Footloose In Garhwal

Footloose in Garhwal For nine days, the Himalayas enthralled and overwhelmed us with their majesty, sagacity and ferocity - BIJOY VENUGOPAL

From left: Rajeev, Sahastra, Sunita, Jennifer, Satish and me

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o a south Indian like me, the Himalayas present the ultimate test of endurance. Away from the sunny climes to which I was habituated, suffering altitude sickness on peaks six thousand feet above the tallest in my part of the world, being relentlessly pelted by hailstones, groaning to every creak of my knees as I trudged downhill, falling asleep to the chatter of my own teeth… and, most of all, learning to love all of it. Eventually, to return to reality with birdsong playing in my head and a haunting call to return to this paradise. Here’s where it all started… April 27, 2007: Six birders and birders-in-the-making – three from Bangalore and three from Delhi – set out on a long-awaited journey that would have us spend 10 days in the Garhwal Footloose in Garhwal - April-May 2007

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Himalayas. Two of our Delhi companions – Sunita Chaudhry and Jennifer Nandi – were seasoned birders and intimately familiar with Himalayan species. The rest of us - Rajeev Jain, Satish Srivastava, Sahastrarashmi and I, in ascending order - considered ourselves birders too. To say things didn’t start too smoothly would be an understatement. Aboard the Ranikhet Express to Kathgodam from Delhi, we realized something had gone amiss with our Internet reservations. Since we had only two RAC berths (which went to the ladies by default), the rest of us honey -talked the train attendant and the TTE into letting us sleep on the floor among slippers and luggage. I was somewhat luckier – I got to sleep in the linen compartment. It had the cozy feel of a coffin but anything was better than sniffing at someone’s shoes between snores. The attendant, a wiry mephistophelian fellow with a warm heart tucked somewhere in his body, compassionately turned on the airconditioning full blast as the night wore on. Maybe he unwittingly consigned us to a state of deep-freeze hibernation much as we do cockroaches before a dissection. Day 0 (April 28):

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e freshened up at Kathgodam, the last railhead on our route. From the station, we could see the Shivaliks looming over us. We drove past forests of chir pine, poplar, Persian lilac, horse chestnut, teak and rhododendron. Even clumps of Mimosa sinensis with their frothy snot-green flowers. Hedges of pomegranate burst joyously into view with orange flowers. Occasionally, the shocking red of a coral tree lit up the dun landscape. For nearly six hours our vehicle wound along the pebbly River Kosi. We drove past Bhimtal, a touristy lake sans any birds, and Almora, a horrid example of a "charming hill town". En route we spotted Pied Bushchats, Oriental Magpie-Robins (whose song changes with where he's been "on his last vacation"), Crested Buntings, a pair of Common Kestrels and White-cheeked Bulbuls. Occasionally, when I identified a bird in haste, Jennifer would frown above her dark glares (her seeing-eyes having unfortunately snapped in two on the train) and purse her lips (ominous sign, we learned as the trip wore on). Then she would extricate a tripworn copy of Grimskipp and point out my faux pas. At a watering stop, we came across Barn Swallows nesting between shop rafters and a male Paradise Flycatcher trailing his brilliant white streamers. As we began to ascend, the White-Cheeked Bulbuls were replaced by their Elvis Presley-aping hillbilly cousins - the Himalayan Bulbuls. My day-pack had begun to come apart even before we boarded the train and the prospect of it being completely dismembered during the trek was imminent. We searched town after town, village after village for a tailor or cobbler or some such. We finally found my saviour at Gwaldham, almost 50 km from our destination. The stop gave us a good excuse to wolf down hot aloo paranthas. Satish sampled some local sweetmeats - over the next ten

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days, he asserted himself as a daredevil foodie, unafraid to try anything that didn't have a manufacturing date. An afternoon rain was falling somewhere in the hills. As our Tavera swung uphill past the curves, I could smell the heart of a raincloud. We encountered a drizzle at about 3 pm, by which time we had entered the Himalayas. At Mandoli, we crossed the jade-green Pindar, a major tributary of the Ganga. At about 4 pm, we pulled up at Loharjung, a pass at 7,000 feet. Here, we stopped to spend the night at the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam guest house, on the roof of which a Blue Whistling Thrush shuffled his wings, showing off the blue speckles. Hot dinner but no electricity. Cold running water in the bathrooms, but no courage to bathe. Day 1 (April 29):

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t 5 AM, I woke to a cuckoo clock. It was, in fact, the bird that had inspired the contraption – a Eurasian Cuckoo perched on the cypress outside the guest house. It was bright already. After a breakfast of energy bars, we set out birding at 7 am. Our heavy luggage – rations, tents, sleeping bags, stove and cooking utensils – travelled on four mules. We were first introduced to the younger ones, Kamla and Rekha, who were soon joined by Tikku and Munni, older mules who had the biscuit-fawn coat of onagers. There was a wedding in the village, and a band arrived. Interesting line-up - apart from various percussionists, the lead musician played a portable Casio keyboard holding it like an accordion. Hooked to a PA system, it made enough noise to rouse the whole village on what would otherwise have been a lazy Sunday morning. Within an hour of setting out, we had counted about 50 species, including a Blue-capped Rock Thrush, plenty of Black-throated and Green-backed tits, a juvenile Shikra and a Little Pied Flycatcher that we never saw again. Along the jeep-able road we passed clumps of Horse Chestnut, Oriental Plane (Chinar) and Chir Pine. A majestic Himalayan Griffon wheeled in the air and perched less than 30 feet away from us on a branch overlooking the valley. Plenty of Kashmir Agamas sunning themselves on the rocks showing off their bright purple-blue limbs. We met for the first time a Rufous Sibia (its song is imprinted in my mind) and spotted Eurasian and Blackheaded Jays. On our descent into the valley we saw Grey-headed Canary Flycatchers, Common Stone Chats and plenty of Streaked Laughing Thrushes. At the river, I spotted a Brown Dipper doing its thing. From here, we began a sharp ascent to the village of Didana (7,500 ft) where we would camp for the night. It was a tough climb, but excellent birding on the way – the highlights being a Fire-tailed Sunbird and a Pied Thrush (which I missed) and a Whiskered Yuhina (which I spotted). We stopped for a sattu break. Sattu is roasted chickpea flour. Mixed with powdered jaggery and water, it tastes like liquid besan laddoo. Delicious and nourishing. We have plans to patent it, so shh!

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Our guide Devidutt, still reeking of country liquor from his Rs. 300 advance (which he had pocketed under the pretext of buying fodder for mules he didn't even own), made bland tea by lighting a fire in a tree hollow. Another hollow above served as a chimney. Nifty! We pitched camp on an open meadow beside an oak forest that skirted a murmuring stream. From our vantage, all the world was a stage. We had a ringside view of an amphitheatre of towering mountains. Skylights opened in the cloudy roof of the sky and light poured down at various angles. Breathtaking. At 4 pm, we were greeted by a mild hailstorm. Only a taste of things to come. The night was cold, and we were thankful for our down-lined sleeping bags. Day 2 (April 30):

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t was wedding season all the way and nearly everyone in Didana had gone down to the valley to attend one. Likewise, every living thing in the Himalayas appeared to be possessed of febrile spring madness – one big speed-dating marathon, flush with hormones, ripe with longing and oozing with life-lust. Birds sang themselves hoarse, sometimes ad nauseam (after two days in Didana I had a knife out for that odious Brainfever bird). We birded around the village all morning, and had splendid views of Verditer Flycatchers, Blue Whistling Thrushes, Whiskered and Stripe-throated Yuhinas, Rufous Sibias, Rosefinches, Greenfinches, Ultramarine Flycatchers, Rusty-tailed Flycatchers, Bar-tailed Tree Creepers, White-tailed Nuthatches, Fire-Tailed and Green-Tailed Sunbirds, Himalayan Woodpeckers, Pied Thrushes, Mistle Thrushes and a variety of laughing thrushes including the Streaked, Striated and the Variegated, and all three species of Blackbirds – the Eurasian, the Grey -Winged and the White-Collared. Too much minutiae for nonbirders, but that list is likely to make others of our fea ther evaporate with envy! At 4 pm, we had a hellraiser of a hailstorm, as if huge chunks of the frozen sky were being torn asunder. We prayed it wouldn't rip our tent apart. Our prayers were answered, but not entirely. Water discovered a proverbial chink in our armour – a pinhead-sized hole at the base of our tent – and trickled in to greet us. It's not fun, my friends, to soak your feet wet in icy runoff when thunder and lightning on one side and hail and wind on the other are staging a test of strength outside. The storm abated, and we were astonished to discover

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how quickly the porous soil drains. By 6 pm, the only traces of the storm were a few stubborn clusters of ice. The mule guys, for whom our respect began to grow, organised dinner from someone in the village - dal and rotis with an aloo-saag sabzi. I sent up a prayer for the hot food that would help us get through the cold, cold night. We had pitched tent on a slope, and I was near the flap. Every time someone next to me or three places removed shifted in his sleep, I got pushed further and further. Cramped against the tent, my left knee froze during the night and in the morning, when I set out to do my business, I must have strained it further. It felt like a cartilage tear - painful, almost crippling. And thanks to all the feet-soaking, I caught a cold.

Day 3 (May 1):

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t's all uphill from here. We had to make it to Bedni Bugyal, an alpine meadow at 11,000 feet, by 2 pm or before the next hailstorm (whichever was earlier). Weather was lovely all morning – blue skies and a cool breeze. We noticed that crystals of ice were still buried intact under quilts of leaf litter - natural refrigeration! Hill Partridges called morosely. Walking ahead, I was lucky to catch a glimpse of a Kalij Pheasant, handsome in black, white and red. The woods were quiet but we came across mixed hunting parties of White-throated Laughingthrushes, assorted tits and flycatchers, Rusty -flanked Treecreepers and White-tailed Nuthatches. We ascended steeply through forests of red and pink rhododendron and moss-girded oak encrusted with lichens. Higher up, the topography of the forest changed – conifers like magnificent deodars, pine and spruce appeared. We stepped into a mountain glade

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where a fallen tree encrusted with moss was enacting the life cycle of the forest in miniature (a fallen tree serves as a 'nurse log' for new growth in an old growth forest). We wandered through a forest of stunted, haunted oak trees that reminded me very much of hiking in Muir Woods, California. Another discovery: Young deodar leaves secrete a fine, heady fragrance (so good that it would probably cost 4000 bucks if you tried to buy a bottle). I crushed and rubbed some on my wrist - natural deodar-ant! The weather was fine until we crossed the tree line above 10,000 feet and wandered into Ali Bugyal, a breathtaking alpine meadow of grassy, rolling hills straight out of The Lord of the Rings. Looking completely out of place, a few cows and buffaloes grazed languidly and looked curious askance at us as we walked past. But I was in no mood to make friends. My knee hurt and the weather looked ominous.

Somewhere along the way, my mind went astray. I felt a parching thirst and realised I had run out of water. My knee hurt and I felt I couldn't walk any more. I left the group briefly and wandered down to a ravine in search of water. I could swear I heard it gushing - but it was dry. Devidutt said we'd find water in the spring but I snapped at him. My sanity seemed to be deserting me - I had thoughts of death and darkness. Satish took my backpack so I could walk without straining my knee. And then, just as we had feared, an announcement from the skies. The rain gods must have parleyed and voted not to drench us to the bone, because what they sent down was a gentle shower of hail. Ice crystals scattered around us like bright prismatic pearls. For the better part of two hours, we walked on the edge of plunging ravines and dizzying drops.

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To me, the whole scenery transformed into the ecclesiastical Valley of the Shadow of Death. Panels from an Amar Chitra Katha comic on the life of Jesus, which I had read as a child, flashed in my head. I saw Satan (a bit overdone on the makeup) trying to tempt Jesus (who looked eerily like a Mallu relative with a beard). And then, as the hail intensified, the Prince song Diamonds and Pearls began to play in full clarity at the back of my head. Strange, I haven't listened to it in nearly 10 years. I don't remember much of what happened afterwards, except that I kept calling out to my wife in my head saying that I would return. Return from where, I don't know. Sahastra tells me that I was walking dangerously close to the edge of the drop, and he kept pushing me back against the hillside. I usually have a selfpreserving fear of heights and I wouldn't do that in my right senses. That's the key phrase. Maybe I wasn't in my right senses. When he saw my trying to drink water running off my rain jacket, he stopped and called for Rajeev who was walking ahead. There was a bottle with a little Electral water left. I drank that and ate an energy bar and felt my light-headedness evaporate. Suddenly, the valley looked beautiful. I heard Rosy Pipits calling and didn't mind the cold at all. I had travelled far away from the present during the past half-hour. Where? I wish I could tell. I had been high without smoking a thing. It was a longer walk to Bedni than we had estimated. The temperature must have been close to freezing and our fingertips were numb. Hungry, dehydrated, cold and exhausted (add altitude sickness to my litany of woes), we reached Bedni Bugyal. I craved a fire the way I would long for a beer on a hot day – my mind was swimming with thoughts of it. As if hypnotised, we made straight for a stone hut from which a puffy plume of smoke climbed reluctantly into the air. This hut was our sustenance for the next two days, offering us food, warmth and shelter from the storm - life’s simple, simple joys. Day 4 (May 2):

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fter a night of back-to-back Technicolor nightmares (blame it on the altitude, again), I was glad to wake up. It was bright outside at 4:30 AM. Bedni Bugyal is fascinating terrain. Above the tree line at 11,000 feet, it has little vegetation but meadows of short-cropped golden-green grass. Wild daisies and purple primula cover the slopes like a rash, and there are clumps of startling yellow marsh marigolds. There is also some juniper and holly where the meadow

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slopes towards the dwarf rhododendrons on the forest fringe. Vultures hover overhead looking for carrion – we saw the magnificent Himalayan Griffon and the Lammergeier, one of the largest flying birds with a wingspan of about 100 inches. We looked out for Choughs, but didn't see any, though there were plenty of Large-billed Crows with a gruff, throaty accent. Not much wildlife but for Pikas, tiny, hamster-like animals that scurried about the stones chomping on grass seeds and flowers. They comprise the primary food of predatory birds.

We birded a little, spotting a flash of bright blue-black, white and orange that happened to be a Himalayan Monal, several Rosy Pipits and tiny streaked passerines we suspected to be Accentors. But within an hour a dense fog enveloped the meadow, which squats like a bowl in the lap of the mountains. We couldn't see further than 6 feet. So we tottered about the hillside and made our way back to our huts, where we chomped on dry fruits, chocolate and biscuits (the ladies later complained to everyone they met about how they had to go hungry throughout the trip while we hogged our hearts out – we prefer to call it ‘opportunistic feeding’). An out-of-work camp organiser nearby arranged our lunch – rotis and dal with aloo sabzi. Simple, delicious stuff. We wandered off optimistically to do some more birding but the weather forced us back. A hailstorm, double-strength this time, drenched us even before we were halfway home. Despite wearing four layers, I shivered. Back in the hut, our guide heated water for tea and soup. We wondered where in this barren alpine meadow he found wood for the fire. Just as we were about to compliment him for his resourcefulness, we saw the hole above our heads widen a chink to let in

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some stray hailstones. Our good man was up on the roof of the hut tearing down the boards. The storm raged for three hours and when it was done, everything around us was glazed white. More sleep, and more vibrant nightmares in surround sound. At about midnight, the heavy eating of the day began to tell on me. I had to go, but remembering a conversation with the mule drivers about leopards lurking in the area made me nervous. Imagine if they found me in the next valley crouched over with my butt bared, half-eaten by a leopard – the ignominy, the shame! I held back for an hour but then I realised that it was either the ice-frosted countryside by moonlight or the sleep-warm interiors of our stone hut. Being well-bred and scrupulous, I chose the former. I woke up Satish (Sahastra's instructions: always wake up another person if you are going out at night) and he too thought it would be a good idea to take a pee. Stepping outside was like walking into the chiller tray of a refrigerator (not the frost-free type). The moon was full and the ice-dusted hillside glowed - almost incandescent. I hauled my turgid bowels up the hill and, with a mixture of deep regret and even greater relief, ruined the scenery.

Day 5 (May 3):

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lorious morning – two male White-capped Water-Redstarts were duelling for territory along the stream. Wonderful light and fantastic, if sneaking, views of snowcapped peaks in the outer range of the Nanda Devi complex – Trishul, Nanda Ghunti, Shivling and Chaukhamba. All these majestic mountains stand more than 25,000 feet tall. Too cold to bathe but we washed at the Bedni Ganga, which originates as a trickle

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here among the rocks. Downhill, it becomes a rushing torrent and eventually feeds the mighty Ganga. We left Bedni Bugyal, captivated by its beauty and intimidated by its aloofness. Descent was hard on the knees. The weather gods were up early. A light rain sprinkled down as we wove through the beautiful oak and rhododendron forest. There were also stands of blue pine and spruce. Fallen leaves littered the forest floor, creating a thick, slippery carpet. We enjoyed some fine birding downhill, notably a party of Collared Grosbeaks – large gaudy finches in stunning orange and black. Hill Partridges and Great Barbets called mournfully. It was a pageant of warblers, who had us falling over each other trying to identify them. We saw Western Crowned, Ashy-throated, Lemon-rumped, Yellow Spectacled, Grey Hooded, Plain Leaf and others. Also, Green-backed, Spot-winged and Black-throated Tits, a Rufous-bellied Woodpecker and a single Orange-flanked Bush Robin. We came across a tree full of flycatchers - Asian Brown, Rufous-Gorgeted and Ultramarine (in various stages of maturity). As we descended, we saw Dusky Crag Martins twittering as they circled the valley. The Bedni Ganga roared from about a thousand feet below. By the time we reached the river, the sun was out and the flies welcomed the stench of our damp socks. We reeked heavily of woodsmoke from our smokestack at Bedni and it was a relief to peel off some layers of clothing. The thermals came off for good. From the valley, we climbed a bit and took the nearly flat hillside track to Wan, where we would stay the night. Some birding along the way, including Grey Bushchats, Verditer Flycatchers, Brownish-flanked Bush-Warblers and a pair of Chestnut-Crowned Laughing Thrushes, which I could not immediately identify. The guest house, a neat maroon and green wooden structure with a sloping roof, is located on a hilltop fringed by the tallest deodar trees in all of Uttaranchal. Behind the guest house is the shrine of Latu, which had just the previous day celebrated its annual mela amid religious rituals performed by a blindfolded priest. Three of us made our way down to the valley in the hope of making a phone call. Mission successful, but it was dark by the time we finished. Predictable denouement: we lost our way. After w e had clambered up the wrong hill for a kilometre or so, we knew something was twisted. In the moonless darkness, someone shouted out to us that we were taking the 'jungle ka rasta'. My knees hollering out in pain, I hobbled back with the others to the guest house only in time to salvage some cold dinner from our warm and well-fed

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fellow-trekkers who had also borrowed a shot of whiskey from a trio of Canadian tourists lodged in the next room. But there was comfort, and it wasn't cold. Hot water – two whole buckets – was an unexpected luxury -on-demand. And here, at 7,800 feet, I had my first bath in 7 days. Day 6 (May 4):

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ll night, a Yellow-Throated Marten had bounded heavily on the roof of the guest house. But for our snoring, we slept like the dead, savouring our first slumber outside of a sleeping bag in 6 days. In the morning we set out for Kunol, a village eight kilometres away and our next halt. The trail wound sharply behind the guest house into the hills. A bit of a climb, and then mostly level walking along the valley. We entered an oak forest full of drumming woodpeckers and flitting nuthatches and tree-creepers. Lots of thrushes, too. Past a waterfall, the trail began to ascend and we had magnificent views of the valley we had left behind. We climbed steadily towards Kukin Khal, a grassy pass that we had to cross to reach Kunol. A light rain began to fall and the enchanting morning melted into dank greyness. Soon, the rain gained strength. Hailstones, some the size of plums, plopped around us, and we took shelter beneath trees. When it cleared a bit, we had the luck we deserved. A party of seven Spotted Nutcrackers, uncommonly dainty relatives of the crow but for their squawky, addled voices, appeared as if from nowhere. We had unbelievably close views but the cameras stayed in because of the rain. We also watched a Long-tailed Minivet strut to woo an unseen female. The rain had turned every forest trail into a runnel. It was a concert of water all around us - brooks chuckling, streams laughing, rivulets attempting a roar. It was still drizzling when we left the forest and walked through a meadow bisected by a dry stream bed towards Kunol. We heard cowbells and through their jangle, a clear and sweet female voice broke into a Pahadi song. Part-yodel, part-aria but full-throated and spirited (tragically, this year's Grammies went to a bunch of sourpusses). It was haunting, and predictably, Satish fell in love with her – Bharti was her name, he found out. When we reached Kunol, the forest guest house was closed and the caretaker was away in another village. As we waited for the rain to stop, a couple of boys from the village, satisfied with the biscuits we offered them, told us there was a 'private lodge' where we would get 'angrezi khana'. I salivated at the prospect of devouring cheese omelettes and toast. With fresh orange juice perhaps? Maybe even pancakes and maple syrup... And coffee… mmmmm. We fantasized shamelessly until one of the boys, questioned further, mumbled 'parantha'. Dreams dashed, but fair enough. We trooped off to the lodge where we discovered, to our pleasant surprise, warm quilts and wooden cots where we could

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spread our sleeping bags. And joy of joys, a fire. The rain cleared and we went away to the village to try our luck with the wireless phones. The people at Kunol were warm and friendly though they stopped to stare at us like we were visiting from Neptune. Sleep came thick and fast that night. And the next morning, we slept until eight. Day 7 (May 5):

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he night's rain continued into the morning. Just when we were ready to abandon all hope for birding, the clouds parted and the sun peeked out. It's amazing how quickly everything dries here – damp socks, soggy gloves, musty raincoats, squishy soil, everything. One of the village women was drying her clothes on the back of a grazing buffalo – a home-grown adaptation of a clotheshorse, perhaps. We set out for an afternoon of joyous birding. The stream near the forest guest house was the fief of a Plumbeous Water-Redstart and his dearly beloved. A Spotted Forktail, normally shy and retiring, displayed his stunning Goyaesque chessboard back and delicately intertwined tail feathers. He even performed some territorial daredevilry by chasing away a rival male amid much piping and twittering. A Brown Dipper showed off by swimming effortlessly up the torrent. In the forest, a Rufous-gorgeted Flycatcher flaunted his rust-coloured bib. Treecreepers and Yellow-billed Blue Magpies foraged without a care for us. Blue Whistling Thrushes squabbled in the trees. A Himalayan Griffon perched high and still on a deodar for hours on end, lording over its empire. And almost a thousand feet overhead a Lammergeier lurked, twitching its telltale tail. When the rain finally arrived, we were safely indoors, sipping our tea and bickering over missing rations of aam papad. Day 8 (May 6):

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he last day of our trek and lots of ground to cover before the skies open up. The morning was bright and sunny with gorgeous views of the valley. Near the village school, we had lovely views of Common Rosefinches and a pair of Fire-fronted Serins – ochre finches with burnished wings and bright vermilion tikas. Further on, we saw Eurasian Jays and Spotted Nutcrackers. We made good time because we were rested and fresh. It helped that the trail was mostly downhill.

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Our destination was Sitel, a two-horse town where we would leave behind our faithful companions of the last nine days – four mules and the mule-drivers Raghubir and Jagbir – and find road transport of some kind to Nandaprayag, the confluence of two of the finest tributaries of the Ganga – the Nandakini and the Alakananda. Along the way we had stunning views of Trishul's enormous snow cones. The path wore down to a minor confluence of the beautiful Nandakini with a little stream, the same one that had gushed past Kunol. Its aquamarine gush frothing upon the stones, the river raced ahead in an adolescent torrent. A Crested Kingfisher circled us, piping anxiously. Redstarts made merry on the stones, the male flying up to a perch and then gliding down in a ‘Look baby, no hands’ display towards a female that was always looking the other way. We gulped down our last drink of fresh mountain spring water and crossed the footbridge. An Ashy Drongo in a nest, more cackling Nutcrackers - some prying open pine cones - and a small party of Black Bulbuls in the gorge. Once we were over the hill, we had a familiar visitation: rain. Small hailstones were included with the package, but I was so glum about leaving this wondrous place that I didn’t care if it rained brimstone. We crossed the river and reached a paved road and then on, it was pure urbania. Depressing, but inevitable. We parted with our mule drivers – bold, tough men with indefatigable spirits and hearts of gold – and boarded a shared jeep for Nandaprayag. The ladies got seats next to the driver but the four of us were consigned to the back, perched precariously among sacks of vegetables and grain along with our copious baggage. As the jeep lurched towards Nandaprayag in intermittent rain, we took in our last views of the snow-capped peaks.

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For nine days, the Himalayas had enthralled us and overwhelmed us with their majesty, sagacity and ferocity. But as we drove away, the pristine beauty of the mountains faded behind us into telltale scars of urban disrepair – barrages across the river, earthmovers, rusty construction material, soil erosion on the mountainside, piles of garbage and a profusion of dogs, crows and mynas – those ubiquitous companions of Homo sapiens that thrive on his wasteful and extravagant misdeeds. At once nauseating, shocking and numbing - like reading a cocktail of Eliot's Waste Land and Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Downriver, on our drive towards Rishikesh and later Haridwar, we passed confluence after confluence of tributaries of the sullied Ganga. All revered and holy places, but I just couldn’t bear to look without choking on a growing lump in my throat. Enough chatter, here is the photo album.

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BIRD LIST 1. Accentor (no clear id) 2. Alpine Swift (Apus melba) 3. Ashy Drongo (Dicrurus leucophaeus) 4. Ashy -throated Warbler (Phylloscopus maculipennis) 5 . Asian Brown Flycatcher (Muscicapa dauurica) 6. Asian Paradise Flycatcher (Terpsiphone paradisi) 7 . Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 8. Bar-tailed Tree Creeper (Certhia himalayana) 9. Bearded Vulture/ Lammergeier (Gypaetus barbatus) 10. Black Bulbul (Hypsipetes leucocephalus) 11. Black-headed Jay (Garrulus lanceolatus) 12. Black-throated Tit (Aegithalos concinnus) 13. Black-winged Cuckoo-shrike (Coracina melaschistos) 14. Blue-capped Rock Thrush (Monticola cinclorhynchus) 15. Brahminy Starling (Sturnus pagodarum) 16. Brooks’s Leaf Warbler (Phylloscopus subviridis) 17. Brown Dipper (Cinclus pallasii) 18. Brown-backed Needletail (Hirundapus giganteus) 19. Brownish-flanked Bush Warbler (Cettia fortipes) 20. Chestnut-bellied Rock Thrush (Monticola rufiventris) 21. Chestnut-crowned Laughingthrush (Garrulax erythrocephalus) 22. Chestnut-tailed Minla (Minla strigula) 23. Collared Grosbeak (Mycerobas affinis) 24. Common Hawk-Cuckoo (Cuculus varius) 25. Common Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) 26. Common Rosefinch (Carpodacus erythrinus) 27. Common Stone Chat (Saxicola torquata) 28. Crested Kingfisher (Megaceryle lugubris) 29. Crested Serpent Eagle (Spilornis cheela) 30. Dusky Crag Martin (Hirundo concolor) 31. Egyptian Vulture (Neophron percnopterus) 32. Eurasian Blackbird (Turdus merula) 33. Eurasian Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus) 34. Eurasian Griffon (Gyps himalayensis) 35. Eurasian Jay (Garrulus glandarius) 36. Fire-fronted Serin (Serinus pusillus) 37. Fire-tailed Sunbird (Aethopyga ignicauda) 38. Fulvous-Breasted Woodpecker (Dendrocopos macei) 39. Golden Spectacled Warbler (Seicercus burkii) 40. Great Barbet (Megalaima virens) 41. Green-backed Tit (Parus monticolus) 42. Greenish Warbler (Phylloscopus trochiloides) 43. Green-tailed Sunbird (Aethopyga nipalensis) 44. Grey Bush Chat (Saxicola ferrea) 45. Grey Wagtail (Motacilla cinerea) 46. Grey -headed Canary Flycatcher (Culicicapa ceylonensis) 47. Grey -headed Woodpecker (Picus canus) 48. Grey -Hooded Warbler (Seicercus xanthoschistos) 49. Grey -winged Blackbird (Turdus boulboul) 50. Himalayan Bulbul (Pycnonotus leucogenys) 51. Himalayan Monal (Lophophorus impejanus) 52. Himalayan Woodpecker (Dendrocopos himalayensis) 53. Indian Cuckoo (Cuculus micropterus) 54. Kalij Pheasant (Lophura leucomelanos)

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55. Large-billed Crow (Corvus macrorhynchos) 56. Large-billed Leaf Warbler (Phylloscopus magnirostris) 57. Lemon-rumped Warbler (Phylloscopus chloronotus) 58. Little Pied Flycatcher (Ficedula westermanni) 59. Long-tailed Minivet (Pericrocotus ethologus) 60. Mistle Thrush (Turdus viscivorus) 61. Orange-flanked Bush Robin (Tarsiger cyanurus) 62. Oriental Magpie Robin (Copsychus saularis) 63. Oriental Turtle Dove (Streptopelia orientalis) 64. Pied Thrush (Zoothera wardii) 65. Plain Leaf-Warbler (Phylloscopus neglectus) 66. Plain-backed Thrush (Zoothera mollissima) 67. Plumbeous Water Redstart (Rhyacornis fuliginosus) 68. Red-billed Blue Magpie (Urocissa erythrorhyncha) 69. Red-rumped Swallow (Hirundo daurica) 70. Red-vented Bulbul (Pycnonotus cafer bengalensis) 71. Rock Bunting (Emberiza cia) 72. Rosy Pipit (Anthus roseatus) 73. Rufous Sibia (Heterophasia capistrata) 74. Rufous Treepie (Dendrocitta vagabunda) 75. Rufous-bellied Woodpecker (Dendrocopos hyperythrus) 76. Rufous-gorgeted Flycatcher (Ficedula strophiata) 77. Russet Sparrow (Passer rutilans) 78. Rusty -flanked Tree-Creeper (Certhia nipalensis) 79. Rusty -tailed Flycatcher (Muscicapa ruficauda) 80. Shikra (Accipiter badius) 81. Short-toed Snake Eagle (Circaetus gallicus) 82. Slaty -backed Flycatcher (Ficedula hodgsonii) 83. Slaty -headed Parakeet (Psittacula himalayana) 84. Spotted Dove (Streptopelia chinensis) 85. Spotted Forktail (Enicurus maculatus) 86. Spotted Laughingthrush (Garrulax ocellatus) 87. Spotted Nutcracker (Nucifraga caryocatactes) 88. Spot-winged Tit (Parus melanolophus) 89. Streaked Laughingthrush (Garrulax lineatus) 90. Striated Laughingthrush (Garrulax striatus) 91. Stripe-throated Yuhina (Yuhina gularis) 92. Ultramarine Flycatcher (Ficedula superciliaris) 93. Variegated Laughingthrush (Garrulax variegatus) 94. Verditer Flycatcher (Eumyias thalassina) 95. Western Crowned-Warbler (Phylloscopus occipitalis) 96. Whiskered Yuhina (Yuhina flavicollis) 97. White-capped Water-Redstart (Chaimarrornis leucocephalus) 98. White-collared Blackbird (Turdus albocionctus) 99. White-eared Bulbul (Pycnonotus leucotis) 100. White-tailed Nuthatch (Sitta himalayensis) 101.White-throated Kingfisher (Halcyon smyrnensis) 102. White-throated Laughingthrush (Garrulax albogularis) 103. Yellow Wagtail (Motacilla flava) 104. Yellow-billed Blue Magpie (Urocissa flavirostris) 105. Yellow-breasted Greenfinch (Carduelis spinoides) 106. Yellow-browed Tit (Sylviparus modestus)

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Text and photographs © 2007 -2014 - Bijoy Venugopal, All rights reserved. This document is meant for circulation within a group. If you wish to reproduce it or parts of it in any form or manner, you are requested to seek my permission in writing. Thanks for your understanding. For enquiries, contact: Bijoy Venugopal ([email protected])

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