Pin Bhabha Pass.

You never conquer a Mountain. You stand at the summit a few brief minutes and the wind blows away your foot prints  ~Arlene Blum

Mountains always provide you a humbling experience, by the sheer magnanimity of its presence. Only in the docile best of the weathers, do mere mortals be able to pass through the saddle point between huge mountain ranges. Mother nature provided us on a platter, the taste of all the four seasons in a span of 6 days during our trek to Pin Bhabha Pass.

Located at the border between kinnaur and spiti regions of Himachal, the Pin bhabha pass, at its saddle point reaches a height of 16100 ft and on either side of the pass displays contrasting textures of the weather and landscape.

The trek started from Kafnu, moving through Mulling kara Phutsirang crossing the Bhabha pass to enter the Spiti region as we cross Manmurung Se, Buldhar along the deserted valley to meet civilization at a tiny hamlet, Mudh. If Kinnaur offered lush green carpet with forests and mountains standing sentinels along the path, Spiti threw at us the barren yet beautiful valley of  scree, sand and dry vegetation. How could such a contrast exist just few kilometres apart on either side of the Pass? The magic wand was swayed without a care in the world, and yet the nonchalance appeared divine. It had to be Gods magic. Join me as I savoured the divinity through my senses.

On the way to Mulling

 Just after we left the quiet yet bustling Kafnu, the paradise was ready to unfurl its splendour in front of us. The path to Mulling was specked with an oak-brown forest.  The grass and soil we stepped on were crackly beneath our feet, probably because of the recent dry spell. Everything about this forest was colossal, even the trees rose to gargantuan proportions, with their knotted arms rising as far as our heads could lift. As we marched along the forest, beyond noon, we arrived at a wide glade, where the forest trees seemed to fall apart, revealing the evening sky. There lie the meadow right in front of us. The ore gold moon hung quietly at a distance, waiting for his turn to take over the sky.  We lay our backs against the mossy grass, and watched silently, as the moon took centre stage. Dinner that night at Mulling, was an epicurean delight. If the visual appetizer at Mulling was appeasing, the main course was yet to unfold in front of us, in the form of Kara. 

The path to Kara through the meadow was straight out of a painter’s best canvas. The grass was eden green and mushy soft. The mountains in the distance had peaks that looked as cruel as shark’s teeth. That was the only part of the meadow that looked odd in some way. But it was Gods blasphemy at play, how could it seem odd? Despite the misnomer, it was heavenly. 

Serene campsite at Kara 

As I looked above, the feast for the eyes was waiting to be devoured. The sky stretched as far as the eye could see in a gigantic dome of cocktail blue, punctuated with fluffy clouds. It appeared as if the fairies dropped the tufts of cotton on their way to heaven. At the far end of the valley, shepherd herded their flock with ease and peace, knowing fully well that the intruders would stay away from Gods abode on earth. Lumbering along, gasping for breath and quenching our parched throats, we passed one scenery after another, the camera failing to capture the beauty on display in totality. As we camped that night at Kara, the creamy white ribbon of river ran through middle of the meadow, sang such a gentle lullaby, that I quickly slipped into slumber. That night I slept like a baby.

As we went through and past Kara, the landscape seemed to abandon vegetation, and started to wear brownish grey attire. The saw toothed mountains loomed in the distance. Huffing and puffing our way towards them as we had to make base camp at Phutsirang, by nightfall. The mountains on either side of the Bhabha pass, were auburn faced and brooded over the land. Just as we approached the pass, a chute of snow detached itself and went hurtling down one of the mountains. It slid over the edge and then went crashing into the chasm below. The silence that followed was eerie. Although the pass itself was all scree and loose rock, it froze our marrow to think that we would be climbing in those conditions the next day.

The Deceptive Ramp! Pin Bhabha Pass

As God turned his gigantic waxmelt- yellow coloured fireball towards the apex of the nearby mountains, we began our climb towards the pass. The mountains were gentle enough to maintain eerie silence while we trudged along the gravel path crisscrossing the altitude, gaining meters by the minute. We stopped time and again, only to look up the distance needed to cross the saddle point. The mountain pass, ever invitingly smiled, carefully choosing not to play any pranks on us. As the gigantic molten-gold fireball shone brightly against the azure blue sky, it meant we had been climbing for more than couple of hours. As our spirits started to dwindle a bit, prayer flags and the Indian tri colour at the saddle point infused new energy into our sagging legs. Power of the tri colour you can say! We marched ahead and in no time we lay our feet on the bhabha pass. The gargantuan mountains on either side of the pass, still maintained their eerie silence. Ecstatic at our achievement, we stood dwarfed, thanking heavens for its kindest benevolence.

At the Bhabha Pass, finally!

As we began our descent to the infinite valley down below, the longest duration of the trek for the day, lay in front of us, destination Buldhar.

The fuscous-brown landscape was cruel. Apart from 7 other men from my group, I had hardly seen any civilization for the past 6 days. It was the most desolate piece of land I had ever set my foot on. The monotony of this parched wilderness was difficult to explain. It was a cauldron of death, a bone-dry basin of vastness, silent and barren. The only visual relief being other trek comrades, who were equally jolted, by the heat and dryness. . As far as the eye could see, everything was being roasted and cooked with the same intensity. Exhausted, as I collapsed to lay my back on a dry boulder, I thought I saw a tiny bird, may be a sparrow, flitting into the little shadow created by the boulder, but it was probably another hallucination. My dehydrated brain was shutting down. The few morsels of the packed lunch that I had in the morning,   was a distant memory as I trudged towards my destination. Gods fire ball who had turned the sky crimson red, was running on the last reserves of fuel for the day.

The Spiti Valley

As the rhododendrons squash skimmed through my parched throat, I knew I wasn’t hallucinating; I had indeed reached the camp for the night, at Buldhar, a gruelling 12 hour trek across the pass, through the death valley, almost at the edge of the valley, was over. The tent pitched on the banks of a tiny little stream that snaked itself along a serpentine path, through the valley. She had somehow escaped the fireballs fury, as she was gliding along with a cheerful chime, despite everything else baked to death. How could she survive this graveyard of dryness? Surely, Gods magic wand was at play, even there, I thought. 

It was celebration time that night, the nearest civilization at Mudh, was a comfortable 3 hour trek at zero degree ramp. Sumptuous dinner, in front of a beaming, fullish moon, the party had begun. The monkey was off our back, well almost, and we had a good reason to rejoice. Nothing could go wrong now, we thought. But the weather gods had a stealth mode plan that night.  

As we sulked into the slumber, the lullaby chimes from the nearby stream, had transformed to a splatter on the tent wall. Something had changed. Although the mind was alert the body refused to support, to go out and have a look. The morning was different from the other days of the trek, no dawn chorus of nearby stream, no symphony of the mild morning wind; only cacophony of the splatter of snowflakes and the lacerating winds. We were hit by a snow storm. 

Amidst Snowfall and gushing winds

Eventuality won over hope, and resigned to fate, we decided to trek in snow, to shake hands with civilization at Mudh; a 3 hour trek from our campsite. My boots crunched through the powdered snow. The soft mounds of snow detonated like muted crackers every time my feet hit the ground. The world around us was engulfed in snow shower and gushing winds. What a contrast! Just the day before Gods fireball had beaten us down to death by his fury, and today, the bleak rays of the morning star were winking out weakly, waiting to be blanked out any minute. Fluttery snowflakes puffed down on us, permeating the chill through our skin right down to the marrow. As we plodded along the sea of snow, shivering like wet kitten, we prayed for mercy, just then, the hazy “Mudh” began to show up more and more clear, as we covered distance; a final sprint to cross  the bridge over a bulging river, to reach the hamlet.

As we almost collapsed at the entrance of the guesthouse at Mudh, soaking wet, the lady of the house, handed out a hot cup of tea and few loaves of bread. Gods magic seemed just as evident in human form, as well. His presence in both magnanimity and simplicity, made my soul rejoice.