Ladakh - A road less travelled

The small aircraft banked sharply, revealing a landscape that seemed to belong to another planet. Jagged, snow-capped peaks pierced a impossibly blue sky, while brown, barren valleys stretched between them like the wrinkles on an ancient face. My heart raced, partly from excitement, partly from the thin air already noticeable even within the pressurised cabin.

With a bump and a screech of tires, we touched down at Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport. As the cabin door opened, the crisp, thin air of Leh (11,562 feet above sea level) rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of dust and distant snow. I took my first breath and immediately felt lightheaded.

Stepping onto the tarmac was like stepping into a different world. The sun beat down with crisp intensity, its rays unfiltered by the thin atmosphere. I squinted against the glare, taking in the modest terminal building and the ring of mountains that seemed to encircle the airport like sentinels.

My guide, Tashi, was waiting just beyond the luggage claim. He was a weathered Ladakhi man, perhaps in his fifties, with a face creased by sun and wind, and eyes that crinkled with perpetual good humour. He greeted me with a warm smile and draped a kata, a traditional silk scarf, around my neck.

"Welcome to Ladakh," he said, his accent lilting. "Land of high passes. Today, we rest. Tomorrow, we explore."

As we drove from the airport to my guesthouse in Leh, Tashi explained the importance of acclimatisation. "Altitude sickness no joke," he said seriously. "Even strong men can fall ill. We take it slow, yes?"

I nodded, already feeling the effects. The short walk from the airport to the car had left me breathless, and a faint headache was beginning to pulse behind my eyes. As the jeep lurched around another hairpin bend, I caught my first glimpse of the Ladakh valley sprawling below. The landscape was a study in contrasts - barren brown mountains pierced by ribbons of startling green, fed by glacial streams. This was the "land of high passes," a cold desert nestled in the rain shadow of the Himalaya

Leh unfolded around us as we drove - a curious blend of ancient and modern. Traditional Ladakhi buildings with their flat roofs and painted window frames stood alongside more modern concrete structures. Prayer flags fluttered from rooftops and telephone poles alike. In the distance, the ruins of the old Leh Palace looked down upon the town from its rocky perch.

My guesthouse was a charming but huge Mongolian yurt in the traditional style, its white walls adorned with intricate wooden carvings around the windows. The owner, a kind-faced Ladakhi woman named Dolma, greeted me with a steaming cup of ginger-lemon tea.

"Drink," she urged. "Good for altitude."

The tea was soothing, its spicy-tart flavour a welcome distraction from my growing discomfort. Dolma showed me to my room, a simple but comfortable space with thick rugs on the floor and heavy blankets on the bed. A window looked out over to the mountains beyond.

"Rest now," Dolma advised. "No shower today - not good for altitude. If you feel sick, tell me."

Outside my window, the sun began to set, painting the mountains in hues of gold and purple. As night fell, new sounds drifted through my open window. The distant barking of dogs echoed through the streets. Somewhere, a bell tolled - perhaps from one of the town's many monasteries. The soft whump-whump of prayer flags fluttering in the breeze provided a constant background rhythm.

Sleep came in fits and starts. Each time, I sipped water from the bottle by my bed, remembering Tashi's advice to stay hydrated. In the darkest hour of the night, I heard a new sound. A deep, rhythmic chant drifted on the night air - monks beginning their pre-dawn prayers. There was something profoundly comforting about that sound, a reminder of the ancient traditions that had flourished in this harsh landscape for centuries.

A visit to Hemis

As the first grey light of dawn began to seep through my window, I finally fell into a deep slumber. When I woke a few hours later, I was surprised to find that my headache had receded to a dull background ache. My breathing, while still shallow, no longer felt like a conscious effort.

I made my way downstairs to find Dolma waiting with a breakfast of Tibetan bread and apricot jam, along with more of her miraculous ginger-lemon tea. As I ate, I gazed out at the town coming to life under the morning sun. Prayer flags snapped in the breeze, and the distant chime of bicycle bells announced the start of another day in Leh.

Tashi arrived as I was finishing my tea. His face broke into a wide grin when he saw me. "Ah, you look better!" he exclaimed. "Good night's sleep, yes? Ready for adventure?" His old but reliable Mahindra jeep stood ready, its faded green paint a testament to countless journeys through the rugged Ladakhi landscape.

"Today, we visit Hemis," Tashi announced, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "Most important monastery in Ladakh. You will see."

We set off, leaving the bustle of Leh behind. The road wound its way through the Indus Valley, following the course of the mighty river that has shaped this land for millennia. As we climbed, the vegetation thinned, giving way to a stark, lunar landscape of brown and ochre.

Tashi proved to be a font of knowledge, pointing out features of the landscape and peppering our journey with stories and legends. "See that peak?" he said, gesturing to a particularly craggy mountain. "They say it's the home of a protective deity. Climbers leave offerings there for safe passage."

The jeep groaned as we navigated hairpin turns, the engine straining against the thin air and steep incline. Just as I was beginning to wonder how much further we had to go, we rounded a bend, and there it was - Hemis Monastery, nestled in a hidden valley, its white walls and red trim a stark contrast to the barren landscape.

"Hemis," Tashi announced proudly. "Founded in 1672 by the Drukpa Lineage. Oldest and richest monastery in Ladakh."

As we approached, I could see prayer flags fluttering from every available surface, their colours bright against the earthen tones of the surrounding mountains. The monastery itself was an impressive structure, built into the side of a hill, its buildings arranged in a rough pyramid shape.

We parked at the base of a long flight of stairs leading up to the main gate. The thin air made the climb challenging, and I had to pause halfway up to catch my breath. Tashi waited patiently, used to the effects of altitude on visitors.

Passing through the ornate main gate, we entered a different world. The air was heavy with the scent of juniper incense and burning butter lamps. Monks in deep red robes moved silently through the courtyards, some carrying out daily chores, others heading to prayer sessions.

Our first stop was the main prayer hall, or dukhang. Removing our shoes, we entered the dimly lit interior. My eyes took a moment to adjust, but as they did, I gasped in awe. The walls were covered in intricate murals depicting various Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and fearsome protective deities. Thangka paintings hung from the ceiling, their silk surfaces shimmering in the flickering light of butter lamps.

At the far end of the hall stood a massive statue of Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche, the founder of Tibetan Buddhism. The statue was adorned with bright silks and seemed to gaze down at us with an expression of infinite compassion.

Tashi explained in hushed tones the significance of various elements in the room. "See those offerings?" he whispered, pointing to bowls of water, rice, and butter sculptures arranged before the statue. "They represent the five senses. It's a reminder to dedicate all aspects of our being to the spiritual path."

We spent nearly an hour in the prayer hall, Tashi patiently answering my many questions about Buddhist iconography and philosophy. As we were about to leave, a group of young monk apprentices entered, preparing for their midday prayers. Their curiosity about the foreign visitor was evident, and several flashed shy smiles in my direction.

Next, we visited the monastery's museum, a treasure trove of centuries-old artefacts. Glass cases housed ancient manuscripts, their pages brittle with age but still vibrant with colorful illustrations. Ceremonial objects - dorjes (ritual thunderbolts), bells, and ornate cups - gleamed under soft lighting. A collection of masks used in the famous Hemis festival occupied a prominent place, their fierce expressions a stark contrast to the peaceful atmosphere of the monastery.

The curator, an elderly monk with a beatific smile, took a liking to us and offered to show us some special items not usually on display. With reverent hands, he brought out a thangka painting said to be over 300 years old. The colours were still vibrant, the intricate details a testament to the skill of long-ago artists.

As midday approached, Tashi suggested we join the young monks for their meal. I was hesitant, not wanting to impose, but he assured me it was allowed. We made our way to a large, open hall where rows of low tables were set up.

The young monks, some looking no more than seven or eight years old, filed in and took their places. Tashi and I were given spots at the end of one of the tables. We sat cross-legged on thin cushions, and I couldn't help but marvel at the ease with which even the youngest monks assumed the position.

The meal was simple but hearty - a thick barley porridge called tsampa, served with salted butter tea. The tea, an acquired taste with its salty, buttery flavor, was surprisingly refreshing. As we ate, the hall filled with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional laugh from the younger monks.

One of the older boys, perhaps sensing my unfamiliarity with the cuisine, demonstrated how to mix the butter into the tsampa, forming it into small balls that could be easily eaten. His kindness touched me, bridging the vast cultural divide between us.

After the meal, we had some free time to explore the monastery grounds. I wandered through small courtyards and up narrow staircases, each turn revealing new wonders - a small shrine tucked into a corner, a mural hidden in shadow, a view of the surrounding mountains that took my breath away.

As the afternoon wore on, Tashi suggested we begin our journey back to Leh. The return trip was quieter, both of us lost in reflection on the day's experiences. As we descended into the Indus Valley, the fading light painted the landscape in soft golds and purples.

"In two weeks," Tashi said as we neared Leh, "is the Hemis festival. Thousands come to see masked dances, ancient Buddhist legends brought to life. Maybe you come back someday to see?"

I nodded, already dreaming of a return visit. The day at Hemis had been more than just a tourist experience; it had been a glimpse into a rich spiritual tradition, a way of life that had thrived in this harsh landscape for centuries. It left me thirsty for more an I wanted to visit more mnasteries, but time was limited. I could possibly fit in one more and when I asked Tashi, his response was firm and clear. It had to be Thiksey!

That evening, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated, I wandered through Leh's main bazaar. The narrow streets were alive with activity - locals doing their evening shopping, tourists browsing for souvenirs. The air was filled with a cacophony of sounds and smells - the sizzle of meat cooking on streetside grills, the call of vendors hawking their wares, the sweet scent of ripe apricots piled high in wicker baskets.

I stopped at a fruit stall and bought a handful of apricots, their sweetness a perfect end to the day. As I savoured the fruit, I reflected on the journey so far. In just two days, Ladakh had begun to work its magic on me. The landscape, the culture, the spirituality - all were weaving together into an experience that I knew would stay with me long after I returned home.

With the taste of apricots on my lips and the memory of Buddhist chants echoing in my mind, I made my way back to the guesthouse, eager for what the next day would bring.

The enlightenment of Thiksey

We set out early the next day, driving east from Leh along the Indus River. An hour later as Thiksey came into view, and I couldn't help but be spellbound at the spectacle. Perched atop a hill, the monastery rose in a series of white-washed buildings that climbed the slope like a stairway to heaven. Its resemblance to the Potala Palace in Lhasa was striking.

"Thiksey was built in the 15th century," Tashi explained as we approached. "It's one of the largest and most impressive monasteries in Ladakh."

The car dropped us at the gate. But the monastery itself had 12 stories which you had to climb if you wanted to see the view. The climb was steep, and I had to pause several times to catch my breath . But each pause offered a new perspective on the surrounding landscape - the patchwork of green fields in the Indus Valley below, the stark brown mountains rising on all sides, and the ever-present blue sky above.

As we climbed, we passed by prayer wheels of various sizes. Tashi demonstrated how to spin them clockwise, explaining that each rotation was said to be equivalent to reciting the mantra inscribed on the wheel. The largest wheel, near the entrance to the main temple complex, was so big it required both hands to set in motion.

Entering the main courtyard, we were greeted by the sound of chanting. A group of young monks were seated in a circle, reciting scriptures under the watchful eye of an older lama. Their red robes provided a vivid contrast to the white walls and blue sky.

Our first stop was the Maitreya Temple, home to a stunning 15-meter high statue of the future Buddha. As we entered, I was struck by the sheer scale of the statue. Its golden face, serene and compassionate, seemed to gaze down at us with infinite wisdom.

Tashi explained the significance of Maitreya in Buddhist tradition. "He is the Buddha yet to come," he said. "When the dharma is forgotten, Maitreya will appear to teach again."

The walls of the temple were covered in intricate murals depicting scenes from Buddhist scriptures and the life of the historical Buddha. Tashi pointed out details I might have missed - hidden symbols, the expressions on the faces of celestial beings, the use of colour to convey spiritual truths.

We moved on to the main prayer hall, timing our visit to coincide with the morning puja (prayer ceremony). Removing our shoes, we entered quietly and found a place to sit along the wall. The hall was filled with monks of all ages, from young novices to elderly lamas. The air was thick with the scent of incense and butter lamps.

As the ceremony began, the hall filled with the deep, resonant sound of chanting. Some monks played traditional instruments - long horns, cymbals, and drums - creating a hypnotic rhythm. Despite not understanding the words, I found myself drawn into a meditative state by the rise and fall of the chanting.

After the ceremony, we explored more of the monastery complex. We visited the library, where ancient texts were carefully preserved. The librarian, an elderly monk with twinkling eyes, showed us some of the most precious manuscripts, their pages made of tree bark and inscribed with gold ink.

In a small chapel dedicated to the protective deities, we witnessed a young monk carefully creating a sand mandala. His concentration was absolute as he placed each grain of coloured sand with precision. Tashi explained that once completed, the mandala would be ceremoniously destroyed, a powerful reminder of the impermanence of all things.

As midday approached, Tashi suggested we visit the monastery kitchen. Here, we found monks preparing the day's meals in enormous pots over wood-fired stoves. The head cook, a jovial man with a round face, insisted we try some of the thukpa (noodle soup) they were making. It was simple but delicious, flavoured with local herbs and vegetables.

Our final stop was the roof terrace of the monastery. From here, the view was breathtaking. The entire Indus Valley spread out before us, a patchwork of fields and settlements bordered by the mighty river. In the distance, we could see other monasteries and gompas dotting the landscape, each with its own history and significance.

As we stood there, taking in the view, the sound of a conch shell echoed across the valley - a call to prayer from a neighbouring monastery. Tashi explained that this was part of a centuries-old tradition, with each monastery signalling the times of prayer and meditation.

Before we left, we had the opportunity to speak with one of the senior lamas. Despite the language barrier (Tashi translated for us), his warmth and wisdom shone through. When I asked about the challenges of maintaining these ancient traditions in the modern world, he smiled gently.

"The outer world changes," he said, "but the inner journey remains the same. We adapt, but we do not lose our way."

As we made our way back down the hill, I found myself reflecting on the experience. Thiksey was more than just a beautiful building or a tourist attraction. It was a living, breathing center of spirituality, a place where ancient wisdom was preserved and passed on to new generations.

The visit to Thiksey had given me a deeper appreciation for the rich spiritual heritage of Ladakh. It was a reminder that in this remote corner of the world, far from the bustle of modern life, there were still places where the pursuit of enlightenment remained the highest calling.

As we drove back to Leh, the white buildings of Thiksey receding in the rearview mirror, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. For the beauty I had witnessed, for the wisdom I had encountered, and for the opportunity to experience, if only briefly, a way of life so different from my own.

Tashi, seeming to sense my mood, smiled. "Thiksey stays with you," he said simply. "In here." He tapped his chest, over his heart.

I smiled, nodding my head. The memories of Thiksey - the chanting, the vibrant colors, the sense of timelessness - would indeed stay with me, a touchstone of peace and wisdom in the often chaotic world to which I would soon return.

The milky way of Nubray Valley

My Ladakh itinerary was never really a fixed one, but the core idea was to see a few monasteries, visit the old Silk Route at Nubra Valley and trek to either Pangong Tso or Tso Morrori two of the highest lakes in the world at over 14,000 ft(4000 metres) above sea level. Days were limited and once I had captured an essence of some of the Buddhist monasteries I was keen to travel to Diskit, Hunder and beyond to drive down the old Silk Route.

The journey to Hunder in the Nubra Valley promised to be one of the most exciting parts of my Ladakh adventure. Not only would we be visiting a unique desert landscape nestled high in the Himalayas, but to get there, we would be crossing Khardung La, one of the highest motorable passes in the world.

We set out from Leh in the pre-dawn darkness, the air crisp and cold. Tashi arrived in a sturdier vehicle than usual - a rugged 4x4 necessary for the challenging road ahead. "Today, we touch the sky," he said with a grin as I climbed in.

As we left Leh, the road immediately began to climb. The switchbacks were tight, each turn revealing a new view of the Indus Valley falling away below us. The vegetation thinned quickly, giving way to a stark, rocky landscape.

About an hour into our journey, we rounded a bend to find a breathtaking sight - the first rays of the sun hitting the distant peaks of the Zanskar range, turning them a brilliant gold against the deep blue sky. We stopped briefly for photos and to marvel at the view.

As we climbed higher, the effects of altitude became more noticeable. The air grew thinner, and even slight exertion left me breathless. Tashi reminded me to take slow, deep breaths and to stay hydrated.

The final approach to Khardung La was the most challenging part of the drive. The road narrowed to little more than a dirt track, with sheer drops on one side and overhanging rocks on the other. Tashi navigated with skill, but I couldn't help holding my breath at some of the hairpin turns.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of climbing, we reached the pass. A small sign proclaimed: "Khardung La, 18,380 ft (5602 metres). You are passing through the highest motorable pass in the world."

We stepped out of the vehicle, and the cold hit me like a physical force. Despite the layers I was wearing, the wind cut through to my bones. The air was so thin that even walking a few steps to the small tea shop left me gasping.

The pass itself was a hive of activity. Tourists posed for selfies with the famous sign, while a group of motorcyclists prepared for their descent. Prayer flags fluttered frantically in the wind, adding splashes of colour to the otherwise monochrome landscape of rock and snow.

We entered the tea shop, a simple structure that provided welcome shelter from the wind. Inside, travellers from all over the world huddled over steaming cups of chai, swapping stories and tips. The owner, a cheerful Ladakhi man who seemed unaffected by the altitude, regaled us with tales of the pass in winter, when temperatures can drop to -40°C and the road is often blocked by snow for months.

After warming up with some chai and a bowl of steaming Maggi noodles (a staple for traveler's in the Indian mountains), we stepped back outside. Tashi led me to a viewpoint just beyond the pass. The view was staggering - an endless sea of mountain peaks stretching to the horizon in every direction. For a moment, I felt as if I was on top of the world.

Before leaving, we tied a prayer flag to one of the overflowing lines. Tashi explained that the winds carrying the prayers from the flags were believed to spread good will and compassion into all surrounding space.

The descent from Khardung La was just as thrilling as the ascent. The road on the northern side was rougher, with sections where recent landslides had left only a narrow path. Tashi handled it all with his usual skill, but I was glad when we finally reached more stable ground.

As we dropped in altitude, the landscape began to change dramatically. The barren, rocky slopes gave way to patches of green, and soon we were driving through a narrow gorge with a gushing river below us.

Emerging from the gorge, we entered the Nubra Valley, and I was stunned at the sudden transformation. Before us stretched a broad, flat valley, bordered by towering mountains. But what caught my eye was the incongruous sight of sand dunes rising in the distance.

"Welcome to the high desert," Tashi said, grinning at my amazement. "Nubra Valley was once on the Silk Road. Caravans would stop here on their way between India and Central Asia."

As we drove across the valley floor, I marvelled at the contrasts. To our left, the Nubra River meandered through green fields and apricot orchards. To our right, sand dunes rose against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks. It was like two completely different worlds had collided into a glorious confusion of natural beauty.

We stopped at a small village for a late lunch. The restaurant was a simple affair, but the food - momos (dumplings) and fresh apricot juice - was delicious. The owner, hearing it was my first visit to Nubra, insisted on showing me his apricot orchard. The trees were heavy with ripe fruit, and he sent us on our way with a bag full of the sweetest apricots I'd ever tasted.

As we approached Hunder, our destination for the night, we began to see a unique sight - double-humped Bactrian camels grazing in the fields. Tashi explained that these were descendants of the camels used by Silk Road traders, now a major attraction for tourists.

We arrived in Hunder as the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden light over the sand dunes. Our accommodation was a eco-friendly camp, with comfortable tents set up to provide a stunning view of the dunes and mountains. It was still late afternoon and the sun would set around 9, so we immediately set off from our camp, walking along a well-worn path that wound between patches of sea buckthorn bushes. These hardy shrubs, Tashi explained, were a vital part of the local ecosystem and economy. "The berries, very high in vitamin C," he said. "We make juice, jam, even face cream!"

As we approached the dunes, the landscape transformed dramatically. The green-fringed riverbed gave way to an expanse of rippling sand that stretched towards the mountains. The contrast was striking - golden dunes set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, a juxtaposition that seemed to defy logic.

At the edge of the dunes, we came across a small group of double-humped Bactrian camels, their shaggy coats glowing in the late afternoon light. A young Ladakhi man was tending to them, and Tashi struck up a conversation.

The camel handler, named Dorje, offered to take us on a short ride. "These camels, they are the ships of the desert," he said proudly as he helped me onto the saddle. "Their ancestors carried silk and spices along the great trade routes."

Perched high on the camel's back, I had a new perspective on the landscape. The gentle swaying motion as we walked was soothing, and I found myself imagining what it must have been like for the traders of old, crossing vast distances on these resilient animals.

After the ride, we thanked Dorje and began our ascent of the highest dune. The climb was more challenging than I expected - for every two steps forward, I seemed to slide back one. But Tashi showed me how to place my feet to get the best grip on the shifting sand.

Finally, we reached the top, slightly out of breath but exhilarated. The view was spectacular. To the north, the sand dunes rolled away towards the horizon, their shapes constantly changing as the wind sculpted them. To the south, the green oasis of the Nubra Valley stood in stark contrast, with the silvery ribbon of the river winding through it.

As we sat on the crest of the dune, Tashi pointed out the various peaks surrounding us. "There, that's the Saser Kangri," he said, indicating a particularly imposing mountain. "Over 25,000 feet high. And that one, that's Mamostong Kangri."

The sun was now low on the horizon, and as Tashi had promised, the dunes began to change colour. The golden sand took on a rich, warm hue, almost glowing from within. Shadows lengthened, creating intricate patterns across the dune field.

We sat in comfortable silence, watching the play of light and shadow. A cool breeze picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of distant snow and nearby sea buckthorn. In the distance, I could hear the soft tinkling of bells - a herd of pashmina goats being led home for the night.

As the sun dipped below the mountains, the sky erupted in a riot of colours - deep oranges, fiery reds, and soft pinks painted the clouds. The snow on the distant peaks caught the last rays of the sun, glowing as if lit from within.

"In Ladakhi tradition," Tashi said softly, "we believe that moments like this, when day turns to night, are special. The veil between worlds is thin. It's a good time for reflection, for setting intentions."

Taking his cue, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the cool sand beneath my palms and the last warmth of the sun on my face. I reflected on the journey that had brought me here, to this remarkable place so far from home. As darkness fell, temperature started to drop rapidly. Tashi produced a thermos of butter tea from his backpack, and we sipped the rich, salty beverage as we continued to soak in the scenery . The tea, an acquired taste, was surprisingly comforting in the cool desert dusk. In the distance, we could see the twinkling lights of Diskit town, and even further, the dim glow of the Diskit Monastery, perched high on its hill. Tashi explained that the monastery housed a massive statue of Maitreya Buddha, which we would visit the next day.

As we prepared to head back to the camp, Tashi suggested we try sand sledding. He produced two flat pieces of sturdy cardboard from his seemingly bottomless backpack. "Best way to get down," he said with a grin. Sitting on the cardboard, we pushed off from the top of the dune. The descent was exhilarating - fast and smooth, with fine sand spraying up on either side. We were both laughing like children by the time we reached the bottom, covered in sand but thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

As night fell, the first stars began to appear. Without any light pollution, the night sky was a spectacle I'll never forget. The Milky Way stretched across the sky like a river of light, and I saw more shooting stars in one hour than I had in my entire life before. Lying there on the cooling sand, looking up at the infinite expanse of stars, I reflected on the day's journey. We had traveled from the highest motorable pass in the world to a desert oasis, experiencing a lifetime's worth of landscapes in a single day. It was a journey that defied expectations and expanded my understanding of what was possible in this remarkable corner of the world.

As I drifted off to sleep that night in my tent, the gentle sound of wind over the dunes in my ears, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the incredible beauty of the world, for the opportunity to experience it, and for people like Tashi who had made so much of my journey possible.

A blizzard at Khardung La

Our return journey from the Nubra Valley began under clear skies, with no hint of the drama that was to unfold. We left Hunder early, hoping to cross Khardung La by early afternoon. Tashi was in high spirits, regaling me with stories of his childhood in a nearby village as we wound our way up the valley.

As we climbed higher, the landscape gradually shifted from the green oasis of Nubra to the stark, rocky terrain of the higher altitudes. The air grew noticeably cooler, and I found myself reaching for an extra layer.

About halfway up the pass, Tashi's demeanor changed. He became quieter, his eyes constantly scanning the sky and the road ahead. I followed his gaze and noticed dark clouds gathering over the peaks ahead.

"Weather can change very fast in mountains," Tashi said, his voice tinged with concern. "We must hurry."

The wind picked up as we continued our ascent, buffeting our vehicle with increasing force. The temperature dropped rapidly, and I could see my breath misting inside the car. The once-clear views of the valley below were now obscured by swirling clouds.

As we approached the final stretch to Khardung La, the first snowflakes began to fall. At first, it was a light dusting, almost beautiful in its delicacy. But within minutes, the snow intensified, driven horizontally by the howling wind. In seconds it was gale force winds with sleet crashing everywhere.

Tashi's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping us on the narrow, winding road. Tyres slipping in the snow feezing quickly into ice. Visibility dropped dramatically, the world outside reduced to a whirling mass of white.

"Blizzard," Tashi said grimly. "Very dangerous. We must reach the pass. There is shelter there." There was a convoy of vehicles in front of us, all labouring to reach safety. Moving forward was almost impossible with the tyres skidding precariously. In those gale force winds even with a 4WD, Tashi stopped the car, reached and got out tyre chains. There, in subzero condition's with sleet, ice and snow blanketing everything in fierce force, Tashi put chains across all four wheels. I tried t help but I can vouch whatever i did was more of hindrance than help. The cold was too much for me to do anything coherently. The chains helped the jeep get some added traction and we could move forward with a little bit more urgency.

The final kilometers to the pass were some of the most harrowing moments of my life. The road, barely visible under the rapidly accumulating snow, seemed to disappear into the whiteness ahead. The wind rocked our vehicle, and more than once, I felt the wheels lose traction on the icy surface.

Tashi drove with intense concentration, his years of experience evident in every careful movement. He constantly adjusted our speed and position, navigating by memory and instinct more than sight.

Finally, after what seemed like hours we saw the dim outline of buildings through the snow. We had reached Khardung La. Tashi didn't even try to park properly, simply pulling up as close as he could to the small tea shop we had visited on our outward journey. "Run!" he shouted over the howling wind as he killed the engine.

We dashed from the car to the shop, the few meters feeling like a marathon in the teeth of the blizzard. Snow and ice particles stung my face, and the wind threatened to knock me off my feet.

We burst through the door of the tea shop, bringing a swirl of snow with us. The small room was already crowded with other traveler's caught by the storm. The owner, the same cheerful Ladakhi man from our previous visit, greeted us with steaming cups of chai.

"You are lucky," he said, his weathered face creased with concern. "Storm came very fast. Many still on road."

As we warmed up, I looked around the room. There were tourists huddled in blankets, a group of European trekkers comparing notes on their satellite phones, and a few local drivers discussing the conditions in rapid-fire Ladakhi.

Outside, the storm raged on. Through the frosted windows, I could barely make out our vehicle, now little more than a white mound in the swirling snow. The wind howled around the building, finding every crack and crevice, making the whole structure shudder.

Tashi struck up a conversation with some of the local drivers, their faces grave as they exchanged information. He turned to me, his expression serious. "Pass is closed," he said. "We must wait here until storm passes."

As the hours ticked by, the tea shop became a microcosm of humanity in the face of nature's fury. Despite the language barriers, a sense of camaraderie developed among the stranded traveler's. People shared food, stories, and words of encouragement.

The shop owner and his family worked tirelessly, keeping everyone supplied with hot chai and simple meals of rice and dal. Their small kerosene heater became the focal point of the room, people huddling around it in shifts to warm up.

As night fell, the storm showed no signs of abating. The tea shop owner distributed whatever blankets and cushions he could find, and we prepared to spend the night. Sleep was fitful, interrupted by the constant howling of the wind and the occasional sound of snow and ice sliding off the roof.

Throughout the night, we could hear the distant rumble of avalanches in the mountains around us. Each time, a hush would fall over the room, everyone acutely aware of our precarious position on this high mountain pass.

Dawn broke, gray and forbidding. The storm had weakened somewhat, but snow was still falling heavily. Tashi and some of the other drivers ventured out to check on the vehicles and assess the situation.

They returned with grim news. The road in both directions was blocked by snow and small landslides. We were effectively cut off until the road could be cleared.

As the day wore on, our situation began to feel more serious. Food supplies in the small shop were running low, and the altitude was taking its toll on some of the less prepared travelers. A few people were showing signs of altitude sickness, their faces pale and drawn.

Tashi, ever resourceful, organised a group to dig out some of the vehicles. The idea was to run the engines periodically to generate some heat and recharge batteries. It was exhausting work in the thin air, but it gave us something to focus on other than our predicament.

By late afternoon, we received word that a rescue operation was underway. The Indian Army, based in Leh, had dispatched helicopters, snow plows and rescue mobiles to clear the road and evacuate stranded travelers.

The news lifted everyone's spirits, but we knew it would be hours before help arrived. As darkness fell for the second night, we settled in for another long vigil. The owner of the tea shop, despite the dwindling supplies, managed to prepare a hot meal for everyone. The simple act of sharing food seemed to renew our sense of community and hope.

It was past midnight when we heard the distant rumble of engines. The rescue convoy had finally reached us. The next few hours were a blur of activity as a full contingent of army personnel redeployed from Siachen, helped clear snow, bulldozed landslides, provided medical assistance to those who needed it, and began the process of evacuating people down the mountain.

As we prepared to leave, I watched Tashi say goodbye to the tea shop owner. There was a deep respect and understanding between them, mountain people who knew both the beauty and the danger of this harsh environment.

The journey down the mountain was slow and tense, our vehicle part of a careful convoy led by army snow plows. The blizzard had transformed the landscape into an alien, white world. Massive icicles hung from overhanging rocks, and snow drifts taller than our vehicle lined the road.

As we descended, the grip of the storm gradually loosened. By the time we reached the outskirts of Leh, we were driving under clear, star-filled skies, the blizzard nothing but a white cap on the mountains behind us.

Exhausted but relieved, we finally reached Leh in the early hours of the morning. As we parted ways, Tashi gripped my hand firmly. "In mountains, we see nature's power," he said solemnly. "We must always respect, always be prepared."

That night, as I lay in my comfortable hotel bed, I reflected on our ordeal. The blizzard on Khardung La had been terrifying, yes, but it had also shown me the strength of human resilience and the bonds that form in the face of adversity.

I drifted off to sleep with a newfound respect for the mountains and the people who call them home, grateful for the experience but hoping that my future adventures would be slightly less dramatic.

A lake at the top pf the world

After the blizzard at Khardung La, I rested a couple of days doing nothing but taking short walks to Leh bazaar. I also had to decide on the final stretch of my journey. I could not do both the lakes. I was also a bit tired physically and wanted to prepare for the return journey back home.

So as a final stop I decided I would go to Pangong Tso.

The day began early, well before the sun had crested the mountains surrounding Leh. Tashi arrived at my guesthouse just as the first hints of dawn were painting the sky in soft pastels. "Long journey today," he said with a grin. "But worth every minute, you'll see."

We set off in the pre-dawn darkness, the jeep's headlights cutting through the gloom. As we left Leh behind, I could see the first stirrings of life in the town - bakers firing up their ovens, early risers heading to morning prayers at the local gompa.

Our route took us east, following the Indus River before turning south towards the Chang La pass. As the sun finally rose, it revealed a landscape that seemed to belong to another planet. Massive, multicoloured mountains rose on either side of us, their flanks bare of vegetation but striped with bands of red, green, and purple - a geologist's dream.

Tashi explained that these colours represented different mineral deposits and geological ages. "Like pages in a book," he said, "each layer tells a story of millions of years."

As we climbed higher, the air grew noticeably thinner. Even Tashi, born and raised in these mountains, took deeper breaths. For me, the altitude was a constant presence, a wobbly dizziness that never quite went away.

We passed through small villages clinging to the mountainsides, their flat-roofed houses blending seamlessly into the landscape. In one, we stopped to stretch our legs and buy some snacks. The village shop was a wonder in itself - a tiny room packed floor to ceiling with everything from canned goods to prayer flags, yak butter to batteries.

The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with a face creased by sun and wind, offered us sweet tea. As we sipped, she told us stories of the harsh winters in these mountains. "Sometimes," she said, her eyes twinkling, "the snow is so deep, we must tunnel from house to house!"

Back on the road, we began the final ascent to Chang La. At 17,688 feet, it's another high mountain pass and as we climbed, the vegetation disappeared entirely, replaced by a moonscape of rock and scree. Occasionally, we'd spot a herd of wild asses (kiang) in the distance, their reddish-brown coats stark against the barren ground.

The final approach to the pass was nerve-wracking. The road narrowed to little more than a ledge carved into the mountainside, with a sheer drop on one side. Tashi navigated it with the ease of long practice, but I found myself gripping the seat tightly.

Finally, we reached the top. Prayer flags whipped in the fierce wind, their colours bright against the deep blue sky. A military outpost stood guard over the pass - a reminder that we were not far from the disputed border with China.

We stopped for photos and to acclimatise. The cold was intense, the wind cutting through my layers of clothing. My breath came in short gasps, and even the simple act of walking a few steps left me winded. Tashi handed me a thermos of hot tea, which helped immensely.

"Drink slowly," he advised. "Altitude sickness no joke up here."

After about twenty minutes, we began our descent. The landscape on the other side of the pass was, if possible, even more stark and beautiful. Massive glaciers clung to the mountainsides, their blue-white ice a stark contrast to the brown and grey of the surrounding rock. Military convoys jotted the horizon in places.

As we descended, life began to reappear. First, hardy cushion plants and lichen, clinging tenaciously to the rocks. Then, as we dropped lower, we entered a broad valley where we spotted our first herd of yaks, their shaggy coats rippling in the wind.

We stopped for lunch at a small dhaba (roadside restaurant) in the village of Tangste. The simple meal of dal, rice, and chapatis was one of the most delicious I'd ever tasted, made even better by the anticipation of what was to come.

After lunch, the landscape changed again. We entered a vast plain, surrounded on all sides by snow-capped peaks. Tashi pointed out a herd of Tibetan wild ass in the distance, and we stopped to watch them through binoculars. Their grace and speed were astonishing, perfectly adapted to this harsh environment.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of driving across this otherworldly plain, Tashi pointed to a glimmer on the horizon. "Pangong Tso," he said simply.

As we drew closer, the lake revealed itself in all its glory. The water was an impossible shade of blue, shifting from turquoise near the shore to deep indigo further out. The surrounding mountains were reflected perfectly in its mirror-like surface, creating a dreamlike symmetry.

We parked near the shore, and I stepped out, my feet crunching on the pebble beach. The silence was absolute, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves and the occasional call of a black-necked crane.

Tashi explained that the lake was over 130 km long, with two-thirds of it lying in Tibet, China. "In winter," he said, "it freezes so solid that trucks can drive across."

We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the lakeshore. I marvelled at the changing colours of the water as the sun moved across the sky, casting new shadows and revealing new hues. At one point, a herd of Pashmina goats wandered past, shepherded by a local Changpa nomad. The man stopped to chat with Tashi, his weathered face breaking into a smile as they exchanged news.

As the sun began to set, the lake and surrounding mountains were bathed in a golden light that defied description. The water turned to liquid fire, the mountains glowed as if lit from within. I stood in awe, trying to commit every detail to memory.

We spent the night in a simple homestay near the lake. The family welcomed us warmly, serving a dinner of thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup) and momos (dumplings). As we ate, they shared stories of life in this remote region - the harsh winters, the brief but beautiful summers, the slow but steady changes brought by increasing tourism.

That night once again I was struck speechless by the night sky. Without any light pollution, the stars were beyond anything I'd ever seen - a vast river of light stretching from horizon to horizon. The Milky Way was clearly visible, and I felt I could almost reach out and touch the stars.

As I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to the absolute silence of the high desert night, I reflected on the day's journey. We had traversed multiple climate zones, ascended to dizzying heights, and witnessed landscapes that seemed to belong to another world entirely. Pangong Tso was more than just a beautiful lake - it was a reminder of the raw, untamed beauty that still exists in the world, hidden away in these high, lonely places.

Sleep came easily, my dreams filled with endless blue waters and star-filled skies. Tomorrow I would start on my way home, but for now, I was content to be here, in this moment, on the shore of one of the most beautiful lakes in the world.

Epilogue

The next day we started on our descent to Leh and a day after I was on a flight was on my way to New Delhi. As the plane lifted off from Leh's Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport, I pressed my face to the window, watching the rugged landscape of Ladakh fall away beneath me. The towering peaks of the Himalayas and Karakoram, the winding ribbons of the Indus and Zanskar rivers, the patchwork of green fields and ancient monasteries – all began to shrink, transforming into a breathtaking panorama that seemed almost unreal.

In just two weeks, Ladakh had profoundly changed me. I had crossed high passes, got stuck in a blizzard, witnessed the stark beauty of high-altitude deserts, experienced the warmth of Ladakhi hospitality, and faced the raw power of nature. I had walked in the footsteps of ancient silk road traders and modern-day adventurers, each step revealing new wonders and challenges.

As the plane banked, offering a final glimpse of the snow-capped peaks piercing the clouds, I felt a bittersweet mix of emotions. There was a tinge of sadness at leaving this magical place, but it was overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of gratitude and calm satisfaction. Ladakh had given me more than just experiences; it had given me a new perspective on the world and my place in it.

I closed my eyes, my mind filled with vivid memories: the golden light of sunset on the sand dunes of Nubra, the fluttering prayer flags of Khardung La, the kind eyes of Tashi as he guided me through his beloved homeland, and the resilience of strangers becoming friends in the face of a mountain blizzard. These were not just memories, but transformative moments that had expanded my understanding of the world and myself.

As the plane soared towards distant horizons, I knew that while I was leaving Ladakh behind physically, a part of it would always remain with me. The lessons learned, the friendships forged, and the moments of both challenge and beauty had become an indelible part of my story. Ladakh, with its harsh yet breathtaking landscapes and warm-hearted people, had not just been a destination, but a journey into the very essence of adventure, resilience, and human connection.

I left with a heart full of experiences, a camera full of images, and a spirit forever touched by the roof of the world. And as the mighty Himalayas faded into the distance, I knew with certainty that this was not goodbye, but merely "until we meet again."

About Me:

I write to learn. More about me here. Follow @hackrlife on X