The Accidental Hiker

Ashok signalled with his hands and we stopped in our tracks. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm on our backs as we sank down to our knees. Ashok, ten yards ahead of us, motioned for us to be quiet as he retreated. "Gaur!" he whispered when he reached us. The three of us slunk into the fragile camouflage of a thorny bush. Less than a hundred yards away, a herd of Indian Bison were grazing. Their default leader had already sensed us and was sniffing the air, trying to pinpoint our position. We were nervous: if they decided to charge, we didn't stand a chance of outrunning them, we would surely be trampled to death by their collective hooves. At the same time the urge to take a picture urged me to poke my little camera through the gaps in the bush and press the trigger repeatedly, hoping that I would get one decent shot. I got my picture, but it was far from satisfactory; but I had reason to be pleased: after hiking for nearly three decades in the hills of the Sahyadri

Satyabrata Dam looked at the rear cargo section of my Honda CRV incredulously. "I must take a picture of this," he said. "All this stuff for a weekend hike!" He could barely conceal the shock that was written all over his face. Baby is all set to travel. (Photo courtesy Satyabrata Dam) Our dog Baby gave him a No Comment look as she made herself comfortable amidst the luggage. She was used to my travel habits, which were a far cry from the spartan norms which my friend Satya was more accustomed to in his extreme adventures to the far corners of the world. Satya has climbed Everest four times, skied to the North and South Poles, climbed the highest peaks on all the seven continents, commanded submarines in the Indian Navy, is a TED Fellow and was now visiting with us for a couple of weeks. He girdles the globe seeking hard climbs in remote and dangerous locations (Afghanistan is a case in point), runs an Everest guiding service and delivers motivational talks

The soft pitter patter of the rain falling on my head was like a comforting rhythm. My feet went squelching in the mud but it did not matter. We had been walking in the rain all day and by now we had adjusted to this wet wet world. We walked in silence in the rapidly approaching darkness. As we walked past the few huts that comprised the little hamlet, we heard a female voice cry out. She said something but the words were lost in the moist wind that cooled our faces as we hurried past. "What was that?" I asked Anil, who was a few paces behind me, "what is she saying?". His command of Marathi was marginally better than mine, or so I thought....thus my appeal to him for a translation. Anil shook his head. "I can't really make out what she is saying." The voice called out again, but we ignored it and kept walking until we were out of earshot. As we approached the little stream that we had waded across 8 hours earlier, an ever increasing roar fi