Jugaad-Skiing Kashmir.
Lessons in patience skiing the Pir Panjal Himalaya.
From ISSUE 105 2023
Words Bianca “Chuckles” Bratton | Images Cam McDermid.
Two days earlier, we had arrived in the subtropical continent of India. A brief stop in Delhi was the first introduction to the chaos, contrasts and curries to come. We continued our journey northwest to the city of Jammu, the capital of the Jammu and Kashmir province. Nestled tightly against the Pakistan border, this was supposed to our starting point before departing by 4×4, then on foot, into the remote valleys of the Kishtwar National Park.
A perfect tapestry of plans that we’d wound together over the previous months was now beginning to unravel under the weight of travel in a developing country. Not to mention the poor weather, hazardous avalanche conditions and a questionable guiding configuration that were all conspiring to tear our plans apart.
Just one day earlier, a video had emerged and spread across the internet of a size three avalanche ripping down the Sheenmai bowl of Gulmarg, a ski area located just 250km north of us. The event unfortunately claimed the lives of two avid Polish skiers. A level of scepticism crept its way through the group as reality hit home and we began to question what was possible (and safe), given the likelihood that the same deep, persistent, weak layer existed in the snowpack across the entire Western Himalaya. Conversations continued.
UPDATE: Watch JUGAAD-A short film by Cam McDermid at AUIW.
Two ski bags were unaccounted for, their most likely location being somewhere between Melbourne and Delhi. A large low-pressure system was due to hit in the next 48 hours, and forecasted to cloak the 5000m peaks we hoped to ski in over a metre of snow. It was also bound to make for a gruelling trek to our basecamp at 4000m.
A blessing and Tilaka (small red dot of paste common in Hindu culture) painted on our foreheads at the Rabinath temple was a feeble attempt to bring good fortune when just about all hope was lost. After three days of city-dwelling, we made the tough decision to abandon our expedition plans; the satiating appeal of clipping into our skis sent us on our way to Gulmarg.
The small alpine village and gondola of Gulmarg lies in central Kashmir, forming part of the disputed territory surrounding a ‘line of control’ that divides India and Pakistan. Surrounded by Indian Armed Forces, the Kashmir region is haunted by an extended history of conflict, and the streets are lined with heavily armed soldiers.
For those who flock to the northern hemisphere each summer, India probably doesn’t feature amongst the heavy hitters of the European Alps, British Columbia or Japan. Flying into humid, 30-degree Celsius Delhi will make any powder hunter question their sanity. But the somewhat untouched nature of https://skigulmarg.com has quietly called to the more intrepid Kiwi for several years now. Receiving around eight metres of snow, and with lift-accessed terrain up to almost 4000m, it’s no wonder that those clued-up folks continue to return time and time again.
"the Kashmir region is haunted by an extended history of conflict"
With one foul swoop our bags were hoisted onto the roof of a minibus, with not one strap to be seen. I became preoccupied looking out the rear window into the cluttered streets, waiting to see a weighty ski bag catapulted into the chaos. The Jammu-Srinagar National Highway is renowned as one of the most treacherous roads in the world, with landslide sections named “Khooni Nallah” (Stream of Blood) and “Panthal” (Devil’s Overhang), among others.
With the blaring of the horn, we set off on the 10-hour journey across mountain passes and foreign countryside. With a small iPad-sized screen in the back of the centre console, we managed to save the otherwise low spirits of our collective crew, playing old school Matchstick Productions and TGR ski movie favourites. The hype was growing rapidly, only mildly extinguished by an aggressive lunge across the bus and a smattering of spew across the front-seat passenger’s merino. Delhi Belly had claimed its first victim.
Snow piled the sides of the small street of the small service town of Tangmarg, which is located 14km from Gulmarg. We were guided to a new vehicle that was more capable for the mountain access road to come. A single snow chain was slung haphazardly around one wheel, loosely tied together with a fraying piece of rope.
This became a symbol for a common theme that we observed. Buildings stood, barely completed, held together with remaining scaffolding, yet housing a functioning commercial business. Two bare wires jammed into the electrical socket, not in any way safe by western standards, were a surefire way to get the heater working. The Kashmiri translation for the classic Kiwi ‘Number 8 wire’ mentality-Jugaad.
Our timely arrival coincided with a huge storm. Massive flakes fell from the sky as we ventured to the one and only place in town that served beer. If there was a sure way to find the other Kiwis, this turned out to be it. The single gondola of Gulmarg was closed due to avalanche hazard and low visibility. We ventured to an area situated just below the alpine village, called Babareshi. The sensations found within the trees of Babareshi on our first full day of skiing were completely foreign. The brief moments of silence between drop-ins and transitions were filled with a spine-tingling, hair-raising surrounding that I’ve not experienced anywhere else in the world.
Steep pitches and pillows were accessed by a roadside drop-in, with a brief ski tour back for the next line. The waist-deep, cold powder sprayed into our faces with each turn, our huge grins brimming from ear to ear. The melodic, continuous chant of the monk of Babareshi village reverberated by loudspeaker through the gladed pines. Several murders of crows circled overhead, their beady eyes watching us intently from just above the tree line.
"The mumbling monk’s prayer, the only interruption to the dead silence of the forest."
As if bewitched by the musical notes that carried on plumes of snow, we moved through the trees. For hours we rode this rollercoaster of powder-induced ecstasy, followed by the foreboding, sobering sensation found in the moments of silence. We remained entranced with the cyclical ups and downs, until darkness began to fall. Head torches illuminated the skin track as we exited the forest, Babareshi firmly imprinted on our mind’s eye.
While the beauty of the forest and the sweet treats of the huge storm were not lost on us, evenings were spent scouring weather reports and topo maps. It was hard not to feel as though the goal of riding steep, untouched Himalayan lines was still unfulfilled. Once the storm subsided, the first views of the Gulmarg valley and greater ridgeline extending from Mount Apharwat (4,390m) gave us a glimpse of the incredible, accessible terrain that lies in the alpine. The early morning alarm of avalanche bombing was a welcome sound that reverberated throughout the valley; the top phase of the gondola was ready for opening.
What ensued could be most likened to a mosh pit for Bollywood’s favourite musician. We tried to stick together as the crowds bustled to-and-fro, risking life and limb to remain upright and stand our ground. Bodies launched over the stanchions that failed to keep the line orderly as hundreds willed their way to the gondola, yelling at one another in the local dialect.
Luckily, what awaited at the top made even the most short-tempered of us feel that the frustrations were worth it. Not a cloud littered the sky, affording views across the entire valley, including some of India’s tallest peaks. Out to the west, the renowned peaks of Pakistan’s Karakorum Range could be seen, including one of the world’s 8,000m peaks, Gasherbrum II, on the horizon.
A well-balanced mix of excitement and caution riddled our initial foray into Gulmarg’s backcountry. Trust in the snowpack stability increased over the next day. Joined by well-regarded local guide, Tiger, we were feeling confident and ready to step up to the higher peaks. A prominent 4,220m ridgeline to the west, the Shark’s Fin, was our destination for the next two days.
All matter of instability had been rinsed off its 45-to-55-degree face, and each of its untracked lines sat pretty, ready for the picking. Heads poked over the top of the cornice, carefully picking our entries. One by one we were able to paint lines down its many spines and couloirs, hoots and hollers echoing around the bowl. This is what we’d come for.
The additional laps in the alpine were really just the cherry on top, and the remnants of the weather window were spent exploring the Snow Leopard faces, aptly named after the regular sightings of the elusive animal by skiers in the area. A multitude of bowls and smaller gullies filtered down onto a plateau, and even four days after the last storm had cleared, fresh, deep lines were still in abundance.
With temperatures forecast to slap spring straight onto the slopes of the Himalaya in a matter of hours, we saw one last shot to score some cold snow. We’d heard rumour of a 1,900m run that took you from the high alpine bowls to a small alpine town called Drung, by means of one large, banked chute. The rumours turned out to be true. Creamy, crisp turns in cold, north-facing powder turned into a quad-burning blitz of spring smush as we skied the almost two vertical kilometers to the tiny village of Drung. Legs quivering like a teenager in the principal’s office, we weaved our way alongside the river, past the armed forces and bases we were now accustomed to seeing, before arriving at the quaint, scattered village.
"Legs quivering like a teenager in the principal’s office...we weaved past the armed forces."
Our bright, technical Gore-Tex contrasted with the monotones of the village nestled in the snow. Standing out like sore thumbs, we weaved our way, slowly through the humble abodes. Forget your Pink Batts and double glazing—many of these houses were nailed together with moisture-laden pieces of ply, bare concrete block and some tin, at best.
Children came running to us, hands outstretched, yelling, “chocolate, chocolate?” We happily obliged, picking out the chocolate pieces from our scroggin mix and sharing them around. More and more kids came to join the party. Laughs, high-fives and broken conversations ensued— despite two weeks in India, our Kashmiri was still (very) limited.
As we ventured onwards through the town, the kids would jump onto our skis without fear or hesitation. One, two, and sometimes even three, stood on our tips and tails, grasping onto our jackets or backpacks for dear life. We ungracefully wobbled our way down the streets with little feet packed onto our skis top sheets, poling rapidly to try and maintain speed.
No loyalty was forged for their previous chariot as the kids ran back up for their next ride. All language barriers were obsolete, and the broken conversations turned into the simple joy of sharing huge grins and belly laughs that echoed down the streets, with every awkward ski descent. I remember smiling to myself, heart brimming with delight as I reflected on these treasured moments.
"The simple happiness of sliding on snow crosses countries & cultures."
One final Kashmiri khawa (a local saffron tea) and curry feast concluded our time in the alpine town of Gulmarg. Like the rise and fall of pollution that plunged into the valley with the heat of the sun, India proved to be full of ups and downs. The trip was a testament to the power of adaptability, the importance of respecting the mountain environment and the rewards that come with pushing ourselves beyond the comfort zone of familiarity.
Skiing in a country that operates at the frequency of India is neither relaxing nor straightforward. But those with persistence and perseverance will triumph on the boundless terrain and deep snow of the Pir Panjal Himalaya.
Our plans for a skiing holiday, no longer resembled their original form; they were bound together with a few zip ties and a tangled mess of duct tape, haphazardly slung together at the last minute. Even so, it sure as hell lasted the distance and provided for a memorable experience, and, above all else, some damn good skiing. Jugaad
