Illustration: Shyam G Menon

“ How are conditions up the mountain?’’ I asked, lifting my head from the stoop caused by the heavy backpack.

“ Not bad, lot of snow,’’ the athletic foreigner returning from Stok Kangri said, “ it’s all about timing and acclimatization really.’’ He looked at me squinting from strain. “ Are you acclimatized?’’ “ Oh yes,’’ I replied vaguely, “ have been around in Ladakh for almost two weeks.’’ “ Well, good luck then.’’ He walked on. It took me a few seconds to straighten up, feel the backpack’s load transfer to my hips and proceed slowly up the trail. That pack had no business being so heavy. All it carried was personal gear – water, sleeping bag, plastic mountaineering boots, crampons and ice axe. Yet it felt dead heavy.

I was tired. The trail within ran back to Mumbai. Freelancing had changed my life. In times of inflation, my income reduced to a trickle. All I could do to keep the creeping sense of failure at bay was maintain another busy schedule around whatever I liked doing. Loneliness took hold. That was when Choszang Namgial, who I had worked with on a high altitude trek before, called up. He remembered my desire to visit Leh, attempt Stok Kangri. A Ladakhi, he was heading home in June to work the tourist season there. It appeared fine opportunity to find subjects for writing. Ladakh with few people in vast cold desert was engaging counterpoint to crowded Mumbai.

I met Choszang in Delhi. We traveled by road to Ladakh, via Manali. On reaching Leh, I walked around for several days, meeting people and learning about their life. I spent time with Choszang’s family at his village. In Leh, I sipped lemon-tea and gazed at Stok Kangri in the distance. There was nothing to my activity that qualified to be acclimatization of the sort mountaineers desire. I was a wanderer with pen and note pad. Then a chance emerged to visit Pangong Lake. It was a surreal place; an expanse of blue water surrounded by barren brown hills. Couple of tea stalls, a curio shop, tents to stay in; groups of motorcycle riders living that much published image of travel in emptiness. An early morning, I jogged along the lake side and scrambled up the nearby hill. It felt good. However, neither that exertion nor the days spent walking around Leh did anything to radically change my condition baked by sedentary journalist lifestyle. Having been on expeditions before, I knew I was going in ill prepared. I felt thankful that Choszang and his friend would be accompanying me to Stok Kangri.

The day before going to Stok village, we went with all relevant documents to the local mountaineering administrator, an elderly mountaineer of much repute called Sonam Wangyal. He had climbed Everest and also featured in those expeditions undertaken jointly by Indian intelligence agencies and Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) of the US in the 1960s, to Nanda Devi and Nanda Kot. Those were the years following China’s nuclear test in Tibet. The Nanda Devi expedition subsequently gathered controversy after it became known that a listening device powered by a radioactive fuel source, had been lost on the mountain. The story spawned media articles, books. Wangyal went over my papers. He wore a disinterested look on his face. It made me fear that the dreaded bureaucratic axe was about to fall on my request for permission to climb Stok Kangri. Then he suddenly looked up at Choszang and asked, “ He is Indian, isn’t he? Go…go…this is your country. Enjoy your climb!’’ The response delighted me. Mountaineering in India has long been wrapped up in permit raj and bureaucracy.

Stok Kangri (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

Ever since I got to the top of an 18,500 ft-high un-named peak in the Zanskar Himalaya with my climbing club in 2004, I had wanted to clear 20,000ft. Eventually, I decided on the 6153m-high Stok Kangri, often dismissed by mountaineers for being a non-technical peak climbed by many. In the macho world of climbing, `non-technical’ is a major differentiator. It means that a given climb doesn’t engage the use of much gear. That is like being a boy in shorts amid muscled men with boots, ropes, helmets, machined metal components and all. As if this wasn’t enough, Stok Kangri had been climbed by many availing guided ascents. Mention its name to climbers; they look down their nose and sneer. I never told anyone of my choice but the likely criticism nagged in my head. At my club for instance, what a person liked to do had long been superseded by whether the mission was significant and challenging from climbing’s perspective.

Looking back, I think I chose Stok Kangri for two reasons. First, my technical skills are limited; my physical fitness is more stretchable. So trysts with altitude made greater sense than agonizing over undoable vertical. Second, hanging out with climbers had dented my self confidence; battered my self esteem. A lot of it was my overactive mind. But some of it was definitely due to the climbing environment I was in. It wasn’t helping me. In fact, I had had to take time out and repair my self esteem. My Stok Kangri climb therefore commenced in Mumbai itself, erecting a protective barrier around my personal wish. Slowly I developed my defense – a person’s dream is a person’s dream and should be impervious to the comments of others. If others could be adamant about superlatives on vertical terrain and see that as sole perspective worth having, I had every right to enjoy the less than vertical! What I did not know was that in the thick of my rebellion, I was indulging my desire for distinction. It was vanity versus vanity. And in my case, a progressively tattered vanity for I was on the trail to Stok Kangri Base Camp (BC), hauling a heavy backpack of exhaustion. The cumulative effect of sedentary life, poor food intake, depression and a mind overactive through freelance writing – all had hit me.

Late in the evening I called it quits just short of BC. I was too tired to cover the remaining three hundred meters or so. We camped there. It was trifle funny for above the adjacent ridge we could see people moving around at BC. They must have wondered why a tent had been set up so close, yet far and definitely not at the same address as everyone else was. We formally moved to BC the next morning for a good rest. I needed rest. That day in 2009 I knew how much my life had changed since the earlier Zanskar expeditions. I felt something had drastically gone wrong. I could neither forget the job security I had left nor could I whole heartedly embrace the insecurity I had traded it for. I was the classic in-between case and dwelling on it in remoteness depressed me further.

Exhaustion however has a bright side. It is a great leveler; demolishes barriers, extinguishes pride. That and the general love for wilderness got me talking to the group of foreigners sharing the trail. At BC, we all met in one of those parachute tents that dot Himalayan trails, serving tea and food. The names have since dimmed in my mind, but there were people from Germany, England, US, Mexico and Netherlands. There was the former member of the British sport climbing team on her first foray to a 6000m peak. There was the former British banker, who had served in the property end of the business and seen it tank in the recession. He had then become a banking consultant to the shipping trade. But in the aftermath of the economic crisis triggered by sub-prime lending, banks became risk averse. Shipping on the other hand was a cyclical business. Eventually, he looked at his accumulated savings and said – let’s go climbing. That’s how he ended up at BC. One of the climbers had a particularly touching story. She liked climbing. After her husband fell ill, she had given up climbing to take care of him. Probably realizing the irreversibility of his ailment, the man later told her: don’t waste your life, live it. That’s the story as I recall it from imperfect memory. Early dinner done, everybody retired for a few winks of sleep.

Stok Kangri; the view from Leh (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

Past midnight we started for the summit, having dispensed with the idea of putting up an intermediate higher camp. It was snowing lightly and for me, rather cold. Within minutes of leaving BC, the water flow from my hydration pack froze. For the next four to five hours until the sun induced thaw, there was no water to drink. I could probably have drunk straight from the pack’s bladder but the one occasion I took my gloves off to adjust my trekking poles, my hands turned numb with cold. We kept a steady, slow pace. In a previous season, Choszang had climbed the peak nine times with clients. This season, he was already booked for another two. I wasn’t surprised when he told me that he wanted to do something else than just go up and down Stok Kangri and other trails in Ladakh.

Around day break, we found ourselves past the usual location of the intermediate higher camp and looking up the final slopes of the peak. To reduce my tiredness, Rigzin who was Choszang’s friend, had put my boots and crampons in his rucksack. We conferred for a while on the fate of that baggage. I was fairly adept at kicking and cutting steps on snow to ascend and on Stok Kangri I was anyway following Choszang’s lead. We had made decent progress. So we decided to forget the boots and crampons and left Rigzin’s sack on a rocky ridge to be picked up on the descent. By now the sun was up. With it came the reflected glare from snow and a new problem. I couldn’t find my sunglasses. Embarrassed I said, “ let’s call it off, no glasses.’’ Choszang and Rigzin looked at me astonished. I searched again; found the glasses. Momentarily, I must confess, I had wished that the lack of glasses would be viable excuse for great mountaineer to hide his exhaustion and be off this peak that many climbed. Now I was back in play.

Atop the last shoulder of the peak, before its summit pyramid, we decided to make tea. My small MSR stove went to work, melting snow for water. That tea was rejuvenating. The next half hour was careful going. Verglas – a glassy coating of ice on rocks – can be quite tricky. At around 8.45AM Choszang and Rigzin greeted the summit with loud Buddhist chants and an offering of a prayer flag. The duo couldn’t resist flair in the summit photo; in went the unused rope and our ice axes. The summit had a low wall of wind beaten snow and rock, beyond it the other side of the peak plummeted in a severe fashion. In the distance one could see Leh, its airport. I felt nothing of that 20,000ft obsession in my head. There was no elation, just thoughts of descent. Coming off the summit pyramid, we stood at the edge of the peak’s main face. Getting up that had been a series of traverses; now it lowered off in one swoop. It was an inviting glissade of few hundred feet save the first quarter, which ran steep. We shot off on our butts using ice axes for brakes; it saved much time. Back in Leh, I got myself an airline ticket to Delhi and stared down from the plane at the sea of snow covered peaks wondering where in that wilderness my first summit in Zanskar would be. Three days later, I was in Mumbai with resolution taken to eat at any cost. Without food there is no climbing.

Most people come to Stok Kangri to access 20,000ft. It is as simple as that. In 2011, I reached the top a second time. In the months after my first trip, I had regularly worked in the outdoors. I was in much better shape. This time, I could go along as an unpaid help, serving a team of clients. We stopped some distance away from the summit as we felt the freshly deposited snow wasn’t well settled. On return, I spoke briefly to Sonam Wangyal about a new lot of over one hundred peaks opened up for climbing in Ladakh. They were yet to catch the fancy of climbers. Stok Kangri on the other hand, had become probably India’s busiest peak, a money spinner for authorities. Its attraction was the combination of a not-so-difficult climb and breaching 20,000ft. Indeed in 2011, the mountain’s base camp resembled a small city of tents. There were so many people out for an easy shot at distinction. Wangyal seemed tad disappointed by this limited appreciation of mountaineering. Next door to Stok Kangri is Gholap Kangri, which is slightly technical at the top and overall, below 20,000ft in altitude. Very few people go there. Everyone, including me, wanted 20,000ft. I listened to Wangyal. He was right. Vanity-climbs distort the purity of climbing.

Choszang and Rigzin on the summit (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

I didn’t tell that a few months after the 2009 climb, I was whipped by a 19,500ft-high peak in Uttarakhand, which I confidently went for having tasted 20,000ft on Stok Kangri. It was the first expedition I planned to a considerable extent. We got lashed by heavy rain, heavy enough to wash off approach trails and dump a lot of snow higher up. That delayed progress. It robbed us of adequate working days on the mountain. We reached high camp amid snowing. To reduce equipment weight at higher altitudes, I had left our second tent at lower camp. I crammed four people into a 3-person-tent at high camp. Short of space to lie down, I sat up much of the night. Outside, the snowing continued. Early next morning, one of us woke up too disinterested to proceed anymore. His boot laces had also frozen wire-like in the cold; they resembled the antlers of a deer. The remaining three, who went for the summit, were dismissed through a combination of difficult access, avalanching slopes (due to fresh snow) and no more days left to wait for the terrain to settle down. We turned back. It was a humbling experience. After that whipping, I stopped caring how high or low a mountain is. Every mountain region, every mountain therein – is unique. I also provide for time on the mountain and leave it to the peak to decide whether I should summit or not.

In one of my later trips to Ladakh, I came across signs of Stok Kangri’s traditional image in climbing, potentially changing. There were young Indian climbers, who spoke not of merely ascending the peak but ascending it by particular routes. Just as your fine day on a peak with summit gained is not how that peak is year round, every mountain feels different along its different climbing routes (Polish climbers in the Himalaya added winter ascents too, to the equation. For more, please visit https://shyamgopan.wordpress.com/2013/08/11/an-interview/). I am not a fan of speed climbing but I heard people talk of fast ascents up Stok Kangri. Months later on the Internet, I read about two young Indian women who climbed the peak alpine style with no porters or guides. These are all interesting departures from the norm. On my last visit to Leh, after a couple of days spent looking at Stok Kangri from town, I cycled to Stok village and had a cup of tea at one of the restaurants climbers frequented. I remembered Choszang and Rigzin, the trudge up the mountain and a cup of tea brewed high on its slopes. That was enough to make me happy. I then slowly cycled back.

(The author, Shyam G Menon, is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai. A slightly different and abridged version of this article was published in the anthology ` Aloft @ the Indian Himalaya’ anchored by Rana Chawla. Details about this book can be had at https://www.facebook.com/aLoftAtTheIndianHimalaya)

Illustration: Shyam G Menon

An evening in Ranikhet, four of us went for a run.

It was past 5 PM.

We made for one of the quiet side roads.

We ran past the holiday huts of the army, down a few bends to the first of the `Old Grant Bungalows’ on that road, called so for their origin in British India times. It had just rained. There was a light chill in the air. The leafy vegetation around, the trees lining the quiet road and the road itself gave off that typical post-rain smell. Several turns away at the entrance to the Chevron Rosemount hotel, one of their dogs barked to announce the approaching runners. Used to seeing runners on that road every morning, it first resorted to barking and then settled down by the roadside.

Two turns away, we passed the house of a friend who was a naturalist. Wonderful address for someone so – I always thought. We ran past the small trail cutting up the hillside, which we take when the daily run has to be kept short. This evening was different. We had resolved to run a longer distance, run the full length of the road and then turn off to Mall Road and Meghdoot Hotel.

Another turn went by on the quiet road; then another. Finally we went past Adhikari Lodge, an old bungalow reportedly owned by a Mumbai business family who visit Ranikhet on and off. Although there were houses here, this area, compared to other portions of the road, was trifle more densely green. Four pairs of legs hit the ground rhythmically in slow run. Wind in the hair; nippy air on the face, a breathing that said `I am breath,’ in the chest.

At the next turn, the first runner stopped. The rest of us caught up in one to two seconds.

Walking diagonally across the sheltered road, with its back to us and seemingly no bother for its surroundings now invaded by humans – was a leopard. We watched it in absolute amazement. For all of us, it was the first sighting of a leopard so; free and unfettered. I suspect it was my shoe moving ever so slightly against the sand on the tarred road that created the faint noise – whatever, the leopard caught wind of something behind. It broke its leisurely walk to glance behind its left shoulder, sensed the four humans and in a couple of elegant bounds was up the other side of the road and lost to the dense vegetation between the road and the households beyond.

We stood there speechless.

It took a while for things to sink in.

Slowly, our awe struck faces broke into smiles. We shook hands.

Then we resumed our slow run.

Leopards are not unusual in Ranikhet. But here’s the key according to my friend Ravi – don’t go looking around for the animal. I know quite a few people, including me, who went looking for leopard and never saw one. It was as though the shy animal read your mind and stayed away or you were too deliberate that your search affected your prospects. You know, too desirous of what you want that you become this big solid mass disturbing the universe’s subtle arrangement. Expect nothing and lo and behold, the universe rewards you. Leopard was the last thing on our minds that evening we ran. We saw one!

Illustration: Shyam G Menon

I sometimes get outdoor work in Kumaon (the eastern half of Uttarakhand). That’s how I land up in Ranikhet, helping out at the India branch of the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS http://www.nols.edu). I have a regular running route; the earlier mentioned road; voila, my name for it – Leopard’s Walk. Past where we saw the leopard, that quiet road continues on; it skirts one side of the local tourist rest house property and eventually joins the road to the Jhoola Devi temple, in front of the West View hotel. From here you can either turn towards Meghdoot Hotel or take another quiet, isolated road, often carpeted by dry leaves and run all the way to the temple avoiding the main road. Some colleagues from the school choose to run further. There is a military check post at the temple and a stiff ascent of several kilometres that takes you to Chaubatia on top of the hill. The place is home to one half of Ranikhet’s sprawling military base. To my knowledge Ranikhet is one of the very few towns, maybe the only one in India that is home to two army regiments – the Kumaon Regiment and the Naga Regiment. Being military cantonment and located away from the normal Nainital-Almora route, Ranikhet has a quietness that is disturbed only by tourists and visitors. That’s why I like my morning run here. It is also why I rarely speak of it – for these days to speak of the solitude in some place is to invite its violation. Reduced shelf life is contemporary media’s gift to existence.

For a relatively small town, Ranikhet has many people running. Most obvious and most regular are the soldiers. They fall into three categories – two, I profile below and a third general variety closer to jogging for fitness than running. On the road, the first group typically manifests as an approaching rustle ahead of me or behind me. Either way, they whiz past for they seem to be a dedicated team of endurance runners. They commence a run together; warm up exercises, stretches et al and then progressively spread out in accordance with individual pace. However they are never so spread out that the tail end doesn’t see the leader; their average pace is pretty good. Their youth and fitness crunches me like a tank running above the head of someone in a lowly trench. I have also occasionally met a slightly slower lot, who like to remain clustered as a distinct group. They run like a herd. My deduction is – they are the boxing team. It is nice to think of all these probabilities as one gets overtaken, lapped, left in the dust and forgotten, all the while happy for it as the morning air is much cleaner than the average Indian city’s, there is very little traffic and the early morning hours are enjoyably cold.

Ranikhet’s civilian runners appear to fall into two categories. There are some who run regularly. More important – every now and then the number of civilians running goes up. When the numbers go up, you know bharti or army-recruitment is due. You find such preparatory running all over Kumaon; daily run done, candidates from everywhere converge at Ranikhet for that is where bharti happens. No army for me. I am the wandering, peace-loving middle aged soul, timid enough to avoid gladiators of all sorts and embrace a refuge, a trench. Much before I started running, I ran away – that’s the truth. Put an urban gladiator in front of me, I will run away again. I usually run alone in Ranikhet and when I have had company, it has been from the outdoor school. For some time, till he got married, Harish Singh was regular company. Indeed he was there when we saw the leopard. Twice, a local taxi driver with affection for running came running by and said – let’s go together. Narayan Singh (I think that was his name) was fine company for those two days. Once in a while, you see another visitor like me savoring the different ambiance of running in the hills. But that’s rare and I don’t blame those who choose to rest in their hotel rooms or go for leisurely walks instead. Fact is – the urban life is tougher, including the running therein. Back from the hills and running in Mumbai, I am exhausted in just one day coping with the heat and humidity; my respect for everyone sweating it out in the city.

Whether I like it or not, the urban trend of organized running is catching on in the hills. From Leh to Mussoorie and places in between, there are staged events with calendar dates, gladiators and all. But I am partial to the unnoticed variety wherein running (I call my version of it – trotting) becomes a means to get around. The enjoyment I have had from this is immense and seductive enough to leave me with shin splints; that classic outcome of overdoing things. Plus, the terrain is undulating; there are long ascents and descents. That adds to the strain, which you don’t notice till injury settles in, well and truly in love with your shin. Still, unplanned running is fun.

Once Ravi and I were in a car headed to Tehri for a conference. Our accommodation was at Chamba, which is up a hill from Tehri. It was a long drive from Ranikhet to Tehri and by evening, as we reached Tehri, Ravi was bored. He asked Dinesh, our driver, to stop the car and pulled out his unicycle. I changed to running shoes. We reached Chamba in style, a small traveling circus of sorts, runner in front; unicyclist behind. In Ranikhet, Ravi is often called ` circus uncle.’ Mountaineer, cyclist and outdoor educator, he maintains a small collection of cycles – MTBs, recumbent bikes and unicycles.

Several days before Chamba, I had another impromptu, engaging run, rather trot – from Ranikhet to Katpudia (please try https://shyamgopan.wordpress.com/2013/08/03/katpudia/ for a story on Katpudia), which is slightly less than half way to Almora. Near Majkhali, I met the army regulars. As always, they checked me out – who is this terribly slow, old chap trotting by? Fit as a fiddle, their pace was whiz-class; they crushed me, tank-like. New element was – at the tail end of the contingent was their coach, on a cycle, periodically shouting, “ bhaag!’’ Rush hour went by thus and my cocoon of quiet refuge in the hills (call it trench), returned. I trotted to Katpudia, had a cup of tea at the local tea shop and took the share-taxi back to Ranikhet.

The most satisfying run I have done in the hills so far was in Munsyari, from the town to Kalamuni Pass and back. The credit for getting me started on this goes to Love Raj Singh Dharmshaktu. As of 2014, he had climbed Everest five times besides ascending many other peaks in the Indian Himalaya (please visit https://shyamgopan.wordpress.com/2014/07/10/everest-to-the-east/).

Illustration: Shyam G Menon

In June 2014, I was in Munsyari to write about Love Raj and every morning we used to run together. That season, our turn-around point had been Betuli Dhar, which is little over the half way mark to Kalamuni. Four months later, the whole route to Kalamuni and back, happened. It being late October, this was a much colder run with ones shoes getting wet six times in all as you have that many instances of stream-crossing (basically streams flowing over and across the road) to do. My face was numb from the early morning chill and cold. But as the sun rose over the Himalaya, I was blessed by sweet warmth. Blessed is the word, for every time I experience such sunshine in the mountains, I fold my hands in namaste to the sun. The preceding cold seemed just the right setting in retrospect – without cold, would you value warmth? In such life by opposites, is the joy of the outdoors. To see the leopard, you shouldn’t seek it. To run well, you should enjoy, not be deliberate. The best advice I ever received in the outdoors is this: if you are not having fun, then something is wrong.

My idea was to have a cup of tea at the tea shop near the temple at Kalamuni Pass and then run back to Munsyari. But the tea shop was closed. I heard voices at the temple and approached. A Rasputin like-baba and three others, were making rotis. They beckoned me in. “ Sit; sit, would you like a smoke?’’ the baba asked cupping his hands to show the usual technique for smoking charas. I laughed comparing my state and need with the offer. “ No sir, I don’t smoke. But a cup of tea would be more than welcome,’’ I replied. “ Roti?’’ he asked. “No, thank you, just tea,’’ I said. Fortified by that excellent tea, I ran back to Munsyari and the beginning of yet another case of shin splints that would have me off running altogether by December.

So I sit, grounded, in Mumbai.

But there is one good thing about shin splints and no running.

I write.

(The author, Shyam G Menon, is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai. The story of the leopard was published as a small piece in The Hindu Business Line newspaper and on the Facebook page of NOLS India. In terms of distances, it is roughly 15km uphill from the Tehri reservoir to Chamba; it is 15km uphill from Munsyari town [7000ft] to Kalamuni Pass [9000ft], up and down is 30km.)

Ganesh Nayak with his bicycle at the NOLS India base in Ranikhet (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

Late November 2014, my mail to Ganesh Nayak elicited the same automated message that had originally prompted this story.

A day later, he replied:

I just got back from a mind blowing trip to Muktinath (Annapurna). WOW! It blew my mind! The Himalaya here is so different from what I have been used to in India. The pine forests and snow are so close here. As I made my way towards Muktinath, the environment was very similar to Leh but there was plenty of water from all the icecaps, making human habitation possible. Ladakh in comparison had been sparsely populated. However, both have a charm of their own.

I did some initial research before heading in and knowing that there was a ton of cheap teahouses on the way, I went in with a very light weight-setup. I was as light as a cloud and just floated up to 3700m (Muktinath) from 820m (Pokhara). There is no way I am going back to loaded touring after this.

I am right now in Thamel and I am heading out in a bit to try and sell as much of my gear as it is possible for me to do. That should add some weight to my depleting kitty. My bike is in need of servicing and I am getting one done today.

Anyways, after leaving Ranikhet, it was tough going for a bit. I had been surrounded by people for a while and suddenly I found myself riding alone. That was a bit difficult. But once I entered the Terai of Nepal, I was again surrounded by people all the time. There are as many bicycles there as people and I had people riding by my side throughout the day – from school girls to army men to granddads and grandmas.

I am heading back to India after this. I didn’t have a plan as such until a couple of days ago. On a book shelf in Pokhara, I came across Anne Mustoe’s ` Two Wheels in the Dust.’ I am currently reading this book and will probably base my route back to Manipal on this.

Earlier this year, when Ganesh Nayak applied for the fall season Wilderness First Responder (WFR) course at the India branch of the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS http://www.nols.edu/), the office immediately got a sense of person and predicament.

Applications typically entailed a few more instances of correspondence between NOLS India and the applicant, ironing out details. In Ganesh’s case, Ravi Kumar, Director, NOLS India recalled, the office was treated to an automated message informing that he was out on a long trip and would respond as and when he could. In the world of adventure and personal discovery, which is what NOLS is, the required flexibility is extended; not to mention – the erratic correspondence kindles curiosity for the story behind the message.

The story reached Ranikhet, in time for the WFR, on a Surly bicycle. It was the classic touring model with black steel frame, Brooks saddle, pannier racks up front and behind, gears and that generally solid appearance designed to crunch months and miles. Ganesh was riding in from Mussoorie.

It was almost two months since he had begun his odyssey – a cycle trip along the Himalaya.

What made the story particularly engaging for this author, an Instructor-In-Training (IIT) just back at NOLS India from a long hike with the fall semester course and discovering a Surly on the premises were Ganesh’s demeanor and his journey to a dream he never thought existed in his head.

Some years ago, Ganesh, now 32, was at a low point in life. Born and brought up in Manipal in southern India, the electronics engineer had taken to drinking and was generally adrift. He knew he had got it all wrong but getting out of the funk required a road map and such maps don’t visit any of us easily.

Somewhere in that troubled phase, he purchased an ordinary bicycle.

For the next six months, he rode it around; progressively realizing that riding long on a bicycle is what he wanted to do.

What happened next may seem mad but Ganesh talked of it in an utterly composed manner.

After much research and study, he bought his first geared bicycle – the Surly. It cost him over 100,000 rupees. That is expensive by Indian standards but it is not a very significant amount in these days of rising salaries in urban India and willingness among young Indians to put money behind their dreams as people in other countries have done for long. Instead, what struck home as really significant was Ganesh’s decisiveness. He felt confident of vaulting straight from six months with a modest, regular bicycle to an iconic make because he concluded that the dream evolving upstairs in his head could settle for nothing less.

Surly it had to be.

After buying the new cycle in Bangalore, Ganesh interned briefly with a city based-cycling outfit, at that time called, Cyclists For Life. He learnt how to repair and maintain his bicycle. Ganesh’s first test with the Surly was a trip of around 250 kilometers in his home state, Karnataka. He started at Manipal; proceeded to Agumbe, a place identified with rain forests and much remembered as a protected sanctuary for the King Cobra, then cycled north from there before turning south towards Kollur and Manipal.

By now feeling ready for his first long trip, he cut lose to earn the needed freedom – he resigned his job. Earlier this year, he began his journey at Srinagar in the North Indian state of Jammu & Kashmir (J&K). Since then he had cycled through J&K (including much time in Ladakh), Himachal Pradesh and parts of Uttarakhand to reach Ranikhet. “ I had heard of the WFR from another cyclist who did it earlier. That’s how I decided to enrol. I also knew that I would bump into more people given to adventure and travel if I attended the course. That was an added attraction,’’ Ganesh said. His batch of students for the WFR turned out to be a diverse mix, drawn from India, Indonesia, Malaysia, USA, UK and Canada.

First aid course done, Ganesh planned to briefly hike in the Gangotri area with some of his course mates, return to Ranikhet and recommence his journey, cycling on to Nepal, Sikkim and Bhutan. While North East India was originally part of his itinerary, Ganesh felt that by the time he completed the current leg of his trip, his resources may be stretched. He may have to return to Manipal to piece together funds for the remaining part of the journey. Reality bites, dreams notwithstanding.

Ganesh’s trip engaged for yet another reason.

His daily cycling route in the Himalaya hadn’t been held to ransom by some iron clad objective to cycle along a fixed route chosen in advance. He wasn’t out to prove anything. There wasn’t a goal beyond question or negotiation. He allowed himself to be led by conversation with local people and developments along the way. Thus, in Ladakh, he and another cyclist from Chennai opted off the regular cycling route and tagged along with an enterprising horseman to do a largely off-road section, lasting several days. Ganesh liked this excursion and other similar ones availed along the way, immensely. This angle made his trip more organic and less of an imposition in search of achievement.

In the process, he discovered differences between the people of the plains and those from the mountains; in particular – glimpses of that fabled simplicity, sincerity and spirit of sharing associated with residents of the Himalaya. “ Even my Hindi has improved,’’ he said, recalling conversations sustained for long and time spent living with local people. Both in the Himalaya and in other places that he cycled through in South India, he had instances of being helped and saved from getting lost by people he met on the way.

As he spoke, one sensed a bit of the magic he had experienced since buying a cycle, months ago in the depths of a funk.

“ I now feel more connected to life,’’ Ganesh said.

That was a couple of months ago.

Several days later, I was in Ranikhet preparing to head out on a trek, when a familiar rider on familiar black touring cycle slowly drifted down the road to Khairna. We exchanged pleasantries. Back from his trip to Gangotri side, returned to saddle and minus his beard and moustache, Ganesh was pedalling off to Nepal. Ahead lay Pokhara, Muktinath and the automated message I got before his eventual update.

(The author, Shyam G Menon, is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai. He also works periodically with NOLS India. A portion of this article without the update in italics had been posted earlier on the Facebook page of NOLS India. )

Teams line up before the football final (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

For a fortnight every June, a playground in Munsyari draws crowds of people.

They are residents of Kumaon’s Johar Valley and members of its far flung diaspora. Kumaon is the eastern half of the Indian state of Uttarakhand; Munsyari is in north eastern Kumaon.

June is Johar’s month of annual get together.

The magnet is that playing field.

June 2014, it hosted competitions in various sports. Evenings featured football, coincidentally befitting the times, for as the local competition peaked to final by mid-June, in far away Brazil the 2014 FIFA World Cup got underway. It became Munsyari’s season of football within global season of football.

Munsyari’s football however went beyond the sport.

Over 60 years ago, in 1953, a group of students from the Johar Valley studying in Almora, started the Johar Club. Their idea was to get together, keep the Johar in them alive through sports. Thus was born the tournament. The first sport it featured was volleyball. For the next three years, this annual ritual was hosted in Almora. In 1956, it shifted to Munsyari. It has remained there since.

According to Sriram Singh Dharmshaktu, Secretary, Johar Club, the inaugural tournament in Almora drew half a dozen teams or so. By 1956, this grew to around 20, mostly local; including teams from villages like Darkot, Bunga, Sarmoli, Suring, Dumar and Jalat. The variety of sports also grew to encompass volleyball, football, carom, chess, table tennis, badminton etc. Soon, teams from outside Munsyari started coming; among them – Lucknow, Delhi, Bageshwar, Thal and Didihat. No matter where a team was from, one thing stayed common – its members hailed from the Johar Valley.

This year (2014), the tournament had 16 senior teams and 15 junior teams, including school teams. For the first time the event also featured girls’ teams with four teams registered to play football. These all girl-outfits were named after well known adventurers – Bachendri Pal, Chandraprabha Aitwal, Sabita Dhapwal and Reena Kaushal Dharmshaktu. Further, in what was probably recognition of the growing popularity of running in India, there was a 15 kilometre-run from Munsyari to Darkot and back. There is no age restriction for senior teams. It was visible for example in the volleyball final, where a mix of youth and age fought an engaging match.

In the Himalaya, cricket is popular. If you are frequent hiker, you would have seen villagers playing the game. A good hit typically travels down several terraced fields or tiered slopes of a hillside. The fielder chases the ball and often disappears from view in the undulating, steep terrain. A powerful throw from below returns the ball to frantic teammates on the pitch. The fielder then climbs back up. In a single game, there would be many players repeating this process many times over. In mountains, big, flat spaces are hard to find. Some villages are lucky. They have a playing field. There are regular inter-village cricket tournaments. Shields and trophies find pride of place in a victorious village; I recall seeing a big shield displayed at a village temple in the western part of Garhwal bordering Himachal Pradesh. I also remember youngsters’ sorrow at a Kumaon village, after the nearby river which flooded in monsoon, washed off a portion of their flat field.

Probably because cricket has its own established circuit, the sport wasn’t part of the Johar Club’s annual tournament. Big ticket sport here was football, followed by volleyball.

Volleyball final in progress (Photo: Shyam G Menon)

Munsyari is small enough for most people to know each other. Well known mountaineer and Padma Shri recipient in 2014, Love Raj Singh Dharmshaktu, hails from Johar. June was his month to be home too. A local hero and chief guest for an evening’s football, he was formally received in town and taken in procession to the stadium. Years ago, Love Raj had been on a team playing football at the same annual event. Ahead of the match, oblivious of the gathered crowd, his little son had fun kicking the football around in the stadium.

On the day of the football final, the two finalist teams walked down the bazaar road to the stadium, with their supporters – one team accompanied by a traditional Kumaoni band, the other by a school band. The small stadium was full of people. Houses nearby had people on balconies and roof tops just as they do for cricket matches in Mumbai. There were people watching from roads uphill and some poised on top of rocks. There was no dearth of flourish either for the final ended in a penalty shoot-out with goal keeper for hero, a trend that would repeat at World Cup matches weeks later. Interestingly, for a long time, the football here couldn’t accommodate teams of 11 players each due to lack of space. In 1970, with help from residents, the playground was enlarged. Team size went up from nine to 11.

Preparations for the annual tournament commence in April-May. People contribute; some financially, others help with the organizing. With so many landing up, it also becomes an occasion to meet friends and relatives. At heart, the tournament is a reunion.

The annual community reunion around sport in Johar, reminded of a similar event elsewhere.

Far to the south, in Coorg (Kodagu), there has been the tradition of an annual field hockey festival. It was started in 1997. In the past, the region has been famous for talented field hockey players and a typical tournament saw people who had played at state, national and international level turn up to represent their families (please visit this link: https://shyamgopan.wordpress.com/2013/08/22/field-hockeys-family-festival/). A difference between Johar and Coorg was – in Johar, team identity spanned roots in Johar for those from the diaspora and participating as visiting teams, to specific villages and institutions (schools for example) in Johar for local teams. Either way, it was link to a place. In Coorg, the idea of roots went deeper to teams arranged under family names.

(The author, Shyam G Menon, is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai. An abridged version of this article was published in The Telegraph newspaper)