Dawn flight, Pokhara to Jomosom

It was still dark when we left the hotel, the air filled with a tropical bedlam of pre dawn bird calls. I’m not what you’d call a good flyer; when I flew for the first time (at the grand old age of thirty!) I felt as excited and awestruck as if I was being shot into the moon. That was then – now, I feel as if the odds against survival are just getting shorter every time and the thrill is tempered with dread. So walking out onto the runway to board our tiny twin propeller aircraft I was doing pretty well at staying calm. This route is cancelled at the slightest hint of bad weather, because if  bad weather hits during the flight the pilot will have to coax the plane over some of the highest mountains in the world in some of the worst conditions imaginable – there is no margin for error. Flights in or out of Jomosom have to be completed by 11.00 -11.30 am, because after that the weather changes for the worst and the fearsome gales that spring up between the peaks would dash a plane to smithereens. If a flight is cancelled, you KNOW you wouldn’t have wanted to be on it.

We were the last to board, with me in a seat near the tail and R sitting by the door. Look at the picture at the top of this post. That’s my view of sunrise through the open door as the plane stood on the runway. See that rope going diagonally, bottom left to top right?  That’s the rope they use to open and close the door. No, really. The stewardess whose seat was in front of mine gave me a reassuring smile, passed a tray of bonbons around the cabin (which I in my nervousness tipped up all over the place) ensured we were all strapped in, and yanked the door shut seconds before the tiny plane roared up the runway.

The plane banked and set it’s course over forested foothills studded by tiny villages and steep terraced croplands. Some villages had visible switchback roads leading to them, but the further in you got the thicker the forests became, and you began to see less and less dwellings in more remote and unlikely places, without even a trail for access. The plane seemed to almost graze the tops of the trees and then it felt as if I could, if my window were unglazed, reach out and brush my fingers through their leaves as the hills became mountains, their sides growing up around us.

And then suddenly, no more lush forests, no more tiny villages. The plane was climbing steadily, but if I looked out of the window I could no longer see the foot of the mountains… and their peaks were so high that I could barely see the tops. At last the plane climbed free, and this is what we saw.

I think I may have been making whimpering noises; I’m not sure, but the stewardess gave me a big reassuring grin and pointed out the astonishing peak pictured below – Machapuchare, or the Fishtail. Sacred, unclimbed and brilliant white it is a mountain as a child would draw it, it’s graceful twin summit hidden by a tiny cap cloud. I despair of the photo – it gives no sense of grandeur or scale. It’s a snapshot taken by an over excited woman through a grubby aircraft window, there’s barely any relation between it and what I actually saw.

Once past the highest peaks we began to descend immediately, following the Kali Gandaki river valley and through the deepest gorge on earth.

The river valley is subject to screaming gales which spring up from eleven am and continue all day – so all flights in and out have to be completed before this astonishingly dramatic change. That’s on a good day – inclement weather means no flights at all. A good thing too. If something goes wrong during the flight there’s no-where to go but into the river or the side of a mountain.

One of the most spectacular twenty five minutes I’ve ever experienced finished with our zippy little plane touching down on the short Jomosom airstrip while the other plane which works the route loaded up with passengers. These planes have an incredibly fast turnaround due to having to be safe back on the apron at Pokhora airport before the weather closes in for the day. As the plane taxied, I was able to see that the sky was pretty much taken up by mountains on all sides and that the landing strip was only a few hundred yards long.

Our plane taxied right up to the airport door and I marvelled that not many departures and arrivals can boast this kind of view. The mountain is called Nilgiri, and dominates the Jomosom skyline. Notice the other plane’s propellers? We’ve only just taxied off the airstrip and it’s already getting ready to go. No time to waste in these conditions!

So here I am, in the middle of Himalayas. You can barely see the sky for mountains.

If you want to read more about this journey click on Nepali Adventure to see all the posts!

 

For more beautiful and fascinating images of the sky around the world, visit Skywatch Friday!

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From Loch Coruisk to Sligachan

I’ll be honest with you… I wasn’t the one doing the navigating, so I’m not going to try and name all of the many lochs, rivers, mountains and glens we crossed – I would only get it wrong and make a fool of myself. What I do know is that for a relatively short hike without any challenging bits I’ve rarely come across a route so beautiful. Unfortunately, shortly after disembarking from the Bella Jane, I managed to fall flat on my face doing nothing more challenging than putting one foot in front of the other. Two things you should know about me and hiking – I am clumsy, and I am scared of heights. I know I’ll probably never manage the more glamorous ridge walks like Crib Goch or Striding Edge, but I don’t do too badly considering. Still, there I was, at sea level, sprawled flat on my face on a slab of “non-slip and beloved of mountaineers” gabbro rock. Apart from gaining some cracking day-glo bruises all I really hurt was my dignity (I fell so hard that the resounding comedy “thwack” turned heads quite a long way up the trail) but it certainly slowed me down. Enough of my foolishness; I know what you are here for – pictures! And pictures you shall have.

We climbed the slopes at the foot of Sgùrr na Stri, and as we looked back a chain of Lochs spread out below us, starting with the Sea Loch Scavaig in the distance, and followed by Loch Coruisk.

A series of shallow climbs and descents saw the lochs disappearing then reappearing again, each time more distant, cradled in the widening, ferocious landscape.

On one such descent, a greenshank began calling querulously. The further down the trail we got the more the bird whistled, wheeled and fussed. Its nest must have been close by – and as another bird joined in the commotion it is possible that there was more than one nest to be protected. The lonelieness of the place intensified – a path with birds nesting along it cannot be commonly used.

At the top of a wide, rounded ridge we stopped to take in the view and eat. This was the highest point on our walk, and although we were maybe only a thousand feet up or so, it felt like the top of the world as we gazed across at the crests of the brooding red hills, sailing among low cotton wool cloud.

From here was a slow, gentle descent back into Glen Sligachan from its south side. We didn’t make for the cloud obliterated top of Sgùrr na Stri, and it’s a good thing we didn’t try; I was so stiff from my bruises we wouldn’t have made it back before the midges descended. It’s a walk to be savoured another day.

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