Himalayan winds whipped at my face, the icy kiss of -16 degrees celsius stinging my cheeks. Dawn was barely cracking the sky, painting the rugged peaks reddish. This wasn't an average sunrise view—we were on a mission, and our target was the most elusive creature in these mountains: the snow leopard.
Norbu, the seasoned spotter with eyes like a hawk, stood beside me, his telescope scanning the length and breadth of the dizzying heights. His breath puffed white clouds in the frosty air as he muttered greetings to his colleagues, all bundled up with hopeful anticipation.
Time stretched and shrunk in those silent moments. Between scans, Norbu would blow warm air onto his gloved hands, his weathered face etched with years of experience.
Suddenly, the sharp howl of a mountain wolf ripped through the stillness, shattering the quiet like a gunshot. Norbu's body sprang to life, his telescope whipping towards the sound.
"Ebo shan enok! (it's a snow leopard)!" he boomed, his voice laced with excitement. "It's a snow leopard, chasing away a wolf!"
His words sent a jolt through the group. In a heartbeat, every telescope followed his gaze. And there they were, not one, but two! One sprawled against a rock, its black spots barely visible against the granite canvas. The other, with a primal elegance tore into its prey, probably a blue sheep or an ibex.
Elation erupted around me. Handshakes and backslaps flew, celebrating Norbu's triumph—the season's first sighting. Rigzin Dolkar, a female spotter, whipped out steaming mugs of masala chai and local biscuits (puli), warming our hands and spirits.
"Siblings, most likely," Norbu declared, his eyes glued to the telescope. "Brother and sister, sharing their kill."
For the next few hours, we were busy. Cameras clicked, phones whirred, capturing every twitch of a tail, every flicker of movement. But the distance, a cruel two kilometres, mocked our efforts. Our photos were blurry sketches, mere whispers of the reality unfolding before us.
After a quick lunch, the real adventure began. We took a 15-minute jeep ride and then endured a bone-chilling 20-minute trek up a steep slope, made easier by our reliable Columbia waterproof trekking shoes, perfect for rain and puddles, with a breathable mesh upper and a protective toe cap. Our journey brought us within a kilometre of the leopards. News had spread to Leh, and a few eager enthusiasts joined us to catch a glimpse of the snow leopard.
But the mountain gods had other plans. The leopards, oblivious to our presence, remained stubbornly still. One crouched behind a rock, its tail a fleeting flash of grey. The other, a blur of movement, continued its meal, its hunger seemingly insatiable. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the snow in shades of rose and gold, we knew it was time to retreat.
While some departed to their accommodations disheartened, others wagered that the snow leopards would remain in the exact location the following morning. Nevertheless, my enthusiasm remained undiminished. That one glimpse, that fleeting brush with the ghosts of the Himalayas, was enough.
The Himalayas may hold its secrets close, but they unveiled a glimpse of its magic for a fleeting moment, leaving me forever fascinated by the silent ballet of the snow leopards.