(Part 2 of 4 of the story of my tryst with destiny in running my first ultramarathon, in Ladakh

So here I was, in Ladakh, fifteen days before my 55 kms ultramarathon, looking forward to acclimatizing and getting used to the altitude. Leh stands at about 11,500 feet and so with that as our base, the plan was to gradually ascend to 17,800 feet over the next two weeks. Somehow it didn’t sound as daunting because there was a whole element of fun, play, and adventure associated with it.

In the backdrop, I kept looking at the mountains and how they seemed to have a life of their own, standing tall in their own stoicism. If one harbors any notion of being superior, they soon come crashing down as one realizes how small one feels in comparison to these majestic mountains, who only command us to humbly bow down our heads and renounce our ego, leading to the only way we will ever understand the grace, benevolence, and love that is offered to us from whichever source we choose to receive it from.

Hor vi neevan ho
Uccha saroon gharoor mein
Kaddi naa phal paaye, fakira

(Bow your head down in humility
There is great pleasure in holding the head high in arrogance
But that pleasure will never be fulfilling.
Bow your head down in humility.)

In the initial days, we stayed in and around Leh town, walking up the road and the steps to Shanti Stupa, and taking in the blue skies, the shining sun, and the valley that was nestled below. The fighter jets and choppers taking off from the defence airport at Leh would make their presence felt with their daily sorties. If there was an intimidating feeling I experienced being around the landscape, the proximity to the border added to that feeling, though only momentarily. Because it almost felt like the mountains had hidden messages in their weathered faces and often-changing topography as we traversed Ladakh over the next few days.

“Let your worries fall by the wayside, we got this.”

In Stok village, half an hour away from Leh town, the trees danced. In the silence of the valley, the only sound one heard was that of the leaves rustling and letting out a whooshing sound, the cows mooed, the golden wheat ears glistened in the sun, the clouds glided by gracefully, and the mountains looked down on us, protectively.

“Are you being in the present moment or are your worries taking you away?”

The ruminations truly faded away, and gratitude took over, especially when I looked up at a star-studded sky later that night, and the one constellation I definitely wanted to see: The Milky Way. The sky wore a sheen of white, with the twinkling stars looking down over the valley, and I heard myself sigh in amazement quite a few times. 😊 

We had to acclimatize by being active with our walks and runs and that was made so much more fun by taking in the sights and sounds (of silence) of areas in and around Leh. Be it the gorgeous, larger-than-life Buddha statue that overlooked the Stok valley, or climbing the steps up only to learn that the museum was closed. So when life gives you lemons, we decided to have lemon ginger honey tea at the café in Stok Palace, and walking the entire loop of the road that housed the entire village. One could hear gurgling brooks, watch children walk to school, families tending to their farms and with a wave of their hand wish “Jullay,” with the cows giving a quizzical look at the visitors in town. The kilometres we walked seemed to go by so fast when we were so immersed in nature, and the mind being oh-so-silent.

Mein jogan ban dar dar phir diye
Koi na meriyan, ramzaan pachanay

(I am a wanderer, going from place to place
No one can unravel the secrets within me.)

Every day we reached newer heights which boosted my confidence for sure. It’s all so relative, right? The first day I looked up at Shanti Stupa, at a height of about 11,800 feet, my mind wondered “Wow, that’s high up!” The next acclimatization 15 km run was to a point close to Ganglas village and that was at 13,500 feet and once we reached the turnaround point we could see Shanti Stupa down below. “Beat yesterday, didn’t we?”

I have to say, the 15th century mud brick Tisseru stupa on the way to Ganglas was awe-inspiring, in a way nondescript, and thankfully not oft-visited by tourists, which made being there so much more soul-satisfying.

And so onwards, every day we marched up to South Pullu (altitude of 15,300 feet), Khardung-La (17,800 feet) and onwards to Sumur in Nubra Valley where the plan was to do yet another long run but at a lower altitude of 10,000 feet.

I learnt to be very mindful at this altitude and respected my body, by ensuring that I wasn’t rushing through the walks and runs, was hydrating & fuelling well, and of course was in the right gear all the time, because of how quickly the temperatures would vary from 20C to sub-zero temperatures within a span of 2-3 hours when you drive up to Khardung-La and then back to warmer climes. I did have a mild bout of acute mountain sickness in the form of a headache after my run at South Pullu but that was expected and soon blew over.

My mind was focused towards my 55 km run goal and I wanted to make sure nothing could come in the way, at least to my best ability. Only to know later, on the actual day of the run, how unexpected occurrences come to throw you off track, or to test you even more. 😊

~ * ~ * ~

Off the beaten track, we stayed at Sumur in Nubra valley, where the sheer beauty of the surroundings were covered with a veil of silence. If one really wanted to go “see” something, it was their local monastery and a museum called “Heritage Abode” which was the erstwhile home of Late Col Chewang Rinchen, a Ladakhi hero who dedicated his life to the Indian Army. All this, over an uphill walk of 2-3 kms, with a steady stream of glacial water gurgling close by, and ancient trees with trunks joined at the hip seemingly wanting to cradle whoever lay there.

People in Ladakh go about their work and daily chores so silently, effortlessly, mindfully. There was no rush, no stress to get anywhere fast. No unnecessary banter, conversations, and noise that we get so accustomed to while living in cities. There are so many trappings we could do away with, I thought. And somehow it just happened so naturally in the mountains, if only one chose to see it, to be one with nature, to want to turn inwards, and to live and love with simplicity and integrity. We city dwellers have so much to learn from them.

The long run in Nubra valley had a smattering of fun, adventure, and pauses just to take in whatever was emerging in the moment: Like a detour to look for a lake (which we never did find), playing with a pup who later ran behind me for a distance and helped push pace 😉, pausing to talk to a local who was beating down the ripe sea buckthorn berries from the trees and us finally eating them.

A realization dawned on me; that so much deconditioning happens in the mountains where erstwhile “rules”  that we had learnt as kids go out the window. I learnt to eat fruit fresh off the trees, and drink spring water flowing through tiny streams. It felt so liberating. Anyway, back to that run and on our way we would be saluting the convoy of army vehicles, or taking pictures of the La Ultra start line, the puddle with a reflection of me running, or the mural on the wall that said “It’s the little things that matter.” Before we knew it, we were on our feet for 15 kms and counting. Every thing we encountered mattered.

The mountains were a constant. And yet sometimes they would hide behind a thick curtain of fog, with the clouds getting darker, more threatening, ominous looking. And all you had to do was keep the faith, and to continue taking one step at a time, towards the destination that you knew lay ahead of you. The sun did shine, the clouds dissipated, and there lay the mountains and the path ahead, in their full glory, and I could almost hear them say, “What were you fretting about? Even if the destination wasn’t in sight, you could still enjoy the journey!”

I was in awe of the changing topography of the mountains on the long drives we took across Ladakh. Big boulders and rocks would be strategically placed on their faces, maintaining a fine balance, almost ready to topple off, and I am sure they would have at the slightest disturbance. So symbolic of life’s balancing act as well. The weathering led to different colors and textures, and sometimes the mountains would seem daunting and intimidating and just a wee bit away they would seem gentle and kind, with rolling green pastures for the several breeds of livestock that reside there. 

Do you believe in signs? I take note of them :) or maybe joy in unanticipated discoveries like finding Mom’s favorite flower, the lavender, growing in the wild all along the drive to Nubra Valley. Yellow butterflies, also having spiritual significance, were seen flitting around, and the smile on my face, and the warmth in my heart grew. I was getting wrapped in love from all sides.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The mountains taught me to take things in my stride, to embrace whatever came my way. I lived by their example. They stood tall, unfazed by the harsh sun, the strong winds, rain, snow, and whatever else came in between as inclement weather conditions.

“What else have you got to test me with? Bring it on.”

And sure enough, I was tested soon after.

I was getting used to the altitude. Breathing on faster paced runs became so much more easier. It was time to up the game.

And so, a decision was made to stay the night in a tent at the High Camp (altitude 15000 feet), 12 kms below Wari La Pass, the pass being the highest altitude I would touch on race day, at 17216 feet, which would also be the turn around point for the 55 kms.

My first ever camping experience in this terrain, first ever in any case. It was time for me to step out of the comfort zone even more. To be prepared for whatever came my way, whether it be harsh weather conditions, attending to nature’s calls while out in the wild, making do with whatever resources we had in the middle of nowhere, living in isolation and managing on your own, or anything else that emerged in that moment.

On the evening of 15th September, tents were pitched at High Camp, with no human being in sight for kms on end, and a tiny rivulet of water running past the site. Wari La Pass was in clear sight, and I gazed at it longingly. The locals believe that the mountain passes allow people to go by. One can’t be too confident to trudge along it at will. I waited to see what would happen in 4 days and silently prayed to the Mountain Gods, if there are any, or any God who would have heard my prayers. 😊

Within half an hour, winds at 50 kmph speed with a high chill factor started blowing through the High Camp from the Pass, and the temperatures dipped to -10C. We soon huddled into our tents to stay warm and have dinner.

The tent flapped all night, the winds screamed in my ears, and of course sleep evaded me, not out of fear, but just because I was taking in what nature was sending my way. Would the yaks grazing a bit higher up on the mountains descend close to where we were, to find some warmth? Would the tent get uprooted? What if it started snowing? Usually these thoughts would create some anxiety, but surprisingly enough, I was experiencing all this in the spirit of wondrous amazement.

And then something else finally happened which brought memories, and a bit of pain with it.

The sleeping bag was too warm, and I was overdressed with layers and it was time to take some off. And just that tiny bit of effort left me winded at that altitude, with the depleted oxygen in the atmosphere. And I thought of Mom at the peak of her illness, for whom every breath even while sitting was a laborious task. A shower and wearing clothes would leave her exhausted, and yet she chose to be fiercely independent through till her end. She lived like this for months, and here I was, struggling for a few minutes. Tears streamed, much needed, for Mom’s suffering and pain, and in a way appreciating her courage and strength through it all.

In no way can I say I “knew” or “understood” what she went through, but I got a whiff of what it was like to breathe with effort, without taking it for granted, and how fatigued it left someone. This was exactly the reason I wanted to run, for Mom. Every breath I took, at this perilous altitude was in her name, and I would have taken one step in front of the other, perhaps knowing she would be with me all the way.

The winds lashed all night, and into the morning, and I wore back all the layers before stepping out at 5:15 AM to finally breathe some fresh air. The long night in the tent felt claustrophobic (probably because it was also my first experience) and I wanted to see some light too, because the head torch didn’t really cut it for me. The mountains were just about waking up, and the sun was streaming over their peaks.

After packing up our tents, we drove up to Wari La Pass, and on our way we got off and walked 2 kms uphill over three intervals, including at the top. I felt good, breathing was better, and the pauses were minimum.

For someone who has always been used to running long distances with music, I decided to ditch that for my ultramarathon. I needed to observe the road, to see where the undulating bits came, and which patches I could walk and which ones I could run. This was a challenge I was ready to take, again, because I didn’t want to become a slave to habit. I needed to broaden my horizon and push my limits a bit more and adapt to the new terrain and the demands it would place. And everything fell into place beautifully.  It was all unfolding so effortlessly.

“Ask for nothing and all will come your way,” the mountains seemed to tell me.

Ho rabba koi merey dil diyan kadraan pachanay
Mein sawali jinna nahin koi sawal

(O Lord, if only someone could understand my heart’s deliberations
I am a seeker who seeks nothing.)

Time was drawing closer to the actual race day. The excitement within me was building up, as were some nerves. Not once did a thought cross my though on whether I would be able to do this. All that came by was, “I will give it my best. Let’s see what comes of it.”

Good luck wishes started pouring in from family and friends and I smiled and cried happy tears as I heard them all. And of course Jassi, my boy had something to say which further determined my steely resolve to cross that finish line. What did he say, you may ask? I heard it again on the morning of race day, which is what I will write about next. So I guess we will have to wait for that when I come back with that post :)

(*P.S. The verses scattered through the post are from one of my all time favorite Punjabi songs “Hor vi neevan ho” rendered by Noori on Coke Studio Pakistan.)