Ski Day

After breakfast, I wondered over the Kashmir-Alpine Ski Shop.  To say it is a ski shop is, well, a bit of an overestimation.  It is a 15x10 shop in a building with three other shops, 2 Tea Stalls and a Carpet Shop.  The aforementioned building was also the entire downtown.  I had been in touch with these guys in planning my excursion and, they being the only facsimile of a commercial ski outfit within 5,000 miles, I thought I would say hello.  After all, I came to ski India. 

Downtown Gulmarg
Note the ski shop on the far right

I arrived in the morning and met the owner.   In his late 50s, he was a thin and engaging fellow.  He warmly greeted me with a large toothy smile and after a few minutes, we were talking over tea like we were old friends.  His easy and disarming manner, though, hid a very sharp business sense.  As I got to know him over the next few days, he continued to impress me with his small, but focused operation. He had identified the potential in Gulmarg many years ago and had established himself as the go-to guy for all things skiing in the region.  He has a partner in Whistler, Canada that fields all the emails and maintained the website, while he relaxes in his little shop and entertains the folks once they arrived in his personal paradise.  He had a natural talent at being a gracious host and understood the western skier far better than most big Colorado resorts. 

My intention was simply to enjoy the day poking around the area and taking it easy, but the temptation of the mountain was too strong and soon I was convinced to take a try at the towering mountain.  The owner hooked me up with a pair of pontoon skis, built for powder, and his son as a guide and off we went to the highest gondola in the world.  Gulmarg get a ton of snow each year, so much, in fact, that they sometimes have to burrow out of their homes.  At the moment, though, we had about 3 feet, so there was some consternation about whether the gondola would run or not.  In the end, they let us go.  I wish they hadn’t.

Waiting for the Gondola to open.
We were the only two on the mountain

We got to the top and shuffled out on to the steep incline.  This was my first attempt at using pontoon skis and this was not the terrain to learn a new skill.  We were already way over my pay-grade even if I had familiar equipment.  We skied down some shoots and into the forest backcountry.  The guide cut his way through the brush, channeled through boulders the size of Buicks and dropped through narrow shoots to the terrain below.  I followed tentatively.   At one point, we actually had to forge a stream.  This was really backcountry skiing. 

Let us recap for a moment.  I am now at roughly 14,000 feet, strapped to the biggest, heaviest skis I have ever used, pushing through terrain that I would never attempt in North America … grinning like a child! It was an absolute blast. One of those moments that you know you are experiencing something few others will ever.  It was also unbelievably, physically exhausting.  Lets face it, I was 40 and not in the best shape. 

Skiing through a village with my ski sherpa

We skied for the good part of the day and retired back to the Ski Shop for some Tea and conversation.  I removed my boots and sat around with the crew for a few hours – mostly because I did not have the strength to move.  I was absolutely knackered.  After a spell, hunger finally got the better of me and I stiffly walked the 100 yards back to the hotel to have a late lunch. 

In Kashmir, the locals are really proud of their lamb.  You hear all sorts of stories about Kashmiri holidays during which they serve 5 different types of lamb all prepared differently and all incredible.  So for lunch, I went with the lamb.  What you do not hear in all the stories is that they prepare their lamb in a vat of oil of which the western stomach may not be accustomed.  By 7:00pm, the combination of the lamb, the altitude and sheer exhaustion joined forces to create to worst stomach-head ache in the history of mankind.  I thought I was actually going to die except that the frequent trips to the bathroom reminded me I was unfortunately still alive. 

The bathroom was decorated in a mid-century combination of faded white tiles and yellow-green amenities.   In my condition, I was not concerned about the décor, though. What I was concerned about was the complete lack of heat in the bathroom.  There was an open electric heater next to the shower that no longer worked (probably because it electrocuted someone) and the heat from the stove did not quite reach.  This was very bad, as porcelain is not comfortable when it has been sitting in 35-degree temperatures – not comfortable at all.

I was now a prisoner in my room, as I could not venture more than 5 minute from my bathroom.  There were moments where I thought I was getting over it, but whatever “it” was had a sick sense of humor and without warning would send me running for the icy-cold toilet to blow mud with such violence, I feared for the plumbing.  It was agony. 

As I suffered inside, the Hotel staff gathered for their daily meeting outside

The nights were worse.  The cold would creep into my room like Michael Jackson in a kindergarten (too soon?).  You would be fine one minute and the next you would be chucking logs on the fire like your life depending on it.  It was a vicious cycle.  I was lucky to have brought a good book, as it kept my mind off the battle with the constant cold in the room and the freezing toilet seat.  By morning, it was all I could do to hold on to my sanity. 

The next day was spent watching bad Indian soap operas, courtesy of the VCR in the reception area, and well, running to the bathroom.  Word got around town pretty fast that I was not feeling well and many people came by to visit.  The one thing that I really did take away from Kashmir is that the people were genuine and caring.  I had not known the ski shop owner for more than a day, but he came by several times to see if I needed anything and to simply chat. 

I was also visited several times by the man who fills the woodbin, the woodsman as I call him.  The woodsman was old, very old, but several times a day, he would swing by to deliver the precisely chopped wood for my stove from a wicker basket he toted on his back.  He had leathery, dark brown skin and barely had 10 teeth left in his mouth.  He would always come in with a huge toothless smile, drop off the logs and ask if I wanted my legs massaged.   I declined, but it was the thought that counted.

I made it though another night, but the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll.  In the morning, the owner came by to see if I was well enough to take a hike in the forest.  I felt much better, but I could only image “it” returning when I was deep in the woods.  I politely declined.  I also realized that I needed to leave, as I was never going to recover fully at this altitude, so I made the decision that I would leave the next morning and head to Srinagar.  I spoke to the Ski Shop owner about getting down the mountain and he volunteered not only to drive me, but also give me a tour of the city. I happily accepted and resigned myself to fight through one last night in the Himalayan cold.