The Chadar 2002: Fire and Ice

by Joel for Kim

SOME say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.

 Robert Frost

Joel raves about the Chadar, one of the craziest winter treks there is. Here is his diary.
We run this each year, check Our treks for the details.

First, it was overcast, which meant the temperature rose evenly as the day progressed, in light or shadow, an even thaw; no silent gliding through the subterranean blue light at the bottom of the gorges and joyous shooting into the sun, instead, a layer of water over slick ice that could set you spinning like some crazed Pinocchio, arms and legs flailing foolishly. No pleasant snow crust to hold your feet in place but icy slush that soaked your boots and froze your toes. Then, we passed springs feeding into the Zanskar, but warmer, disturbing the ice, setting it creaking and groaning, normally safe ice could not be trusted-and this stretch narrowed and curved snake like, causing weird pressure bumps piles of clear icy plates at the edges, with powder snow covering brittle ice that dropped you a foot with a crack that echoed from wall to wall as the ice around you fractured.. not a good day.

Then, daydreaming of summer Zanskar, a slip, and I spun 180 degrees, desperately trying to move my pack to cushion my fall on the hard blue ice, nearly make it but as I hit my stick handle comes between my elbow and me and my whole weight goes on it, an effective kidney punch, and I kneel sobbing with pain on the ice as I fade in and out of consciousness, knowing from past experience I had cracked some ribs. And then the ice shelf we were following turned to mush and we were forced high above the Zanskar on awful black, slick rock, almost crying with frustration trying to force cramping limbs into non existent holds, chilled by a freezing wind which now starts. At last onto good ice, breathing slowly to try and ease the pain in my ribs-and then Punchok and Rinchen start to shout and they are running to the next bend, legs milling and sliding, sledges crashing behind them to the other porters who are throwing tsampa into the wind, "sho sho shaay" echoing from the gorge walls. The older porter, Sonam, puts a spring of juniper with a strip of prayer scarf around it in my hat, gripping my shoulder, and I look up to where he points, a string of prayer flags cracking in the wind across the gorge, and I point upstream and shout "Zanskar?" into the wind and they all shout, laughing, "Zanskar!"

I am laughing now too, making my ribs hurt more, tears of pain in my eyes mixing with windblown tsampa, and I crouch down on the ice to ease the pain and clear my eyes, no longer cursing the wind which freezes my tears, because it blows from Zanskar.

The last few days in were a whirl of visiting gompas, some I had not seen for years, caught up as I always had been in treks, groups and careers; but on the Chadar every night by the fire I had waded in deep concentration through books I had not read for years and for some reason my normally cluttered head put in order all my understanding of Ladakhi history and its religion, and I found myself in Matho, Stok, and Stakna able to make sense of it all. Every day the jeep would be waiting outside, and pausing only to pick up hot bread from Chang Gali we headed off.

On our last day in Ladakh, coming back from a weekend in Alchi and Lamayuru we climbed the steps to Basgo, Jamgyal Namgyal's ruined fort high above the Leh Srinagar highway. A huge convoy of army trucks roared past with ground shaking rumbles, but as we got higher another noise vied for our attention, and on the last corner as the fort came into sight the sound was identified, 10, 20, 30, nomads from Changtang, aprons over their gonchas, prostrating themselves as they circled the gompa, singing clearly, with a cadence that was common to all of Central Asia, from Kashgar to Kinnaur, rising and falling joyfully, a world way from the sonorous chanting of the puja, slowly drowning out the roar of the trucks until they faded away and only the singing remained.

I sat amazed at this ancient ritual (too amazed to even get out my camera!) watching them disappear into the gompa, then continued my climb, to the uppermost Maitreya chapel. I had forgotten what was special about this; unlike most gompas, skylights in the roof allowed enough daylight in to view the beautiful Maitreya clearly. I sat at its feet as Lobsang and our driver prostrated themselves and as I watched the harsh morning light brighten the serene features of the Maitreya, the word I had been looking for, what I had to hold onto in the next few months away from the only place in the world I really felt happy in, was there, what my winter in Ladakh had given me;

Illumination

"This is the stream of Zanskar, my home; flowing impetuously, foaming and roaring. But my love, if you pass by, for you it will run gently and slow."

Zanskari song

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