All in a Day’s Trek: Rock Climbing, Gaining 5k feet, Glissading

Treacherous rocks rivalling the Sahyadris; Himalayan bugyals juxtaposed with Rhododendron-laden slopes that put Tuscany Poppy meadows to shame; patches of ankle to knee deep snow rendering the peak like a gigantic snow leopard from afar; altitude gain of nearly five thousand feet: I wish I were describing an international multi-week expedition, but all these were experienced within 8 am to 5 pm (best timesheet I have ever filled!).

When I look back at the said day, it does not appear overwhelming, particularly from the comfort of my desk and revolving chair with lumbar support. That day’s tale, however, says differently.

Origins

The Khaliya forest, popularly known as Khaliya top, is not an unknown destination by any means. Many natives of the tri-nation border district, Pithoragarh, and most tourists to the one-horse town of Munsyari are aware of it. However, awareness seldom translates into action. Moreover, the Zero-Point of the Khaliya Forest is attempted by even fewer enthusiasts, compared to the midway point (which is known as Khaliya Top by most and has a hotel/resort (with restaurant) of sorts) that rarely witnesses thin attendance.

I, being a native, and my fellow traveler, being a former forces bloke, had our minds made up though. We intended to ascend till the zero point; and depending on the weather, would have chosen to stay at the Khaliya Top Hotel or climbed down all the way back. The hotel provides decent accommodation, and when weather permits, a super-enchanting view of Panchachuli, the crown jewel, in my humble view, of the western Himalayas (Personal Opinion alert: Panchachuli is also the trump card that unequivocally settles the debate as to whether the "Poorva ka Prahari" mountain range -- magnificent in its own right -- can match the Western Himalayas in beauty).

GPS Location of Khalyia Top and Zero Point

A no-Snooze Alarm Wake-up at 5 AM sharp

I don’t think I had achieved a sans-snooze wake-up ever (fun trivia: like many of my corporate buddies, sometimes, it would take me six alarms and my boss’s subsequent admonishment to get out of bed). Even my companion had left behind the academy days of waking up at 4.30. Wake-up at 5, however, we did. There was a tad disappointment I must mention here. The “So close that I can touch it” view of Panchachuli was not blessed upon us, owing to the haze that sets about after mid-March. We were there in end March. So, unless it rained, we were not to see the peaks in their full majesty.

Coming back to the morning in question, any hiker worth their salt would tell you the importance of morning stretches before starting your day (and before closing your day, too, of course). Though in our case, the catalyst for the morning stretches was something else. Something that made the morning exercise non-optional, if we had any hope of achieving physical momentum in the day later: bad backs. That is also what we bonded over most of the time too (takeaway alert: if the Bad Back Blokes can climb the zero-point; you can, too. Attitude over altitude, remember?)

So, we did the morning ritual of exercises prescribed to us by our respective physios. And in about an hour, just after the first light broke, a hazy view of Panchachuli II – the tallest of the towering five – appeared dimly. There was little time to adore the view, for there was hope of even more spectacular view from the famed ‘Zero Point’.

The Ghosts of Panchachuli

The government operated tourist bungalows – despite their systemic inefficiencies – are almost always blessed with over-enthusiastic staff (in Uttarakhand; in some other states, I had a forgettable experience). So, what these rest houses (often called TRC in Kumaon) lack in infrastructure, they more than make up for in staff behavior. Our request for an early breakfast before 7 was honored with the ever succulent Allu Parathas of KMVN and omelet (Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam – the body that operates the govt. rest houses). Come 7.45, and like clockwork, we were at the Balati Bend: the starting point of the Khaliya Top trail (marked on GPS, by the way). There is an alternative route also; more on that later.

Sticks and Stones

At the trail start point, you buy the tickets (INR 20 per head). We had one water bottle each. But purchased one more. There was also the option of filling your water bottles here. For the financially alert, it makes sense to buy the water from here. The price of the bottle appreciates by 150% -- allowing for the uphill transport -- at the midway hotel. There is no natural water source to refill the bottles throughout the hike, unless you can melt snow and quench your thirst with that (your throat and hands will not approve perhaps!)

The ticket folks also rent out climbing poles and other gear as well. The operator there – without being creepy -- calls the sticks the “third foot”. Sticks are useful to the knees especially. However, they are not a must if one is in supreme physical health. In our cases, we did rent out two at INR 60 apiece. These are the ones without suspension and cannot fold.

The path from the start point to the Khaliya Top Hotel (aka midway hotel, named the Alpine Resort) – made of broken stones or rubbles -- is pretty well laid out. The incline is steep for nearly 70-80% of the route. One cannot get lost here. Since March-April is the blooming season for Buransh (Rhododendron), the entire route was a sight for sore eyes (sore from not getting the “So close that I can touch it” view of Panchachuli). There are places when you see the slopes covered in crimson and magenta, resembling a handcrafted pashmina of unparalleled tapestry and gargantuan proportions. Hey, nature does remain the best artist of them all!

A Pashmina handcrafted by the best artisan of them all: Mother Nature

Bird and butterfly watchers would be delighted to see variety and a spectrum of colors. Early morning may also bless you with the unique potpourri of azure, green, saffron, and black – aka the Himalayan Monal. We did get to see one, though it was a bit camera shy.

And the cherry on top: the master of the Himalayan skies, the Airbus A380 of the avian world, the big cat of predatory birds – The Himalayan Griffon! (keep climbing with me to see the pic!)

What separates Trekkers from Tourists

After a stiff uphill climb of about two hours (with about 5+ kg load), you reach the Khaliya Top midway hotel: The Alpine Resort, an old KMVN property, now leased out to private owners. The distance from start to this point is approximately four kilometers. However, distances are often deceptive in the hills. Hence, I have included the time taken. Another important statistic here: we had gained more than 3,000 feet over our sleeping altitude of previous evening.

The Alpine resort provides basic food – eggs, noodles, tea, water. They have accommodation as well. We, however, decided to not break for too long here, given the crowd, and moved to the real deal: the zero point. A staff member resolutely declared “2.8 kilometers” upon asking how far up the point was. I have mentioned before that distances are deceptive in the hills. Though distance-wise, the ‘Alpine Resort to the Zero point’ is much nearer than the ‘starting point to resort’, but time-wise, the former often takes longer. This is because of several factors: primarily, the altitude; then, the path, which is practically non-existent at places; and thirdly, the thinning crowd, leading you to enjoy the views much more personally, thereby resulting in more time.

So, up we began to climb. A patch of under a rhododendron tree reminded us of the heights. A half hour and the tree line was below us, and the most enchanting view hitherto of the trek came into view –

Zero point in the background towering over everything else

This landmark was an open temple with a Trishul and a red Pataka (flag or nishan) marking the fact that the stones nearby were hallmarks of human faith, which can not only move the mountains, but can also move one through the mountains. Post paying obeisance, as we faced front, we identified the zero point for the first time, towering above us and atop a slope that included grass, rocks and snow in various proportions. There was that “So close that I can touch it” feeling again. Towards our rear, i.e. downwards, lay the slopes beautified with brown grass, black rocks, and at least a thousand red and pink rhododendrons. Towards our rear, but upwards, were the silhouettes of Panchachuli peaks.

Rear view, downwards, from the landmark: the temple

From this point onwards, the rocks, grass, and snow rule the way (as of March-April, the time when this account is based on). There is rarely a clearly marked path. However, as you do not lose sight of the zero point at any point, you do not lose your way either. As you lose speed and momentum, the wind starts picking them up. There are times when you feel that if it were possible, you would fill your lungs with as much clean air as you can, even if it meant that the same air would probably chisel your face away with its icy temperature.

Knock, knock... Who is there? A mountain goat!

When there is a lack of a clear path, the snow is deep only in patches, and most of all, the destination is clearly visible all the time, mocking your sinuous approach of “skirting around a cliff”, the universe almost nudges (forces more like) you to stop believing in “enjoy the journey” philosophy. There is only so many “skirting around's” one can undertake only to learn that the summit is still just as far, as it was an hour ago. This led me to undertake an approach possibly no trained mountaineer would approve.

The last few cliffs came into view; and, as I have narrated, the Zero Point still looked quite far. Purely out of instinct, I started climbing the slopes rather than skirting around. They were not far from vertical, but because of several footholds earmarked by grass, looked doable. I must have climbed about 20-30 feet when I arrived at a ridge of sorts, from here, I found a rock and snow, but no grass. I was ambivalent about climbing this patch, when I saw my companion on the down side of the ridge to my front, having traversed around the cliff. So, I decided against taking the rock and snow climb, and glissaded on the snow to the down side, landing just ahead of my fellow climber.

“And the mountain goat descends!” he remarked jocularly.

“Mountain goat! A mountain bovine more like,” I retorted self-deprecatingly. We settled on ‘Thar’ finally.

This exercise of climbing straight up and glissading down did not prove totally fruitless and would later come in handy when we lost our way while descending. While hiking in the hills, no lesson learnt goes in vain.

Climbing in the snow: Sticks come handy

The final climb of about 40-60 feet to the Zero point was snow covered till about its three-forth of its height; the climbing sticks came in handy there. As the slope was gradual, we climbed up with minimal ‘slipping downs’. Surprisingly, the pinnacle had little snow. As is the custom with the peaks in the hills of the region, an open temple welcomed us at the top.

Pinnacle: The Zero point

After saying our prayers, we sat down a bit when I was admonished, “We didn’t check the altimeter!” With icy cold hands I maneuvered my Garmin as fast as I could, and the watch did not disappoint us by more than 10 feet. The screen read 11,990 feet. We were high, on altitude, and had filled our body with no toxins, but just clean air! Here, it is noteworthy to mention that the actual altitude of the Zero point is 13,000 feet. Why then the Garmin showed more than a thousand feet lower? It is because altimeter watches measure altitude using barometric and temperature sensors (Good old Physics lesson alerts! P (pressure), T (temperature) are inversely proportional to height (altitude)).

However, the watch’s pressure and time sensors take time to gauge the actual readings. For more precise readings, this time can be in hours. Moreover, the temperature sensors almost always get affected by body temperature. Since we spent less than an hour at the Zero point, cduring most of which, the watch was in body contact, it displayed altitude value lesser than the actual altitude.

At ~12,000 feet – ‘high’ on altitude, not toxins. The actual altitude is 13,000+ feet.

Being lost in the beauty of the mountains is poetic; just being lost therein is chaotic

What’s a story without a twist and without some sort of an adversary? Ours arrived in the form of getting lost. Any hiker, climber, mountaineer (and your knees!) will profess, and rightfully so, that descending is trickier than ascending. Since the track was not clearly marked out, we descended based on GPS direction (yes, the GPS works anywhere on the planet regardless of whether you are in the network range or not). This was also because unlike climbing up, we did not have the destination in view all the time. Our objective was to climb down till the midway hotel and from thereon, the track was clear.

It was early afternoon, and the winds were in full swing, when a voice declared from behind me, “Dark clouds!” I turned my head and saw the climbing pole of my co-hiker pointing to the peak a few hundred meters towards our left. Dark clouds meant rain and since the tree line was still a few hours away, we were sitting ducks, well, sort of, for the rain droplets. Moreover, a heavy rain would render climbing down an even harder task. Pacing too slow meant drenching in the rain while speeding up risked slipping towards the cliff side. We realized that the best thing to do was descend towards the direction of the hotel, as were had been doing.

About an hour had passed since we had begun descent and we reached the end of the ridge we had been traversing. A beautiful view of the valley below came into view. The town of Munsyari was visible. As was the Khaliya Top Hotel: our sought-after pit-stop; just “So close that I can touch it” away. I turned to check how far the rain was; the dark clouds were closing in fast. This is when the first time since morning I breathed air with curse words.

Oh Crap!

“Look beneath you,” I heard the shout from behind while assessing how far the rain was. I looked in the direction and realized, to my horror, that we were standing on top of a cliff. Normally, a cliff can be climbed down by finding places that have gradual slopes and footholds. However, this one was jutting out perpendicular to its height in the opposite direction from where we had come. To paint a picture, we were kind of standing on the hood of a gigantic snake. The snake’s tail being in the direction we had descended from, its hood pointed to wards the direction we had to go, and we being smack on top of the hood, with nothing but air beneath the rock on which we were standing.

The term “dead-end” had never looked more meaningful (or menacing for that matter). The only option was retreat. While the dark clouds filled with heavy rain kept inching closer, the strategy was to climb back up and find some sort of a descendible way while still maintain course towards the midway landmark. However, after nearly six hours of continuous trek, the calf muscles and the knees were in no mood to go back up. For climbing up would also mean climbing that much down, again!

“That landmark; that temple we found while climbing up,” I shouted while retreating from the cliff, “If we could find that, its easy-peasy after that.”

“You clicked some pictures from there, right? Can I see those?”

“What? Like you can find the direction based on the photos,” I murmured in disbelief while fishing for the said photos.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I have found my way back from the middle of an ocean based on memorized coordinates alone. I need you to trust me on this,” the determined voice declared.

I decided against retorting when I saw him scanning the photos and the surroundings repeatedly. He pointed one hand at the Zero Point, the only visual constant in our chaotic conundrum.

In a couple of minutes, I was shown the ridges we had to cross to reach the temple, our metaphorical lighthouse. We had to go left from our position (we were facing away from the cliff now post our retreat, and toward the Zero Point). My assumption was that after going left and finding the temple, the track would circle us back at a point whence we could reach the resort, which ironically was right below the cliff we had just retreated from.

From “No way!” to “Where there is a will...”

The direction had been pointed out to me; my own task was clear cut. Use whatever little intuitive climbing skills I possessed, to cross the ridges pointed out moments before, to find the temple we had crossed climbing up, before the rain drenched the slopes.

“Come on, mountain bovine … or …. Thar or whatever… , you know the direction, now make us a way.” It was perhaps the weirdest war-cry he had uttered in his life.

I was more on autopilot now than encouraged or inspired or anything else. My progress was not a result of my grit or determination – if I had any; it was chiefly because crossing the cliffs was the only thing we could do. Climbing back up using the grass and their roots as footholds was the less tricky part. The more precarious aspect was coming down on the other sides. We had to let go of the walking sticks at a lot of places, for while climbing down, both hands needed to be free, to arrest the fall should there be one. At some steeper rocks where grass was scarcer, we had to descend backwards (i.e. facing front as if we were climbing up). After about twenty minutes of crests and troughs, when the heart had literally come to the mouth out of sheer exertion (when you are climbing steep slopes, “heart in the mouth” becomes an experience than just an expression), a red flashing object waving with the wind caught my attention. The Nachiketas had finally won!

It was the pataka (flag) of the temple. With the rain just behind us, we reached our lighthouse. There was little time to catch our breath, for the rain was catching up. The magnificent view from the temple was our reward though. While collecting our climbing sticks, we admired the Zero Point and the crimson-pink valley one more time, before descending. As I had anticipated, the mildly visible track gradually turned leftwards after four or five hairpin bends. In the next half hour, a little after half-past two, we were at the resort. The rain would have been very welcome at this juncture, as it would have let us view the majestic Panchachuli clearly. But it was not to be. A strong gust of wind had cleared the clouds and the silhouettes of Panchachuli were as we had left them.

While we rested and had some much-needed hot tea. Two large griffons started their sortie quite close to us and rose higher and higher, as if reminding us that no matter how slowly one moves, not staying still eventually would move one forward. Descending down from the Alpine resort (elsewhere referred to as the midway hotel or the Khaliya Top Hotel) was pretty uneventful, which suited us just fine. Our quota of eventfulness for the day was brimming with experiences.

All in all, while the “So close that I can touch it” view of Panchachuli did not bless us, the trek turned out to be eclectic, exhilarating, and above all, educative: when you lose your way in the hills, you kind of find yourself.

The Griffons on their afternoon sortie

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Stays tuned for more accounts - (upcoming)

• Syahi Devi - The Tiger Hill of Almora - the longest and leisurest day-hike I have done

• Naina Peak (Cheena Peak) - The Crown Jewel of Nainital