Photos courtesy of Channing Kaiser
Pitt in the Himalayas is a semester-long, anthropology-based study abroad program located in Mussoorie, India. Students stay in dorms and take classes at the Hanifl Centre, an offshoot of the prestigious Woodstock boarding school. For hands-on experience, students spend over a month away from the Hanifl Centre, visiting temples, trekking, and rafting down the Ganges. What follows is a reflection by Pitt junior Channing Kaiser.
We are trekking towards Gaumukh, the source of the Ganges, the holiest river in India. Our trail is a holy pilgrimage for Hindus, and usually the path is crowded with hundreds, even thousands, of pilgrims, but the deadly floods six months ago have devastated the region, and the path, still precarious and avalanche-prone, has only recently reopened. Along with another group of tourists, we are the only people here in this vast and quiet valley.
We arrive at Bhojbasa—which roughly translates to “abode of the birch”—before lunchtime. It is our final campsite before our short hike to the Gangotri glacier, the source of the Ganges. The hike today was short and easy, and my blood thirsts for more. I am not nearly tired enough to call it a day, but I seem to be the only one. Everyone I ask plans on napping or reading for the rest of the afternoon.
If I push the idea of exploring harder, I’m sure I could snag a companion, but honestly, I want to go alone. You find more answers in solitude than you do in crowds. So I tell my tent-mates that I’m off to go exploring and that I’ll be back later. Lacing up my hiking boots and taking only my Chapstick, coat, and camera, I head out.
The rocky trail that leads to Gaumukh is within sight, but I decide to bushwhack and keep close to the Ganges instead. We’ll take the trail tomorrow, so I might as well explore something new.
It’s not an easy route, but it’s a fun one. Smooth boulders, gray and speckled like giant bird eggs, litter the ground, resting on each other, so I can easily jump from one to another, using my arms to pull myself up when I need to. I take my time and try to be careful, securing each foothold before relinquishing the last. On our previous trek, I broke my toe while gathering firewood and I don’t want a repeat incident.
Beyond the boulders lies a field of scrubby plants and brittle grass still strewn with rocks. In the middle of the field is a large boulder, perfectly perched to overlook the Ganges. I study it from the bottom first, sizing up the footholds and smooth edges, and decide that it’s low risk. I climb it in under a minute.
I sit down on the rock, scrunch my legs into my chest, and watch the Ganges flow in the shadows of the mountains. Everything here is bleached by the sun, their colors dull and heavy. Nothing is vibrant, but its desolation and starkness make it beautiful.
I know I shouldn’t be out here by myself. It’s something I’ve been told over and over again, specifically because I’m female, but it’s a lesson I’m tired of hearing. I like to go exploring and I like to do it on my own.
Sometimes it feels like all I hear is "no"—no, don’t go there alone; no, writing won’t get you anywhere; no, don’t see him, he’s no good for you—and I’m tired of negativity and criticism. The mountains don’t care what I do, and I’m thankful for that.
I wasn’t always this restless. In high school, I was content to sit in my room and read for days at a time. But once I left my room and life gave me several scratches, I found that constant motion was the only way to move forward and not get trapped by the past. Adventure became my greatest bandage.
I climb down the rock and continue on. It’s only 1:30 p.m., but as soon as the sun disappears behind a neighboring mountain, the temperature plummets. I only have a couple hours of warmth left.
Eventually I make my way to the designated path, winding between boulders and loose rock. Signs are posted along the trail, but most of them are in Hindi, which I don’t read. Garbage cans are set up at certain points, yet most of the trash seems to have missed its aim. Plastic bottles, wrappers, and a battered cloth shoe all lie littered about, an ugly footprint of humanity amidst all this unscathed beauty.
Finally I see a sign in English. It talks about how taking holy water from Gaumukh is a religious ritual, but how, beyond respecting the sacred water, it’s important to respect the surrounding nature. The last line reads, “Revering nature is revering God.”
I’m not religious, but if I had to worship something, it’d be nature. Nature never disappoints. For every rejection, every difficult night, there is always a tree, a mountain, a quiet spot by a stream to fix me up. I used to be a girl with ink for blood and paper for skin, but I have healed myself with the outdoors so often that I now have branches as ribs and wild flowers blooming from my spine. That’s why I came to India, to mend myself once more. I wanted the mountains to fill the spaces between my ribs with something other than nostalgia. I wanted to move on. Standing here in the palm of the Himalayas with only the Ganges for company, I think I’ve found what I’ve been looking for.
I smile and take a picture of the sign, its vibrant orange dulling all the colors in the background. It’s getting late and I know I should turn around, but the source of the Ganges is so close and I know I won’t have the same intimacy with the river tomorrow with all 20 of us trekking together.
This moment is mine.
I glance up at the sun and continue on, quickening my pace. The Gangotri glacier is finally in sight, and I can feel excitement brewing beneath my skin. Slowly, I take a deep breath, inhaling the mountains, the Ganges, the smooth yellow rocks, letting them fill me up and take the place of haunted memories. Then I continue on toward Gaumukh, toward adventure. I have to make it back before the sun disappears.
Channing Kaiser is a junior, double majoring in English Writing and English Literature. She studied abroad with Pitt in the Himalayas for its inaugural Fall semester in 2013 and has continued to pursue her interest in India with an independent study in Anglo-Indian literature. She has written extensively for The Fifth Floor and will, in the Fall of 2014, take on the role of associate editor.
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