The Snowboarder's Journal - frequency 16.1
Kishtwar Cowboys: Himalayan Discoveries in Northern India
Words: Nick Russell, Captions: Gray Thompson 2018-09-17 18:39:42
No, it’s not a fruit tree, but it’s good for shade,” the police chief of Gulab Garh says. He’s looking at a small sapling in the corner of the plaza. Someone brings out another round of Kashmiri kahwa tea. This is a customary practice for nearly all occasions in the Indian Himalaya, whether conversing with a rug salesman or experiencing an informal military shakedown.
The local authorities are curious as to what a group of four Americans is doing in their remote corner of India. Tourists rarely visit the area, especially during winter. The chief looks over our passports and visas and I stare at white-capped giants in the distance. We’re four days into the trip and, until now, the thought of actually snowboarding has barely graced my thoughts. It has been a whirlwind of continuous movement and detours that have kept us focused on the next stage of transit. Flexibility and optimism are proving to be paramount in this Himalaya 101 crash course.
The team is tight. Gray Thompson, Neil Provo and myself have joined logistical guru and Himalayan fanatic Luke Smithwick to partake in a rare February expedition into the largest mountain range on Earth. This is a place fabled with dreams, disaster and enlightenment. One where plans are not etched in stone but painted with watercolors.
Upon landing in New Delhi at 4 a.m. earlier in the week, we’d been informed that our original plan to enter the Garhwal range had been thwarted. The government had denied access due to an impending storm. Their denial was justified—in May 2013, a massive storm hit our intended area of interest, leaving widespread destruction and thousands of souls missing or dead. For all but Luke, it was our first visit to the Himalaya. Without him, we’d be lost in a sea of options and with limited knowledge. But Luke’s infinite hit list sent us 480 miles north toward the Kishtwar district.
The concrete jungle outside the port of entry overwhelmingly shocked my senses. Smells ranged from delectable Indian spices to putrid cow shit. The incessant sounds of mopeds, tuk tuks and cars honking kept pedestrians on their toes while navigating the seemingly lawless streets. We applied hand sanitizer neurotically after touching anything. Later that evening, we found ourselves at a lively train station. People pushed large wooden crates, presumably containing chickens, while families huddled in blankets and guys walked through the crowded parking lot with battered AK-47s. Our white skin and excessive amount of luggage were hard to hide and attracted unrestricted stares of curiosity. A dozen porters in matching red outfits ran up to our taxi and hoisted heavy duffels and board bags over their heads without hesitation. The train was unsurprisingly jammed with people and lined with small sleeper bunks. An attendant cautiously passed out trays of dinner along the bumpy tracks and I tried not to spill hot curry on the man in the bunk below me as we settled in for the 10-hour ride to Jammu.
Subjective borderlines became blurred as we rolled to a stop at the front line of the Kashmir Conflict. Since the partition of India in 1947, the Jammu and Kashmir region has been the subject of disputes over territorial claims by India and Pakistan. The two countries have fought three wars over the land, the most recent ending less than 20 years ago. During the last three to four decades however, the tension arises from discord about local autonomy between India and Kashmiri insurgents. Simply put, many Kashmiris wish for official independence from India. Thousands have been killed in the turmoil. Although there has been less violence in recent years, a constant military presence serves as a reminder of the region’s instability.
Western rules of the road became distant memories as soon as we packed into a Jeep with Mohamed Ashraf. “If we survive this drive, the mountains are going to be easy,” I thought to myself. Mentally I practiced bracing for impact as we passed trucks on blind corners along a highway that was hardly wide enough for two vehicles, Mohamed’s hand glued to the horn and mine to the oh-shit handle above the door.
Monkeys locked eyes with us atop toll booths, marking the bustling city limits of Jammu. There, we switched cars into Ravi’s Jeep, thankful to be finished with Mohamed’s lead-footed driving style. The Killar-Kishtwar is considered one of the ten most dangerous roads in India—impressively frightening, given the fact that every road we’ve driven has been terrifying. Imagine a road cut through the middle of El Capitan in Yosemite, with no guardrails, and trucks laying on the horn persistently to announce their arrival. Yet kids played cricket along the hairpin turns. The glowing blue tint of the Chandrabhaga River nearly 2,000 feet below slightly alleviated my motion sickness and fears of being run off the road.
We’ve cleared the shakedown and have begun to make final preparations before entering the mountains. We visit the local monastery to spin prayer wheels and receive a blessing to enter the alpine kingdom. Horses will haul our gear to a village halfway to base camp, which lies at 12,000 feet at the foot of a glacier. Via broken English and hand gestures, we learn this year has been one of the worst winters in recent memory. Apparently, it hasn’t snowed in 45 days. It’s a piece of information that would have been nice to know 8,000 miles prior, but without a reliable weather forecast, what are you going to do?
The following morning, we haul supplies over to meet our horse packer, Jaswant Singh. Dressed in a green sweat suit and wearing Timberlands, he leads his four horses and us up a winding trail through a silent old growth Himalayan cedar forest, the only sound being that of the bone-chilling stream of glacial runoff. Signs of human inhabitation diminish as we walk higher. A lack of infrastructure for garbage disposal plagues much of the developing world, yet the mountains remain mostly untainted. After five hours of walking, the skyline pokes through the trees. Agysol, a 6,000-meter behemoth of a peak, marks a new chapter of the journey. Our destination is Kaban, an isolated village in the valley below. To our untrained eyes, it’s only 30 minutes away. Two hours later, nightfall arrives as we stumble into the dark settlement.
We pitch tents on the flat rooftop of the home of one of Jaswant’s friends. Invited inside by our generous and curious hosts, a rickety wooden ladder takes us down and into a dimly lit room where the family lives. A small wood-burning stove warms the modest dwelling. We gratefully accept seats on the floor and quietly sip chai tea next to a child holding an infant goat that is no more than a few weeks old. Offered a steaming plate of potatoes, Luke tells us to be sure to peel them, as our western stomachs are not used to local fertilization methods. Dismissing his subtle hint that the food is grown with human waste, we devour a pile of “poo-tatoes” and tsante chile paste with unrestrained caution. “Khana, peena, sona” (eat, sleep, drink) is the ethos of simple existence in these lands.
A clear, crisp morning awakens us early. A happy crew of kids greets us with their puppy, Tigre. They’re intrigued by our gear. While breaking down camp and preparing for the next leg of travel, we’re told Jaswant is refusing to take his horses up any higher into the snow. I’m quickly learning these watercolor plans are easily painted over. Tashi Dorjay, a young kid visiting his family while on break from university in the city, acts as our translator. Tashi brings over a man that tells us he can wrangle up Kaban’s mule supply and take us to the foot of the glacier.
“We’ve entered a world virtually untouched by man; an utterly surreal landscape. Looming peaks stand proud like guards at the gates, each step forward tilting our necks to a steeper angle as our minds try to make sense of what our eyes are absorbing. Never will I forget the sight of the proudest peak, piercing the sky from the end of the valley with a beautiful white ribbon draped down her side.”—Gray Thompson, February 3, 2018.
We are camped on a dry patch of grass looking out toward endless possibilities. We relish the fact that we are the first people ever to bring snowboards here. Smoke from a hash spliff mixes with that of a resourceful fire made from yak turds. When pointing to any line, a common question arises: “How far away do you think that is?”
The scale of the terrain is unparalleled. We’ve all spent time in big mountains across the globe, but this place exists on its own humbling spectrum. Though we’re considering objectives on the small side when compared to the oxygen-depleting giants to the southeast, every step above camp requires maximum effort—we’re still traveling at altitudes well above the highest point in the continental United States.
We depart camp for a civil-looking couloir that once again blows away perceptions of distance and size. What looks like a pre-lunch warmup from afar, soon becomes a two-hour approach to the bottom of the face. The snow does not feel promising. Loose facets on top of rock make for difficult skinning and have us doubting the riding potential in the area. Still, we make slow progress upon feathery flakes to the base of the couloir. Transitioning to boot-packing, the base becomes more supported and confidence builds with each slow step. Swirling spindrifts fall from the towering rock walls above each side of the ramp.
Shadows seem to have preserved the snow in an icebox and we wallow through knee-, then waist-deep drifts. I’m out of breath and digging deep to make sluggish progress. The cold has me wearing two puffy jackets and a shell to stay warm. We take turns leapfrogging one another to break trail in small increments. Neil’s speed in the mountains has always impressed me. It’s no surprise his tall frame and long legs take the lead and he sets a nonstop track up the remaining third of the line. Shortly after, Gray and I arrive to meet him at 17,000 feet.
The once-hidden view mesmerizes us. Recognizing the effort required to reach this perch, we realize lines in the back of the valley would require a multi-day mission to ride. My eyes follow the weakness in walls and I take out my monocle to further investigate the cruxes. The cold snaps me back to the present moment. We rush to drop in. Neil takes the honors of opening up the first half of the descent, which he aptly names “Recycled Paader.” It’s 3,000 feet of cold smoke to the valley floor. Right on cue, a golden sunset ignites the ridgeline behind us, illuminating dozens of Himalayan dream lines.
Photo Caption: The crew enjoys a cup of chai and buckwheat snacks in the warm tearoom of a generous family in the village of Kaban, a welcome respite after spending a chilly night on the roof. Photo: Neil Provo
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