The lakes of Ladakh

We&rsquove all seen it. Whenever Time magazine or one of its competitors brings out a story on the region and includes a map, a legion of unfortunate peons somewhere in the bowels of babudom has to sit and stamp &lsquoThe external boundaries of India as depicted are neither correct nor authentic&rsquo on every single copy. Now we were headed for one of those inaccuracies.

Pangong Lake lies like a giant snake, 130km long, oblivious of international boundaries. About one quarter of it is firmly in India. Another quarter lies in the disputed Aksai Chin region. The rest is in what some people refer to as China, and others prefer to call Tibet. I&rsquod always assumed that a place officialdom takes as seriously as this would be almost impossible to get access to. In fact, all it requires is an inner line permit, easily obtained through a travel agent, and some endurance.

We left Leh at 4am. As we cruised through snoring villages, lines of whitewashed chortens slipped by like ghosts, and ancient forts and monasteries loomed overhead. We traversed the Indus Valley quickly on smooth empty roads, and were soon winding our way up into the mountains. Slabs of winter-hardened snow lay by the road, grey like granite in the moonless night. Gradually the snow began to creep across the road, first in blackened patches, then in fresh white. The Qualis&rsquos heater kept us warm, but it couldn&rsquot stop the cold from slicing through the floor, making our feet restless.

Finally, we crested the Changla pass, which a sign told us was at 17,800 feet, the third highest in the world &mdash with a road over it, presumably. Ahead, the sun was painting amber streaks on the snow. We leaned towards it, wishing it on ourselves as we descended into a valley dominated by a gigantic crag, its puckered rock making demon faces like some protector deity from a monastery gate. In the valley, the immaculate military highway pushed on like an unlikely Formula 1 track through a boulder-strewn wilderness. The mountains were apricot, plum and champagne, sometimes crinkled with veins of snow. A frozen stream threaded its way through a sandy bed, the colour of fried egg. Parallel to it ran a telegraph line, fragile in the fierce wind, like some pioneering enterprise, determined against the odds.

Geographically and ecologically, we were more in Tibet than India, on its vast western plateau known as the Changthang. There are 22 wetlands on the Ladakh side, of which Pangong is the largest. It may not be Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai, but the two sides have a healthy respect for each other these days, and the area has been open to tourists since 1996.

We took tea at Tangtse, where huddles of squat whitewashed houses alternated with a succession of Army camps, corrugated iron sheds offset by lines of battered fuel drums, hemmed in with barbed wire. I contemplated humanity&rsquos capacity to create routine ugliness amid resplendent beauty. Forty-two kilometres to go.

Pangong announced itself as a triangle of silver at the end of a geological rainbow. Gone was the harshness of the valley road. Serried peaks shimmered above the water, ethereal amid a blue haze, subtly shifting colour and shape as they marched into the distance.

&ldquoIs that Tibet&rdquo I asked Namgyal, our driver, keen for a romantic image. &ldquoNo, it&rsquos India,&rdquo came the reply. There was obviously more to the lake than met the eye.

An arch welcomed us alongside a cluster of Army huts, inexplicably painted in bright red, yellow and green camouflage. One low, curved roof hut was painted &lsquoPangong Souvenirs&rsquo against a sky blue livery with psychedelic dragons. We looked inside, at nylon tracksuits with Pangong Lake patches and dinner plates printed with a scene of the lake.

Enough of the military&rsquos attempts at tourist infrastructure. When the Chinese invaded in 1962, one arm of the attack came at Pangong. They met some of the stiffest resistance of the entire front here &mdash two units fought to the last man, losing over 150 lives. Understandably, the Army considers this its territory. Tourists are tolerated, but not encouraged to linger.

We pushed on to Pangmik, the last village before the road is closed to civilians. A lone horseman skirted the lakeshore, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, the saddle blanket a splash of Tibetan reds and blues. We stayed with him, besotted by the storybook image.

Lunch was a handful of biscuits from Leh&rsquos Golden Bakery, and it was time to go back. The valley was glorious in the sunshine as we retraced our journey, but the wind ripped at our ears whenever we stepped out of the car. Lemon and chestnut horses grazed in stone enclosures and greenish-yellow moss carpeted the streambeds.

At the top of the pass, amidst another camp, a sign offered tea, coffee, toilets and a heated shelter. Shadowy figures huddled in a glass-walled hut, which read &lsquoVisitors are welcome&rsquo above the door. An urn of tea beckoned, but we needed to get back to Leh, ahead of another early start.

If Pangong suggests the hallucinatory beauty of Tibet, our destination the following day, Tso Moriri to the southeast, is a haven for some of its fabled wildlife.

We followed the Indus upriver, its milky green waters gradually accumulating platforms of ice and finally turning to a frozen thread. The route was a corridor of ochre mountainsides, which at one stage turned to burgundy as dense as an inkblot, before finally transforming into rolling hills. The small lake of Tasang Tso lay before us, a disc of water beneath a mountain tiger striped with snow. Four kiang, or Tibetan wild ass, gorgeous creatures with reddish backs and cream chests, grazed at the far edge as we skirted the lake. Entering a shallow valley, we descended until we hit Tso Moriri, a 20km stretch of saltwater encircled by golden hills and two of the highest mountains in Ladakh.

We pulled up at a nomad camp where scores of tiny lambs bleated in stone enclosures, and mahogany faced women and children greeted us awkwardly, or fled into yak wool tents. They are another disappearing species, as roads are built in the area and government subsidies encourage them to abandon a harsh life. Salt mining at nearby Tso Kar, once a lucrative business for nomad families who traded the commodity for meat, grain and wool in Zanskar, is no longer practised, while others are turning to rearing pashmina, which some environmentalists argue is doing unsustainable damage to the grasslands. Further on, we were confronted with the impact of our own presence a fence to prevent jeeps driving too close to the lake&rsquos shore and damaging nesting grounds.

Yaks and horses grazed on the foreshores as we arrived in Korzok, a tiny village that constitutes the only permanent settlement on the lake. We were too early to see them, but by the end of April the first of about 1,000 bar-headed geese would arrive here to breed. The area is also home to blue sheep, black and brown wolves, red foxes, Tibetan gazelles, Asiatic ibex, marmots and mouse hare. Tso Kar, four hours&rsquo drive away, is even richer. Each year five or six pairs of the highly endangered black-necked crane come here to breed, along with ruddy shelduck and about 70 other species. On its twin lake Tsartsapuk, hundreds of great crested grebe converge between May and August, making floating nests.

We saw none of this, with the exception of another herd of kiang the following day. They would soon be gone, up to the higher pastures, along with the nomads and their herds, as summer arrives and the lakes become the preserve of the birds. But we would be gone even sooner. After a night of fitful high-altitude sleep in a house in Korzok, and Maggi noodles for dinner, a golden dawn woke us up at six o&rsquoclock. We were guests in this place, and not particularly well adapted ones. It was time to leave it with its true custodians.

The information

The lakes

Pangong Lake lies 159km east of Leh. It&rsquos possible to do the entire journey in a day, but a more leisurely way to do it is to overnight at Tangtse, 42km from Spangmik, the last point you can visit on the lake shore. Tangtse has a camping ground, a number of restaurants and the Changla Guesthouse. Homestays are available at Spangmik.

Tso Moriri lies 227km to the southeast. Accommodation is available at Korzok at the Lake View Guesthouse or in private homes. Take your own sleeping bag, food and bottled water. The only food available on the way is at Chumathang. It&rsquos also possible to take in Tso Kar, a saltwater lake abundant in bird and wildlife, and its twin lake, Tsartsapuk.

Treks

There are several treks in the Tso Moriri area, including Rumtse-Tso Kar-Tso Moriri, and Tso Moriri-Spiti Valley, both around seven days. A three-day trek around the shores of Tso Moriri is less strenuous, although water can be difficult to find.

Getting around

There is no public transport to Pangong Tso return journey in a jeep costs around Rs 5,000. Return journey in a jeep to Tso Moriri is around Rs 6,500, extra if you take in Tso Kar. Contact Nezer Inexpensive Adventure (91-1982- 251437/253083 nezerleh@gmail.com). Permits are required to visit both Pangong Tso and Tso Moriri, arranged through your travel agent. Theoretically you need four persons in a group to apply for a permit. Bear in mind the fragile ecosystem and walk and drive on designated areas. Opt for homestays, thus supporting locals.