Bhutan Tourism » Bhutan Travel

BHUTAN TRAVEL
As the flight lands, the wings of the airplane seem to touch the mountains on either side and below, through the crystal clear waters of the Paro Chu, are visible the ochre-grey stones that line the river bed.

Paro is an enchanting town. It nestles along the river, among fields of paddy and clumps of wild flowers. Bunches of plump chillies, ripening crimson in the sun, hang from windows in homes along the market. At a nearby arena, crowds gather to watch archers demonstrating their skills. Witnessing the passion the Bhutanese have for archery and savouring a Bhutanese meal feasting on eue chum, the rather nutty flavoured pink rice, kewa phagsha, pork and potatoes and ema datshi, the fiery chilli and cheese concoction, washed down with suja, the local butter tea is our introduction to Druk Yul.

Our guide Tashi, to ensure acclimatisation, has on his agenda a hike to Taktsang Lhakhang. A beautiful drive through tall pines gets us to the base from where we catch a glimpse of the monastery, eight hundred metres above Paro. Clinging to a sheer cliff-face, it almost defies gravity. Its origin, according to legend, goes back to the 8th century AD, when the Guru Padmasambhava came to Bhutan flying on a tigress. He is believed to have landed here, high among these crags and so the name Taktsang (tiger’s nest) It is an arduous trudge.

Early next day we are at Drugyal Dzong, a mid seventeenth century fortress built by Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyal, the founder of Bhutan, to commemorate his victory over Tibetan invaders. It is strategically located overlooking the only passage to the Paro Valley. Surraounded by tall cypresses, it is imposing even though in ruins. It is from here that we begin our trek.

We walk down the road to where the valley stretches far into the mountains. It is a picturesque trail through farmlands, the homes on higher ground, striking with their dark woodwork, white window frames and slate roofs, yards lush with peas and potatoes, plump radishes peeking out of the soil and here and there, the deep magenta of amaranthus. A long, steel rope bridge takes us across the fiver from where the path, stony and slushy, undulates through forests of blue pine and patches of oak and holly. The grasses are alive with a million butterflies and above the myriad bird sounds, we can hear the mellifluous notes of the mountain warbler.

Entering the Jigme Dorji National Park, we soon reach the village of Gunitsawa. We stop a bit by the only shop here, before registering ourselves and moving on to a meadow surrounded by trees, where we set up our tents. Darkness brings in not only the chill, but also some thrills for sometime around midnight a commotion among the pack animals indicates that some wild creature is lurking nearby...

Soi Thangthangkha
It is past eight when we hit the tree, the next morning. It snakes along the Paro Chu before climbing up through thickets, crossing several small streams till we come to a rather intimidating looking, wooden cantilever bridge. It turns out to be a lot less difficult to manipulate than imagined. Once across, the vegetation is vibrant. Trees are intermingled with bushes, bright with red and yellow berries. As we by a clearing, gorging into stuffed rolls, a cloud cover darkens the skies and a cold wind swishes through the trees. In minutes, it begins to drizzle.

Thankfully, it doesn’t get worse, for with the mud, squelchy as it already is, we make it to the camp only after dark.

A leisurely start, the sun shining through and rewarding vistas make it a great day. Down by the river, the foliage lining its banks is a brilliant yellowish green. Higher up, the trees get stunted; their trunks thick and canopies wide, as we walk into open pastures where yaks graze dark specks on an emerald landscape, along chattering brooks, chortens (Tibetan for stupa a Buddhist shrine), prayer flags and village homes. We round a bend to stand in front of Chomolhari, the spectacular dome shaped mountain, overwhelming in its immense presence.

It is a day to soak in the beauty of the surroundings. Sitting under a cerulean sky, gazing at Chomolhari, the ruins of an ancient dzong (fortress) lustrous in the sunlight, juxtaposed against the shimmering snows or the mountain; mingling with the yak herders and their families and eventually, hands rolled around a cup of steaming tea, just staring into space.

BEYOND CHOMOLHARI
Covered in thick clouds, Chomolhari does not reveal itself as we take an the climb to the next high valley. Through meadows carpeted in tiny blue blossoms, moss-covered rocks and marmots scurrying on Ole moraine-ridden slopes, camouflaged in their blue-grey coats, we espy a herd of Himalayan bharal (blue sheep). Now and then, when the veil of mist drifts away, we catch a glimpse of Jichu Drakey, its lofty peaks straining into the skies.

Soon the twin lakes of Topshu come into view. Above the tree line now, the hills stand barren, sharp and sheer on either side. We climb up the side of the lakes, the path steep and narrow, traversing the mountains, eventually to descend to a wide gorge, criss-crossed by countless rivulets.

It is from here that the ascent to Bhonte La (16,039 ft.) begins. As we gain altitude, it becomes more and more strenuous to walk. It is no more than a few steps at a time and the weather does not help either. A thick fog swirls around and soon it begins to rain. It gets immensely cold as we reach the pass. Visibility is such that we know we are on top only when we get a faint glimpse of the stone shrine and hear the prayer flags fluttering. A slow amble, across and down the mountains, over shale and shingle, leads us to the campsite at Yaksa Soi, swathed in a late evening sepia haze.

Over Thombu La
Through trees covered with wispy old man’s beard— fine thread-like ferns hanging down from the branches pheasants and hedge birds darting across, the trail winds higher and higher till we reach the ridge, only to slide into a valley to access Thombu La, the pass at 14,929 ft. The sun plays hide-and-seek and the gusts of wind make halts imperative. Zigzagging herders’ trails along vast high altitude pastures roll to a crest, where we stop awhile to catch breath and take in the spectacular mountain vistas.

Then over a sodden track, our shoes caked in mud to reach the base a foraging ground for yaks. There are hundreds of them here. Generally stolid creatures, they show their displeasure at aliens occupying their territory by repeatedly grunting and once in a while nudging at our tents.

It is an hour’s stiff scramble the next day, before the trail winds along the mountains and then takes off downwards. “This is the most difficult part of the trek...” Tashi intones. Downhill and difficult? We wonder, till our knees begin to revolt. For it is down, down and down; through change of vegetation— from alpine to fir to oak, alternating between smooth and stony till hours later we reach the foot, to lunch among a clearing of pine and then move on... back onto the trail where we began.