Faiq and I were sitting on the steps of the under renovation/destruction
“Symphony” theatre, smug and happy at the thought that we were finally
heading out of Bangalore after weeks of being holed up at work. We had
decided to join the BMC-led trek to Amedikallu to save ourselves the
effort of planning and organizing. As we waited for the other trekkers
to come, we noticed that the crowd gathering was predominantly male and
real big tough-looking ones at that. I’m not worried I said to myself.
Faiq was beginning to have second thoughts about the trek. Why are we
torturing ourselves? Why? Why? Everyone seemed to be carrying large bags
and camping gear. Oops. Were we supposed to carry more than the
essentials??? Oh well. I guess it’s a little late for after thoughts. I
struck up a conversation with a fellow trekker. After a bit of chit chat
he asked me whether I was in the scuba diving or the snorkeling group.
Err…I thought I was off to Amedikallu, a TREK!!! It then dawned on us
that there were 2 groups of people—backpackers and the scoobie doobies.
Phew. So we hadn’t goofed up on the date of the trek after all.
Our bus finally
arrived at 11 pm and we boarded it apprehensively. My suspicions were
confirmed. I was the only girl traveling with a bunch of 20-odd guys
headed to one of the toughest peaks in Karnataka. Let me put it this
way, sanity has never been one of my strong points. After a round of
introductions, I promptly fell off to sleep. So much for the enthusiasm!
We traveled east of Bangalore, drove past Dharamsthala, and alighted
near the home of Mr. Gopu Gokhale, who also happens to be a freelance
photographer and writer, in Shishila village.
It was a
typical home of a Brahmin—clean, cool, and very welcoming. There was a
large hall room that doubled as a dining area, with smaller rooms and a
kitchen doting the periphery. At the back of the house, was a shed
housing 2 hungry cows that wanted to chew on our sleeves as we walked
past them to the restrooms. The garden was well kept and served as a
drying ground for betel nuts. We were served breakfast and piping hot
coffee and handed lunch packets consisting of idlis. The hospitality of
our host and hostess made me want to stay back and not bother with the
climb. Soon enough, we were introduced to our guide, Chenappa—a lean
villager dressed in little else but a waist cloth (dhoti) and a thin
shirt. Like the rest of us, he was carrying a backpack except that his
contained sambar to go with our lunch. We re-boarded our bus, and drove
for another 3 km. Armed with water, food packets, sleeping bags, tents,
jackets, and wind cheaters, we started our climb at approximately 10 am.
The sun
gradually came out and beat down on us. Some of us took off at good
speed, some in a 1-man race, and others set off at their own pace. We
trekked through forested patches, grasslands, bamboo groves, and rocky
areas. After about an hour or more of trekking, our guide, who seemed to
know the mountains like the back of his hand, took us to a water spot a
little off the path, and even shaved off a few walking sticks for some
of us. At the water hole, we lunched like there was no tomorrow, filled
up on water, and then took off once more. After about another hour of
climbing, we finally had a clear view of the peak. The sight of the
majestic dome-shaped Amedikallu made us realize we had quite a way to
go. It was a good 4-hour climb (6 km) that we completed in about 6
hours. The last leg of our hike was completed in a hurry. We could see
the rain clouds approaching and none of us really wanted to get caught
in the showers. We climbed, no we raced, to the top. It was like we had
squeezed out the last few drops of glucose from our energy reserves,
hiked to the top, and almost immediately set up tents.
Ah! It felt
like coming home. The rain clouds soon engulfed us and provided some
amazing photo ops. We posed and so did the clouds, and the shutter bugs
were busy for about 15 minutes. The rain soon made us dive for cover in
our newly pitched tents, while our guide went about setting up a camp
fire. I snuggled up inside my sleeping bag and all was calm once more.
Well, for the next 10 minutes atleast. Jagdish, our volunteer organizer,
came around and passed everyone some rotis and we opened our good ol’
MTR ready-to-eat food packets. My tentmates—Faiq and Omprakash—and I dug
into some channa masala, paneer makhani, and lemon pickle. Sigh. This
must be heaven!
The wind kept
blowing incessantly and the clouds seemed to prefer our peak to the
others. Our tents were aligned such that everyone was within a shout
away. The singing and chatting gradually subsided and we had just about
dozed off when we heard shouts of “wake up or you’ll miss the sunrise.”
Most of us woke up only to realize that it was just another bored
trekker wanting some company and it was just past midnight. Aagh!
I woke up the
next morning to the sound of the howling breeze. It had rained all night
and the clouds didn’t seem to want to dissipate. I later learned that
one of the tents had collapsed early on and that a couple of trekkers
found themselves huddled near the camp fire, which our diligent guide
had kept fanning. Our tent, which was supposedly the best of the lot,
had fallen on its back and had leaked. I, fortunately, had slept through
the storm and remained oblivious to most of these events. (Faiq and
Omprakash must have battled to keep us from getting blown off the hill.)
When sleep comes calling, Mahtab is dead to the world!
Most of us
remained snug or floating in water inside our tents unsure of whether
getting out of the tent even warranted a thought. The guide, however,
decided for us. He wanted us up and about because the rain would not
abate anytime that day. And so it was. We packed in a hurry and started
off at breakneck speed down the hill. No one seemed to want to take
breaks this time around. We just wanted to be dry and sip coffee in Mr.
Gokhale’s house. The downhill trek was great bonding time. We slipped
and slithered, laughed and cursed, and talked about sinking our teeth
into some nice chicken kababs all the way downhill. Finally, soaked to
the marrows of our bones we reached the spot where the bus picked us up.
As soon as we pulled up to our host’s home, we rushed in and got out of
our wet clothes only to discover that most of our “dry” clothes were
also soaking wet. Oh the agony!
Although
laughable, we decided to dry our clothes by standing as close to the
gas-lit light (the only one in the house) as possible. Some dried their
paper money and wallets, while others were busy reverse ironing their
clothes on the hot metal plate of the lamp. Food was finally served and
again all was well with the world. Soon after, some snoozed, while
others kept optimistically drying their clothes by the lamp. The journey
back by bus was bumpy but the thought that we had conquered a peak made
everyone smile and some sing.
Our trip was 3
nights and 2 days long—2 nights in a bus and 1 in upturned tents. We
came back to Bangalore exhausted and sore but with a truckload of happy
memories to pull out when we returned to work the next day.
Amedikallu, I will see you again, but from another hill.
- Mahtab Dubash