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| Photo by Isabella Pezzulo |
Imagine for a moment the alpine garden of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. Windswept almost constantly, the few plants crouch between rocks, sneak into crevices, put up tough short flower stalks, make their leaves waxy, grow in clumps, all to protect themselves and each other from the bitter wind and blowing snow. Rock readily meets the eye, no plant is taller than a mouse on tiptoe, and the views of the surrounding mountains of rock are clear and open.
Now imagine this scene as the bottom of a valley. Extending upwards in all directions are great
steep slopes, evenly planed slides of rubble, and above them cliffs. The peaks are distant and daunting to
climb. This may help you get a sense of
this landscape, the place where Ladakhi people farm.
This land is drier, certainly, and the climate is a little
warmer, even though the valleys here are about twice the elevation of the
alpine garden (we are further south).
The plants that grow wild are sparse: rose bushes (now blooming and
fragrant throughout the lower valleys), honeysuckle, mints of many kinds in
delicious abundance, a wild onion like chives but stronger, many colonies
(clumps) of low herbs whose aerial parts dry into persistent thorns.
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The sheep and goats are above me, grazing sparse vegetation
on a 35-40 degree slope that sweeps down to the flat valley floor, where I sit
alone. They are thirty-four in number,
one less than two days ago when a sick one stayed home with Azhang (Uncle) Tundup and, wandering the
slope just above the house, was taken by the snow leopard.
Up on the slope now.
I can see through notches to the northeast distant jagged ridges shaded
gray, the closer ones darker, lighter as they recede and blend with the
sky. Some snow on the highest farthest
ridge. Those are on the other side of
the Indus River, lost to sight deep in the valley, which flows from Tibet and
through Pakistan to the Ocean. To my
right, the sheep and goats are on a blocky, orange-grey, jutting ridge of
bedrock that emerges from the sheer, perfectly planed sand slide on which I
sit. Above them in my view stands Urtsi,
framed by two intervening rocky ridges on each side, its grand pyramidal slopes
all laden with snow and dark rock. The
sun shines on us, though I can see that across the Indus it is raining. Thistle
and wild rhubarb grow from the sand, as well as a primitive low branching plant
that reminds me of what in New England is called horsetail.
The rhubarb has huge leaves that lie flat on the slope and
sometimes shine in the sun, and tall yellow-green many-branched flower
stalks. The flowers are tiny, hundreds
to thousands per plant, with five to seven petals the same color as the
stems. The seed pods are bright red or
magenta, ridged with three sides. Inside
the seed is tear-shaped, dark red at the point, fading to white at the fat
end. La chu is the local name. The stem tastes wickedly sour, but the base
that lives underground is sweet.
Running down these sand slopes is just so much fun. My feet sink deep into sand, cushioning a
leaping descent. It reminds me of skiing
in Jackson Hole. Now I’ve startled the
herd. They gallop and float down, clouds
of dust in their wake. I never imagined
what we think of as “barnyard” animals being so at home in a mountain
landscape.
We reach the valley floor, the sound of rushing water loud
in our ears. This valley slowly rises,
and it is the main watercourse that feeds town and allows human life and the
flush of green that surrounds people in this landscape.
Caitlin has remarked about how different these sheep are
from the ones she cared for at Chewonki in Maine. The biggest goats are the size of a collie, and
the sheep weigh around 30-40 pounds each.
They tolerate us being very physically close to them, while at rest or
while walking, which is different from what she’s used to. They are fed far less than American sheep,
and they will readily eat peeled willow bark or even dry leaves. They are incredible mountain-climbers and
cliff-bounders. And, whether by breeding
or training, they don’t stop to eat.
Their regular pattern is to slowly walk and graze – the two
actions are inseparable. So when they
pass an area, they nibble, grab a few choicest bits, and move on. This means I can walk up and down the same
valleys with them day after day, and their impact is light and spread out. The native large herbivores, the skyin or ibex, graze similarly, covering
huge areas and searching high slopes and washes for food, always alert for
predators.
Small hail comes, followed by light rain. It is not unusual to get a short spell in the
afternoon, though this one is a little longer and heavier than normal. Long enough to sit and eat my lunch under a
rose bush, the only cover. Long enough
to make the sheep shake – the first time
in eight days out with them.
I have taken the herd alone now for about ten days, and two
days with Nyilza Angmo (Caitlin). This
allows Azhang Tundup to rest and do
other work, like cut thin willow branches for the cows to eat. He is about 65 and moves over these mountains
like they’re a part of his body. He
whips a sling like a pro, and spins long goat hair into yarn with his fingers
as he walks with the herd in the mornings.
I’m glad to be able to help him in this way, and I wonder how long all
the young men have gone to school and not tended the herds. Azhang
stables and cares for several houses’ animals, and I take Ama (Mother) Tsering Dolkar’s sheep too, so it really is community
work. And this work is needed: for meat
and rich manure for the gardens and fields.
I’m earning meat for the winter. This
work feels well suited to me – I love to walk and wander in the mountains.
