Into thin air - hiking the Markha Valley

“There is a griffin vulture.”

Stanzin hands us the big binoculars and we stand for a long time in the middle of the arid valley path, beside the tumbling stoney river, watching the wide wingspan cut the bright blue sky and the zigzag mountain range tops. 

Chotak the porter points to another part of the sky - he has picked up on our excitement and being a local wants to show off his valley - he has spotted a lammergeier circling even higher.

It’s the third day of the Markha Valley hike and we are having the best time. 

We have already crossed one pass at 4000+ metres. We have met “the only yak in the village” in Rhombuk village. And almost fallen over fat-as-yak-buttter Himalayan marmots busy stuffing their faces (and their fat bums) in readiness for the winter hibernation. We have seen more blue sheep than you can poke a stick at.

We started the hike with two young men we didn't know guiding and carrying our gear. We had no idea what the hike or the country would be like. We didn't know if my lungs would see me through. 

Stanzin and Chotak were endlessly patient with our slow pace and teasing them about being so young. Our slowness meant that we spotted marmots, blue sheep, lizards, snow leopard pad prints, so many birds from redstarts to rose finches. 

We sat in the temporary parachute cafes and argued about which specific type of pika we had spotted - there at least 6 different types of this cute round eared rabbit/ guinea pig.

Every other walking group passed us on the path. 

But those groups didn't stop to talk to the old lady in Chotak’s village of Skiu who was spinning her own sheep wool on a spindle carved from a special light but hard wood brought from the other side of the Stok Range.

They didn't clamber inside the stupa near the river where Chotak’s family has lived for 1000 years to find the old Kashmiri style holy murals inside.

We stopped at mani walls while the boys explained about the different old scripts carved on the stones and translated the dedications from the local abbot who had caused the wall to be built. 

And we appreciated the constant changing colours and geological formations of the rocks and river beds and hills and passes.

Yes, passes. On the final day we crossed Khandala at 5400 metres despite my puffing lungs and snow in the night at the tent camp and poor Simon’s badly timed gastric upset. The view was worth it for the few minutes we had before the snow whirled in and we scurried down the other side to the greenstone slab valley that led to home.

Breathing thin air and making the most of it.