We set off in frigid weather on January 11. Even in winter the Zanskar River carries a sizeable volume of water to join the great “Lion River,” the Indus, which rises on the Tibetan Plateau, traverses Ladakh, and meets the sea at the tip of Pakistan.
The river also bears small icebergs that act as battering rams, breaking up the frozen surface, keeping our “trail” in a state of constant
tumble and change. With temperatures well below zero, the water surface freezes, first along the river’s edge and extending toward its center. The
thickness of the ice may range from less than an inch to several feet; it may stretch from bank to bank, but usually forms only a narrow skirt along either
bank. To complicate matters, several separate layers of varying thickness can develop one above the other with a pocket of air, or water flowing between
them.
Toward evening each day, the water level rises with the melt from snowfields and glaciers on the main Himalayan range far to the south. The increased flow overtops and melts the surface ice, while underneath the growing pressure and battering causes bridges and trails to break up and float downstream. A seemingly good trail can disappear within a matter of hours, even minutes, requiring skilled pathfinding and a good dose of that centuries-old Zanskari “Chaddar knowledge.” I should add that Zanskar and especially Ladakh, fall within the rain shadow of the world’s highest mountain range. Until recently they received little snowfall of their own, but we were to learn that shrinking glaciers and global warming are having their effect on the Chaddar.
We had hardly gone three hours when we encountered our first serious obstacle, and my first serious thought that I was in above my head, as it were. The gorge had narrowed to a mere 30 feet, the walkway was less than a foot wide and clearly unstable. Our guide tested the ice. Maybe we’ll have to turn back, I thought, trying to smother my sudden feeling of delight when he pronounced it “no good.” But a second later my heart plummeted to my feet when he started up the cliff face. It was so icy that he slipped back down several times before his boot got a grip on what seemed an infinitesimally small crystal and he yelled “Okay!”
I suggested that Rinchen bring the rope out. As they pulled me up the rock face to a pencil-thin “trail” above the defile, Tashi saw the look on my face and said (not for the last time) “Don’t worry Rodney, it will get easier. The Chaddar is no problem, really.” I kept thinking, I have it easy, what about the porters carrying 50-80 pounds on their backs, not to mention a home-made wooden sled?
The first night we camped at the confluence of the Kanak River, an unbelievably cold and windy place. While we huddled in our tents, the porters were warmed in their cave by a roaring campfire fueled with the abundant driftwood carried down the side canyon. What I did not know then was that at every other campsite, all nine men would have to search for two or three hours to find enough wood to last them until morning for cooking and drying wet boots and clothing.
Obviously, wet boots and frozen feet are not a good combination in winter, and we all knew that frostbite presented a constant danger. So we carried a spare set of clothing in our daypacks in case we fell through the ice. Even the air was so cold that I hoped I would not have to change my clothes until I reached Padam; to fall through the ice sent slivers of dread up my spine.
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