
Labels: Nature Talks
My journey into the wonders of the natural world.... A glimpse into some of these wonderful and awe inspiring moments that nature has to offer...

Labels: Nature Talks
Riding the ranges- Travels on my motorcycle.
The next best thing to sex.
The Nanda Devi Affair - Bill Aitken
It is only when you top sixty and find your knees beginning to protest
against the gradient that you begin to appreciate the rewards that can come from the least challenging of mountain trails. Widely regarded as beginners country, the Kumaun treks to Pindari and Milam can be rediscovered as pleasurable outings for oldies provided you are more concerned with honouring the central place of Nanda Devi in the scheme of things than your own reputation as a seasoned hard-man.
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Travelling slow and in comparative comfort has the great advantage over vertical expeditions strivings of not feeling bound by the hand of clock or resentful of middling weather. The very state of beatitude we seek in turning again to mountains can be compromised by the lure of impressive toppings out that may look better in the record book than they feel in our immortal seam of recollection.
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Too much challenge can be just as dispiriting as too little. We need above all explore those areas dear to each individual and traditionally the expedition is expected to serve a common aim; which too often translates as shared misery.
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By joining an expedition you are perhaps moving further from your aim of discovering your true being. A poor pilgrim wandering tried trails may get nearer that ineffable experience the trained mountaineer expects to find by virtue of going where no foot has trod before.
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The week's trek to Milam proves ideal for old bones to overcome modest challenges. It provides a glimpse of the bliss that awaits any who join with the Gori Ganga to force a passage through the Himalaya.
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The Mountaineer who helped discover (and best described) the ravishing realm of the Goddess
(Nandadevi) was Eric Shipton, perhaps the perfect choice since his romantic inclinations were miles away from the military manoeuvres school. Shipton's oneness with the Godness made him an odd man out and it was inevitable that his philosophy of an "overriding passion" as the motive force for mountaineering would be ruthlessly ignored by the English climbing establishment when they came to choose a winning leader for the 1953 Everest expedition. When peaks have to be conquered for prestige and funds poured in to guarantee the flutter of a flag from the summit it is only proper that corporals who aspire to be sergeants and
brigadiers smitten with the passion for full command should be recruited before poets and mountain mystics. It is coincidence that Nanda Devi has never hosted the conquerors of Everest- Hunt, Hilary and Tenzing - but in beckoning back Shipton and Ang Tharkey the Goddess proved that she could recognize her own.
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Winter in the hills is a visibly quiet time. The days though cold are magnificiently sereneand viewing the snows now is to experience the distinct sensation of nature aslumber. A somnolent azure lies about the winter snow-line where the cold air traps the wood smoke of the village fires. The flattened cling of this heavenly shade lazily gives way to the deeper blue of the winter sky caused by the sun's southmost journeying. Unlike the plains where the cosmic junction at the turning back of the sun makes little impact, in the Himalayas one is aware of the solstitial reversal process. Southwestwards the sunset becomes more hauntingly beautiful than in the monsoon when the bruised texture of the clouds had caught scarlet inspiration. The January twilight horizon is the most moving of natural spectacles when the sky changes dramatically from the fury of red to the promise of gold then briefly yields to the poignancy of green that brings tears to the eternal witness in man.
October is the best trekking season when the golden days yield the full fragrance of harvested sap. The sky is a celestial blue and the air perfectly attuned to vigorous marches. Sun dappled trees and the roar of rushing water coursing off the mountainside stimulate the taste of salt on one’s lips while the sifting wind soothes any regret at the sweat. It is good to be alive in high Garhwal in October as the crickets fill the clear air with a deafening drone of plentitude. The intensity of the sky with few puffed clouds abroad by early afternoon contrasts with the map-like spread of fields below. Crops of ripening red buckwheat shock the eye as do the yellow stalks of scarlet coxcomb. The multihued greens of the jungles begin to enclose one’s progress and range from the deep chrome of oak and dark viridian of spruce to the fresh gloss of chestnut and maple.
Savage encounters (like Joe Tasker’s on Dunagiri) might be thought to have imprinted a conviction of immortality forever on the survivor’s forehead but no theory fits when the human vessel insists it is too small and any overflowing is mistaken as a leak that needs constant replenishment. Like greatness sainthood is thrust on the climber who desides his mountain is worth dying for, and who can judge that such singular (seemingly suicidal) devotion in surrendering the gift of individuality (and causing unbearable grief to companions) is not a valid way for some? ‘ Better die trying to wake than live in sleep’.
In my benign walks around the sanctuary meadows, viewing the peaks and considering some of the achievements of the, studying the religious feelings of local people and noting the glories in the rare beauty of the forests and the riotous sexuality of the flowers, I followed my inmost instinct to worship.
As a male writer I make no apology for viewing the mountain Goddess as a village woman for that in fact is the way hill theology pictures Nanda Devi. Mountaineers married to the craft have perhaps realized that it is more pleasurable to learn the many moods of feminine unpredictability from the stern lessons of the Alps and Himalayas rather than have the same gripe voiced daily down the years from a contracted rope-mate over breakfast table. To find the real woman of one’s choice is indeed a mountaineering task since achieving the impossible is what climbing is all about.
Labels: Nature Talks
Lapwings : It belongs to the family which includes those long-shanked birds which bare their legs and walk about in shallow waters, or walk upon dry ground on stilts. They have no hind toe. (check). For those who never perch on tress or for that matter anywhere, of what use is a hind toe. They all lay their egg on the ground, and the young run as soon as they are hatched. The Red-wattled Lapwing also commonly found in our villages, has on its cheeks two bright red lappets, like the wattles of a cock. It is a greenish-brown bird with a good deal of black and white upon it. The head is black, with the throat, down to the upper part of the breast. Below this the under parts, with the lining of the wings, are pure white, as you see when it flies. Actually it needs no description and wants no introduction. It introduces itself to you: impresses itself on you; dins itself into you. And all the time it is reiterating, with piercing emphasis, that mysterious taunt, "Did you do it? Did you do it? Pity to do it." Suddenly its mate springs into visibility and joins it. That’s reason enough to suspect that somewhere on the ground, not far from your feet, there are four stone colored eggs, with black blotches on them, arranged in a cross with their points inwards. But it is no use looking for them. The Lapwing is such an accomplished liar that it will throw you off the scent one way or another. There is another kind of Lapwing, with yellow instead of red wattles on its cheeks. Otherwise it is very like the common one, but somewhat paler in color and with less black on it. There is a syllable less in its cry. It, however, likes a dry climate, and I have not often seen it on the coast.
Labels: Nature Talks
Labels: Nature Talks
Nature is what we see
Labels: Nature Talks
Nature 's wisdom
Labels: Nature Talks