Hailstorms, mild snowfall, and heavy rainfall later, I hiked to the highest peak in Dalhousie, Dainkund Peak. Even then the Air Force almost escorted me back to Dalhousie! But I stayed the night inside a mountaintop temple.
Thunderstorms, Hailstorms, and Snowfall in Dalhousie
The little cubes of ice rained. Two, three, four… before the blinks of my eyes could believe the hails bouncing off the green sloped roof of Nomadic Dalhousie. The hails, the forgotten geometry… The hails juggled on the roofs, the bamboo that held the place together, and the Earth. As the force grew stronger, the noisy hail knocked on my door and flushed the floor of my second-floor dormitory. The white ice-balls lay on my carpet, melting in water-cubes, in style.
Do I go hiking to Dainkund Peak today? ‘The weather in Dalhousie is as unpredictable as Mumbai. You simply cannot guess. One time the hails broke the windscreen of my car, and it’s common’, the owner of the hostel shared. A gallant local man from Dalhousie who once trekked from Dalhousie to Manali (more than 400km).
My cellphone tinkled. The borrowed phone that I simply won’t replace. ‘Warning! There is a chance of avalanches in the Spiti and Chamba districts, at above 3800m. Call this number for any assistance.’ I am not surprised. The weather forecast for this week (and the consecutive one) couldn’t have been more accurate.
Last night the purple sky flashed in sullen-white, for seconds, and the lightning crisscrossed in a bifurcation of the dramatic skyscape, like the scar of Harry Potter.
All alone in my hostel, feeling the howling and the startling, I felt a part of the world.
A week passed, a perky and hefty line of mild hailstorms and Himalayan thunderstorms. On my last day at the hostel, holding the white paintbrush against the wooden door of the cafe, the snow fell without premonition. Before I knew it, snow heaped in unshaped chunks on tables, chairs, and exposed corners.
‘You can’t paint the outside door now’, the petite guy with spiky brown hair laughed. I was just doing it for fun.
Also read – A Tiny Space in the Ever-Growing Tourism in McLeodganj
Bears in Dalhousie? Yes!
Part of Dalhousie falls under Kalatop Wildlife Sanctuary, a turnover from Dainkund. Deodar and pine trees develop a deep and homely forestry-shadow. Black and brown bears live both by the bushes and in the stories in the marketplace.
‘One morning I came to open my shop. The shop was torn apart from one side by the bears at night!’ The Momo-shop is near Panchpula Waterfall, 25m down the forest.
‘My elder brother was attacked by a bear. The bear bit his hand. My brother blocked the bear’s eyes with the other hand. I think we, the pahadi people, have the natural instinct’, another shopkeeper told his stories, serving me a hearty meal, with extra Spinach.
The bear-stories only proliferated. I didn’t dare to hike to Ganji Pahadi alone. But walking the pine-and-deodar-laden dreamy-streets of Dalhousie pulls you to different leafy-shapes in unidentified zeal. Walk, walk the streets. There’s no other way of being in Dalhousie. And one fine day, I walked to Dainkund.
Also read – Solo Hitchhiking for Two Days from Kaza to Manali
Night-Stay in A Hill-Top Temple at Dainkund Peak
‘That car fell down the road last evening. Can you see?’ He points at the white hood as the sparkled sunlight shimmers in the headlights. The car held itself in between the tall pine trees. From a distance, I could only make out its engine-hood. The elderly man adjusts the straps of his hanging side bag and moves on. His gait is slow and decisive, slower than his age would permit.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Dainkund Peak.’ I was on a spree to hike for 14km to the highest peak in Dalhousie. The weight of my backpack had only one incentive – pitching my tent on the mountaintop.
‘Oh! There’s a temple up there. Pohlani Mata’s Temple. You see the Chhatri there, you will have to hike past that. I will show you the way’. He gestures his hand to a jungle trail diverting from the main road. ‘I was also looking for a companion.’
The trail is more like withered tree-roots. I followed him for a short stretch, which saved me 2 km of extra hiking. ‘Is your village near Dainkund?’
‘No, I will take a different trail. But I will show you the way’.
The sunlight fell in misprints, and a woodcutter passed us in silence, parlaying the silence of the trees into a hazy undertone, his face hardly visible amid the carriers of wood beams. The old man and I always maintained a vertical distance.
The Air Force interfered. The arena around the mountain is under the jurisdiction of the Air Force. I had no right to camp there, as put forward by a handsome army officer from Chamba. ‘Our Fauji truck will safely escort you back to Dalhousie’, he informed me with a blank face.
Bittu Ji, the caretaker of the temple, had already shown me a piece of greenland by the temple, with the caution and concern of the night hauls of wild bears. The mountain rests empty after dusk. Not a soul stays there. Even Army officers take a last round to make sure no human soul heaves at night at Dainkund.
Yes, the Air Force intervened. The tug-of-war of persuasion tilted more in my favor. Meetings occurred among the three Army personnel in three rows, on whether they should let a solo female stay at the hilltop temple all night all alone. Camping was strictly prohibited, they were considering the possible risks involved in letting me stay in one of the temple’s rooms.
By and by, at Dainkund Peak, the temple-rooms are not for outsider-stays. They are used for temple-purposes. They made an exception for me, for this headstrong and ‘politely-persuasive’ woman was determined to stay.
‘There would be nobody here.’
‘Perfect. I would feel much safer.’
‘What if you have a medical emergency?’
‘I have the potential medicines with me.’ (I mean, this was not even 3000 meters!)
‘What if you need something at night?’
‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘Still, there are risks.’
‘Like what? I will be in a locked room.’
They gave in. The white line devoured the clouds; the line of white mountains, so full in white blocks that every inch could only be mythical. Manimahesh Kailash Parvat stood still, sunsetting its demeanor in pink. Cookie Dough and Brownie, a pair of black-and-brown Bhutiya dogs, locked their eyes on the yellow-pink line dimming in obscure grey. The three of us sat together on the rock at Dainkund.
But another intervention shattered the dream. A group of boys also decided to stay back. The Bhandara at the temple had led to a hectic and buzzing day for the boys. Bhandara is a feast, generally organized and sponsored by an individual or a group, especially when what you wish for comes true. I also feasted at the temple, and even the next morning, Rinku Verma, a local Maggi vendor, brought homemade phulka and Aloo ki Sabji for me. He set me off to the next leg of hiking.
Only the glimpse of Mt. Manimahesh Kailash stayed back. And Cookie Dough and Brownie.
Every day in Dalhousie is forever stapled in my mind. Even the days I couldn’t go out, for the rain won’t stop. Dainkund Peak and the next day’s hike through bear-forests – how can I ever forget?
Would you stay the night at a temple on a mountaintop?
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