The Kindness of Strangers

Susannah: The Miyar River originates in Ladakh's forbidding Zanskar region, beginning in a series of treacherous glaciers and carving a steep valley as it flows south to the hill town of Udaipur. Our trek to Freddie's basecamp began after a hair-raising early morning jeep ride from Udaipur to Tingrit, the last village linked by road to civilization. The first day's walk took us through charming villages surrounded by terraced fields before leading us along an unfinished road carved into the cliffside above the river. Top heavy with my pack (I was still carrying a lot of the load Michael would later shoulder), I would have slipped down and landed with a splash in the rapids if a helpful construction worker had not taken me firmly by the hand and led me along the eroding hillside.

Later that day we were saved again when standing next to the raging river debating whether to cross in the rickety cable car or continue on the west side of the valley. Since we had no idea which side of the river Freddie would be camped on, or whether there would be another crossing further north, this posed quite a dilemma. Suddenly, a young man darted down the opposite bank, crossed the river hand over hand in a flash, and ferried us across. He said (in broken English and lots of gesticulation) that the three white guys we sought had come this way the day before with (count 'em) fourteen porters.

We spent the night at a beautiful campsite above the village of Khanjar, in a field of green grass with a bubbling brook running through it. We didn't see another soul for two days--save the lonely shepherds with their sheep and goats, many of which visited our campsite:

The next day and a half of our trek took us through green pastures nestled between the cliffs, over boulder fields, and across countless frigid glacial streams. Finally, searching the horizon for Freddie's orange Mountain Hardware tents, we found a garishly-colored camp clearly not inhabited by shepherds (who prefer squat stone huts). Sadly, Freddie, Pat and Dave were not in evidence--only a pair of Spanish climbers who had seen them go by the day before. "The camp's just an hour further," they said. "Oh, by the way," they added, "you might encounter some difficulty crossing this next river."

The river was just over the next rise. It was a rushing torrent about twenty feet across that had surged over the balance-beam like bridge meant to help you cross the deepest part. It was pretty intimidating, but we took off our boots. Then two little guys, shepherds who had been hanging out at the Spanish camp, rushed up the hill to help us. They picked their way across like agile acrobats, passing our packs between them, until Vijay the intrepid shepherd lost his footing and tumbled into the drink.

Seeing the herder fall in, I was scared, but took his hand and stepped into the icy water. It pulled at my legs, and it was hard to find stable footing. Halfway across, I slipped, taking Vijay with me. We spent a few terrifying moments being swept downstream before finding rocks to cling to and climbing onto the far bank. I looked back and saw that Michael had jumped in after us and was now clinging to a rock himself.

Safely on the other side, we said emotional goodbyes to the herders and walked, bruised and dripping, the last half mile to base camp.