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Herding in the Himalayas Barton Mathews finds thin air and a warm welcome as he joins the yak herders of Nepal
Panting heavily, I ascend through morning mist that covers the mountains like a shroud. Having climbed to an altitude of 15,158ſt, breathing has become a disconcertingly conscious task. Reaching for my water, I instead grab my camera as I glimpse a pair of Himalayan griffon vultures tracing a helical flight through the thermals. Looking back down the trail, I can just make out my
dawn departure point of Manang (11,545ſt). Like many hikers of Nepal’s Annapurna Circuit, I came to this town to acclimatise to the effects of altitude. Approaches to acclimatisation vary, but I chose to tackle the gruelling yet rewarding hike to Kicho Tal (Ice Lake). The previous night, a typically friendly local had enthused that he’d recently spoted yak being herded close to Kicho Tal. These resilient animals provide the valleys with meat and milk, and are a precious resource during the rainy season. Unfortunately, as local men flock to the cities to find work, the nomadic herders of these animals are an increasingly rare sight. Aſter two hours of zigzagging up switchbacks, I hear a
jangling, cowbell-like noise echo in the mist ahead. Spurred on, I continue my ascent and am surprised to find I’m greeted not by yaks but by a sheepdog with piercing chestnut eyes. Aſter an inquisitive sniff, he decides I pose no threat and accompanies me on the final 100 metres of the hike.
With the trail finally plateauing into pasture, a horseshoe
of mountains crowd Kicho Tal like overprotective parents. The view is outstanding, with Chulu East (21,601ſt) towering across the water. Yaks saunter past a weathered Buddhist shrine, languidly grazing and tilting their heads as they assess the newcomer. Siting on a hand-carved wooden stool is a lone herder, milking a yak into a batered tin bucket — a scene that’s been replicated for centuries. I approach and am greeted with a namaste and a surprised
smile — he clearly wasn’t expecting company. With English now redundant, I revert to the universal language of chocolate and offer him a Snickers bar. Grinning like a man whose last taste of anything sweet was three months ago, he springs to his feet and beckons me over to a stone-walled shack. I hear pots clanging, then he re-emerges with a metal beaker filled with fresh yak milk. Chuckling as he sees my eyes widen, I do my best to thank him profusely in Nepali and take a sip. The milk is wonderfully creamy and still warm from the yak, which the herder gestures towards enthusiastically. As if alerted by some secret signal, the yaks begin to move
further up the mountainside. With his dog by his side, the herder sets off to round up the stragglers. Disappearing into the mist, I can just make out half a Snickers being stuffed into a back pocket and a dog gleefully licking his lips.
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ABTA Magazine | June 2017
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