This article was originally published in the March 2021 Issue of evo India magazine. Image credits: WBB and Vivek Sharma.
At evo India magazine, we regularly drive thousands of kilometers reviewing cars and road-tripping. With so many kilometers under my belt already, a 1000 km long journey in North Kashmir over 11 days would be a cakewalk, I thought. But there was nothing ordinary about these 11 days. I ventured far beyond civilian areas, every corner looked like god painted a sweeping stroke of white, and the terrain was an antithesis to what my sore city eyes were used to.
Founders of Wander Beyond Boundaries, Nidhi Salgame, and Satty Malik, who invited evo India on this road trip, master extreme overlanding. How extreme, you ask? Extreme enough for your eyes to catch a glimpse of armed enemy bunkers beyond the Line of Control (LoC) — a military fence dividing parts of Indian and Pakistan-administered regions of the conflicted state of Jammu and Kashmir. Extreme enough for your smartphone to go networkless for weeks. And extreme enough for you to visit villages that remain blocked from mainstream civilization for six months annually as the rate of snowfall far outpaces the local authorities' ability to clear it. WBB takes you to these extreme places, safely and legally.
Even though Across Shamshabari (pronounced sham-shabadi, and named after a mountain ridge) is an expedition well within India’s boundaries, these areas around the Shamshabari ridge in the northwesternmost corners of Kashmir are so close to the borders with our not-so-friendly neighbors that they remain unexplored. And to be able to explore such extreme areas, you need like-minded clientele, and that’s what WBB attracts — most participants were off-roading junkies. Ashish had rally experience and loved bragging about his Fortuner. Ashlyn owned a decked-up Lexus GX 460 in Dubai, tailored for dune bashing. Santhosh had driven in Iceland, Siberia, and Kyrgyzstan, in sub-zero temperatures. Manish loved the idea of a locally-produced Jeep Wrangler and is on his way to book one as you’re reading this feature. Yours truly, an automotive journalist with close to three years under his belt was relatively inexperienced in this company.
Our steeds were humble veterans of the 4x4 universe, two previous-gen Mahindra Thars, two Scorpios, and two Maruti Suzuki Gypsies — all analog heroes with proven reliability in extreme conditions. But this wasn’t a lesson in driving, none of us needed that. This was an adventure-packed outdoor classroom of life lessons, and here’s why.
The drive to Kupwara felt disconcerting as several army convoys passed us. Large armored trucks seemed battle-ready and the watchful eyes of the soldiers induced a heightened sense of vigil. But WBB’s convoy discipline was reassuring and as I familiarised myself with the surroundings, I realized that my senses were triggering false alarms. Troop movement is regular in forward areas and if there was anything to be scared of, it was the unpredictable nature and unforgiving terrain. There were sheer drops with no guardrails to prevent us from plunging down the valley — and that's partly due to the local government's failure to invest in safety and better road infrastructure. One bad judgement call on our part and things could turn ugly. Staying calm was key.
The next morning when Indian Army soldiers mounted the national flag on our cars, it made me dewy-eyed — we were in forward areas of north Kashmir, the Pakistan border was within striking distance and the tricolor fluttering to the tune of wind induced an immense sense of pride. I couldn’t help but hum the songs from the 2004 nationalistic Bollywood war flick "Lakshya."
You see, Kashmir is flanked by the Himalayan mountain range, the tallest in the world, which makes it jaw-droppingly beautiful. The state has been the subject of multiple wars and unending geopolitical tensions — both India and Pakistan claim it as their own, and even China has grabbed swathes of land known as Aksai Chin. That said, this trip, led by WBB, was all about exploring the local cultural idiosyncrasies, learning how to drive in tricky conditions, and of course, soaking in the landscapes the state (now union territory) is blessed with. So the rare opportunity to venture deep into this region, with backing from the Indian Army, was an opportunity I couldn't refuse.
As we neared Teetwal Bridge, the first of the three LoCs, local bikers escorted us to the nearby Karnah tehsil — tehsil denotes an administrative sub-division. The bikers, all youngsters wearing blue jeans and colorful t-shirts, waving Indian flags, riding Bajaj Pulsars and Royal Enfield Classic 350s, escorted us to a local festival. Feeling like VVIPs, we enjoyed the Pahari (mountain) dance and music from the first-row seats.
The youngsters beamed with energy, their enthusiasm stemming from the fact that these areas have zero tourism infrastructure, or any employment-oriented infrastructure for that matter — our visit was a glimmer of hope for them, and they wanted to impress the organizers to bring more tourists in. We lodged with the soldiers that night and the officers revealed the army’s plans to build ski stations and sports clubs to engage the youth and prevent ongoing cross-border drug trafficking. These facilities are abundant in the lesser Himalayas and creating them here would give these people an outlet they need.
A coordinated rhythm of boots marching down the road woke me up the following morning, the soldiers were up and about before the break of dawn to exercise. WBB also had its morning rituals, all to be conducted by the participants — checking oil levels, and tire pressures, filling up hot water flasks, and ensuring everyone was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before we set out.
Self-reliance was a highlight of this expedition. This was the day when the tone for the remainder of the drive was set, and by that I mean, snow, snow and then, some more snow. At over 10,000 feet above sea level, we halted atop the Nastachun Pass. Nastachun meant "cut nose," a soldier requesting anonymity told me, referring to the acute numbness the tip of the nose feels when you’re standing at the top of this pass.
The quality and beauty of the landscape kept amplifying every passing day. Enter Machhal. Nestled in the valley with mountains glowing ice blue and white, Machhal was a hidden gem. If stalwarts in the Hindi film industry were introduced to this Himalayan village a few decades ago, not only would they have saved millions by not traveling to Switzerland and contributing to the European economy, but also would have boosted tourism here in Kashmir.
Rustic and charming wooden houses scattered across the valley and the locals wore an infectious smile as we interacted with them. They hadn't seen travelers in months due to COVID-19 restrictions, and that was reflected in their heartfelt hospitality. The sarpanch (village head) served pepper-flavored kahwa (Kashmiri tea) and dry fruit biscuits over a jolly conversation about the challenges of living in such a hostile region, making us value our safe and resourceful city life even more.
Midway through the expedition, the routine was set. We began our days on a light-hearted note after which the tough routes tested our wheelsmanship. By now, the convoy coordination was so good that the entire team’s bladder-relieving schedules were synchronized. Our senses were treated with enchanting views during the day, but putting the rock-hard snow chains onto the tires in freezing temperatures meant we had to work for every rewarding eagle's eye view of the valley. On all nights, I slept like a log.
Just when I felt that it couldn’t get any more challenging, we drove to Sona Pindi Gali, another treacherous pass. Think of Mahindra Adventure’s off-roading academy in Igatpuri, amplified by subzero temperatures, chilly winds, and snow at over 10,000 feet. If snowpocalypse was a thing, this is what it would look like. And yet, no challenge seemed tough enough. People who were strangers at the start were now working as a team, tirelessly rescuing the SUVs past the knee-deep slush, adversity bringing them closer.
Snow chains helped us progress. But it was exhausting. My limbs shivered as the snow on my body melted inside the Scorpio’s warm cabin and filtered through my clothes. Lesson learned, always carry waterproof gear. I zipped my jacket up to keep as warm as I could. Relief came in the form of a hearty meal of homemade theplas (spiced wholegrain flatbread). Even the soldiers accompanying us had a bite — they were carrying AK-47s, and grenades and wore military gear head-to-toe. When one soldier sat next to me in the co-driver's seat I had quite the goosebumps but felt safe too.
After spending multiple nights at army units, the beefed-up convoys and the presence of soldiers everywhere weren’t intimidating anymore. They made us feel like guests — and we were these foolish, and puerile off-roading junkies venturing into areas notorious for cross-border gunfire. I heard multiple rounds of fire one night; the next morning an officer told me they fired rounds in the sky to scare border infiltrators when they spotted them from their light towers.
The following day’s drive up Razdan Pass was the reckoning. There were no tire tracks to follow and the road appeared like a long white carpet snaking between the mountains. The Raid de Himalaya — a popular Indian motorsport race — had been discontinued partly due to the lack of sponsorship, but also because its scenic routes were getting touristy, and the risk was too much with people increasingly crowding across its rally stages.
That said, the surface was unforgiving. The Scorpio wagged its tail even at slow speeds. With poor visibility and hard-to-judge depth of the snow ahead, some of us volunteered to scout the road on foot, to ensure that the convoy did not veer off into a ditch. Snow chains powered our progress, but poor visibility posed danger. Ice, steep ascents, and a bombardment of snow slowed the pace. It was nature’s warning to turn back. And we respected that. It was also WBB’s expertise in reading the terrain, knowing when to soldier on and when to stop.
At this point, driving on snow became second nature to me. I mastered engine braking on descents, the craft of applying corrective lock, and learned how to wrap the critical snow chains around tires. The cheerful banter within the team subdued the challenge. Friendships were forged, and the participants, most of whom were my father’s age became my bros and we all felt grateful for seeing the unseen Kashmir — a shocking contrast to what media has fed to us for decades.
The thirst for wanderlust was satiated and the interactions with the locals humbled our egos. And yet, after 11 days, the 1000th kilometer still seemed far away. But distance was no longer being measured in kilometers, it was the depth of the journey within that mattered. A journey that transcended physical distance with perspective, clarity, courage, passion, love, and most importantly, teamwork. For the first time in my life, (and hopefully not the last) I felt like this was a place I wanted to return to before even leaving it.
A couple of days after the expedition, I was sitting in my living room back home in Pune on a warm day, wearing a t-shirt and pajamas, holding a cup of chai, and in a perpetual hangover from my most recent sojourn. That's when my phone buzzed with a notification. A Kashmiri news station reported that a Himalayan storm had dumped several feet of snow in all areas surrounding the Shamshabari ridge, blocking the passes we drove on and forcing the army to close them until the end of winter. At that point, I remembered the colonel’s words, “Nature has been very kind to us”. We were, after all, at its mercy.