Day 2: Gurez Valley – Read More
Day 3: Tulail Valley
Dawar to Tulail Valley: About 3 to 4 hr (one way journey)
In the soft embrace of an early morning, about 5 am, I found myself restlessly tossing on my double bed, eagerly awaiting the dawn. At around 7ish, compelled by an unseen force, I slipped into my shoes and ventured out of the campsite. With no particular destination in mind, I craved the pure morning air, adorned with dewdrops glistening like diamonds on the ground. I mused, wondering if these jewels were so common, would they still be a girl’s best friends.
Resisting the urge to wander too far in my night suit, I contentedly strolled among the fields nearby. The flowers, more vibrant than ever, gracefully swayed to the gentle breeze weaving through the valley.
Further down the road, a herdsman guided his cattle, presenting a perfect photo opportunity. In my excitement to compose a good photograph and capture the speeding cattle in the frame accurately, I had walked a little ahead of the campsite area than I had anticipated. I found myself at a crossroad where a bridge connected to the town centre.
I was so immersed myself in capturing the pastoral scene, only to be interrupted by a firm voice, “Sir ji, idhar photo lena manaa hai”.
Adjacent to the bridge, there was a military outpost on the side of the road. A security personnel guarded the post, and perhaps, his colleagues were in the shack, preparing breakfast. I was entirely engrossed in capturing the herdsman with his cattle that I did not realize the presence of check-post.
Apologizing to the personnel at the post, I offered to show the photographs I had taken. He declined, likely having observed me for the past couple of minutes, struggling to keep up with the cattle, to compose the frame.
I stood near the bridge, unexpectedly drawn to its charm as it led towards the market, which was irresistibly appealing.
A chance encounter with a lively man in his 60s, transformed my aimless stroll. I had seen him walking from the opposite side when I was clicking pictures of the cattle’s.
As we slowly traversed the bridge towards the market, we exchanged pleasantries, I asked his permission if I could click his photograph with Habba Khatoon in the background.
He readily agreed, saying “mere photo lekar kya karoge, mein bhuddha hu aur na khoobshurat”. I strongly disagreed with him and we both laughed.
A wooden house adorned across the bridge on one side of the road, while a modern concrete mosque stood proudly on the other – a poignant tableau of eras gone by.
Entering the main town road, a serene quietude enveloped us. The main market street lay in silent repose, waiting for the day to unfold.
It seemed the market remained veiled in silence until 10 am, with even the street dogs dozing quietly with half-open eyes as we passed, as if guarding a tranquil dreamland. Attempting to capture this dreamy scene, I inched closer for a photo, only to be greeted with a wag of his tail, subtly urged me to let him slumber undisturbed.
We continued to walk along, with him reminiscing about his youthful days in the Gurez Valley and stories from his military service.
Although he was native of the town but now he mostly stayed in Bandipora. He would come up to the town once in a while to inspect his land property. Our conversation started with how Dawar has evolved over time from a small village which had couple of houses.
In the company of my newfound companion, we explored the town’s nooks and corners, his tales resonating with the vigour of a life well-lived. Our leisurely stroll continued, accompanied by tales of the gentleman’s youthful exploits, his unexpressed love crushes and passion to cross Razdan Pass on foot. He spoke about how he once trekked from Dawar to Baramhulla on foot when the roads were closed due to an early snowfall, to report on duty. I was in awe with his grit. He added with a smile, “tab mein jawan tha”. I guess that word jawan served both the meanings adequately. Conversations with military souls are boundless, each acknowledgment a tribute to a life richly lived. Amidst the charm of old wooden houses and anecdotes shared, he playfully queried, “Aap inn photos ka kya karoge?” With a smile, I assured him that these moments would be shared with my parents and friends back home, a sentiment he found pleasing. The notion of weaving these stories into a blog with photographs was an unprecedented revelation for my inherently lazy self. Yet, as they say, never say never.
Despite the weariness of forthcoming trips, I hope someone out there is captivated by the narratives I pen painstakingly. My motivations extend across dimensions: urging others to explore offbeat, natural wonders beyond popular destinations like Sonamarg / Gulmarg; encouraging solo journeys for profound connections with nature and people; and consolidating my newfound passions into a meaningful online space.
As we passed an old tree, he picked a green, ball-shaped fruit from the ground. He scratched through the pulp portion of the fruit, to reveal walnut is making. The harvest was about two months away.
Gurez, not renowned for walnut cultivation, cradled this tree that had found its perfect match in the soil. I held onto the fruit, a fleeting keepsake lost along the journey.
Engrossed in conversation, we traversed a considerable distance, finding ourselves on the outskirts of the town. As he guided me through the quaint lane, our connection deepened. With a gentle goodbye, he set forth to his brother’s place for tea, leaving me with directions to the campsite – a comforting landmark of a mosque on my left.
I returned back to the resort reflecting on the unexpected joy of having a local guide.
Back at the slowly awakening campsite, I awaited breakfast beneath the familiar tree near the riverbanks. I narrated my morning walk experience to Irfan while Iqbal prepared breakfast, ensuring I was ready for the day-long adventure to Tulail Valley.
Soon, two kids approached, regretful for missing the cookies from the previous night. More cookies, riddles, laughter, and a spontaneous photo session ensued, adding a touch of whimsy to the morning.
As Danish arrived, the joyful shouts of the kids lingered in the air and bidding farewell echoed.
On our enchanting journey, Danish had some paperwork to submit at the local government office for processing Dawood’s ethnicity certificate, likely preparing his documents for a future government job. Dawood came trotting from somewhere, and Danish instructed him to follow up with the authorities. Our destination for the day was Chakiwal and back, located in the most remote valley of Tulail. The road leading to the valley isn’t paved yet, so if you value your back muscles, spinal cord, and hip joints, consider booking a decent SUV with good shock absorbers.
Chakiwal, supposedly the last village on the Indian side of the LOC, was our final stop. Danish warned that the military might not allow us up to Chakiwal due to the proximity to Independence Day. I reassured him, saying we could go until the military felt comfortable, avoiding any unnecessary risks. Danish tried to ease my concerns by stating that Chakiwal village looks similar to all the other villages we would pass through. The same road continues up to Drass, but it was restricted only up to Chakiwal at that time due to ongoing roadworks. Post my trip, I read recently that the government has opened this road to tourists up to Drass. Wow, that would be a ride I’d love to experience at some stage of my life! You can also reach Drass from Sonamarg, creating a healthy competition between the two routes for a 15-day excursion to Ladakh. I’m gathering the strength, money, and company to explore the unexplored Ladakh—it will be one hell of a trip.
The road from Gurez to Tulail Valley starts from the other side of the Chasama at Habba Khatoon peak.
The initial part of the road is through between two mountains, very close to each other. Passing through a semi-arch created by cutting mountain rocks, the road offers an amazing view. However, for some unknown reason, I always feel a bit fearful while passing through such patches. No amount of travel has been able to pacify this fear. Falling stones from the mountaintop add another layer of anxiety, making my journey a bit less enjoyable.
The darkness created by the closely situated mountains is mystic. Some sunlight reaches the road only when the sun is directly overhead. The Kishanganga River accompanies the road throughout the journey. As the river is more compact here, you can hear the water gushing down, the natural slope doing its work. After covering a small distance, the tar road gives way to a dirt track.
Danish pointed to some clustered structures at the top of the mountain range far beyond, mentioning that those are Pakistan army camps, and below are local families from POK. Since it was far away, it was difficult to discern whether it was a Pakistani camp or within our border area, and my weakening eyesight didn’t support clarity. There are several check-posts on this route where you’ll have to verify yourself with your travel identity documents. At each check-post, we were warned that the final check-post wouldn’t allow us up to Chakwali, and we took note of that. Soon, the rocky-mountains on either side of the road landscape gave way to a wider valley topography. We started to see bright green pastures of land parcels. The valley was dotted with cows grazing, honeybee farming, school kids playing, and the river flowing lazily. The entire scenery resembled a postcard picture. Some photographs couldn’t justify the beauty. A moving three-dimensional panoramic view provides a totally different perspective than a two-dimensional click. I decided to keep the camera away and just enjoy the moments.
As we drove through the landscape, it occurred to me that nature is so disciplined, discharging its parts selflessly and relentlessly. The sun rises and sets, the wind blows, air recycles itself, the river flows, trees grow—everything functions in such a coordinated manner. There is no scope for saying “No” in “Shristi”. Imagine the sun saying, “I am tired today, let me sleep for an additional 30 minutes or take a holiday.” The river saying, “Let me take a break and rest on the banks for some time.” The whole ecosystem functions with precision, leaving aside the millions of years of continental shifts or the meltdown of the ice age. There is something for us humans to learn. The ability to serve (and teach) others is probably the reason why we are born. This thought led me to start “Aspire & Inspire” with a group of my school friends, where lending time is our principal objective. On the contrary, we humans have tried to change the natural flow path of these elements of the ecosystem. We build dams, pollute the air, consume food indiscreetly, etc. To counter human interventions, nature revolts, and some of us perish.
We paused at a quaint tea shop, nestled beside it, a JCB toiling away, rearranging the riverbed scattered with rocks. While we waited, families arrived, unfolded their bedsheet, and set up a makeshift kitchen. It became evident that the locals, taking a break from nearby towns, cherished their homemade food. My lingering question, though, was where these families would sleep under the starry blanket. As we finished our tea, the JCB completed its duty, and we were ready to embark once again. This valley, a mere segment of the Gilgit region, is divided by the LOC. Oh, the dreams we could chase if only we could traverse without constraints.
As I expressed my desire to explore Gilgit one day, Danish’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I have relatives on the other side of the border,” he shared, “the people are warm and welcoming. Let’s plan a trip.” Danish, always the eager adventurer, was ever ready for an excursion. The seed of curiosity he planted sprouted into a question from me, “Is there any legal passage to enter POK from Tulail Valley or nearby?” Danish replied, “The only way to enter Pakistan is through Punjab, but that’s too far from Gilgit.” I protested, to which he laughed, but his determination to undertake this journey was evident. He said, “You just handle the visa process, I’ll take care of the rest.” The discussion ended, but the images of Gilgit lingered in my mind, earning a spot on my travel bucket list. Yes, indeed, I have different buckets.
As we passed a village brimming with life, Danish halted the car to exchange greetings with an old man cradling a child against his chest. Turning toward my bag in the backseat, Danish fetched a chocolate bar to gift to the child. I marvelled at how Danish had discovered my secret stash. The child beamed with joy and bid us farewell. Throughout the trip, I observed that English words like goodbye, hello, hi, failed to evoke any response from village children. Instead, they would scamper away. I couldn’t help but wonder whether they were unfamiliar with these English words or simply frightened by the sight of a brown bear like me. I fervently hoped it wasn’t the latter. Surprisingly, a simple handshake coupled with a goodbye worked wonders, earning me a radiant smile from the child. The local village markets were adequately stocked with all the daily household necessities. The needs in this part of the world seemed basic and modest. I pondered whether the shops here sold goods at MRP or added a little extra for transportation. Yet, regardless of the basic requirements of the households, humble potato chips were always available.
A noticeable disparity existed between the villages on either side of the valley. The villages on the other side of the river were tightly-knit, with fewer houses surrounded by trees, exuding a captivating beauty, devoid of people. Perhaps, these villages were farther away from the main transit route, closer to the dense forest, the river, or away from the border area. The settlement on the other side of the valley were more modern in construction and in better condition than those along the road. The roadside villages appeared ancient, frozen in time. Most houses were constructed with wood, seemingly stacked like Lego blocks. What seemed like an exterior wood stack probably was held together by mortar from inside, made of local mud and clay. I regretted not stopping to visit any of these houses; they looked enchanting from the outside, possibly why tourists were drawn to this remote area. Many of these houses featured patchwork with tin sheets, covering portions damaged by rough weather and wood decay.
Tin roofs adorned most houses, although the dull clouds veiled the sparkle of the sun. Capturing a photograph of a gleaming tin roofed wooden house was high on my agenda, had the sun decided to unveil itself. I wondered how these villagers endured the harsh winter. Unlike the Gurezians who migrate during winter, these villagers stay put, necessitating provisions and arrangements for warmth. I observed that these houses had very small openings, likely only one small window, to retain warmth or keep the harsh cold at bay. The newly constructed or renovated houses boasted glass windows, solar panels, and modern amenities.
Danish gestured toward the chimneys protruding from each house, calling them bukharis, the heating arrangement. I would encounter a bukhari in Limber, but that story is reserved for Day 10. Essentially, it is a combustion chamber where wood or coal is burned, with a small tube leading outside to vent the smoke.
Regardless of the conditions of these houses, life appeared challenging, especially during the winter months.
Perhaps, the elderly migrate to warmer regions, while the young adults stay behind for trade. You might be wondering what trade could transpire in such harsh weather – something I pondered when Danish first mentioned it. The native people of Tulail Valley are predominantly tribal, known as pickers and foragers. In the frigid winter, amid sub-zero temperatures, they scale the heights of the Himalayan range to gather herbs with medicinal properties. All transactions, from selling the herbs to the initial middlemen in the supply chain, occur in cash. Danish mentioned that during demonetization, these communities were caught off-guard and severely affected, as there are no nearby banking channels. Dish antennas were noticeably absent atop each house, a common sight in cities. Communication channels were restricted to mobile / data networks, if available, or through word of mouth flowing from one village or town to another. It sounded primitive, but imagine a day in the life of Tulail villagers.
Having crossed another check-post to enter Sheikhpora, we entered what I consider one of the most beautiful villages in the region, probably India. The sheer beauty of the village is often a testament to the effort the locals put into preserving it. Here, houses stand at a distance from each other, perhaps owing to the fields that lie between them.
The village sits close to a dense forest, with a river meandering gently nearby. A new university building has sprung up, a testament to progress, catering to the local community of Tulail Valley.
We spent a considerable amount of time sitting at a charming tea stall on the riverbank. It’s the kind of place where time seems to stand still, waiting for us to decide whether we have the heart to make it linger. I yearn to return and camp at Tulail Valley for a few days, exploring each of these villages, one day at a time, with no rush in my heart. My desire was to wander a bit deeper into the forest, but Danish showed no sign of consent. His familiar refrain, “Sir ji, yeh sensitive area hai,” echoed, and I promptly fell in line.
Upon leaving Sheikhpora, we began our journey towards Chakwali. A couple of check-posts attempted to dissuade us from venturing further, but I told Danish, “Let’s go until they won’t allow us any further.” We reached Gujran, about 20 km before Chakwali. Sensing that this could be the final check-post, I disembarked along with Danish to plead my case. We presented our identity documents, and the person at the check-post remarked, “Oh, you’re from Maharashtra.” I replied, “Yes, from Mumbai.” While he noted our details in his register, he revealed that he hailed from Akola, a district town in eastern Maharashtra. I thought I had won his heart, anticipating permission to proceed to Chakwali. After a moment’s contemplation, he regretfully informed us that he couldn’t permit us to go up to Chakwali. However, acknowledging the journey from Mumbai, he granted us permission to proceed upto the next check-post, about 7-8 km further. However he added that we should return by 4:30 pm, considering the unpredictable weather and the deteriorating dirt track in the rain. Aware of Danish’s anticipated response, I asked if we would witness anything different from what we had already seen. I sought reassurance from Danish. We thanked the personnel at the check-post and turned our car back.
On the way back, most of the village markets had closed for the day, rendering the roads desolate, evoking a somewhat eerie feeling.
Danish seemed preoccupied with something, a matter that had likely troubled him for some time. He asked if he could pose a personal question, delving into inquiries about my health and family. He expressed genuine concern, wanting to understand how I would care for myself in old age. He suggested considering adopting a child and delved into discussions about my financial situation. He even offered advice, proposing that I could consider to sell my current residence and move to a smaller one a little further away from the city.
What I observed in the region was that people pitied those without brothers as their own siblings. Danish fretted over who would take care of my aging parents and, subsequently, me. I had no concrete answers to allay his concerns. I remarked to Danish that my friends back in the city painted even grimmer scenarios. Unyielding, he refused to divert from this topic. I questioned him, wondering if it was possible to insulate ourselves from the myriad situations and circumstances that life throws our way. I’ll keep this section brief, as some of the ensuing discussions were too personal and outside my comfort zone to publish on an open forum. However, if you’re up for buying me a beer or contributing to my bucket list travels, I am open to sharing this part of the dialogue and more.
As we neared Gurez, Danish took a slight detour toward the river, eager to cleanse his vehicle of the day’s dirt.
A group of 5-6 men were fishing nearby. While Danish tended to his car, I approached the group for a chat. They were a cheerful bunch from Srinagar, having ventured to Gurez for a taste of fresh trout. Displaying their prized catch, they tried to evoke envy, but I, being a vegetarian, remained impervious. Laughter ensued, and they kindly offered me a warm bottle of coke, cooled by immersing it in the river for ten minutes.
They were a lively set, and seeing Danish wash his car prompted one of them to start washing their vehicle as well. They inquired if I had beer at my hotel, as they had forgotten to carry any from Srinagar, playfully blaming each other for the oversight. Impressed by the photographs on my camera, they requested a few clicks, and we exchanged contact details. With a plentiful fish haul for their dinner, complete with all the cooking essentials stowed in their vehicle, they bid us farewell.
Having bestowed the car with a well-deserved spa, a mere 10 minutes into our journey, Danish abruptly brought the car to a halt in front of a resort. With pride, he exclaimed, “Sir ji, welcome to my brother’s resort.” My eyes widened at the enchanting location and Danish’s humble establishment. As we entered, a young boy named Shakeel rushed over to greet me. He was the fourth brother whom I had met at the Gurez Festival. Danish mentioned that Shakeel managed this camp. While I was still contemplating the economics of this charming abode, Danish introduced another handsome man, saying, “Sir ji, my brother, Shabir – owner of the resort.” I had genuinely lost track of the number of brothers, but the significance of having a brother became evident. Shabir primarily worked with the local government administration, lending him an authoritative air. Judging by his appearance and stature, he seemed to be the eldest brother unless there was another concealed sibling somewhere in Gurez.
He recounted how the people of Gurez had lived perilously due to constant shelling from across the border until a few years back. Pointing towards a small, desolate building a few meters away, he narrated how it was once a school that fell victim to shelling from across the LOC.
Fortunately, there were no casualties, and the army camp, which was nearby, was subsequently relocated. In recent years, cross-border shelling has ceased, prompting the Indian government to initiate tourism in this area.
As we departed from Danish’s resort, Dawood joined us on the way. Danish intended to get his car serviced before we departed from Gurez the following day. I requested him to drop us at the army’s café, where I wished to savour some items on the menu. Cold coffee had become a personal favourite. We reordered cold-coffee along with some pasta, enjoying the delightful flavours. We didn’t linger too long at the café. Danish arranged for a standby car to take us back to the campsite. Iqbal eagerly awaited my return to take our dinner order. The three sisters’ families were out for a city tour, rendering the campsite tranquil. After a quick refresh, I decided to ascend to the dining area as it was drizzling outside.
A family of three from Kolkata had checked in that afternoon. Bengalis are renowned as the most versatile travellers among all ethnic Indian communities, perhaps second only to the Gujarati’s. I knew this because in 2007, on a work assignment when I was visiting Chitkul (Himachal Pradesh), the last frontier village on the borders of India and China, there was just one hotel in the entire village, with a signboard in Bengali script. I inquired with my local driver, and he explained that this village had the highest number of Bengali visitors. There was no specific reason for Bengalis to visit Chitkul; it was simply their innate desire to explore nature that led them to far-flung places.
The Gujarati family, a husband and wife with their daughter, were now settled in Kolkata for two generations, a powerful combination of Gujarati genes and Bengali water that had made them adventurous travellers. They were traveling from Drass. I encouraged them to visit the Tulail valley the next day. It seemed the wife was the decision-maker when it came to choosing destinations, and the husband faithfully followed her lead. A good practice for a harmonious union, I suppose. Since the lady was an avid nature lover, I recommended they should visit Sandakphu, which was in their backyard, to explore the elusive Red Panda.
What followed was a comical episode, revealing the simplicity of the local Gurez people. Having travelled a long distance, the family quickly finished their dinner and retired to bed early. Further they wanted to start early for Tulail Valley. I was still enjoying my dinner. Shortly after their departure, the husband came rushing up holding a lantern, complaining that it was not working. Zaakir was present, and with a smile, he confirmed that the lantern wasn’t charged. The husband wore a curious expression and summoned all his courage to ask what they would do if they needed the lantern in the middle of the night. Zaakir reassured him, saying they wouldn’t need a lantern at night as there is light between 8 pm and 5 am. Moreover, if they needed anything, they could call them. The husband remained unconvinced, insisting on a working lantern. Zaakir said he would look into the matter. I found the entire episode amusing. I asked Zaakir, who in the world uses a lantern in the middle of the night, and why would he keep a lantern in the tent. Zaakir mentioned that he had brought them more as showpieces than functional lanterns. They were probably the first ones to test these lanterns in the past year. Perhaps the facial expressions of Zaakir and the husband made the situation even more amusing. We continued laughing. Irfan escorted me back to my tent. I was too tired for the day and slept like a baby, uninterrupted, without any fear of brown bears, and so on.
Day 4: Bagtore Valley – Read More
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Sukumar Jain, a Mumbai-based finance professional with global experience, is also a passionate traveler, wildlife enthusiast, and an aficionado of Indian culture. Alongside his career, which includes diverse roles in international banking and finance, he's working on a wildlife coffee table book and enjoys sculpture and pottery. His interests span reading non-fiction to engaging in social and global networking.
