A Trek to Pindari-Kaffni
Pindari! The place where the moods of the seasons play different tunes: in winter they stood totally covered by snow, untouched; in the spring they whispered promises of times to come, in the summer they hid from the view of curious onlookers; in the monsoons they were speckled with every hue of the rainbow; and in the autumn - they prepared to remain aloof.
In the summer of 1997, I was on my way to the two glaciers, situated in the Kumaon region of Uttar Pradesh, a state in the north of India. Bageshwar is a day's drive, and easily accessible by road from Kathgodam or Tanakpur, the railheads. From here we drove 35 kms to Song, where we parked our car, and walked 3 kms up to Loharkhet, where we halted for the night. at the foothills.
Early next morning we set out on the tedious 11 km climb to Dhakuri, at 2680 metres. We walked through vast open spaces, rolling hills, alternating with shadowy woods, till we reached Dhakuri, at the edge of the oakfilled forest. The weather had turned stormy as it often does in the afternoon. The sky was dark with ominous clouds, the sounds of the howling winds tore through the trees and finding no accommodation our weary limbs turned towards Khati, 8 kms away. As the rain and the hail pelted, we sheltered under giant coniferous trees, and as the storm abated we, walked through the forest, serenaded by cicadas on to gentle undulating hills and terraced slopes. Bone-weary we reached Khati, the last village en route, as the sun sped below the horizon and a cold quiet dusk gathered around us. We spent the night at the PWD inspection house, after eating our first meal of the day, ravenously hungry and quite exhausted.
From Khati one can view the peaks, at once remote and approachable. Legend has it that the villagers of Khati are the direct descendants of those who had shelered the Pandavas, during their Vanvasa. These poeple are known for their warmth, simplicity and hospitality indeed a trademark of the Kumaon and Garhwal hills not yet corupted by the rank commercialisation tourism invariably brings in its wake.
As the sun rose, we started walking through dense forests, within hearing of the Pindar Ganga. We tread through narrow paths, over damp leaves that squelched beneath our feet, we walked through shaded forests with the sunlight peeping in. We manoeuvred our way across the occasional teacherous landslide, and rickety log placed to cross a torrential stream, to the drone of thousands of insects, till we reached Dwali, 14 kms away. Resting, we watched the rain pour non-stop, till sun-set, when a rainbow heralded the end of the day, and as the sun and the rain made truce, we watched a glorious sun-set, and the dying light reflected on the peaks.
With the first traces of light, we were walking over patches of melting snow, to reach Phurkia at 10 a.m. We climbed 1-1/2 kms up the track to Pindari, and spent the entire day among sheer stark barren peaks, covered with ice. Here, we sat and watched a couple of eagles flapping their wings, swooping, gliding, where only eagles dare. We watched the mountain streams as they cascaded along steep precipices to join the Pindar Ganga, as it flowed below. By afternoon all the trekkers to Pindari glacier had returned past that way, and we spent the hours till sun-set revelling in being so totally on our own. We made a snow -man with freshly fallen snow from the previous night's snow-fall. We tramped up and slided down the icy slopes, again and again, in celebration of forgotten childhood joys. We lay looking at blue skies and white mountains and nothing else.
Returning to Phurkia with the moon lighting our way, it was bitterly cold, and most of the night was spent in acute awareness of the cold. Icy winds blew from the snow covered vastness, the melting ice added to the bone-chilling effect and yet we spent hours sitting on a bare rock, watching the moon and stars light up the glimmering snow, watching the shadows of the night, and listening to the tumbling water falls and the gushing river. Frozen cold, we were still reluctant to retire for the night for we might never come that way again.
One day spent in isolation and solitude, had made us more reflective, with a tangible sense of equanimity. Before dawn, we set out for Pindari, 7 kms away, at a height of 4300m. The greater part of the way was frozen snow and ice, till we came to Pindar valley, suddenly lush green patches amidst white snow. And then came the last stretch, the slow walk upto the glacier, panting and out of breath. We sat on a narrow ledge , with a warning sign that it is dangerous to go beyond, because of loose stones and land slips. We gazed out at the glacier of white snow and brown mud, flakes of chocolate on vanilla ice. We sat there, quiet, subdued and thoughtful, until we raced down to the inviting icy slopes below.
Long ago I had recognised and reconciled myself to the fact that a trek is rarely like other journeys, where the destination itself is the purpose of the trip. On treks I have invariably found that the destination is just another step along the way--no more picturesque nor glorious than the way itself. Indeed, by the time I have reached the vantage point, I have long forgotten the goal, perhaps, even accepted there isn't one - and the destination itself leaves me untouched and unmoved, with neither a sense of achievement nor of anticlimax, no joy at having reached nor sorrow that I have to return--it just comes and goes along the way as part of the journey of life. When I return to civilisation, however, I speak of and record the trek to Pindari, as though it was a particular destination I sought and travelled to, as if it were Pindari I was going to, Pindari I reached and Pindari I returned from.

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