As I panted and sweated my way up, the rucksack on my back felt heavy as a rock. The mild October sunshine lent, however a soothing touch. The view of the bridge over the river Alakananda came into focus and the town of Joshimath appeared on the opposite bank, as I gained altitude. A two hour trek brought me to a village. The first house I approached belonged to the village chief tain and his absence made no difference to the warmth of the welcome accorded by his young wife and daughter by a perfect stranger like me.

Relaxing in their courtyard after lunch , I gazed at the Alakananda flowing past , the ripples on its surface glittering in the sun. And I recalled how I had set out for Kagbhusundi Tal near Ratban Peak in the Garhwal region, putting up at the gurdwara in Govindghat, the starting point of the valley of Flowers and Hemkund Sahib. The place had been as disolate as a haunted house, with nary a visitor in sight. The residents of the upper settlement , I was told, had already moved to lower altitudes for the winter. Getting a porter to accompany me would, I realised, be next to impossible. The only option I had was to change my route.

The following morning, I was on the new to the Chenup Valley. A Rishikesh– bound bus, starting from Badrinath, had taken me from Govindghat to the new bridge over the Alakananda, the starting point of my trek to the largely unexplored valley.

Here I now was, in this unknown village, with little information about the place apart from the name of my absent host, Bagicha Singh who soon turned up and greeted me as though we were old friends. It was here that the positive side of human nature acquired for me, the cynical city dweller, a whole new dimension.

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Equipped with a great deal of useful information, I set off, the next day, for Rampur (popularly known as Thang), the last village on this route, lying at the end of a three- hour trek. And a picturesque little place it was too, clinging to the green slope of a mountain. Accustomed by now to the hospitality of hill people, I did not hesitate to make myself comfortable at the home of Bagicha’s brother.

The later was out, but soon returned with a bundle of wood he had been out collecting. The robust young fellow made me a cup of tea and gladly accepted the biscuits I offered him from my stock of rations. We took a stroll around the village in the evening and during dinner which he prepared and served, we chalked out our plans for the following day.

We set off right after breakfast, carrying only the bag containing my camera and walking at a brisk pace, because we planned to cover in a day a distance that usually took trekkers 48 hours to traverse. The main reason for our haste was to avoid a night’s halt in the valley, not the most desirable of experiences in late autumn.

As we gained height, the village fell away, looking like a picture postcard in the distance. To the east emerged the twin peaks – Hati and Ghori – the aptly named after the animals they resembled in shape. The Nandadevi towered over the other peaks in the famous circle of mountains to the south-east.

A trek of three hours brought us to the shoulder of the ridge we were heading for and we stopped for a well-deserved break. Lingering over our packed lunch, we drank tea prepared by my friend and allowed ourselves a leasurely smoke.

Which was just as well. For the last leg of ascent was so tough that I could not only had to hand over my camera bag to my companion, but was forced to take his help in scaling the bare surface of the sharp gradient. Hands and feet scrabbling for a hold, I finally managed to make it to a spot where I could stand erect and play the monarch of all I surveyed.

From this point, the valley stretched away to the north , from where a stream lay frozen in motion. Looking down, I was overcome by vertigo. Ahead, beyond Joshimath, stood the “beastly” duo, Hati and Ghori. Both the east and west summits of the Nandadevi were clearly visible in the distance.

The prelude to winter had turned grass and the juniper bushes a reddish brown. The trail to Sonasinker, a local pilgrimage spot, stretched to the north. My carefree explorations of the area were nipped in the bud by my companion’s warning that we were encroaching on the habitat of wild bears. I stopped in my tracks, noticing, for the first time, the large scythe he was carrying, ovbiously for self-defense. Within an hour, we were on our way back, spurred on, no doubt, by the need to avoid close encounters of the wild kind!

Within 24 hours, I was bidding goodbye to my friend, host and guide who had managed, within a brief span of time, to carve for himself a permanent niche in my heart. As I reached the bridge over the Alakananda and boarded a Haridwar- bound bus heading for the foothills, my thoughts continues to dwell on the people of this region who lent the concept of human kindness a new dimension and made every journey into the unknown an enriching experience.

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