How could anyone not be stunned by the beauty?
(photos by Jonathan Renouf)

The next day we met two Englishmen, Peter Burgess and Jonathan Renouf, who hoped to snow-shoe back from Zanskar over the high passes. As a group we climbed again above the river, across a slope of loose scree, and steeply down to the river. Picking our way, Rinchen and I looked back in time to see, to our horror, one of our porters fall and slide head-first toward the cliff edge, catching himself miraculously before plunging into the Zanskar. Around the fire that evening, Rinchen, Jigmet and I let Tashi know that the next time he gave a pre-trip briefing he should tell the truth! He laughed and said it would get better.

Setting out the next morning, I offered quiet prayers and asked myself, How could anyone not be stunned by the beauty of this place? Cliffs soaring thousand of feet straight up into blue skies, rock colored all shades of brown, red and purple. Streaked with dark intrusions and serpentine fissures, this intricately layered strata was deposited in the Tethys Sea 100 million years ago, but is now incredibly twisted and folded back on itself. Color photographs barely convey the subtle coloration or stark ruggedness of such terrain. I was reminded again of the Sanscrit proverb, “A hundred divine epochs would not suffice to describe all the marvels of the Himalaya.”

Every day we found fresh snow leopard tracks near camp. We passed a meditation cave and shrine made even more sacred by one of Ladakh’s Rinpoche priests who apparently found solitude here one winter. Once the ice has melted, no people are able to reach most sections of this gorge; the only trails are narrow precarious “slivers” made by wild ungulates – ibex and blue sheep – traversed too by snow leopards, fox and the occasional wolf. One morning we were able to approach within 100 yards of a large male ibex, evidence that we are among the first groups this season to penetrate the gorge. Later the wildlife would become more wary, as groups of Chaddar adventure trekkers (mostly from France and Germany) actually pay good money to make this trip–for fun!

As I mentioned, the ice changed constantly. Jigmet and I crossed over a bridge just before water started seeping onto the surface. By the time Tashi and Dawa the cook arrived at the spot fifteen minutes later the bridge was gone, so they had to backtrack to find another crossing which meant walking along a narrow ledge at the base of a cliff. Ice shelves beside dark rock are the most unreliable and dangerous, since the rocks absorb the heat of the sun.

By the third day, I was beginning to learn how to assess ice conditions by watching Tashi. Like all Zanskaris he carried a walking stick which he constantly used to prod the ice surface ahead of him. I copied him using my ski pole.

Smooth ice is naturally very slick and I was thankful for the metallic ice-stabilizers that slipped over my boots and enabled me to walk more like the local Chaddar travelers who rarely fell despite their typically treadless rubber boots. Rinchen, Jigmet and I learned to walk along the ice-ridges, which were stronger, and to avoid places looking like fractured glass panes! But it is really hard to “read” ice conditions when the surface is obscured by a layer of snow. Here we would rely more upon sound: was the resonance from tapping the walking stick on the ice solid-sounding or hollow and weak or brittly? In fact, ice produces a remarkably wide range of reverberating sounds and tones that reflect not only its thickness, texture and strength, but also whether it is underlain by standing or flowing water or a empty cavity of air. Solid ice gives that reassuring “thunky” sound you know might hold a car, but if the stick pokes through and you hear a cracking sound you’d better leap back immediately! Even so, probing with my walking stick, I always hoped for the best, especially in places where ice chaffed up against rock or on those dreaded ice-bridges.

Whenever they encountered smooth ice, the porters would place their loads on their wooden sleighs and run up the gorge, playing and laughing like young boys as our supplies skimmed along the edge, narrowly avoiding “wet dips.”

Whenever they encountered smooth ice, the porters would place their loads on their wooden sleighs and run up the gorge, playing and laughing like young boys as our supplies skimmed along the edge, narrowly avoiding “wet dips.”

We would stop for lunch around noon, cooking our meal (usually instant noodles but occasionally rice and dhal) on a kerosene stove. Water had to be collected from the briskly flowing current (5-10 miles an hour) at the edge of the ice, and all the Zanskaris seemed to know what sections to avoid and when to spread their weight by laying on their bellies and dipping the jerry can into the current. Still we lost our jug the third day out when the ice started to break up under Dawa. Again I insisted on the rope – a concession that lasted one whole day.

Remarkably (or perhaps because I followed behind others!), I fell through the ice only a half dozen times, and then the freezing water reached no higher than my knees or thighs. Rinchen was not so lucky. He crossed a thin section with a rock in the middle which served as a bridge to get onto what looked like a solid ice sheet that would have enabled us to bypass a section of open water. The ice was solid, but it was actually an island that began separating from the rock and stranding Rinchen. The weather had changed and it was snowing heavily. Of course when it snows it gets notably warmer, and the ice begins to melt. The gap was now too wide for Rinchen to jump, and the only alternative was to throw him a rope so we could haul him out quickly when he went in up to his waist. Fortunately we all carried a set of spare clothes in our day packs. We all ragged him about not carrying a stick. If he’d had one he’d never have ventured onto the ice island. He cut a sturdy branch from the very next bush he came to – which happened to be a rose bush with many thorns to strip before he could make use of it!

Rescuing Rinchen

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