The journey is half the adventure. Two natural impediments block our way to Manali. From the air, descending toward the city of Chandigarh, we can see them both as we look north. There are the foothills of the Himalayas — a sudden ruffle of high ground after the relentless flatness of the dusty central Indian plains. The full panorama of formidable peaks is blotted out by the other great obstacle: an intimidating mess of thick cloud.
It is monsoon season. Flying into the maze of deep Himalayan valleys is difficult at the best of times. For the next couple of months, it will be positively dangerous, and for that reason Air India suspended all flights into the mountain state of Himachal Pradesh until mid-September. And so here we are in Chandigarh, transferring our kit bags to a bus for the long, winding journey to Shimla and beyond.
When you visit northern India during the monsoon, you abandon the relative certainties of 21st-century travel. Itineraries must be flexible; travel times are determined by luck. As the road twists its way over the lower contours of the world’s greatest mountain range, as the open farmland of the plains gives way to conifer forest, as the temperature falls, so we are increasingly at the mercy of a host of perils, some predictable, some not.
Torrential rain will sometimes slow the progress of our vehicle to walking pace. Landslides and landslips might hold us up for hours. Floods can sweep away bridges, forcing us to turn back. Rough detours will expose the worn tires to the likelihood of punctures. Higher still, the thin air will test the engine to the limit.
We feel as though we are heading into an untamed frontier, and yet, for much of the British colonial era, this region was the location of India’s seat of government for eight months of the year. Each summer, the entire political apparatus relocated from the sweltering heat of the lowlands to the temperate relief provided by the hill station of Shimla.
Hillside town of Shimla © Outline205 | Dreamstime.com
The first glimpse of Shimla (known to the British rulers as Simla) invariably takes your breath away. Red-roofed houses spill down hillsides, tightly packed and clinging to improbably steep slopes. This vertiginous setting is a daily challenge for the human inhabitants, who must negotiate switchback streets and flights of stairs whenever they move around their city. Resident troops of monkeys have less trouble, bounding with ease across the rooftops.
There is plenty of local color in the famous Lower Bazaar, a warren of shops and food stalls that appeared in Rudyard Kipling’s writings. As we climb up through the city, we can see enduring touches of British influence in the architecture, though these vestiges do little to prepare us for the flat space known as The Ridge, which is the traditional center of Shimla.
The staid tower of Christ Church presides over The Ridge. In its shadow stands the mock-Tudor Municipal Library. At the opposite end is the imposing Town Hall and the charming Gaiety Theatre, which has been the keystone of the town’s cultural life for nearly 150 years. For unsuspecting visitors, the effect can be disorientating. These enduring colonial relics conspire to momentarily transport us from India to the heart of England.
Because of the season, downpours are frequent. Runnels of rainwater meander into the gutters; the gutters channel the water into streams which become rivers. Rivers flowing west from Shimla will eventually spill into the Arabian Sea, while those going east will join the Ganges and, ultimately, the Bay of Bengal. Thus, this mountain city is connected to both shores of the vast sub-continent. It also provides the natural waypoint between the plains and the high Himalayas.
We resume our journey in the morning, following routes forged by the very earliest travelers. Modern machinery widened these trading routes, etching them indelibly into the mountainsides. Great overhangs of solid rock loom above us. As we gain height, the roadside drops become ever more terrifying.
Making our way up the Kullu Valley, we find a degree of relief. Here, the wild Beas River has carved a broad course through the mountains. The icy water is strewn with boulders. Bit by bit, it is carrying the Himalayas away, creating banks that are flat enough for a highway, for roadside stalls, for towns and even for the riverside runway of Bhuntar Airport (though it is dormant until the end of the monsoon).
A hiker in Hampta Pass, Kullu © Falk66 | Dreamstime.com
All the time, the peaks around us are becoming taller, some capped with snow. We reach the town of Kullu, which was formerly known as Kulanthpitha, meaning “the end of the habitable world.” Today the road carries on, but we are conscious of being on the edge of civilization. Head off into the mountains here and you enter the realm of bears and snow leopards.
Nine hours from Shimla, thanks to a reasonably straightforward journey, we finally reach the town of Manali. Located 6,700 feet above sea level, the town has long been the epicenter of tourism in the Indian Himalayas. With its mix of idyllic tranquility and outdoor activities, Manali attracts two distinct sets of clientele: local honeymooners and foreign adventure-seekers.
We belong to the latter category, though we are soon immersed in the hypnotic serenity that lures the former here. In evening sunshine, we stroll through apple orchards and pine forests, lulled by the natural music of birds and gurgling streams. For us, it is just a brief rest. Come the morning, while other foreign tourists (and occasional brave honeymooners) experience the adrenaline thrills of whitewater rafting, rock climbing, paragliding and mountain biking, we will embark on a three-day trek.
At the trail head, the porters ominously wrap our bags in plastic before hauling them onto their backs. It is a cold, misty morning. During the day, the mist will become drizzle, then rain. But we know there will be drier weather at our destination. When we leave this damp valley behind, we will cross into an arid moonscape.
From the lowlands, the Himalayas appeared to be a huge, monolithic barrier: a single, impenetrable entity. But having found our way in, we have discovered this impenetrability has given rise to a surprising diversity of culture, wildlife and climate.
India’s Himalayan region used to be made up of a patchwork of distinct kingdoms, each isolated and protected by its environment. In 1971, they were unified as the state of Himachal Pradesh, but the people retain their unique customs and local dress, which vary noticeably from valley to valley. (In the Kullu Valley, for instance, the women wear shawls decorated with geometric patterns, and the men wear colorful caps.)
As well as the cultural differences we notice as we progress through the mountains, we observe dramatic changes in the vegetation. The Kullu Valley is lush and green. For the first day of our trek, we walk across alpine meadows and into forests that shelter us from the worst of the rain.
We camp overnight, sleeping fitfully at altitude. After breakfast, we continue into the uplands, trying to ignore the weariness in our legs and the blisters on our feet. The vegetation dissipates. Bare mountain faces loom over us. We feel the sharpness of winds gusting down from the surrounding glaciers.
Another night under canvas, then we descend into the Spiti Valley, which languishes in a rain shadow. No forests, no greenery here. We have reached a cold desert. Utterly barren, starkly beautiful.
This landscape appears timeless and ancient, but all is not as it seems. Beside the main road, young boys are selling fossils they chipped from the mountainsides. You don’t need to be an expert to realize these are the petrified remnants of small sea creatures. Yet we are thousands of feet above sea level, hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.
In fact, in geological terms, the Himalayas are exceptionally young, created when the Indian sub-continent collided with Asia, thrusting a section of old seafloor up into the clouds. With our brains struggling for oxygen in the thin air, it is almost beyond comprehension.
We return by bus to bustling Manali, grateful for warm showers and cold beers. With the trek behind us, we sleep well before our return journey to the lowlands. Half the adventure is still to come.
Manali Info to Go
Bhuntar Airport (KUU), also known as Kullu Manali Airport, is served by Air India, which operates seasonal domestic flights from Delhi (DEL). During the monsoon (July–September), Chadigarh Airport (IXC) becomes the main aviation gateway to Himachal Pradesh. Alternatively, if you have the time, consider arriving by train. From the nearest mainline station at Kalka, close to Chandigarh, a narrow-gauge railway creeps up through the hills to Shimla, a journey of up to six hours. Several local tour operators run Jeep and trekking tours throughout Himachal Pradesh, including the Manali-based company Himalayan Caravan Adventure.
Read more about Dharamshala in Manali.
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