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Several years ago, I was reading an article in Men's Journal about some guys (professionals) that went skiing in India. Men's Journal is a great magazine if you are interesting in outdoorsy activities that are unusual, but not entirely insane. Anyway, the article described this yet undiscovered, winter wonderland in the Himalayas which the snow was perfect, the people were wonderful and the ski runs were world class. I remember thinking how awesome it would be to be one of the few to experience it.
The reading of the article also corresponded to my re-discovery of skiing. After a 25-year hiatus, I readopted the sport of my childhood. We spent a wonderful weekend in Telluride that year where, at first hesitantly and then relentlessly, I reacquired some lost Alpine skills. Over the next few years, I took full advantage of working for a Lichtenstein-based company and headed to Switzerland and Austria every chance I got. With a change of jobs, came a change in location and in moving to Oregon, I acquired a mountain of my own which I used almost every weekend in the winter. I was clearly addicted to the sport.
In 2007, after moving to Minneapolis, India appeared on my travel schedule. It was late December and, remembering the article and forgetting my age, the "little voice in my head" told me this would be a once in a lifetime experience. I mean, how many times would I get the chance to go to India (I have since fired the "little voice in my head"). So I packed up my ski gear, along with my suit and tie and headed to India.
I arrived in Delhi on a gray and hazy December night. It was 2:30am and I was exhausted and nervous. I would spend one night (or a partial night) in Delhi and catch a domestic flight to Srinagar in the morning. I checked into the Imperial Hotel and went to sleep. The next morning, the hotel car dropped me off at the domestic airport and I began my adventure!
The domestic airport in Delhi back then was a smallish terminal, poorly lit, overcrowded and under-manned. In summary, it was very disorienting and a little intimidating. I checked in, passed through security and waited for my flight. After a 3-hour delay due to snow in Srinagar and threats of cancelation, we finally boarded.
The flight was quick and we arrived in Srinagar a little over an hour after takeoff. This was no ordinary airport, though. As we approached the city, we were informed to close our shades and no pictures were allowed until we were clear of the airport property. Hum? We landed and came to a stop roughly a kilometer from the terminal where we exited the plane and walked to the terminal across the runway. Being the only Business Class passenger, I got to lead the procession. I entered the baggage claim area and had to fill out forms on my projected daily movements, contact phone numbers and the address of the hotel. The latter proved to be problematic, as to my recollection, the hotel did not have an address. Anyway, I filled out what I could, gave my form to the heavily armed guard and exited the airport.
I walked outside onto a gray slab of cracked cement that overlooked a jumble of small taxis, a few larger taxi SUVs and a lot of soldiers. What I did not find was the guy with whom I had arranged to ferry me to the mountain village I had read so much about. This was disconcerting. I have traveled all over the world and have traveled to some questionable places, but this was only the second time in my life, I actually felt uneasy about my safety (the first was when I got lost in the city of Jerusalem.... at night. Do you know that Jerusalem is a walled city with only a few exits and a large, angry Muslim population?)
As I scanned for my escort, I sinking feeling began to take hold in the pit of my stomach. The daylight was beginning to wane and the snow had begun to fall again, but this is not what had me worried. As I scanned the crowd, I noticed everyone was wearing long, gray, Kashmiri ponchos called pherans, had beards and were sporting the nice skullcaps we usually associate with Muslim terrorist. I, in contrast, was sporting my best Marmot, high-tech, ski gear, huge Merril boots, a bright red ski cap and was surrounded by luggage and ski gear. I held my breath and simply waited for the dark van to pull up and the kidnappers to snatch me. I was not blending.
After a few tense moments and an internal sigh of "WTF was I thinking coming here," I gathered my resolve and marched over the taxi stand. I found the uniformed guy that was clearly in charge and told him I wanted to go to Gulmarg. He laughed a little, looked up at the snow and told me I would be better off waiting until morning. I thought this was sound advice until he recommended his cousin's house boat - "like a palace..... all the modern stuff..... flat screen TV." Apparent I had "IDIOT TOURIST" tattooed on my forehead, so I forcefully wiped it off and demanded a taxi. He obliged and guided me to a blue, Indian-built SUV and a young driver. I paid the asking fee which was not much, loaded my gear in the back and we were off to Gulmarg ..... or so I thought.
(Stay tuned for the next installment, "Kashmir - The Journey Up the Mountain")
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