Beautiful Bhyundar - The valley of flowers
In the purple darkness of dusk, we have almost reached Joshimath and are rolling along at 20 km an hour on a road that would bring a frown to the faces of even hardened Himalayan Car Rally drivers, when I am rudely shaken out of my open-mouthed post-tea stupor by a crass expletive. Co-passenger Lt Col Sameer Bisht, SM, who has been entertaining us with blood curdling stories from the Kargil war and burps of Cuba Libre (his personalized 2.5 litre cocktail of rum and coke, mixed in fifty-fifty proportion), has just spotted a landslide ahead which has lead to this temporary loss of gentlemanly demeanor.
Large boulders lie on the roadside while smaller stones are still rolling down the slope in a cloud of dust. “Ise Pagal Nala kehte hain. Bahut gadiyan giri hain yahan se,” the driver of the truck ahead tells us. He is turning to go back.
Large boulders lie on the roadside while smaller stones are still rolling down the slope in a cloud of dust. “Ise Pagal Nala kehte hain. Bahut gadiyan giri hain yahan se,” the driver of the truck ahead tells us. He is turning to go back.
The landslide will keep getting worse, we are told, and the road will stay blocked till the Border Roads Organisation people clear it. “If we are turning back, I suggest we don’t waste time. Otherwise we won’t get a hotel to spend the night,” says ever-practical MS Negi, who always has Plan B ready. By then Lt Colonels Bisht and Manoj Rawat, eyes shining with excitement, have returned from a reckee. “We’ll cross it,” says Rawat. “You’re absolutely right, Sir,”says Bisht taking another swig from his bottle. Ignoring all murmurs of mutiny, the two jump in with a “Jo hoga dekha jayega”.
The SUV’s engine growls and we move ahead and over the crumbling mud track. Stress is showing on the civilian passengers. Negi is staring out of the window coldly, Jhoomar is chewing furiously on gum and I’m whining my disapproval at the rum and coke-guzzling brother who is ready to get us all killed. Thankfully, we survive and here I am writing this piece when I could have been lying buried in a rocky grave 50 kilometers before Joshimath
The SUV’s engine growls and we move ahead and over the crumbling mud track. Stress is showing on the civilian passengers. Negi is staring out of the window coldly, Jhoomar is chewing furiously on gum and I’m whining my disapproval at the rum and coke-guzzling brother who is ready to get us all killed. Thankfully, we survive and here I am writing this piece when I could have been lying buried in a rocky grave 50 kilometers before Joshimath
Govindghat to Ghangaria
Distance 13 km, Walking time 5 hours
The next day finds us loading our backpacks on a pony at Govindghat. The village is teeming with sardars on their way to/from Hemkund, the Sikh pilgrimage that also lies on the same route. Mortal fears of the night before are completely forgotten under the spell of the alu paranthas at Punjabi Dhaba. After picking up rain ponchos at Rs 20 apiece, we wind our way through the noisy clutter of shops selling plastic trinkets, kirpans and travel booklets. We cross the gushing Alakhnanda on a suspension bridge and climb a cobbled stone path that alternately winds its way up and down the hillside. We cross the villages of Pulna and Bhyundar from where shepherds were taking their animals to graze in the Valley of Flowers before it was declared a World Heritage Site. We run into some pretty ghaseris with chiseled looks and alabaster complexions; large bundles of grass on their bent backs. A snake slithers over the edge of the road and into the deep crevice alongside. The river gurgles peacefully along in most places, erupting in a delighted rumble and a watery spray where it falls over the rocks. “Wahe Gurus” rent the air and packets of prasad along with instructions to cover the head are handed to us as we cross groups of devout Sikhs.
The climb gets steeper and the track narrows as we climb up. The stress of walking twelve kilometers also starts showing as we discover stiff backs and aching muscles in calves and thighs. The constant smell of horse dung follows faithfully. Suddenly, there is a shout from behind and I turn to spot the brim of Negi’s Indiana Jones style hat at ground level with his cracked shoe soles waving in the air. He has been pushed off the track by a pony coming from the opposite side and has been lucky enough to get caught in the roots of a tree that has broken his fall into the steep gorge. Exhibiting remarkable restraint, he is just waving his fist at the pony owner who is quickly disappearing around the bend. Bisht has meanwhile caught up with us and is threatening to catch the guilty man and do unmentionable things to him. However, by the time Negi is retrieved his josh has cooled and we trudge on, more careful of the edges and the horses this time. Finally, we reach a scenic stretch of flat meadow with a towering waterfall and then Ghangaria, a claustrophobic village with no electricity, no cell phone coverage, a colourful gurudwara, a few shops and dingy hotels with bright orange jalebis stacked in big piles on the counter. It is 2.30 pm by the time we finish lunch of rice with suspicious garnishing and the brightest orange chole I have eaten in my life. The sky is getting dark outside and soon we get a shower of afternoon rain, such a regular feature in the valley that you can set your watch by it.
Distance 13 km, Walking time 5 hours
The next day finds us loading our backpacks on a pony at Govindghat. The village is teeming with sardars on their way to/from Hemkund, the Sikh pilgrimage that also lies on the same route. Mortal fears of the night before are completely forgotten under the spell of the alu paranthas at Punjabi Dhaba. After picking up rain ponchos at Rs 20 apiece, we wind our way through the noisy clutter of shops selling plastic trinkets, kirpans and travel booklets. We cross the gushing Alakhnanda on a suspension bridge and climb a cobbled stone path that alternately winds its way up and down the hillside. We cross the villages of Pulna and Bhyundar from where shepherds were taking their animals to graze in the Valley of Flowers before it was declared a World Heritage Site. We run into some pretty ghaseris with chiseled looks and alabaster complexions; large bundles of grass on their bent backs. A snake slithers over the edge of the road and into the deep crevice alongside. The river gurgles peacefully along in most places, erupting in a delighted rumble and a watery spray where it falls over the rocks. “Wahe Gurus” rent the air and packets of prasad along with instructions to cover the head are handed to us as we cross groups of devout Sikhs.
The climb gets steeper and the track narrows as we climb up. The stress of walking twelve kilometers also starts showing as we discover stiff backs and aching muscles in calves and thighs. The constant smell of horse dung follows faithfully. Suddenly, there is a shout from behind and I turn to spot the brim of Negi’s Indiana Jones style hat at ground level with his cracked shoe soles waving in the air. He has been pushed off the track by a pony coming from the opposite side and has been lucky enough to get caught in the roots of a tree that has broken his fall into the steep gorge. Exhibiting remarkable restraint, he is just waving his fist at the pony owner who is quickly disappearing around the bend. Bisht has meanwhile caught up with us and is threatening to catch the guilty man and do unmentionable things to him. However, by the time Negi is retrieved his josh has cooled and we trudge on, more careful of the edges and the horses this time. Finally, we reach a scenic stretch of flat meadow with a towering waterfall and then Ghangaria, a claustrophobic village with no electricity, no cell phone coverage, a colourful gurudwara, a few shops and dingy hotels with bright orange jalebis stacked in big piles on the counter. It is 2.30 pm by the time we finish lunch of rice with suspicious garnishing and the brightest orange chole I have eaten in my life. The sky is getting dark outside and soon we get a shower of afternoon rain, such a regular feature in the valley that you can set your watch by it.
Ghangaria-Valley of Flowers-Ghangaria
Distance 8 km plus (depending upon how far you want to explore the valley) Trekking time 6 hours plus
The next morning we are awakened at an unearthly 4 am with the reverberating “Wahe Guru da Khalsa, Wahe Guru di Fateh” of the Sikh pilgrims who are gearing up to make the arduous 6 km climb to Hemkund Saheb. From Ghangaria, the left fork takes you to the Valley of Flowers while the right fork goes to Hemkund. By 6 am even we are at the entrance to the Valley of Flowers, backpacks loaded with chocolate bars, drinking water and the plastic ponchos of Govindghat. Beyond this point ponies are not allowed. An iron bridge over the flowing Pushpawati that joins Lakshman Ganga at Ghangaria to form Bhyundar river is our entrance to the valley. It is called Dwari Bhitar (Inside the door). Our pony-tailed, bead-necklaced guide Rajnish Chauhan leads us up the narrow path pointing out flowers and berries. From flatulence to epilepsy to diabetes, he quotes floral remedies for almost all ailments. He strips bark off a bhojpatra tree (Betula utilis) and tells us how it was used to write ancient scriptures and then gives us a moment of fun by stepping inside the trunk of a tree hollowed by lightning.
We climb along a melting glacier, checking out towering rock faces that crick our necks and dark stone caves that were once home to shepherds. Finally, we cross a gurgling brook to enter the vast expanse of the breathtaking valley. Flanked by the snow capped Himalayan ranges, it is a riot of colours, smells and sounds. Different fragrances assault us as we pass different varieties of flowers, a trademark of the valley, and its easy to believe the legend that the experience was so overwhelming that the Pandavas (on their way to heaven) passed out here. Shades of orange and green dominate the distance, and though we don’t walk on carpets of flowers (we have planned our trip late September) there are enough to keep the senses occupied.
There is the mauve Impatiens with pods that curl up with a loud pop at a touch of the finger, the bright blue Geranium, the pretty white Paenia, the sunlight yellow Marsh marigold with its flat smiling face and the upright mauve Morina longifolia. We crush blue berries in our palms to smell their mint like odour and taste tangy orange ones that make us click our tongues. We cross shallow streams on shaky logs that sometimes drop us into the water and drink from the springs that scatter the valley. We lie back on sun-warmed rocks and feast our eyes on the alpine meadows and the snow-clad peaks in the distance. We take deep breaths filling our senses with the heady fragrance of the flowers of Nandan Kanan (Indra’s mythical magical garden). We listen to the gurgle of the brook, and the rumble of the clouds that announces it is going to be afternoon soon.
Though it had seemed far-fetched earlier, we are now ready to believe that the valley is a magical land of Bhyundar where flowers have the power to attract Ancharis (fairies). I remember the poem I have recently read: ‘Beyond the hills, nations might fly at one another’s throats; But in the Valley of Flowers the only strife would be that of the elements; the only sound the wind in the flowers, the voice of the stream, and the rumble of the avalanche’, as we dangle our legs over the stones overlooking the splashing brook and share a silence that blends with the mystical beauty of the Bhyundar valley. Bisht opens Fat Boy and screws the cap back on without taking a single sip. It is another Kargil moment for him too.
Copyright© 2010 Rachna Bisht-Rawat. All rights reserved. Reproduction, or re-transmission, in whole, or in part, or in any manner, without prior written consent of the author, is in violation of the copyright law