Route: Matho—Gangpoche—Stok
Almost fail to get to the starting point as there is no sign of the promised minibus at 0857, but shortly after nine Yangchan (guest house family daughter) shows up and confidently asserts that the bus marked 'Sakti' is going to Matho. And so it proves: we are off within ten minutes. Initially there are only about five people on board, but more flag down the bus as it descends out of town, until it is full and standing. Most are clearly going to the same school and when someone starts up a Buddhist chant, everyone joins in. The rhythm has a five-bar pattern: 1 1111 1111-1111 1111-12
The chant goes on for the best part of half an hour as we trundle down the edge of the fields of Chushod, only stopping when the majority of the passengers (including Yangchan) disembark at the school. The bus terminates shortly afterwards at an arch marking the entrance to Matho village.
By the arch is a sign marking a footpath up to the gonpa, or rather, describing the project of building the footpath and its estimated cost; the fact that the destination is marked being an accidental advantage. The footpath winds past a bunch of chortens and lhathos before being blocked with willow sticks. There not being any particular reason I can see for this, I step over the sticks and proceed up to the gonpa. At the other end, by the road up, is another stick barrier, this one with a clear stile-like opening. Mysterious.
Take the stairs up to the main part of the gonpa. There are a few westerners about and a monk collecting Rs50 from each of us. It seems he is the sole custodian as he will not leave more than one prayer room unlocked at any one time, and having already shown the visitors the gonkhang, he's not going to unlock it again for me. But the other rooms have some interest: in particular a new status of Vairocana surrounded by three-dimensional lotus thrones, all on plant stalks which intertwine to cover nearly the entire back wall of a two-story shrine room. On each lotus throne is a statue of some deity. The sort of thing I've seen before in paintings, but this is the first fully 3-D assembly of deities I've seen attempted.
There is a room with oracles in but only the Ladakhi guide is invited to look in there. The rest of us are shown into a small museum with the usual figures, bell/dorje sets and scriptures. Some of which are admittedly interesting. One thangka is labelled '16 AD', but this is probably a typo for '1600'; another is labelled '2100 AD'. But we can say at least that some of the stuff is jolly old.
Several of the shrine rooms have thangkas hanging from the beams or the side walls, but few are in good repair: most are really quite hard to make out owing to the layers of grime and soot on them.
Eventually decide that the monk has shown us all I'm going to see. The woman with the Ladakhi guide goes in search of a toilet, whilst I leave the gonpa in search of the way down. Since this gonpa, unusually, is fenced all around with pickets, I end up retracing my steps to the road, although not before having a nose at a meditation cave nearby: apparently Matho Gonpa was built because of the cave, though I can't tell if this is the one or not. Hardly matters I guess.
It's clouded over whilst I was in the gonpa, which I'm not compleining about as trekking uphill is more pleasant when it's not too hot. Take the next road up the valley, which proves to be a mistake: it winds up the edge of the fields before giving out halfway up. I end up following random paths up to an irrigation channel which I follow towards the river, crossing from one side to the other, pushing back bushes and other assorted undergrowth, trying not to dislodge stones which have been carefully placed to ensure that only those fields get water whose turn it is today. At least there are fine views of the village from up here.
But eventually I reach a point where the irrigation channel meets a proper track. Here there is a sign detailing the work of building a footpath along the channel, along with its estimated cost and work time in man days. This project seems not to be finished: so far it consists of about fifty metres of spiky boulders laid in a rough rectangle.
The track I have reached seems to be the end of the road I should have been following: I can just see the end of the asphalt section. Following this up the valley soon leads to a house with a large mani thingy and a shady tree: but I can't rest as there is also a noisy dog who has decided to bark until I leave. Shouldering my pack for a little longer I carry on until the track loses itself in the boulders of the stream bed: making out (or perhaps imagining) a path I carry on up to a large tree painted red underneath a prominent lhatho. Here I recross the irrigation channel and rest for an early lunch.
From this point the path up the valley becomes clearer, either neatly built up on the streamward side to provide a flat trackway, or in stonier parts with the boulders removed to either side of the path. This carries on for a couple of km where the path decides to climb up a small rocky buttress. At the top I see the girl with the Ladakhi guide (two of these, in fact) coming towards me. They must have driven to the end of the road and had a walk up the valley. Either that, or they are magic.
Soon after this there is a bend in the valley marked with a large lhatho, which forms the entrance to the gorge section. The path is less clearly marked from here, and involves a lot of tiresome walking over rounded stones. The gorge twists this way and that, but is rarely less than 100 m wide, and there are always a few spreading trees dotting the valley floor to provide some shade. Not that I need shade today: it's clouded over, and there have even been spots of rain.
The gorge cuts through perfectly vertical strata which alternate between hard ribs and crumbly shale. At one point I look up between two ribs to see a ruined building wedged in the gap, twenty metres above me. Round the corner I can see more ruined walls, and right at the top of the sheer face, a ruined fort. The remains of plaster are just about visible on some of the interior walls. I can't imagine what situation can have arisen that makes this a useful spot to defend.
The gorge opens out at last, and the undergrowth thickens, to the point where I have to snap dead branches to get me and my pack through: the path has formed a tunnel, but only of pack-mule height. Finally, beyond a clearing with another lhatho, prayer-flags and a butter-lamp stove (extinguished), the stream splits into two. Here I find myself on the wrong side of the stream, and unlike previous occasions there is no bridge to help me across, so I have to resign myself to wet feet and splash across with poles.
According to my map I need to turn right towards the Matho La but the path carries on straight with no sign of a junction. Stop for a while and munch on roasted barley (zos) before going in search of the path. Although in the junction area itself there is no sign of it, walking round the shoulder reveals a path on my side of the stream which I follow in default of a better option, although the map shows the path on the other side.
The path climbs up between two ribs and drops down again, to avoid a point where the stream rushes hard against the rock face. Beyond this, however, it's easy going for another km or so before another stream crosing and the valley opens out again. Here the stream splits into three. The pass is at the top of the right-hand valley but there is no clear path up that way. Crossing the stream another time, I see signs of a camp ground and a cairn, but the only path climbs up the leftmost valley, surely not the one I want. On the plus side, this open area marks the end of the gorges and the beginning of the high pasture: the slopes between these valleys are smooth and covered with small alpine shrubs. So I pick the middle valley and climb up onto the ridge separating it from the right one.
From here I can see why the path doesn't go up the right valley: this valley runs parallel to the strata in the gorge section and has cut down significantly, to leave vertical cliffs on both sides. Going up there I would be trapped between the cliffs for several km.
High up on the ridge parallel to mine is a cairn. Not seeing much of a path across this undulating landscape I decide to make for it; it's not itself on the path, but the path up the left valley which I had previously discarded can be seen zigzagging up the next shoulder. There is an empty bottle of whiskey by the cairn.
It looks like if I followed my ridge upwards I would eventually meet the path, and after climbing for only a few hundred metres I see its destination: a green splash on the high hill with a sheepfold and a single tent. Having gone up the next ridge, I have to cross a stream to get there, but it's clear that this is the place I need to spend the night.
The camping ground is a flat, gently sloping stretch of turf irrigated by a channel taken from the stream. A few cows and dzos are grazing there. Approaching the tent, I'm jullayed by two men sitting out. Putting my pack down, I offer each a dried apricot.
The man who lives in the tent turns out to speak a little English. He is friendly and before I know it has invited me in for a cup of coffee. This place is called Gonpoche and it is his camp ground. But he won't accept any money. Occasionally he turns on his portable radio for five seconds, then turns it off again. To conserve batteries perhaps, or maybe just an ingrained habit. The coffee is milky and sugary and hot. Zhimpo rak. He offers me to sleep in his tent, but I try and explain that I like to sleep with a view of the stars. So he suggests that I camp above his tent rather than below, where I have dropped my bag. Perhaps because I would be sheltered by it? He also refuses to let me fill my water bottle from the irrigation channel, instead filling it for me from his bottle. (Next morning I see him refilling the bottle from the irrigation channel.)
It's only six p.m. but getting out my sleeping bag ensures I'll be warmed up by the time I want to sleep. Arrange my poles and water bottle to form a (very) low profile wet sock hanging device. The wind turns out to dry these rather effectively: by the time I am ready to sleep they are practically dry so I put them inside the bag not to blow away.
My neighbour and host comes to check on me and invites me to converse in his tent, which revolves around the usual nationality and marriage based questions. He asks if I have any English money to show him, but I don't. He gives me a small bowl of goat curd, which is actually very nice, like goat cheese but mild and sweet.
Somehow my e-reader has drained its battery, either that was happening anyway or maybe the way it was packed meant it leant on a button or something. But the solar power monkey doodad brings it back to life within twenty minutes so I can spend the time until the light fails reading about someone else's mountain expeditions.
During the evening the goat herds arrive, to be penned into the sheepfold for the night, and later, after dark, the black shapes of cows and dzo saunter down the slope into the camp. Unlike the goats, they seem to do this by themselves. It's a disconcerting sight watching these heavy ghosts pass by in near silence.
I must get six or seven hours' sleep in total but I wake several times, at one point scaring a cow who has wandered a little close. Initially the stars and Milky Way are blazing bright, but later the half moon rises and eclipses most of the constellations. Near dawn there is a loud report like a gun or explosive, and soon after the cows and dzo are on the move, back up towards the high pastures, a dark gliding of ponderous shapes.
It's not long before dawn begins to break, first a red-bronze glow on the high clouds, then an intense yellow, then finally sunlight on the snowfields of the mountains rising behind the campsite. Frost has settled on my bivy bag and pack: I hadn't expected it to get so cold, given it is still only August, but my sleeping bag was up to the task.
I prop myself up on my elbow to watch the herdsmen waking. My neighbour and host emerges from his tent to present me with a hot cup of black coffee. Once the sun has reached the campground, melting the frost and drying it almost immediately, I begin to pack away my stuff. A cup of sweet tea, then a cup of butter tea follow. I feel guilty, but my host refuses even another dried apricot.
At seven I'm ready to head on up the pass so I give my thanks to my host (resolving next time to bring something useful up with me, like coffee powder?) and hit the road. The path is clear as it climbs up the pasture. Four or five large cairns are visible on the skyline beside me. A marmot runs off the path and stops on a rock, watching me. I pass a large burrow: perhaps the same marmot.
I meet a group of the cows and dzos up by some old ruined herdsmen's shelters; a little further, where the path dips to cross a stream, I see a trekking party's campground. The group seem to be having breakfast in the largest tent. Two small tents have been erected for use as toilets. I expect they will pass me on the way: I am not moving very quickly.
On the other side of the stream (this one being the 'right' stream from earlier) the path heads up a side valley, but becomes indistinct after a while. I find a place to climb out of the right side as I think I can see the path heading for the pass above me. I tack up the slope until, 100 m or so up, I cross the path once more. It had clearly left the valley somewhat earlier but I hadn't noticed. Another large cairn watches over the path as it passes, by now somewhat below me. This seems to be a common pattern. On the path itself the route is marked by simple cairns of three or four stones; larger cairns a metre or so high tend to be erected overlooking the path, rather than on it. The cairns I saw clearly against the sky earlier today are now barely visible on a minor ridge, way below me.
By now I have to stop for a rest every few hundred yards, but there are few places to sit. Quite often I feel worse starting off again than I did before stopping. Nevertheless I make steady progress. Below I see the trekking group making their way below the cairn. They must be at least half an hour behind me, so I guess they won't catch me up after all. Soon the plants have given way to the purple gravel slopes of the pass itself and I emerge on the top. La so so! 4975 metres according to my GPS, a new record for me (not, as always, counting the stop at Tanglang La on the way here.)
Rest here to take a selfie and have second breakfast of namkeens and a dried apricot. My camera's auto focus seems to be intermittently on the blink, which is a little worrying as it refuses to take a picture unless it thinks it's in focus. I hope I haven't bashed it too much. Also the lens cap has disappeared. Must be somewhere on the mountain side down there.
The pass is steeper on the other side, starting with a series of zigzags before settling into a steady descent. I feel like I'm flying down compared to the slowness of the ascent. It's hardly any time before I come to a valley junction (and probably camp ground, though nobody is here) with some more ruins on a piece of flat ground opposite. There's no rolling pastureland on this side of the pass, just the complex of V-shaped river valleys. A path rises from the ruins up towards a shoulder: perhaps a short cut to the next pass in line, the Stok (or perhaps Namlung) La. I'm not doing another pass today, however, so I stay on my side of the stream as the path contours round above the cliffs.
At this point I hear a pinging noise and my sleeping bundle gives way. The 'guy rope' I'd lashed it to my pack with has frayed and snapped. Lucky I wasn't using it as a guy rope. Discover that I can just as well attach the bundle directly to the shoulder straps of the pack. One bulldog clip is unaccounted for: another piece of litter to chalk up to my account.
Over a bluff, the next landmark comes into view: Stok Kangri base camp, which consists of a large marquee with flag beside a couple of rows of blue sleeping tents. There is a wide track leading up the valley from here, and trekkers are already streaming down it towards the camp. Although a path seems to ascend from here over the first set of gorges, I decide not to risk getting lost and cross the stream to meet the main track from the base camp down to Stok.
This track follows the pebble bed of the stream through the gorges. Though (or because) wider than the Matho valley, it has barely any vegetation all the way down. The track is relatively busy: not hard, considering I didn't meet or follow a single other path user up till now. Here there are regular groups of people, normally with local guide, sometimes with a train of pack animals.
The path climbs a low pass to cut off a wiggle. Here I rest and have third breakfast. Someone offers to take my photo but my camera being attached to the pack, they have to settle for using my phone.
Pass another ruined fort on the top of a sheer cliff face. This is the Stok mon mkhar of which I have read. It's larger than the Matho one, but just as inaccessible looking, at least from this side. The path picks its way around the bottom of the cliff. If I hadn't been expecting it I probably wouldn't have even looked up that far.
Further gorge walking (at this point I begin to lose track) past some rock-art of chortens, up another small pass, down past a round watchtower and at last the Indus valley comes into view, with the fields of Stok village in front. It looks no distance but is probably a good 3 or 4 km to the first house of the village, which is strategically placed at the end of a droving funnel, and advertises homestay and taxi numbers. In fact, at the roadhead, a cafe seems to be doing a roaring trade at the expense of taxi drivers, most of whom I guess are waiting for their charges to return from their walk up the valley. Certainly the demographic of the last bit is noticeably different: I passed several Western families without any camping gear, who are clearly not going to climb Stok Kangri today, nor even go over to Rumbak.
Asking about buses in a cafe full of taxi drivers being a pretty pointless exercise, I shoulder my pack and walk down to Stok Palace where there is a museum. Again, the single attendant insists on locking every room behind her, so you can only visit the room she is in; at least this time, she seems to accept that not everyone arrives together, so I bow out when she unlocks the room I had started in, for the benefit of later-arriving tourists. The best part is the view from the cafe on the terrace: from Shanti Stupa and Leh all the way down the Indus to Stakna. Even in today's haze you can pick out most of the sights of central Ladakh from here.
Get absolutely no sense from the cafe man about buses. There are no buses, he says, but you can get a taxi from the road for 30 rupees. Which road? Main road. Well the road I just walked down is clearly not a main road, and certainly not well endowed with taxis. And so I end up walking down the same road for another 6 km, through the desert, all the way to Choglamsar bridge, where there is a queue of shared taxis, one of which takes me back to Leh for 20 rupees, despite me nearly shredding his padded roof with the tips of my poles.
