The Story of the Magic Yak
In March 2006 I decided to retire from my medical career
and
live
in
Dharamsala,
Northern
India,
of
home
His
Holiness the Dalai Lama, to live, write, and study Buddhist philosophy.
In
August, 2007 I undertook a trek starting in Pargham Kashmir and ending in Lama Yuru Zanskar. The trek took about 21 days in all, and traversed nine passes all of which were above 16,000ft. Now I’m hardly what one would describe as an athletic person, and despite the advice I have often given to my patients, I find exercise bone jarringly tiresome, painful, and excruciating at best. Anyway some foolish whim rattled around my brain that it would be a good idea to exercise this tired old frame and get my tush up a few mountains. The trek started with one day “excursions” in Kashmir with the comforting knowledge that hot showers and a warm comfy bed would await my return at the end of an arduous day. Gradually these so called excursions increased in difficulty until the, “comfy bed”Ó syndrome was completely discarded in favour of
a lumpy rubber mat, sleeping under canvas scenario. For those of you who think this is romantic, think again, it’s hard, dusty, often cold, tiring and painful, yet the rewards offered by high-mountain vista’s do compensate, well they do a bit! Would I do it again, possibly, once the memories of sore muscles and relentless fatigue have diminished, but that’s a big maybe. I am not relating the entire trek in this short narrative, but one event stood out amongst all others, and it is this rather mystical experience, which I shall recount. It was the 11th September, I had been trekking for what appeared to be a lifetime, so many passes and valleys, “You seen one mountain you seen ‘em all”Ó sprang to mind. I was tired, sore, and my energy levels were at an all time low, and trust me, if I had to climb one more pass I was on the verge of collapse. The day started with a pee at 4 am, I dragged myself reluctantly from my warm sleeping bag, only because my bladder was distended to its maximum proportion. I exited the tent and tramped up a small hill; I felt something soft and cold falling from the sky. It was snowing, and my befuddled mind attempted to assimilate the data, it was September and I was being snowed upon at 11,000 ft. Finishing my ablutions I rapidly headed back to the warmth of my sleeping bag hoping it was all just a dream. I awoke at about 6 am, stuck my head out of the tent to witness a white winter wonderland as far as I could see. Breakfast came and went and donning fleece, (my anorak was buried in my rucksack at this point and straddled across a pony) I trudged after my guide out of the camp. The sun was low on the
horizon, and it was still a little dark, but the crunching underfoot told me that the previous nights’ vision was not a hallucination, it had snowed and now the path was increasing its inclination. Up and up we went ever higher. After two hours we hit the slopes of a mountain called Singhe-La, it was a 17,000ft monster. Higher and higher we went, traversing small paths and negotiating rocks, boulders and shale. The snow started to fall even though the sun was now well above the horizon and soon the small delicate flakes gradually transformed into golf ball sized gobs of snow. I was soon shivering and covered in a good layer of white powder. Eventually we arrived at the summit of Singhe-La. It was a complete white out and at least half a metre deep. Tibetan flags fluttered and the Stupa (half hidden by snow) marked the peak of the pass. I was beginning to think that this was it, I would freeze up here and be lost forever. Visions of the movies, Cliffhanger and Vertical Limit, sprang to mind. As pictures were taken as mementos of the traverse to the peak, I grinned bravely, my mind gradually weaving in and out of terror. Then, the rest of the party arrived with ponies including my back pack with anorak. The porters seeing my shivering knees, unpacked my anorak and I put it on gratefully. Looking down the other side of the pass renewed my terror; there was no path to be seen, just a landscape of white escarpment with vicious chasms in all directions. The porters and guides scratched their heads looking for the path down. No-one was moving and the ponies looked bored. I sheepishly asked where the trail was and in usual Indian fashion there were vague waves, much head
wobbling and, much discussion, yet we were still not moving and it was still snowing hard. As my heart sank a little deeper I happened to look through the snowfall to my left across the pass. There in stark contrast to the white snow there was a beast. The beast was huge, with massive horns, long back hair and a long tail and it appeared to be levitating, well at least it looked like it was levitating; its levitation being interspersed with occasional landings in a sort of manic hopping. This was a Yak, a huge black Yak, on spring loaded feet by all accounts. It was literally jumping vertically as if to attract my attention, which it succeeded in doing. Then, off it sped downhill at a tremendous pace. The guides, ponies and porters stared in amazement and then all began shouting at once, heads wobbled and hand gesticulated as, all at once, they followed the Yak on its downward mission. As it descended the mountain in its now familiar bouncing act, it kicked up snow, and created a path in its wake that we could all follow. Down, down, down we all went, the Yak still on a roll, continued to bounce like Tigger in Winnie the Pooh, “Yaks Bounth”Ó sprang to mind and I laughed as we trounced down the newly created path to safety. Once we had reached the river bed the hyper-active Yak, as quickly as it had appeared, disappeared from sight. I was back from the abyss, safe and sound and grinning with delight. I had traversed the highest pass in Zanskar and thanks to the Magic Yak was heading to the next camp where hot Chai and chapattis and honey awaited. I shall forever remember that yak, the yak that “bounthed”……..
Š Michael Smith 2008