Pass masters: Ancient Himalayan Route of Wind and Wool retraced

Survival on the Route of Wind and Wool meant not only enduring blizzards and traversing disorienting snow passes; it meant evading the brigands and bandits who would wait for caravans laden with precious wool, gems, salt and other commodities from the mountains. These rugged thugs knew well the worth of the goods of the “heights” and where to sell them. They also knew that the equally rugged muleteers and traders would not yield their bounty easily.

Above where our camp lies, 30 to 35 kilometres and seven hours of hard trekking north of the small north Indian village Kyit Kum (it’s impossible to know exactly where we are because GPS devices are forbidden this close to the Chinese and Pakistani borders), spires of stone rest like teeth against the sky. Beyond them, a snow pass awaits; one that can – and often did – eat up life in short order. If the thieves didn’t get you, the elements might.

Brigands knew that the time and place to strike was when and where the caravans – mule teams ushered on by Tibetan masters and often accompanied by guardians, village chiefs or travelling monks – were at rest. Robbing caravans was tricky but in this slim basin before the 5,600- metre-high Parang La (“la” means “pass” in Tibetan), their chances were greater, perhaps because the muleteers were exhausted by the time they reached this point or maybe because this place is so remote that pursuit would have been unlikely.

From where I stand, almost 4½ kilometres above sea level, amid the scrubbed and chiselled geographies north of the Spiti Valley, men and mules have been taking their chances for five centuries or more. Up until the 1950s, when trade petered out in this politically sensitive area, this route was a well-trodden conduit to some of the most desolate and dizzying regions on the planet.

Nothing was more valued along it than pashmina wool, sourced on the world’s highest plateau. Combed and pulled from tough pashmina goats and silky to the touch, the wool was a commodity that could find buyers anywhere. Pashmina has remained a mountain-grown luxury product and evidence of this can be found in the markets of the region, which bulge with the stuff.

Right about where the hunched and leather-skinned horseman Sadanand, one of my companions, loads his mule, is, I imagine, where bandits would have attempted their strike. Thieves clad in leather skins and boots could have moved in silently at dawn.

This entire valley, however, is awash with glacial meltwater, up to a metre deep in places, and any heavy rain or mass-melt of snow would make this gorge a death trap. I wonder whether this ever happened while a raid was underway but my morning reverie comes to an end as the present tense makes itself felt in the windless morning of grey light.