by Munib Khanyari
It is a surreal experience when you are nearly 6000m high, on top of a mountain pass, looking down at the blanket of white that envelopes the valleys around you. It’s peak winter and all but your will seems frozen. Then your eyes pass over the frozen river that you just traversed, taking one cautious step after another. The thick ice over the water gives it a rather ethereal blue tinge. The piercing frigid wind numbs your fingers and the mind feels a little subdued. As you sit down to catch your breath, the faint rays of the sun kiss your cheeks. In that moment you think, yet comprehension seizes… all that matters is that moment.
This was the exact feeling I encountered several times this past February, as I was conducting Double-observer surveys in the Rong valley and Gya-Miru region of a rather frigid Ladakh. Nature Conservation Foundation’s(NCF) High Altitude Program(HAP) has been conducting these surveys, with a purpose of enumerating wild ungulate populations in these regions for the past four years. Such surveys have a long-term vision of assessing populations of wild ungulates so one can understand their trends and its drivers. Ladakh is a unique place being both an extension of the Tibetan Plateau and a junction of several Himalayan ranges, such as the Zanskar and Karakoram. This unique geographic confluence provides Ladakh’s arid landscape with a surprisingly high animal diversity. Personally, I believe no other group of mammals are as diverse and fascinating here as this region’s ungulates.
Nonetheless, there is a rather peculiar sense of adventure and resilience Ladakh and its people instil in you. Across the many valleys we ventured, Tsaba was extremely intriguing. Not more than 150 sq. km. this network of mountains was shrouded in snow, yet was called home by the rare Tibetan Argali, Bharal and one lone group of Ladakh Urial. Having three different large-bodied ungulates in a relatively small area was extremely interesting, especially considering that they share this space with around 12 different herders and there near 1500 domestic sheep and goat. As I found myself navigating a snow-laden scree slope, trying to get a better look at a majestic male Argali with his near 6 feet long horns and a body that is known to weigh up to 300 kg, I couldn’t help but think about the plight of this beautiful creature. Supposedly fewer than 400 individuals remain across Ladakh, and some insightful previous research has shown that even though they can co-exist with livestock, such pressures result in them shifting to steeper slopes and cliffs with lower vegetation cover. They abandon previously used plant-communities with a denser cover on relatively more rolling slopes, which their prefered habitat.
Understanding populations of species is important because if we lack this basic information, we can’t truly know which species is in danger of dying out. It also helps us determine if the ecosystem is healthy and give us insights into other aspects such as if a disease event has occurred. Such large-scale long-term population surveys are a proactive way of understanding the natural world and its species.
Staring into the eyes of a male Bharal, whilst he seemingly tries to balance his rather over-grown looking horns, breeds a thrilling sensation into the heart. Bharal are the Snow Leopard’s primary source of wild prey and a healthy Bharal population is a good foundation for a healthy Snow Leopard population. Alternatively, being able to find just a sole herd of the endemic Ladakh Urial, even after traversing a few hundred kilometres of potential habitat, I couldn’t help but stare at its constituent yearlings. Individuals that hold the potential to continue this remaining population. This species seems to have been outcompeted from its primary habitat of rolling river valleys, both by livestock and wild ungulates in this area due to resource-use overlap. The Shyam area of western Ladakh, however, is said to harbour healthy populations of them.
Finally, as my team and I sat for a farewell dinner at the end of February, next to a burning Bukhari (A Ladakhi wood-fired heater) in Leh, we reminisced about a month full of exploration. At their time of doing, trying to start a fire with a small clump of dry Caragana stems whilst the wind blazed through and produced a piercing pain in our bodies, or navigating a steep ice-packed river valley, with the ground literally cracking beneath our feet, seemed like a curse from some episode of bad karma in the past. Not to mention several endless hours of staring at rocks through our binocular, hoping they would be wildlife.
The Ladakhi slopes might be bleak and hostile, especially in the depth of winter. Whilst climbing them, surely one’s heart thumps and thuds for life. I believe that only when the heart beats so vehemently, does one come out of their comfort zone. And it is here that an unshakable determination and hope is bred…so climb on!