Travel: Spectacular Spiti
In this rugged and dangerous valley of scenic vistas, ancient monuments, and resolute people, I felt I was in the presence of something approaching the divine.
[Left] The author takes in the scenery at the confluence of rivers Spiti and Pin. (Photo:Ravi Prabhakar)
“That way is Chitkul, the last village on the Indian side,” pointed P. S. Negi, our tour guide. We were uphill from Rakchham, a meadow ringed by the high peaks of the Kinnaur Kailash range in Himachal Pradesh. Just across, on the other side of where India ended, was Tibet, the enchanting “roof of the world.”
When Negi started naming settlements on the Tibetan side that were on ancient trade routes, it was easy to imagine yak caravans winding their way through the mountains. Right then, political boundaries seemed to fade, and Tibet didn’t seem like a forbidden land. It was as if humans had forgotten to inform the land in the region of the arbitrary, imagined border between two nation-states. The landscape that stretched in front of our eyes looked like one frame of a painting of grand vistas of majestic mountains and valleys, with nothing in nature indicating a demarcation.
Streams fed by melting ice crisscrossed the grass, and cows grazed in the distance. After days of being on narrow roads flanked by soaring mountains and deep gullies, the sight of a lush green meadow spread out before us was a welcome surprise.
[Right] The author and her family members trekking near Dhankar, Himachal Pradesh. (Photo: RaviPrabhakar)
Having been cooped in a vehicle for long hours, my husband, Ravi, was eager to stretch his legs. Negi agreed to guide us on a short trek to a nearby waterfall. We followed him up a steep trail, our steps nowhere close to Negi’s stride of a mountaineer. There was a heady fragrance in the air. “Blue pine,” he said, pointing to the trees towering above us. “Its oil is used in perfumes. Some people feel intoxicated if they linger here too long.” I could well believe that.
Negi was an engaging guide who kept up a lively conversation about the region, its flora and fauna, and the lifestyle and customs of its people. Layers of beech bark were used as insulation in old earthen houses, juniper seeds worked as an air freshener when thrown over hot coals, and tea made from sea buckthorn leaves helped digestion and had anti-inflammatory properties—we learned all this and much more during our short climb.
Chitkul, one of the northernmost villages at the border of India and Tibet. (Photo: Vachadave/Wikicommons)
We made it to the waterfall right at the golden hour. No matter how many photos I took, I could not capture the glint of the water or the shades of the mountains in front of us, burnished copper in the soft light. Eventually, I gave up and stood still, taking in the scenery. This is what I had been hankering for since the beginning of the trip—to get away from crowded roads, breathe the crisp mountain air, and walk under tall trees.
As we climbed down, Negi pointed to the weathered stakes of a lean-to used by shepherds. “They make do with so little,” he said. Throughout our trip, we saw Gaddi shepherds leading their animals higher into mountain meadows for the summer. I marveled at their sure-footedness, as nonchalant as their goats when they stepped off the road to climb up a slope or clamber down a steep one.
It seemed idyllic to live so freely in nature, but I knew it was an illusion. Their life is tough—surviving on frugal meals, enduring long walks, braving the elements in rough shelters, and constantly watching for animal thieves and predators. Yet, I found the tinkling of sheep bells a sweet sound, clinging to my vision of an Arcadian paradise.
The author’s husband and daughter strolling by Chandra Taal in the upper Chandra valley of the Lahaul and Spiti districts. (Photo: Aruna Padmanabhan)
Driving to Spiti: Not for the faint of heart
For centuries, only horse and mule trains could traverse the high mountains to reach Spiti. Passage has never been easy, especially over one of the main access points, Rohtang Pass. If there was an accident or a truck got caught in the slush of melting ice, one could get stuck behind a lorry convoy for hours, sometimes even days. Travel here has always been at the mercy of the elements, and unseasonal snowfall can happen any time, even as late as July. It was a shock to learn Rohtang means “pile of corpses” in Ladakhi—a grim reminder of the lives lost on the treacherous journey to these mountains.
Spiti river cuts through the Spiti alley, a rain-shadow area here forests give way to scrub, and the treeless slopes look even more dramatic as they rise into the sky. (Photo: Ravi rabhakar)
The mountain road hugged steep, crumbling cliffs with sheer drops and precarious hairpin bends. My heart leapt at each bend but our driver, Deepak, navigated the winding roads with perfect ease. Being from the mountains, he was able to back onto narrow shoulders effortlessly, thanks to his uncanny ability to gauge the available space down to the last inch.
Yet, I couldn’t help but look down the deep gullies to the frothing river below. I trusted Deepak’s driving, but the road was full of cars from the plains, whose drivers clearly lacked the skills for such treacherous roads. Each time we passed one without incident, I offered a silent, fervent prayer of thanks.
The price of popularity
The recently-built Atal Tunnel, close to Rohtang Pass, makes the drive to nearby Manali a breeze. Moravian missionaries were the first to imagine such a tunnel in the late 1800s, longing to spread their word in the Western Himalayas but frustrated because their attempts at converting locals always failed. The tunnel project, officially proposed in the 1980s, was completed only four years ago.
Better access and roads have brought far more visitors to Spiti than in the past, often in large numbers that the local bodies cannot handle. Hypercommercial tourism is the bane of every scenic place, and it is seen in piles of trash, wrappers, plastic bottles, and bags dropped by careless hands, oblivious to the pristine beauty of the surroundings.
It was heartbreaking to see litter even in the most secluded places we visited, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the area was better off when it was harder to reach. As a tourist, I didn’t face the hardships of daily life in an isolated region where getting even basic supplies can be a challenge. I didn’t grasp the difficulty of living in an inhospitable land.
[Left] Tabo, India’s oldest surviving Buddhist monastery. (Photo: Aruna Padmanabhan)
A family adventure
Our own trip to Spiti had been years in the making. Its stunning landscape and warm people had left a lasting impression on Ravi from an earlier visit many years ago. “We should definitely go there again,” he said often, “when Ira is old enough.” During our previous trip here, our daughter, Ira, had been only four. Now, at eighteen, she was ready for a challenging journey. My sister and her family joined us—it gave us time for one more trip together before our children flew the nest, and family vacations became harder to plan.
Of all the breathtaking places Ravi had visited in Spiti, one stood out—Chandra Taal. A large, framed photo of this magnificent lake, taken by him, has hung on our living room wall for years. Now, it felt as though we had stepped into that very photograph. The turquoise blue lake was framed by an impressive cirque on one side, with snow peaks stretching into the horizon. It sits at 14,000 feet, and at that altitude, I could feel my heart working overtime. I paused often, taking in the spectacular views which made all the effort worthwhile.
A shepherd appeared on the edge of the water. Dogs gamboled behind him, and he soon disappeared over the far hills, surrounded by his sheep. Though it was afternoon, the temperature was just above freezing. To make matters more intense, a strong wind picked up. Clouds covered the sky, and the sunny day gave way to cold rain. At the quick change, words of a local came back to me—the weather here is a living being with capricious moods.
Rugged landscapes and ancient monasteries
For the first few days, we drove along the Sutlej river, but once we turned off to follow its tributary, Spiti, the landscape became severe. Nestled in the Himalayas, Spiti Valley is in a rain-shadow area where forests give way to scrub, and the treeless slopes look even more dramatic as they rise into the sky.
Shades of grey and brown met the eye, and in that pared-down palette, the few bright colors in the scenery stood out even more—a startling blue sky, lime-washed bright white walls of mud houses, flashes of green in tiny fields where villagers had diverted water from snow melts to coax small patches of barley and peas.
At Tabo monastery, the contrast between earthen tones and bright colors was completely unexpected. As we walked between temples and stupas, arranged in the form of a sacred mandala, the nondescript mud walls gave no hint of the murals on the inside. Giant red and black Mahakala stared down from the walls at the Protector’s Chapel, looking fearsome with their crown of skulls, bulging eyes, and open mouths full of sharp teeth.
[Right] The tough life of Gaddi shepherds who survive on frugal meals, endure long walks, brave the elements in rough shelters, and are constantly on the watch for animal thieves and predators. (Photo: Ravi Prabhakar)
In its thousand-year history, Tabo has endured cycles of neglect and yet stands as India’s oldest surviving Buddhist monastery. It serves as a vital sanctuary for Indo-Tibetan Buddhism, safeguarding traditions even as temples and monasteries are erased in Tibet itself.
At the Golden Temple, a guard named the deities on the ten-foot tall 14th-15th century murals— Maitreya, Amitabha, Green Tara—dimly lit by small windows high on the walls. Painted with mineral pigments, they are delicate and restoration efforts take years to complete.
I had noted the rich colors but not all of the fine details of the murals. It wasn’t till I saw the photos on the monastery’s website that I appreciated their intricate beauty: Green Tara’s skin glowed against a jewelred aura, her attire was painted with exquisite details. No wonder Tabo is called the “Ajanta of the Himalayas.”
But much of this splendor was lost on the visitors around me. Unprepared and impatient, they grumbled, “What are these paintings?” or “Why are there no lights?” before quickly leaving the temples, oblivious to the treasure before them.
Days later, we passed a bus filled with Buddhist pilgrims, each holding a prayer wheel, and I couldn’t help but feel that their journey to Tabo would hold far more meaning for them. For those from remote places, it might be the pilgrimage of a lifetime.
Snowcapped peaks throughout the year. (Photo: Ravi Prabhakar)
Chacha-Chachi’s dhabha
“Chacha-Chachi have saved hundreds of lives; their dhaba is famous,” our driver said when we reached Batal. What started as a simple roadside eatery 35 years ago has become a resting place as the couple who run the place have added floor bedding over the years. Within those cavernous, tarp-covered mud walls, they have given free food and shelter to countless stranded tourists over the years.
When we stopped there for breakfast, the place was already bustling, even though it was still early morning. Dorje Bodh and Hishe Chhomo, fondly called Chacha and Chachi, are in their 70s. While they have helpers now, the two of them are very much at the center of all the activity at the dhaba. Chacha made tea for the customers streaming in, and Chachi sorted through the supplies. When we bought some local wool shawls from her, she pressed dry fruits into our hands, snacks for our long drive downhill.
The rugged mountain vistas stir a sense of awe. (Photo: Ravi Prabhakar)
As we drove away, I kept looking back at the snow-capped peaks. The Himalayas have held me in their spell ever since I first encountered them on a high school trek. Over the years, each journey back has only deepened my awe for these majestic mountains. It’s not just the mesmerizing scenery that makes it easy to dream of a life closer to nature—it’s something more profound. It’s only here, rather than in any place of worship, that I feel that I’m in the presence of something approaching the divine.
Aruna Padmanabhan is a somatic movement teacher who lives in Atlanta. In her spare time, she enjoys traveling and writing about her experiences.
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