“No way am I getting on a horse!” I stated vehemently. I could feel my jaw tighten and my stomach squirm. I have nothing against horse riding normally, in fact have quite enjoyed trail rides over the years, even managing to stay on while trotting and cantering. This was different. We were in Ladakh, in the mountains of the Tibetan Plateau in far northern India. A stunningly beautiful land in a harsh way, of diverse rock textures and rich colours, with minimal pockets of green in valleys, of luscious ripe apricots on laden trees, drying on roof tops and on every flat sunny rock available, and, bizarrely, pink rose trees.
The trails were narrow dusty threads along steep cliffs and slopes, or rocky transverses of landslides, riverbeds and glacial streams that were rushing muddy torrents by late afternoon each day as snow melted up higher. The ‘horses’ were more pony size, and I thought my extra long legs would probably touch either side! We had also experienced the horror of seeing an over-laden pack horse struggle up a loose steep winding trail, slip and tumble backwards over the edge, fatally injuring itself. I could still hear it calling to its disappearing companions, whinnying in fear and pain, for far too long before release came. So no way was I getting on a horse!
I was still saying that under my breath over breakfast in the mess tent the next day as we peered out at the menacing clouds dumping rain and tapioca hail on our camp. We were at about 4700 metres high, and needing to cross another 5200 metre pass that day. Turning back wasn’t an option as we were closer to our destination ahead, and besides, we had similar mountain passes behind us, already crossed. The altitude is definitely a factor at that height, but we were all fit, and acclimatised in our own ways – I needed drugs, like Diamox, to help, but I knew that from previous treks in Nepal, Africa and South America so came prepared.
The issue was the chest infection I’d caught the week before leaving Australia, a nasty so and so that was defying antibiotics. Our two guides had negotiated with the horsemen to re-arrange the horse loads to leave one, the tallest one, available for riding. I felt bad at their obvious dismay at my refusal to ride, but the fear, and I admit, my ego over-ruled that. The fear of being on a horse over that terrain, up those scary slopes and tumbling down with it was strong. So was my ego insisting I could walk over the passes like the rest of the group, not ride like some weak invalid. Such was my self-talk as I adjusted my hiking pole, pulled my rain jacket closer and strode off.
We were following a river up a narrow valley for a couple of hours then we would have the steep crossing of the pass for another 2 hours up, before the equally steep knee jarring navigation zig- zagging down the slippery other side, then another hour or two over rocks to camp. As I set off, I was also very conscious of my responsibility to the group, and how unfair it was if waiting for me to catch up kept them exposed unnecessarily to harsh weather, and given where we were, of course it would. That awareness, plus the swearing from my chest that assured me it would get worse as we climbed higher, had me in tears half an hour later as I made myself ask to ride. The sensible decision for the group welfare had been made, so they were relieved, and it was my choice, so my ego was appeased, but my fear was still there in a huge way.
So I put my training to good use and focussed on the sky, the birds, the gorge walls, any thing beside looking down at the rocks my horse was picking through – I mean, how can horse shoes grip rocks – they don’t have Vibran soles?! That helped me through the first 30 minutes, and I’d decided I’d get off as soon as we got to the steep part of the crossing – I’d be rested and much better placed to walk up the scariest part myself. One of our Ladakhi guides was actually leading the horse, so I just needed to sit, and hold on, one hand at the front, and one hand holding the back of the saddle.
He complimented me on my riding skill – I’d been told before I had a good ‘seat’ on a horse – so that relaxed me more, and I started thinking about my horse, labouring under my weight – I’m trim, but still, I’m 180cm tall so weighing more than the average rural Indian! I started concentrating on helping her, shifting my weight back going down and forward going up. Once the focus was off myself, and my scary stories, and I felt part of a team, I actually started enjoying the experience. After all, how special is horse riding in the mountains? Adventure is what I love, what I’d come for, and this was certainly adventure!
The path started slowly going up, becoming dustier, zig-zagging, and I encouraged my beautiful mare, giving her pats, and breathers, gentle heel nudges and encouraging “Hups!” I was so intent on helping her, I hadn’t realised how far we had climbed until I accidently glanced back down – holy crap! I instantly felt we were about to tumble down, so I quickly looked ahead, we were much closer to the top than I realised. I asked to get off, but my trusty guide pointed out there wasn’t a safe place to dismount, so onwards and upwards we went! I felt a surge of satisfaction, of pride, that I was still having that adventure we came for, just in a different, yet still exciting way.
A herd of wild deer darted across the ridge top, and a huge raptor, an eagle perhaps, soared overhead. This side of the pass was smooth, rounded, hill-like. I dismounted at the base of the last slope, and once I managed to ease my legs back together, started slowly walking up that last part to the 5200 metre summit. As I gasped to the top of the knife-edge ridge my mouth dropped open – in front was a dramatic drop, soaring up to snow-capped jagged peaks of a much higher range. Breath-takingly (literally!) gorgeous. Along the top of my ridge was a low rock Mani wall and fluttering prayer flags of earlier relieved and grateful trekkers, traders and herders. My precious mount was exhausted – I found her a couple of mouthfuls of cloud-kissed moist vegetation, then she napped in the sun while I soaked it all in.
We had left the rest of our group well behind, so I waited and watched for them, hoping they were doing OK. Such a relief to count heads and see them all appear safely, and what a delight to watch their exhausted faces light up as they caught sight of the summit view. We added our prayer flags and gratitude to the collection, and our Buddhist guides sang prayers as we did so. As we rested, our two horsemen and the rest of our gear-laden horses curved their way up the final slope, much to the delight of my mare whose head had come up, and ears pricked well before they were in sight.
As far as I was concerned, she’d more than done her bit for me, and I was very happy to be on my own two legs, sliding down the loose dusty sharply zig-zagging steep path on the other side. I’ve no idea how the horses manage it, day in day out. I guess it’s practice, what they’ve been born and bred to do. Like the cheeky 3 week old foal who accompanied his mother on our trek. And then there’s that matter of choice. We are so lucky. We have choices, even when we tell ourselves otherwise…sometimes we just have to put our fears and ego aside, and find a different way forward.
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