As the bus wound its miserable way up the serpentine road to Tehri my ears rang with the discouraging jeers of “Ambitious little tykes…The last party couldn’t even find Bakria; catch you climbing it.”  Nevertheless, we were in high spirits and optimism prevailed. Bakria appeared a very feasible project…

At ten we reached Dharasu and in front of us lay 18 miles to Uttarkashi. The sun glared down upon us; the road, hard underneath our feet, burned our soles and water was nowhere to be had. Below us, a hundred feet or more, the Bhagirathi crashed and rolled along its steep bed to meet the Alaknanda far away.

Occasionally a miserable stream darted across our path to go tumbling down to meet the Bhagirthi and then our strength was renewed. We went on and on. The scenery was dull and without interest, the road long and interminable. Suddenly, “Hey, look! Snow!” And there before us, miles and miles away, rose Gangotri: majestic, supreme … Here was Nature in its naked glory and we were trying to pit our puny strength against it. Perhaps Bakria too would be snow-clad like this and then, perhaps, we would not be able to climb it, perhaps we would, perhaps, perhaps……

We were at Nakuri by one, and after wasting another hour there waiting for our porter to catch up, we set off for Uttarkashi. As the last rays of the sun danced across the ripples of the Bhagirathi and the cloak of dusk unfolded itself across the heavens, we turned the last bend and reached our destination, worn out, tired but looking forward to getting nearer Bakria next day.

Our start, next day, was again delayed… Three miles along the Bhagirathi and we were at a place called Ganguri … As usual, Shivraj made a dash for the teashop located there and in the course of conversation it transpired that the ‘hotel-keeper, as our friend styled himself, had often been up on Bakria. We had planned to climb Bakria from a village called Seker but our friend was positive that it would be better if we attempted it from Agora…

We left the Bhagirthi and began following the Kalli Gad, a far more beautiful trek than the dry Dharasu-Uttarkashi one. To our right lay green fields falling away slowly to the river, to our left rose tree-covered hills. The air was still, as if expecting something to happen, not a sound disturbed the serenity of the place, save the gentle murmuring of the river, away to our right. The road was fairly level and the walk, therefore, pretty easy. But above the gods were re-massing the forces of Nature. Black clouds gathered ominously, and it looked as if it might rain. The weather held until we were just four miles from Agora and then it came down, only a drizzle but enough to keep us waiting for it to stop. In a few minutes it cleared, and we began the heart-breaking climb up to Agora. Up, up and up we went and, suddenly, turning a bend, there arose before us a whole range of snowclad mountains. Somewhere there Bakria lay, somewhere there we would be standing tomorrow, if Lady Luck would let us. The sight had the strange effect of being both demoralizing and encouraging. “How can we possibly climb these?” we asked ourselves and then again: “But if Bakria wasn’t like this, it couldn’t be worthwhile climbing it.”

We fixed up a guide to leave with us at six in the morning for the final assault next day and turned in early, amidst dreams of conquered Bakria and imminent victory. Next morning, Shivraj was up by half past four and then the first letters that spelt doom came to oar cars “I say, yaar, it’s raining.” And, sure enough, little droplets of water were tapping out a weird cacophony on the windowpane. “Would it clear up?” we all asked ourselves and fought desperately to ward off a fearful, ”No”. At six, the sky was still shrouded in a blanket of black clouds and Bakria lay hidden behind the veils of Nature, a mass of mist. The seconds, the hours ticked by and yet the clouds poured in relentlessly from the west and there did not appear to be a chance of it clearing. As each hour went by, we postponed our departure by another sixty minutes and yet the clouds gathered overhead and yet the rain fell incessantly. Suddenly at half past ten, the sun burst through the clouds and bathed the valley in a flood of welcome light. I rushed down to the village, got hold of Kanwar Singh, our guide, and proposed an immediate start. Within another hour the three of us, Grover, Pandit and myself (Shivraj having decided to stay behind) were off to attempt Bakria.

We descended two thousand feet to the river and then began the arduous task of climbing up and up, seven thousand feet in seven miles to the summit. As was only to be expected the way was very steep, going up and up to esoteric heights. The whole area was covered with trees: walnut, badam and further up chir pines. In absolute quiet we trekked. Suddenly a monal pheasant would whizz past, the sanctity of its abode disturbed. Below us the hill fell away to the Kalli Gad, with each step getting farther and farther and farther away. We had just reached the first patch of snow when thunder fell down the steps of heaven and the first drops of rain pattered down. Fortunately, some shacks were nearby, where we rushed and took shelter. In fifteen minutes, the rain stopped, and we were off again on the stiffest part of the climb to Bakria.

Another two thousand feet and we were at an almost entirely snow-covered region. There is nothing so detestable as walking through snow with no better equipment than a pair of ‘hunters’. At every step we sank down waist-deep and our progress was painfully slow. The cold snow melted and seeped through our shoes to numb our feet. The higher we climbed the colder it became. At every patch of snow, we could see the fresh footsteps of a “bara-singha” that was fleeing at the sight of us. The pug marks of a bear were also clearly visible. Strange that we should play a game of hide-and-seek at 11,000 ft. It was getting to about four in the afternoon when the weather broke again, and rain came pelting down. It cleared after a few minutes, however, and we again began walking up. Bakria loomed tantalizingly close and the stiffest part of the climb was almost over. A short walk along the final ridge, a slight climb of 300 ft. and we would be on top. But the rain god had different ideas.

No sooner had we gone a few more yards than it came down again with all the force it could muster. Hailstones darted off the trees and came crashing to the ground. Bakria was obscured and snow began to fall. We pressed on but then a wind blew—a wind which destroyed the last breath of hope in us. We turned back! So near and yet so far. Mallory returning from Everest, Giles returning from Kanchenjunga, would know what we felt: the bitterness of an ideal unfulfilled, the sorrow of an intense desire shattered. We returned, rushing down in a fast-increasing storm, slipping, sliding, rushing to shelter 4,000ft below. Paths covered with leaves were now blankets of snow, trees smiling at spring now wore robes of white, the “bara-singha” hid its frightened head, the bear peacefully hibernated, unmindful of the injustice Nature had perpetrated on us.

We stopped at the shacks we had halted at while coming up. The hailstorm too ceased after an hour and we were back at Agora by seven, crushed by Nature’s ever-mightier forces… Bakria was another illusion shattered another dream broken…

Mani S. Aiyar