One can find countless fascinating destinations, depending on personal preference. Some people chase records, such as the Seven Summits or all fourteen 8,000-metre peaks. For us, as regular full-time employees, such goals are neither feasible nor particularly appealing. Even on 7,000-metre peaks — and many fine “smaller” mountains — one can still have an engaging, challenging experience with plenty of new impressions.
After doing relatively shorter treks in recent years, we wanted to take on a slightly bigger project in 2005. We chose Kamet (7,756 m) in the Garhwal Himalaya in India, located near the point where India, Nepal, and Tibet meet. In May/June 2005, we joined a British expedition which had obtained one of the first permits issued after the area had been closed to foreigners for more than 40 years.
At seven in the morning, we left New Delhi by express train to Haridwar — surprisingly, it departed exactly on time. The 300-km journey in an air-conditioned coach was comfortable and fairly quick. Our vehicle and driver, arranged by the trekking agency, had left Delhi much earlier. Together with Mr Pandey, the leader of the trekking company, we continued to Rishikesh. Bathing in the Ganges here is prohibited due to river pollution.
This is where the lower Himalayan foothills begin. Although not very high, the rivers have cut deep gorges, creating a maze of valleys. The road sometimes follows the river, then climbs sharply to bypass a canyon, only to descend again towards the water. In the avalanche-prone stretches, the view down the steep slopes from the road can be unsettling. Repeatedly, signs warn of cautious driving: “Keep left”, “Drive slow, live long”, “Speed thrills but kills”, “Remember God”. For 103 kilometres we passed many such messages before reaching Srinagar (Garhwal) at about 1,200 metres. By then, the Ganges had split into its two source rivers, the Bhagirathi and the Alaknanda.
More signs greet us: “On a bend go slow, friend”, “Enemies of the road: alcohol, speed, overload”, “Mountains give joy if you drive with care”. Another 97 kilometres through the Alaknanda gorges brought us to Chamoli, and then 50 kilometres onwards to Joshimath. The landscape grew greener, and the heat finally eased. In the evening thunderstorms, avalanches loosened, and more than just rain poured from above. After seven and a half hours, we arrived in Joshimath (1,950 m).
If the foothills were already more dramatic than anything at home, the landscape now became truly striking. Rivers roared far below, and the first high peaks of Garhwal rose like fortresses above us. The rock was solid and imposing, and many of the side valleys looked completely inaccessible. In the distance, wild, partly glaciated peaks loomed.
Once settled into our small huts, we went on an acclimatisation trek. Up to 3,200 metres, trees still grew, giving the area an Alpine feel. We followed a grassy ridge for three hours to reach the north summit of Chitarkana (3,797 m), with wonderful views. Clouds moved in and we feared rain, but the weather stabilised again in the afternoon.
Steep terrain surrounded us, with hardly a flat stretch in sight. The river still ran in a deep gorge far below, and much of the road was carved directly into the rock in remarkable ways. Any oncoming vehicle required slow, careful manoeuvring. Military presence was noticeable around Joshimath and along the road.
After 60 kilometres we reached Malari, then took a rough track for another 20 kilometres to meet the porters, who had been recruited from nearby villages. Just beyond, workers were clearing a snowfield to reopen the road. From there we continued on foot.
Fortunately, it was only half a kilometre to Bampa (3,350 m), where we would spend the night. The village was still deserted; the residents would return with their livestock in a couple of weeks. We set up camp near the school. The scenery resembled the Italian side of Mont Blanc, but on a bigger scale: patches of forest, steep rock cliffs, and enormous rock walls.
Overnight, the river level barely dropped. Thanks to a small bridge, we crossed easily that morning, though it would not survive a major flood. The porters planned to dismantle it and pull it onto the bank in a few weeks. Until then, the area would be accessible only on foot.
The trail crossed a few scree-filled fields and then continued gently through the valley. We camped at Raikana Kharak (4,370 m), the last high meadow before the final ascent. We still had too much load for the 48 porters, and the route to base camp was too long for them to make two trips a day carrying full packs. Tomorrow we would cover the remaining 400 metres of ascent.
The morning began clear as usual, but by afternoon clouds dropped from the peaks, and by three o’clock it was snowing. This caused some chaos as the porters had no shelter — the large tent was one of the last loads to arrive. Several high-camp tents had to serve as temporary cover.
We spent the next day walking from Niti to Gamsali, where the Border Police welcomed us with tea and a chance to phone home. We tried to arrange vehicles a day earlier than planned, then continued to Bampa to wait. The village was lively now because of an ongoing religious festival.
We even found a small shop selling biscuits, crisps, nuts, and tomatoes. The village showed surprising prosperity — few remote settlements have solar-powered street lights.
After waiting for several hours, and another meal of dal-bhaat from the kitchen team, we flagged down an empty bus going downhill. For 1,000 rupees, the driver agreed to take us to Joshimath. He seemed keen to finish the job quickly, judging by his driving style. Thankfully, the brakes worked well, and he appeared to have things under control. Often the road was barely wider than the bus itself. At such moments, whether the drop beside us was 50 or 300 metres made little difference. It took three and a half hours to cover the roughly 60 kilometres back to Joshimath.