Ridin' the Trans-Himalaya!

Goodbye Rangdem...
David was the first to wake. He was pacing the room frantically, grinning insanely; muttering incomprehensibly. There was no way he was getting me out of bed at this obscene hour of the morning. The only trek we had planned for the day was six hours away by some form of transport and it wasn't even light yet. I peeped out the bed-covers and noticed that he was fully dressed in hat, boots, woolly jumper - like he'd just come in from the cold. “Look outside, look outside!” From the large pane windows, I could see nothing but white, unable to distinguish sky from landscape. It was another few hours before I was out of bed to see the light of day, and boy was it bright. It was the first time we'd seen snow covering the entire landscape around us. David was in heaven. He'd been up taking photographs since 5.40am and had captured a collage of the cold, hard climate, the austere of its solitary soul weeping melancholy tears in all its moody-blue-tinged glory. I felt cold just looking at the images as I lay in bed with the laptop resting on my sleepy corpse. David has a unique ability for capturing the soul of the mountains. Perhaps it is because the mountains are the very food of his soul.

I noticed the snow-covered mountains merge into the pasty clouds, felt my face whipped by the piercing, bone-chilling wind that swept through the valley as we walked the long stretch from the family home across the field with our rucksacks.

Ruth had been crying that morning. She complained of stomach ache. David and I guessed that the rough, remote, wilderness had become a little too much for the Jewish Princess who seems accustomed to package holidays, airport transfers and room service. Boaz put on a brave face, although we could see he was disappointed to miss out on the trans-Himalayan adventure that David and I were about to embark. Like the true gent that he is, he accompanied a relieved Ruth back to Kargil and on to the creature comforts of Leh.

Splitting up...
We were to split two directions at the police check post, which served as a hitching point for trucks as well as a stop for buses: Boaz and Ruth heading north, David and I delving deeper south into the heart of the Zanskar Valley. We were the first to depart. A truck pulled up and throwing our rucksacks on top, we hugged the guys goodbye and dived into the spare seats next to the driver.

Into the void...
We wondered at the possibility of the giant truck losing its balance over the narrow 4,900 metre pass and falling into the void. We were traversing the Penzila, the highest mountain pass of the Zanskar Range, not to mention, one of the coldest with the glacier that hung menacingly down below. The weather conditions were not exactly mild either, yet David and I felt positively exhilarated at hitching a lift in a truck through something that resembled a snow-blizzard.
The truck driver, Mohammad, was a shining star. Not only was he fasting for Ramadan, meaning he hadn't eaten anything since 4am, and wasn't about to at least until 7pm, but he had driven with considerable expertise, confidently manoeuvring the vehicle around the impossibly tight corners of the Penzila, the wheels of the truck teetering on the edge of the narrow, snow-ridden road while thousands of metres of nothingness plummeted down below us.