Words Nick Russell Captions Gray Thompson “ N o, 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. 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 impend-ing 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 touch-ing 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 ex-cessive 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. 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 par-take 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. INDIAN HIMALAYA 061
The Snowboarder's Journal frequency 16.1: Page 61
