to continue on our origninal route. Apart from which I was looking forward to some space to myself, to think about our dilemma. As I was leaving at just after 9 am the lady of the house was doing the washing up.

After giving Tim my route and return time I crossed the river and went back up the treacherous path descended yesterday. My whereabouts would have been seen clearly by the others as I zig-zagged up the mountainside then disappeared along the cliff to the left and into the valley. The sky was blue, the sun was hot and I was in my element.

The blue sheep (bharal) were still there on the other side of the valley, although fewer in number, and I stopped for a while hoping to catch a glimpse of a snow leopard. But there was no sign – hardly surprising given naturalists spend weeks in a hide without more than a glimse. The sheep continued their leisurely grazing without disturbance, so after a few minutes I moved on. Past the frozen waterfall I went at a good pace even though the route was uphill all the way. After an hour and a half the Khoma La was just ahead and I was tempted to go to the pass but I had assured Tim I would be back by 11:30. Doing the sensible thing for a change I turned round and headed back to Saldang, downhill at speed through the dust. I reached the village just in time having not seen any people, or any animals other than the distant blue sheep. Once again the mountains were empty.

Once back at the house there was time for some washing. While my t-shirt, socks and underclothes had been rinsed and either dried in the sun or put back on wet a couple of times, my trousers had been worn from the start. I, as had others, felt it pointless to put on clean trousers as dust and dirt was everywhere and anything clean would be filthy again in no time. There were limits however and today was the day my lightweight trekking trousers got washed and my spare trousers had an airing. The spares, a pair of Haglofs mountaineering trousers, were much thicker than my trekking trousers as they were brought not only as spare trekking strides but to cope with colder weather. Thankfully the trekking trousers dried very quickly in the sun and were back on before the end of the day.

After the trousers were washed it was my turn. There was no bathroom of course but there was a toilet measuring around 1 yard by 2, with a closing door and a brick missing in the wall to let in some light when the door was closed. At one end of the toilet was a large green plastic bucket. It was about 2.5 times the size of a normal bucket and contained water for ‘flushing’ the toilet. The toilet itself was a ‘stand-up’ but there was at least a plastic insert leading to a soakaway, rather than a longdrop. Once the facility had been used, water was taken from the large bucket with a jug and used to sluice the toilet clean. The point of all this discription is that I could stand in the large bucket and pour water over myself using the jug and thereby have a bit of shower. Despite the missing brick in the wall there wasn’t much light so the door was left a little ajar and everything went fine for a while. The issue was that the floor of the toilet room wasn’t level and half way through my ‘shower’ the bucket in which I was standing overbalanced. I faced having my head or shoulder dashed against a wall while my feet were still stuck in the bucket so managed to very quickly get one leg out. Unfortunately the only place for my foot go was into the toilet. So there I was, now with one clean foot, the rest of me soapy, and the other foot in desparate need of another wash! At least I had saved the whole bucket going over and losing the rest of the water so the ‘shower’ could continue, with more care being exercised. Once dried and dressed, and after having re-filled the bucket, I actually felt clean for the first time in over a week.

By then it was lunchtime, after which we needed to decide the future of the trek. This had been on everyone’s mind all morning but it had not been mentioned.

We gathered on the steps of the house in sunshine while Tim re-capped the issues raised yesterday. Tim then said that he had found another potential route by which we could get to Jumla. He called it the jungle route as it avoided the most mountainous region and the multiple high passes between Pho and Tiyar and we could see it on the map. The term ‘jungle’ was just an expression. The route was still high and followed river valleys some of the way but included at least 2 high passes. We wouldn’t go below 3000m until we reached Tiyar. The benefit was that, being a little lower than the Great Himalayan Trail route, the rivers shouldn’t be so frozen and it might be feasible for us to do without ponies if we carried our own big packs. However the people he had spoken to in Saldang were unsure whether it was usable. One had said the path had fallen into disuse and following the earthquake climbing equipment might be needed to get through. Another said it might not be that bad but he wasn’t aware of anyone using it since the monsoon earlier in the year. We concluded that it might be viable but we needed to get closer to find out. Perhaps the people in Bhijer, the next village, would know. Or perhaps we would need to go to the village beyond Bhijer, to Pho itself where the path started, to get some reliable information with which to make a decision.

Anticipating this, Tim earlier had another discussion with our horseman to see if he would go to Pho. He had agreed to go to Bhijer, as there was a route south to Juphal from Bhijer, but he would go no further north, including to Pho. This meant that if there was reliable information in Bhijer we could make a decsion there tomorrow and not prematurely today. If we could find ponies or mules in Bhijer with a horseman willing to go north then the original route remained possible. If the local advice was that the ‘jungle’ route was passable then that alternative could be adopted. Ideally we would find a horseman with a string willing to support us but if not then we could still attempt to get through unsupported.

A third new matter was raised then. During his discussions this morning Tim had learned that there was now a road from Jumla to Rara, just west of Gamgadhi. The impact of this was that the final 40 miles of our trek would be beside a road, where a ‘road’ in these parts just means a flatten strip of terrain covered in grit and deep in dust. We all recoiled as we remembered very well what it was like on our acclimatisation walk from Kagbeni to Jharkot and back. Constantly being showered by dust a grit by passing motorcycles and toiling buses belching oily exhaust fumes. Three days of that would be miserable. Maybe we could hire a car? Maybe, but that wasn’t what we came to Nepal for.

After about an hour of discussion, and in truth a degree of arguing, we were agreed that trying to go north without support would be foolhardy and that had been ruled out. However there was no concensus on the best alternative. We were split between those who still wanted to try the ‘jungle’ lower-level route from Pho to Gamgadhi via Tiyar, those who felt that taking the escape route south to Juphal either from here at Saldang or from Bhjer might be less risky, and those who would be happy with either route. In light of this we decided to put off further discussion for a while and go for a walk around the village.

Further up the mountainside to the upper part of the village we found a monastery. The buildings were in good repair, and included the monastery itself and living quarters for the monks in ochre and white with gold-painted roof and chimneys. There were also several large chortens, both 2- and 3-tier, also in ochre and white decked with prayer flags. But there was nobody home.

Somewhat incongruously, a little further up the hill was the Tashi Samling Guest House. At the bottom of the sign in white lettering on a red background it advertised: “We facilitate lodging, fooding (sic) with typical Dolpo dishes in a homely environment”. The sign was flanked by animal skulls. We knocked enthusiastically on the door but without answer. It was closed and empty.

At the top of the village we found a large house that was occupied. We were invited in, entering the courtyard through a door on which had been roughly painted in multiple colours “WELCOME TO MY HOUSE”. It turned out to be the headman’s house, which explained its size and relative opulence. We were shown upstairs and through the light and well stocked kitchen, past the family prayer room, into a side room where we were seated on rug-covered benches either side of a table. At one end of the room was a shelf unit bearing goods for sale, including jars of BournVita, drinking chocolate, honey, jam and (joy of joys) peanut butter. There was also a selection of drinks, inevitably including Lhasa beer and Coca-Cola, and a selection of household goods and sundries. Chuckling at the little camouflaged fishing chair we promptly bought 2 jars of peanut butter and some jam, but elected to try this family’s Raksi rather than drink Chinese beer.

While we were enjoying the very good Raksi we heard “morning” from the kitchen. Then a little boy appeared, clothes still as grubby as the few other children we had seen these past days but otherwise looking uncommonly clean. He had twinkling eyes and a cheeky smile and when we smiled back he repeated “morning”. We collapsed in laughter, and all chorused back “morning” (even though it was mid afternoon). The little fellow was delighted and chirped a third time “morning”. Then his mother said something from the kitchen and he scampered off. We didn’t see him again but “morning” wasn’t forgotten.

Then the lady appeared again with a metal bowl half-filled with potatoes which had been boiled in their skins in salted water. We were invited to try some. They were absolutely delicious. She put the bowl down on the table and it was clear they were for us to buy if we wanted them, which we did. They were all devoured.

Then the headman himself appeared and introduced himself, in Nepali of course but Tim responded for us while we limited ourselves to Namaste and Tashi delay! He then went into the prayer room and returned with a large book that had been well thumbed. To our astonishment it was a signed copy of the Frenchman Eric Valli’s  ‘Caravans of the Himalaya’. The evening before I left London for Kathmandu I had watched, with Clare, Eric Valli’s beautiful film ‘Himalaya’. The film sleeve says “at an altitude of five thousand metres in the remote mountain province of Dolpo, Himalaya is the story of an ancient tribe who lead a caravan of yaks across the mountains, carrying salt from the high plateau down to the plains”. The book that the headman had showed us was the book produced 20 years ago to support the film.

The headman then turned the pages to a photograph obviously much admired and thumbed. It was of him! In the film! This man had a leading role in the film and had been given a copy of the book signed and dated August 1996 by Eric Valli himself, with a message of thanks to Labrang Tundrup. The village chief or headman, our host, was Labrang Tundrup, who played the character Labrang in the film. We talked for a while. He said the salt caravans were very rare now but his people still moved in the traditional way, in fact some had gone south only recently. We were stunned and captivated. 

Labrang Tundrup was then called away. He transpired to be a doctor and he was needed to treat a woman who was now in the kitchen. He listened to her for a while then had her kneel on the floor. He reached into the fire and drew out an iron rod that was red-hot at one end. He held the other in a rag. Labrang Tundrup then spoke quietly to her and touched the rod to her head four times, once on her temple and once on the back of her head, then once more each side just above her ears. Each time there was a slight smouldering and a little smoke, but on no occasion did she react. When it was over she sat quietly for a few seconds then smiled brightly, looked very quickly in our direction, then she was gone. Apparently cured.

We had just had the most amazing experience and seen things very few had. We felt utterly privileged and simply looked at each other, speechless. After a while we talked again, reliving what we had just learned and seen.

By and by the talk returned to our intentions for the rest of the trek and an aspect that hadn’t really been explored. The discussion thus far has focused on the original plan and its new variants. We had spoken at length about the problems and risks of going north and the difficulties of the new route west. We hadn’t really explored the benefit of going south as it was simply an ‘escape route’. Now Tim gently introduced that option.

Although shorter it would be a tough route as there were still high passes to negotiate, however the villages that we passed were likely still to be occupied as they were lower. We would pass the Crystal Mountain, the spitual heart of Inner Dolpo, and the nearby 11th century Shey Gompa (monastery) near which Peter Matthiessen had seen a snow leopard. Then further south we would trek around Phoksundo, the stunningly beautiful freshwater lake which features in the film ‘Himalaya’. All the way we might have the opportunity to meet more people; an opportunity we would not have if we went north or east.

Set again this opportunity was the uncertainty and risk, some people we had asked used the work danger, associated with north or west. We were simply too late in the year. Winter was setting-in, the people were leaving and the water was becoming trapped in ice. We would have to rely on our own food and fuel without likely resupply. There were no ponies for hire in Saldang and the same was likely in Bhijer and Pho. If we tried without support and had to turn back towards the end we would be in significant difficuly without food or fuel and in some danger. We had rescue cover, GPS and a satellite phone but that wasn’t the point. Then there was the final 40 miles by, or on, the dusty road to Jumla. We had been lucky so far. We had good support, fine weather and no injuries or illness. Let’s not push that luck too far. If we were determined to finish the original route we should do it when the probability of success was higher, earlier in the year. Another year.

We decided there and then, in the room where we had been enchanted by the doctor and Headman of Saldang, Labrang Tendrup, welcomed and fed by his wife, and delighted by his grandson “Morning”, to prioritise cultural experience over ‘a foolhardy walk into the jaws of death’. We laughed heartily, shook hands and hugged, and sealed the agreement with Raksi.

We were going south!

Sunday 13th November began as the previous day had, at dawn with the return of the family in whose room we had slept. While we rolled and packed our sleeping bags, water bottles and other items used overnight, the children pretended to mooch around the room but were actually watching us intently and with great curiosity. Meanwhile the adults, still curious about us but less obviously so than the kids, busied themselves with getting heat into the stove, cutting meat, preparing breakfast and making Nepalese butter tea.

Butter tea is a traditional drink made from tea leaves, yak butter, water and salt. Preparation begins with boiling the tea leaves in water until the liquid is dark brown when the infusion is strained into a wooden butter churn to which salt and a large lump of yak butter is added. We saw these devices at every house we visited but we weren’t always expected to drink this Nepalese brew. The churn vessel is a wooden cylinder about 4 inches in diameter and 18 inches or so long which is sealed at one end. It is constructed using a similar process by which a cooper makes watertight barrels bound with metal hoops. The equivalent to the cooper’s hoops around a Nepalese churn are ornately decorated metal sheaths about an inch wide. Ensuring the churn remains upright the tea-maker then with both hands on the handle pushes and pulls a wooden plunger up and down inside the churn, ensuring that the liquid is ‘churned’ without spilling from the top of the cylinder. Once the tea has been churned to the proper consistency it is poured into a teapot or other container which is placed on the stove to keep it warm. Drinking butter tea is a regular part of Tibetan life, and the life of people who live the Tibetan way in Nepal, such as the Dolpa-pa. Sometimes tsampa is added to give the drink a thicker consistency. Since butter is the main ingredient, butter tea provides plenty of caloric energy, is particularly suited to high altitudes and is a staple drink of Sherpas. Its slightly rancid flavour is an aquired taste for those more familiar with Chinese or Indian tea which typically does not contain butter. Traditionally the tea cup is kept filled to the brim after each sip. The only way for those for whom yak butter tea is not a favourite but who wish not to offend their host is to take one or two small sips but otherwise leave the cup untouched until the last moment before draining the bowl and making a hasty departure. With many thanks, steepling of fingers and a hearty ‘Namaste!’ of course! This photograph of churns is courtesy of John Hill, on Wikipedia.

After a breakfast of a thin meat and cheese soup thickened with tsampa and a few sips of yak butter tea I excused myself to one of the formica-topped tables that was placed by the window for the children to use. Having a good light was important as I was about to put in new contact lenses. My left eye had stopped smarting overnight following my resorting to specs the previous day and I was anxious to put some new lenses in today. The children were not paying too much attention until they saw me balancing a tiny lens on my right forefinger, hold open my left eyelid with my left hand and then put the lens onto my eyeball. At that point you could have heard a pin drop as the whole family, adults and children, silently gathered in a line just to my right, jaws dropped watching this crazy person shoving his finger in his eye while looking into a small mirror on their table. At the second attempt the lens was settled on my left eye and I studiously, but slightly nervously, repeated the process with the right eye. I was enormously relieved that the second lens went in first time and I didn’t have to rinse it after dropping it on the grubby table as I had with the first eye. Putting my glasses in my daysack and tidying away the mirror and lens holder I looked at the family, blinked theatrically, and smiled. Then we all laughed together and the moment was over. It hadn’t ocurred to me until then that our hosts had never before seen a contact lens.

We departed just after 8 am and after crossing Panjyang Khola by a wooden bridge headed steadily uphill towards the Shimen La. This was the first pass to be crossed today although at a modest 4260m (13,976ft) we had only 400 metres (1300ft) to climb. Once over the pass we lost half of the height gained as we descended into the Koran Khola valley, crossed the river and skirted the village of Khoma. It was then uphill again, 600 metres (around 2000 ft) to our second pass of the day, the 4460m (14,632ft) Khoma La.

The going over both of these passes was the same as on the previous day; dusty, stoney, sandy tracks over rugged terrain with occasional low scrub but no other vegetation. Furthermore we saw no wildlife, no cattle and no people. Apart from a few souls in Khoma the mountains were as empty of humans as they were of other forms of life and it felt very strange. We were used to not seeing many people but only rarely had we seen none at all. This continued for the rest of the day; surprising given that today’s route took us, for a change, not on the Great Himalayan Trail but on a supposedly more frequented main trekking route.

Our lunch was yak buttered flatbread and fried potatoes that had been made for us by our hosts in Shimen. What a treat: Nepalese chip butties! These were devoured in the sunshine shortly after crossing the Khoma La.

At lunchtime we were hoping to be able to refill our water bottles but the rivers were completely frozen. Our disappointment was eased by sight of a spectacular frozen waterfall.

Our path to Saldang followed the valley all the way and only towards the end of the day did it contain flowing water. By then we were too low to take a chance on it being clean and decided to wait until we could get fresh water in Saldang.

Our first sight of Saldang was truly spectacular, appearing as it did spread over several levels and a considerable distance, on the north-east-facing mountainside across the Nagaon Khola. Saldang was the biggest village seen to date and we understood it to have a population in the order of 2000. Above and below the village the land was extensively terraced but at this time of year it was barren, dry and dusty.

As we approached the village, while some people and ponies could be seen the village appeared lightly occupied. The only colours in the village other than dust-brown thin soil came from the setting sun which illuminated and back-lit the red, green, blue, yellow and white prayer flags flying above most houses, and an ochre-walled monastery towards the northern side of the village.

Then a cry went up; from Gyalbu who had seen a flock of the elusive blue sheep on the other side of the river valley we were following. We counted 20 blue sheep, or bharal as they are also known, on an incredibly steep escarpment. I did take some photographs but the animals were so far away and so well camouflaged they are almost impossible to see. Look upper-centre below the small dry river bed.

Could you see them? The so-called blue sheep which are neither sheep, nor blue? In ‘The Snow Leopard’ Peter Matthiessen describes them like the Rocky Mountain sheep, short-legged, strong, broad-backed, quick and neat-footed and having gold demonic eyes and the males of the species being a handsome slaty blue. Well that may be so, but they were too far away for us to see their stature or the colour of their eyes. Indeed we believe that the beasts we saw were female as they looked dull, which is how Peter described the female pelage. As for their ‘sheep’ title, apparently (according to Tim, Gyalbu and Wikipedia) they are actually goats. Matthiessen’s principal interest in these animals was due to them being the favoured prey of the snow leopard and where one is found the other is likely not far away. If we found the bharal hard to see the snow leopard would be a hundred-fold harder to spot. After a few minutes straining our eyes to no avail we moved on.

As we approached Saldang down a precipitous track made treacherous by deep dust concealing little rocks with the size and charateristics of ball-bearings we could see the wide river below spanned by a wooden bridge. There was still a lot of ice on the river banks but at least there was some flowing water. 100m over the other side we approached the first occupied house and were welcomed by a woman in traditional dress and a monk who transpired to be the woman’s husband. Their house was neat and well tended. Their main room was in the same format seen previously with a central stove and hearth surrounded by rugs and wall units bearing household artefacts. However as this house was well above ground there were windows to give light in addition to the solar power-driven bulb. In addition, this house had a wide courtyard for our horses and tents, and 2 other rooms. Thinking to get ahead of the game and put my tent up in daylight I erected mine immediately. By the time others considered doing the same Tim told us we had been offered, and had accepted, rooms to sleep in.

We were served a delicious dinner of ‘normal’ tea and yak nibbles (small pieces of fried dried yak meat) followed by buckwheat bread and yak curry. After dinner we tried the Raksi and were disappointed having been spoiled by the excellent quality of the Raksi served last night in Shimen. It was then that we spotted some Lhasa beer for sale and a bottle of wine; a sweet Spanish red wine of indeterminate grape variety. Jovi expertly negotiated a fair price with the monk who appeared delighted to have found a buyer for the wine which, judging by its thick layer of dust, had been unsold for some time. It actually turned out to be better than we feared and contributed to a fun evening during which each of we trekkers in turn played music from our respective iPhones, iPods, etc though a mini speaker that Mark had packed for just such an occasion. The monk and his wife and their son, an amiable strapping chap in his 20’s sat with us during the evening and appeared to be enjoying our odd selections of music as much as we did. They did however decline the wine – clearly they knew its history!

Eventually our hosts departed to their room and we were given the main room and one of the others for sleeping. Tim and Mark shared one while Jovi and Lizzie shared the other. I could have slept in either but as my tent and gear were already ready I elected to go into the tent where I could read with a light on and afterwards snore without rebuke.

Before we retired it was agreed that the following day would be a rest day. We had travelled in the order of 120 miles so far and needed a break, not least to do some washing. Less happily Tim advised us that he had some worrying news the implications of which we would need to consider carefully the following day. There were 3 main issues which we needed to sleep on.

The first and most concerning was that our horseman had been approached earlier that evening about supporting us to Jumla. He insisted that he was told we were going to Juphal where he lived. Whatever the truth of the matter our route to Jumla was due west from Saldang to Bhijer and then north-west. He was most unhappy and flatly refused to change his route. He said that going north at this time of year was madness and apart from that his horses would be unable to cross ice when laden as had been the case getting to Ghok. There would soon be snow in the high passes and he wanted no part of our misadventure. We had joked earlier in the trek about embarking on ‘a foolhardy walk into the jaws of death’ but it seems that this is exactly what the horseman was concerned about. He was taking his horses south-west from Saldang to Juphal via Shey Gompa, with or without us.

The second issue was that Tim had tried to secure alternative pack animals and a handler in Saldang, but there were none to be had. The main trekking season was over and the village was emptying as the villagers headed for their winter dwellings. The penny suddenly dropped. We had already found Pilling completely empty and its people in Ghok. While Chharka Bhot was buzzing Tinje was largely empty, as was Shimen. Now we knew why. The Dolpa-pa were transhumant and on the move! Transhumance is the seasonal movement of people with their livestock between fixed summer and winter locations and we were so late in these parts that we were caught up in it. The extraordinary annual human migration that is part of the way of life in Dolpo and to which we were, until now, oblivious, was underway.

The third matter was the increasingly frozen rivers, as evidenced by the frozen waterfall we passed today. As we went further north and gained height the rivers would be increasingly frozen there too, meaning we would struggle to find liquid water and would have to melt ice in order to drink and cook. As there are hardly any dwellings that far north we would also be reliant upon our own food and tents for sleeping. There would be no lodgings between Pho and Tiyar, a distance of over 40 miles over tough terrain, and a low likelihood of finding any until Gamgadhi 10 miles further on due to the small villages probably being empty.

I was gutted. Unless we could find an alternative way of getting to Gamgadhi then we would have no choice but to take the escape route south. As I contemplated what this alternative might bring in terms of benefit and what our alternatives might be I checked the temperature outside my tent. It was only 8 pm and the temperature had already dropped to -6 Centigrade. It would drop further overnight, probably to around -10 C or less.

Tomorrow there would be some tough decisions to be made.