Snow and I were on the mountain-side. We finally made it! The ascent to the Valley of flowers was staring in our tired faces. After three days of being on the road – from Bangalore in the South of India to the capital city, changing countless buses and shared-vans, on which Snow threw up (I do sympathize her motion sickness on twisty mountain roads… but after knowing her for the longest time, I could simply joke about it), there we were. I am not sure if her stomach had any contents left to liberate after two hours of her act, but it sure did a number on the side of several poor, unsuspecting vehicles. I do pity those that were down-wind of her…
Anyway, given our mostly sedentary lifestyle, our undertaking of 14km uphill was quite something. I do recommend that you start early if you plan on trekking. The two of us, starting the climb around mid-day, at snail’s pace, did us no good. (If you are as bad trekkers as we are… I would recommend you go up to Ghangria by horseback or mule back… though it is a bit expensive if you are on a budget. But, ofcourse we didn’t take those… we were adventurers willing to die among horse poo instead or we were just broke!)
Though the glamour of the neighbouring coniferous, a crystal-clear river – fresh from the mountain spring, and the pebbled path on the mountain was simply perfect and sure does sound picturesque, it certainly started to hold less appeal to us after we crossed our half-way mark around 4pm.
We dragged our aching feet, with backpacks that are now starting to hurt our shoulders and tired backs, up the steps, to the village of Ghangria – the base to the Valley of Flowers National Park.
Little did we know that our bodies would give up 2km before we reached the top. At 8 pm in the night, we were far from helpless… we could always choose to die in the hands of a bear or a ghost (I am scared of them… no judgement please) or throw ourselves off the mountain or simply lie on the steps till the universe decided how it wanted us to die. And we chose the last! At this point, we were basically crawling up the path, cursing our decision to go on a trek in the first place.
There we were… defeated by our own bodies, fallen on the steps, certainly surrounded by horse poo, and the grime from every being that passed the place before. That’s when I didn’t meet him – My Prince Charming.
Trot! Trot! A couple of horses neared us. It was dark and the path had no lamps. We were conscious enough to hear them and roll out of the way. But the men on the horses stopped in their tracks. It was their moment to play knight. And they did, ever so gallantly. In the darkness, even after we insisted that we’d somehow make up the last mile of the trek in a bit, they offered us a ride on their horses. Their old voices and bony hands helped us up on the horses’ backs and off we went, led by a horseman, leaving our heroes behind. Not to say much… but it felt like a fairytale moment. Especially the one we didn’t ask.
I am moon-eyed to say that we still do not know who our saviours were! It is something of an excitement that we couldn’t find who they were after searching for them for an entire morning… the next morning. I heard every grunty, old man voice in that village, but he wasn’t there. And just to clear things up, I wasn’t stalking all the old men in that village. Just the out-of-towners.
Anyway, our trek to the Valley of Flowers was less than eventful… the valley was beautiful to be sure, and the waterfall on the way there was simply perfect to sit-by and have a picnic by yourself. I am not going to use all the adjectives in English to describe the place. I leave those vivid descriptions up to the other writers and photographers on the internet.
Given our time constraint, it was crucial that we descended the mountain on the same day itself. Horrible idea on our part… but this time we knew better. We hired a horseman and his two loyal steeds… err… one loyal steed and one loyal… not steed.
I am not sure how to describe that one. And so, we were off. The steed I was on, was quite good with the path and intelligent too. It was a good and quick ride. For me. But my friend? Poor her. Her not-so-steed ride had troubles, I am sure. I had quite a laugh watching her screaming in a high pitched, shrill voice, making the poor creature run panic-stricken to the edge of a mountain and stand there gnawing on grass it had previously eaten.
Maybe the troubled soul was suicidal or wanted to kill her screaming rider, or was simply hungry for the leaves that grow at the very edge of the path, a few centimetres from a great fall to its death. Not that it was concerned with all that anyway. After its many wayward runs off the path – Snow, holding onto her dear life – screaming, and me, glad and laughing at the whole fiasco – we made it down the mountain! Thank goodness my noble steed looked out for my friend’s very suicidal ride. The most intelligent creature.
And that was that! Our way back to Bangalore was more annoying than ever. So much so that she and I were usually silent… we could bear no more of talk after such a rushed and strenuous trip. We still think it to be one of our worst ever. Even if I include the one where we got shut in a luggage cart on a train.
Read it here
