In Search of Snow Leopard

Search for a snow leopard

THE WEEK spends seven days searching for vulnerable snow leopards in Ladakh, witnessingthe state of man-animal conflict first-hand.

Story and photographs by Bhanu Prakash Chandra

It felt like drunken state on the first day, after landing in Leh by plane. Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) hits quickly - head throbbing, thoughts muddled and spirit weighing down. It feels worse when you are on assignment. In the past, I had reached Ladakh the slow way, by bike and bus. Days of gradual ascent acclimatised the body to adapt to the thin, high-altitude air. But this time, it was a quick climb by flight. The only consolation was a breathtaking aerial view of the Himalayas unfolding beneath.

As I looked at the infinite white expanse from the aircraft window, I wondered, how does one even begin to search for a creature I was after in this vast wilderness? Winter had receded, and the snow was giving way to exposed rocks, trickling streams carving through the slopes was changing the shape of the landscape that begun to shed its white coat. Revealing a terrain where the elusive mammal disappears into its own myth, blending perfectly into the most challenging environment for humans and a perfect habitat for ‘the ghost of the Himalayas’- the snow leopard.

Despite years of wandering through the jungles of South India, I had never once encountered a big cat in the wild - not even by chance. (I had always resisted safaris, the idea of spotting a tiger or leopard from the comfort of a jeep felt too curated and devised) And now, here I was, chasing one of the most elusive felines on the planet - with barely a week in hand. My aim was ambitious: to document not just a sighting, but the complex tapestry of human-snow leopard interaction which resulted in another rising example of man-animal conflict, the burgeoning snow leopard tourism industry with its promises and perils and the impact of climate change - how it might be subtly altering the behavior and habitat of this apex predator. So, I was in Ladakh, home to the highest number of snow leopard population in India.

None of this would be possible unless I found an obsessive tracker willing to forgo sleep, comfort and meals in pursuit of the wild adventure. Ideally a Ladakhi, who would be a born naturalist who is aware of the territory with basic knowledge of ecosystem of the region or an ordinary villager who could spot the sleeping feline from far. At worst, I would have to adjustwith one of those no-nonsense wildlife tour operators of Ladakh, who would take me exactly where I needed to go, without a fuss.

Since winter had passed in the Himalayas, the chances of spotting a snow leopard were growing slim. The warming temperatures of the spring was clearing snow from the lower mountains and the snow leopards were retreating to higher, inaccessible summits that would take days to reach on foot. In just a few weeks, the summer heat would melt the remaining snow, leaving ice only on the unscalable glaciers. Then. it will be impossible to see a snow leopard. I was running out of time, I needed to find a tracker - fast.

Frantically, I began dialing my conservationist friends, hoping for leads. Most of the contacts they gave expressed doubtfulness about sightings at this time of the year. Others quoted hefty fees for snow leopard tour packages. I was not after leisure or luxury, but needed someone grounded, adaptable and willing to push boundaries. Someone who could get me close to the ground realities of snow leopard conservation and conflict. Then, one call brought a glimmer of hope.

“Bhanu ji! come as soon as possible, there has been snow leopard sightings around my village,” said a voice whose name I struggled to pronounce in the beginning. That was how I connected with Rigzen Mingyur, a 33-year-old eccentric who seemed to be an ideal fit - part naturalist, part village activist, an emerging tracker and a pragmatic wildlife tour operator - mix of all that I wanted. Like many Ladakhis, Mingyur had recently stepped into tourism industry for living.

I quickly gathered my photographic gear, grabbed my already packed suitcase, and set off -chasing the animal I had only read about in mystical stories, seen in documentaries and known through natural history books. I felt like Jim Corbett on a mountain quest to tell the tale of a rare big cat, except my weapon was a camera.

But, when I met Mingyur at Leh soon after landing, my focus blurred and my confidence took a hit from the altitude sickness. Still, there was no time to waste. In that dizzy, inebriated sort of state, I turned to Mingyur and said, “Let’s go! We will find the snow leopard.”

I had first visited Ladakh in 2010 during a biking trip. I was the first among stranded tourists to cross Baralacha La from the Manali side, just after the Leh-Manali highway reopened following a catastrophic avalanche. After days of grueling riding and crossing formidable high-altitude passes for days, I still remember the immense relief I felt upon seeing the first human settlement.

The last pass before reaching Leh is Tanglang La. As the road descends from there, the village of Rumtse appears - flanked by rows of green willow trees along the road, a stream running alongside. It was a comforting sight back then and now, over a decade later, I was returning to Rumtse from Leh town. Not as a traveler, but as a guest at Mingyur’s home.

It felt almost surreal that the same road I had once traveled as a carefree biker was a hotspot for snow leopard activity. The 30 kilometers valley stretching from Rumtse to Upshi - known as the Gya-Miru valley is dotted with hamlets like Rumtse, Gya, Lato, and Miru. On the far side of the stream lie smaller settlements like Rong, a village of just four houses. The mountains here are rugged and unimaginably tall, you have to crane your neck nearly 90 degrees to see their peaksnext to the road. Beyond them countless peaks disappear into the sky.

Small willow trees line the watercourses, and sparse grasses and wild plants cling to the slopes - seemingly insignificant to us, yet vital to the ecosystem. If you pay close attention, you might spot a blue sheep, also known as Bharal, grazing across the ridgelines, prime prey for the snow leopards. But the snow leopards are not here for wild game. In winter, they descend into the valley and prey on livestock like cows, yaks, donkeys, horses and in rare case a pet dog.

Mingyur was confident that we might get a serendipitous sighting in the Gya-Miru valley. He urged me to skip the well-known tourist circuits of Ulley, Saspochey and Hemis Shukpachan in Sham Valley - places where snow leopards are now almost ‘too easy’ to spot from a distance. “If you want the real story” he said, “you have to go where life is unpredictable, where people live with fear and the wonder of sharing space with predator.”

On his insistence, I agreed to rest for a night in Leh to let my body acclimatise. We kept the tourist snow leopards for the final day, just in case we failed elsewhere. With uncertainty, I decided to leave early next morning to Gya-Miru valley.

Next day, we left the deserted streets of Leh in biting cold of the dawn, heading toward TanglangLa on the Leh - Manali highway. Mingyur’s small car was packed tight with our luggage, camera bags, tripods, and a heavy telephoto lens, all balanced along with an emergency medical kit and aportable oxygen tank. With the passes now closed to the public, the road seemed eerily empty. The car’s headlights cut through the darkness, revealing only the stretch of the road ahead while the surrounding mountains remained hidden in the dark.

By the time we reached Upshi, the sky had begun to lighten. We passed only a few vehicles -mostly driven by local villagers. From that point on, Mingyur grew more alert. “There have been sightings along this road recently,” he said, his eyes scanning the ridges to the right. “If we are lucky, we might spot a snow leopard today. If not, at least few blue sheep.” He instructed me to keep watch on the left side. As the sky turned orange hinting sun rise, it casted a warm glow across the slopes, we searched for subtle shifts in texture or color, anything that might hint at movement. The car crawled on the sinuous road, the speedometer was showing 30 KMPH.

By the time we reached Miru village, daylight had fully revealed the landscape - bare, stony mountains but the air was still bitingly cold. A narrow stream moved silently beside the road, cutting through the valley. Mingyur slowed the car below 20 KMPH, pointing out watercourses, ridgelines and narrow gorges where he had previously spotted snow leopards. Though we had seen nothing so far, he reassured that dawn and dusk were prime prowling hours. “We still have a chance until we reach Rumtse” he said with a quiet confidence. I was shivering in cold, the heavy jacket I use in Bengaluru’s winter had failed to protect me from the subzero temperature of Gya- Miru Valley.

As the sun climbed higher, the air turned bit warmer, making the ride slightly more bearable. After we passed Miru, it felt as we were the only moving object in the vast stillness of the Gya-Miru valley. The mountains that flanked the road was large, their peaks seeming to touch the sky. We stopped the car and took the binoculars, scanning every inch of mountains for over an hour. I tried to distinguish the shape of a snow leopard from the folds of mud and rock - gazing so intently that my mind began to play tricks. I started experiencing pareidolia, imagining rosettes of the snow leopard on the barren earth, seeing the curves of a sleeping snow leopard inmotionless rocks. Even though I had never seen one before, I began to camouflage my imagination with ambition of witnessing it in the wild.

With no luck spotting a snow leopard, we drove further toward Gya village, passing a small settlement called Lato. Mingyur pointed to an olive-green colored mountain at Lato and told me, “Locals believe this is where the Eurasian plate collided with the Indian plate during the formation of the Himalayas.” I nodded silently not buying the theory - my mind completely consumed by thoughts of completing the snow leopard assignment.

Sensing my mood, he stopped his car near a rustic stupa on the roadside and led me to a nearby mud house. “Fifteen days ago, a snow leopard had killed a cow here,” he said, as we neared the empty cattle pen next to the house - the survived cows had already been released for grazing and there were no people at the house. Only a newborn calf remained, locked in a small enclosure next to the pen, it rattled with panic by our presence. We climbed a wall beside the pen, Mingyurexplained how a snow leopard - coming from the adjacent valley under the cover of night had climbed the pen, forced a gap in the hay roof and slipped inside. After killing the cow and eating a little, it fled leaving the carcass behind when the owner came running alerted by the commotion.

Standing on the roof, I investigated now-sealed gap carefully. The willow poles used for the roofstill bore traces of the encounter - a tuft of creamy colored fur clung to the wood. For the first time, I truly believed snow leopard really exits - unlike the story of formation of Himalayas in Lato - this story of snow leopard attack gave proof of the existence of the predator I had heard only in stories until now.

From Lato, the valley widened, pushing the mountains farther into the distance. Even if a snow leopard were walking along the ridgelines now, it would be almost impossible to spot. As we moved, agricultural fields began to appear in the seemingly flat landscape, framed by snow-capped mountains on the horizon. We had reached Gya village - a large settlement with one hundred traditional Ladakhi homes clustered amid terraced farmland. At the farm fields villagers had gathered for community work, tilling the land for their short growing season when potatoes, green peas, cauliflower and other vegetables could be sown. Cows and horses grazed in the green pastures beside the stream, parts of which were still frozen. Colourful prayer flags fluttered above rooftops, a reminder that this was a deeply Buddhist place. From the ridge above, the prayer wheels of the ancient Gya Gompa spun with the wind, chiming mantras into the valley.

“Gya is the first settlement of Ladakh,” Mingyur said, pointing toward a distant cliff. “See those caves? That’s where the early settlers used to live.” I nodded silently, He was trying to tell the exclusivity of his locality, distracted from his speech, my eyes were scanning the slopes one last time as we moved on towards Rumtse to rest till the evening.

As we neared Rumtse, road workers from the Border Roads Organisation (BRO) were putting final touches on the tarmac that would soon open for tourist traffic. They paused to wave and greeted us with a cheerful ‘Julley’, most of the workers were locals, Mingyur stopped the car asked them if they have seen a Shan (Ladakhi word for snow leopard) around, they said no. Atthe entrance of Rumtse, young men were playing cricket on the empty highway. Most of the villagers were related to Mingyur. As we entered, he stopped the car again, without hesitation heleapt out to join the game, laughing as he grabbed a bat. I was left on the roadside with a group of boys and girls cheering from the sidelines, sitting on a parked jeep. With no option but to wait for the impromptu match to end, I stood there smiling, the cold mountain air filling my lungs, I started to ponder how most of my stories develop with the quiet rhythms of life -Slowly.

Weather changed suddenly - from a bright, sunny day to a dark and freezing one - as rain clouds began to gather over Rumtse. We hurried to Mingyur’s home, a modest house nestled just below the road. After unloading half of the luggage, we rushed inside to escape the biting cold. I dumped my bags in a room and joined Mingyur in the kitchen, where he was lying on a bed, singing “snow leopard, snow leopard, where are you?” to his nine-month-old niece, Gama. She sat snugged to his stomach, wrapped in layers of warm clothes, woolen socks, and a monkey cap. His sister was preparing butter tea beside a traditional stove that burned cow dung cakes, filling the room with warmth and distinctive smell of a Ladakhi kitchen.

As I settled onto a low cot that was layered with many fleece bed sheets and introduced myself to his sister Stanzin Yangdol, the kitchen door creaked open. An old woman entered, dressed in a traditional Ladakhi goncha and a red woolen cap, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Her back was arched with age, and her wrinkles were representing the years gone by. She was Mingyur’sneighbor, Tashi Dolma - introduced to me as the oldest living person in the village, said to be around eighty. Curiously I asked her, “Aapne shan ko kabhi dekha hai?” (Have you ever seen a snow leopard?)

She replied flatly, without much interest, “Nahi dekha hai shan ko.” (No, I have never seen the snow leopard)

Her answer surprised me, “You’ve lived here for eighty years and never seen one?” I pressed, “People say snow leopards often roam through your village!” Still more interested in cooing to baby Gama than answering me, she added casually, “Haan, kabhi kabhi gaay pakad ke le jaatehai… magar maine nahi dekha.” (Yes, sometimes they take away cows… but I have never seen one myself)

Tashi Dolma’s response left me even more bewildered. I turned to Mingyur and said in disbelief, “Not even Tashi Dolma, the oldest in the village has seen one? And yet you have brought me here to spot a snow leopard?”

Sensing my disappointment, Mingyur smiled casually and said, “Neither Tashi Dolma, the oldest, nor Gama, the youngest have seen one - because they have never truly looked for it. But we will, because we are looking for one” he concluded turning playfully towards Gama.

Stanzin handed me a steaming cup of butter tea, homemade cow butter was floating while melting quickly just like my fading hope. With AMS becoming intense, my mouth was drying and head ache become severe. With confusion whipping, I turned and smiled at Gama, she satlike a statue on Minguyr’s belly and gazed at me even more puzzled. Meanwhile it started to snow outside.

After drinking plenty of warm water, we were planning to go again to scan the same road we travelled in the morning. I felt mild breathlessness throughout the day as we had reached a higher altitude compared to Leh. I checked the oximeter, SpO2 was showing 76%. Hoping sleep would help, I immediately laid down, bundling myself under several layers of rugs. Still, a cold wave somehow seeped through the covers, making it hard to rest comfortably.

An hour later, I woke up, packed my camera bag and lenses and got ready for the second scanning session. Mingyur was still asleep, so I stepped outside to check the weather. The snowfall had stopped and villagers - mostly women - had gathered in the field behind Mingyur’shouse to till the land. Equipped with shovels, they were preparing small channels to guide the stream water diverted toward the farm, allowing it to spread evenly across the fields.

Stanzin appeared with a flask of tea, a basket of bread and some cut fruits to serve the villagers helping with this community work. I joined the group and eagerly asked if anyone had ever seen a snow leopard or had any stories about it. But all of them said they had never seen one. Instead the women started interrogating my personal life.” Are you married?” and “how many kids?”. They felt disappointed when heard I am unmarried, soon, they gathered their tools, began singing a Ladakhi work song, went back to work. Tashi Dolma was approaching the workers slowly, leaning on her walking stick. Just then, Mingyur called from the nearby house, “Bhanu ji! Come, let’s go for the scanning.”

Our evening scanning stretched into the darkness, this time, trekking few smaller valleys that intersect the highway. Still, there was no sign of a snow leopard - not even a glimpse of blue sheep. Mingyur visited a few homes in Gya, Lato and Miru to check if any news of the snow leopard in the vicinity, he also made several calls to friends to check if they had been any incidents of cattle killing. But luck wasn’t on our side. Dull and tired, we returned to Rumtse to retire for the night.

As night fell temperature plummeted, I began to shiver despite wearing two layers of jackets. Seeing my condition, Stanzin and Mingyur lent me oversized winterwear, which perfectly fitted over my clothes. That night, I tasted skyu - a Ladakhi pasta made with wheat dough and local vegetables.

In my room, I noticed a framed appreciation letter kept on a table. It had been awarded to Mingyur’s father Karma Sonam, by Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF), a Mysuru based NGO dedicated to environmental protection. The certificate recognised his contribution to nature conservation efforts in Ladakh. When I asked Mingyur about it, he began telling me about his father and himself.

Karma Sonam has been working as a field assistant for high-altitude projects with NCF. As a child, Mingyur often accompanied his father on trips to address snow leopard attacks and assisted him in various conservation efforts. These early experiences nurtured his love for nature. After college, Mingyur joined Sonam Wangchuk’s Himalayan Institute of Alternatives, Ladakh(HIAL), where he worked with the school of tourism to promote responsible tourism. He was also part of institute’s ice stupa project - an initiative to build artificial glaciers to store water. Mingyur even travelled to Switzerland to demonstrate the making of these ice stupas. In 2019, a coffee shop built inside an artificial glacier near Lato went viral on the social media and news portals. The icy structure looked like something straight out of a fairy tale.

As I coiled into the bedsheets that night, I realized, I was learning more about Mingyur than the snow leopards. I suffered through the night - dehydrated, short of breath, and weighed down by the disappointment of first day without a sighting. But that is how wildlife works, through long waits and understating the lives of people who share their lives with the animals I came searching for.

The next day, we started again at dawn making several trips along the 30 kilometers stretch. Eyes glued to the mountains, streams, and ridges. Returning home only to rest. This routine continued next day without any sightings. On the second day evening, as we were returning from Upshi, we saw a red fox descending from the mountain and crossing the road at dusk.

I was growing increasingly distressed, I had come here on work, and that depended entirely on the chance of witnessing a snow leopard and observing its behavior. Now, I was losing days with same routine. Days went by scanning in the cold mornings, resting in the afternoons, eating different kinds of Ladakhi food - tingmo, thukpa, and sometimes pulao in the night. I tried keeping myself hydrated with warm water and tea, by then even doubtful Gama become an acquaintance.

On the third day evening, with the weather turning cloudy, we decided to break the monotonous search and do something adventurous - drive to the 17,480-foot-high Tanglang La top. It was risky as white veil of falling snow had blanketed the mountains. Signaling heavy snowfall in the higher ranges. The road had not officially reopened as the BRO was still clearing massive snow walls. But since Mingyur was a local, he was allowed to pass the barricade set up by BRO pastRumtse. As we began to climb, the temperature dropped further to freezing, breathing became more difficult as we drove along the winding road. The snow was steadily falling across the rugged mountains.

Midway through the ascent amid falling snow, we spotted movement - shapes climbing the slope. It was a herd of Himalayan blue sheep, also called as bharals, grazing among the rocks. At last, we had encountered bharal, the snow leopard’s primary prey in this region. Large, sure -footed mountain goats, they dislodged chunks of stone and mud as they climbed higher toward the next bend in the road. We drove up slowly and waited for the herd to approach, it was a magical sight to watch them up close, snowflakes on their coat has given them a divine look. They avoided us and continued ascending a snowy patch, searching for dry grass between rocks. This was the same species that had inspired biologist George Schaller and writer Peter Matthiessen to journey through Nepal’s remote Dolpo region. Blue sheep along with other ungulates like Asiatic ibex, uriyal and argali, form the main prey base for snow leopards. We watched them for about thirty minutes - long enough to temporarily distract us from the breathlessness. It was quite literally - a breathtaking sight.

As we drove between towering snow walls toward Tanglang La top, there was no human presence - only white wilderness and a deafening silence. Our heads began to feel heavy from the low oxygen levels. Mingyur checked his SpO2 in the oximeter - It showed 63% - a dangerously low, life-threatening number. There was no one else around in case of an emergencyhelp, though luckily, Mingyur’s phone still had network. But the snowfall was getting heavier and staying longer would only increase the risk - too much snow on the road could make itdifficult pass. A small avalanche in this region could take an entire day to clear. Sensing the urgency, we turned back toward Rumtse. The bharals were still grazing as we descended. Snow now covering much of the valley floor. Just as we were exiting the range, Mingyur’s phone rang. He answered in Ladakhi, and though I couldn’t follow much I clearly heard one word repeated several times in a tense tone! ‘Shan’- the snow leopard.

“A snow leopard has attacked a cow,” Mingyur said, turning to me, his voice serious. “a villager named Rigzen Tamchos has been trying to reach me for the past half hour, but there was no signal in the valley, he is asking me to come immediately.” The message had come in fragments - like an old telegram - short, urgent and vague. I bombarded with questions. “Where did this happen? When? Is the leopard still there? Is the cow alive?” But Mingyur did not have all the answers. “It is in Rong,” he continued “that small settlement we saw across the stream after Lato,let’s go and check.” He pressed down on the accelerator.

The light was fading by the time we reached Rong. The village consisted of just four houses tucked between steep mountains. Rigzen was waiting by the roadside, he explained to us that acow belonging to her relative Sonam Kunzes - heavily pregnant animal - was attached when she left it to graze in a nearby patch while she worked in the fields. The snow leopard had crept down from the hills and marauded from behind, sinking its claws into the cow’s back and trying to choke the cow with its teeth. Kunzes rushed to the scene yelling, but the cat barely flinched. It only retreated when several men came running shouted, banging whatever they could to drive it off.

We followed the Rigzen across the fields, a dog led the way ahead of us. The ground where attack had happened had drag marks and become soft from the struggle. A few streaks of blood stained the earth, the cow was lying down on plastic sheet, barely conscious. Its face bleedingand deep claw punctured its back. “We have been hearing the leopard’s calls for three nights” Sonam said as her eyes filled with tears and fear. “We were watching the cow closely, but today… I looked away for just a moment.” Her voice broke again. in a blink of an eye leopard had pounced on the cow and incapacitated the most valuable possession of Sonam. I suggested they call a veterinarian immediately. The cow was due to deliver soon and would not survive without treatment. A relative arrived with a small truck and together they loaded the injured animal to take it to a nearby shelter beside her home. I went along the mountain base to look for the sign of the snow leopard, there was no visibility since it was already dark there.

We had been combing the mountains for three days with no sign of the elusive snow leopard and yet, it was roaming across the valley. The villagers had been hearing its haunting calls and were alarmed. The injured cow was alive for now, but barely. Its survival would depend on medical care that was not available in remote villages like Rong. We left the village while villagers werein grief for losing another cow to the wild - they knew it will not survive the fatal attack.

As we drove back toward Rumtse in silence, I turned to Mingyur and asked quietly, “Do villagers ever retaliate after something like this?” He pointed toward a narrow valley before Latoand side “There is a traditional Ladakhi trap up there called a Shandong,” he continued “It was meant for wolves that kill livestock, but sometimes snow leopards fall into them too. When they do, people stone them to death.” He paused for a moment looking out at the shadowy mountainsand said again “Tomorrow, we will go see the Shandong.”

If the cow had died, we might have had a chance to set up a hide away from the carcass, hoping the snow leopard would return to feed. Since the injured cow had been moved to a safe place, that was not the option. We returned home battered from the day’s adventure and shaken by witnessing my first snow leopard attack since arriving - a heart-wrenching scene.

That night, after the dinner, I felt unexpectedly energetic after days of high-altitude acclimatization. Perhaps it was also because of growing sense of hope - the snow leopard’s presence was becoming more tangible, more real.

The next morning, we headed straight to Rong to check on the cow and look for signs of the predator. The cow was still alive but unable to eat or drink due to severe injuries to its mouth and neck. We carefully examined the base of the mountain in daylight searching for signs of the snow leopard. There was nothing except pugmarks in the soft mud where the attack had occurred. It had not been there the previous night, suggesting the leopard had returned after the cow was moved, likely to check if the kill had been successful. The pugmark showed it had come down from the mountain and walked towards the stream to the opposite direction. But its trail vanished into the grass, leaving no further clue about which side it had gone.

As we left Rong to see Shandong, the village dog walked us out. To my surprise, another woolly dog from Lato joined us as we trekked through the valley toward Shandong which was located on a small knoll. I paused midway, exhausted carrying my heavy equipment bag on my back. The dog jogged ahead and then circled back to keep pace with me. I felt disturbed when I saw a small red pillar marked with letters and numbers. It was a survey marker left by the railway department - evidence of a planned railway line to connect Leh with the rest of India. I was stunned to see another sign of development in the middle of a fragile wildlife zone.

I picked myself up and hurried to catch up with Mingyur, who was walking ahead, there were more survey marks on the way. After about thirty minutes of fording small streams, we reached a structure that looked like round rampart of a crude fort, this was Shandong (Shanku means wolf in Ladakhi, and dong means trap).

Large flat stones carved with Buddhist scriptures had been laid across the top. I climbed onto the mid wall stone and peered inside. It was about 15-foot-deep dry well. Contrary to what Mingyurhad told me earlier, the floor was littered not only with old skeletal parts but also the fresh skull of a calf. The trap worked by luring the hungry predator into the pit with the promise of an easy meal. But once inside, inner leaning concave walls made it nearly impossible to escape. Villagers would then come and stone the trapped animal to death, avenging the loss of their livestock.

Mingyur had explained me earlier as we trekked, that this age-old practice of baiting a trap with livestock to catch and kill predators like snow leopards or foxes had stopped years ago. But clearly, someone had revived the old practice quietly, perhaps out of desperation or anger. The narrow entry at the base of the pit, once sealed with stone had been left open. I crawled inside and saw it up close the scattered bones, skulls, and the decomposing remains of a calf. Mingyurpeeped in from above, equally disturbed.

After taking a few photographs I creeped out of Shangdong. Mingyur pointed out a narrow path nearby and said, “This is the trail snow leopards often take when they come down toward the village.” On the way back, he showed me a few rocks where snow leopards mark their territoryby rubbing their bodies against the surface to leave behind scent and fur – there was rub marks but no fresh scat.

We made our way down to the car, where we set up a small portable table and camp chairs. Mingyur poured hot water into steel cups, dipped green tea bags and we sipped green tea inbarren wilderness. The woolly dog that had guided us turned back disappearing. As I watched it vanish into the wild, I wondered, how many stray dogs roam freely across Ladakh, overlapping themselves into a territory already inhabited by wild animals.

This was the fourth day in search of snow leopard, instead of heading back to rest, we drove towards Upshi - at a slightly quicker pace than usual. Along the way, we spotted several herds of blue sheep grazing high up on the mountain slopes, so far away that even binoculars could not bring them into clear view. Debris from mountain had scattered on the road, likely dislodged by bharals above. At Upshi, we crossed the Indus river and continued towards Kharu to refuel. On the return, we stopped at a local restaurant for momos and checked my phone for mail and messages, I had ignored my phone all these days because there was no signal in many places where I roamed. In the evening, we were back out again scanning the hills starting from Upshi -with no sign of the elusive cat.

Snow leopards typically emerge at dawn or dusk to hunt. During the day they rest or roam the high ridges where it is cooler, as the valley becomes too warm by midday. In winter, they descend into the valleys following their prey, which come down in search of grass. Down here, the snow leopards often turn to livestock - an easier catch than the swift, alert wild ungulates. Sometimes, they break into corral fences and kill multiple animals in a single night. There was even an incident in Gaik village where a snow leopard dragged a pet dog off a veranda and feasted on it for hours.

The rarest and most rewarding encounter is the serendipitous sighting - the kind that lets you watch a snow leopard for hours. But once again, we weren’t so lucky.

We passed all the villages up to Gya without a trace of the cat. As the sun disappeared beyond the valley, I turned to Mingyur and said, “Let’s go for a second round.” We drove back toward Upshi, scanning every ridge and crevice for movement. I had become so familiar with this stretch of road that I could recognize the shape of every mountain, every bend and blind cornereven stated picking up few Ladakhi words.

By the time we reached Upshi again, darkness had settled in. Soldiers and BRO workers were out on evening walk with large sticks in hand. Mingyur stopped to ask why they were carrying the sticks, they replied, “Cheeta bhi hai, kutta bhi hai” (mislabelling the snow leopard as a cheetah) they said, “There are cheetahs around… and stray dogs too.”

Just as we were about to take a U-turn near the Upshi bridge, a car approached from backhonking. The driver turned out to be one of Mingyur’s friends - a fellow snow leopard tracker. She told us she had briefly seen a snow leopard that evening, right by the roadside near Miru!

Excitement surged through us, we turned around immediately, but it was too late. Darkness had already blanketed the valley by the time we reached Miru. We drove straight to Rumtse. As I was showing Mingyur how to properly brew black coffee in kitchen, he received a call “A snow leopard killed a calf in Miru, it was feeding on it until nightfall” said the man on the other side. Mingyur sprang up with a happy face and said in a celebratory voice “Bhanu ji! I think we have finally got it!”

That night, I finally got the chance to meet Mingyur’s father, Sonam Karma. He had been away in Leh for work and had just returned. A local hero, Sonam had played a crucial role in persuading the community to coexist with snow leopards and adopt environmentally friendly practices. Over the dinner, he explained how the NCF’s livestock insurance program worked and how the claim process had been handed over entirely to the villagers.

Mingyur, too, was deeply involved in the village’s development and administration. Whenever a conflict arose between humans and wildlife, it was either Mingyur or his father that people turned to. For the villagers, they were the first responders, immediate saviors in times of crisis.That’s why he got the first call after a snow leopard attacked the pregnant cow in Rong.

I went to bed that night dreaming the possibility of photographing a snow leopard the next day. I had seen its images in books, those haunting eyes, the thick spotted fur, the elegant yet powerful gait - but I still had no real sense of how big or imposing it would be in person. I laid out my clothes with care, selecting each one to help me blend into the environment of Miru. When I finally closed my eyes, images of snow leopards filled my mind - fantastical visions that slowly gave way to dreams as I drifted into deep sleep.

By 5 AM, I was up and get ready. I had traveled thousands of kilometers braving altitude sickness and bone freezing cold for a single glimpse of this majestic creature of the snow mountain. Mingyur was already awake. His energy matching mine, we drove toward Miru as the sky slowly pulled back its dark curtain and the first light of dawn spilled over the peaks.

Miru is an abundant village nestled in the upper reaches of Ladakh. One way to identify a naturally rich village here is by counting the number of willow trees and livestock grazing freely in the open. In Ladakhi life, willows and poplar trees are used in almost every structure, from roofs to fences. In these journeys through the Gya-Miru valley, I had noticed that Miru had more willow trees than any other village and more cows seen on its meadows. Richness is often counted by tree and livestock in one of the harshest environments on Earth.

As we approached Miru’s white stupa beside the road, we were joined by the villager who had called Mingyur the previous night. He led us down toward the stream through tall willow trees. We crossed the stream on a dry log laid across it like a narrow bridge. After crossing the villager stood still and alert, avoiding open spaces where he might be seen.

Mingyur raised his binoculars and began scanning the area the villager was pointing to. From our position in the lower ground, neither the carcass nor the snow leopard was visible. The villager moved a few steps ahead and suddenly said, “It’s not there,” abruptly deflating our enthusiasm. But he continued, “Last night, I saw it eating the calf” and walked forward to get a clearer view of the site.

Then, with sudden excitement, he exclaimed, “It is there! It is there!”

A pale, four-legged shape with bright fur lighter than its surroundings moved quickly and disappeared behind a thicket of willow trees. The animal blended into the environment, but I caught a glimpse of something slipping to the left, toward a small mountain that sat beside the village and at the base of the towering range behind it.

All three of us was momentarily confused about which direction the leopard had gone. Mingyurinsisted it had moved to the right, toward another mountain. I argued that I had seen it veer left toward the fence that separated the village from the wild.

We walked close to the carcass, Mingyur, still clutching the binoculars continued to scan the direction where he believed the leopard had retreated. Noticing our disagreement, the villager simply shrugged and said, “I have to go for work,” before walking off. Situation left us with the mystery of where the snow leopard had vanished. But it clearly ran away seeing us approaching.

We went near the carcass, we saw that it had been partly eaten by the snow leopard and was now being feasted on by magpies. It was a fresh kill from the previous evening. Other scavengers hadnot yet caught news of the kill. We walked around to examine the scene. The snow leopard had entered the village and killed a calf that was returning from grazing the evening before. The carcass was right on the brink of the village, near a mud house with bundles of hay neatly stacked on its roof.

We went to inspect the house, hoping we could ask the owner for permission to wait inside in case the leopard returned for its meal. But the house was locked, as we surveyed the surroundings, the calf’s owner, Sonam Tsepel, walked toward us. He looked to have become numb to the loss. He explained that one of his calves had gone missing after the livestock returned the previous evening. When villagers told him about a snow leopard sighting upstream, he came searching and found the leopard sitting and eating the dead calf. He appeared well accustomed to such attacks, without any visible distress about the loss. When asked whether he had informed the authorities, he simply replied, “Ab tho kya karega hum?” (“What can I do now?”)

With a heavy telephoto lens slung over my shoulder, I told Mingyur to scan the mountain on the left side. I believed the snow leopard had retreated there and was likely watching us from a hidden perch. It was a strange sensation seeing a snow leopard for the first time. It felt surreal, as though I had seen something that resembled a snow leopard but had not registered it clearly enough to mark it as a historic moment. It felt more like a fragment from last night’s dream.Suddenly, Mingyur shouted with excitement, “there it is!”

I grabbed his binoculars and scanned the mountainside. Every mud heap, rock, and shadow seemed like it could be a sleeping animal. Then, next to a large boulder, a stone-shaped figure gazed back at us with gleaming eyes. I finally witnessed the moment I came looking for, I saw the snow leopard! It was so perfectly blended into the terrain that it looked like a part of the mountain itself. Without the binoculars, we would have walked away, assuming it was just another stone on the hill.

It was already 9 AM. By now, a few more curious villagers had arrived at the site, drawn by news of our presence. I was looking for a place to hide - somewhere I could quietly sit and wait for the snow leopard without attracting people, cat seemed interested in returning to the kill. Mingyur went to the car to fetch some camp chairs in case we decided to sit down and wait for the day.

The search led me to a small door-less room. I stepped inside to check if it offered a direct view of the carcass and view was okay, but I needed something to cover the open doorway. I quickly took off my scarf - my longtime companion through countless assignments in some of the most unimaginable places - and draped it across the entrance. Using two sticks and plugging them into an old hole in the wall.

I came out and aimed in with my camera and spotted the snow leopard again. It was still there, lying down, seemingly asleep. Hoping to capture it up close if it returned, I slipped into the room and began setting up my tripod and camera. The lens peeked out from under the scarf that now hung like a curtain across the doorway.

As I looked around the room, I noticed it was built of mud with an elevated floor. I stood in the upper section, which had a large gap in the middle, a heap of soil, and a shovel lying in one corner. Just as I was trying to figure out exactly where I was, Mingyur appeared near the doorand said with a funny smile, “Bhanuji, this is a Ladakhi compost toilet!”

By then, I had already decided to make it my base for the day. The room was clean enough, so I asked him, “Is it an active toilet?” “Yes,” he replied. But seeing that I was determined to stay, he returned with two chairs and joined me inside. Setting up his laptop, he laughed and said, “I’m setting up my office in a Ladakhi compost toilet today.”

I remained focused on the camera, fixed on the carcass, waiting for that light-colored coat with dark rosette to appear in the viewfinder. A few more magpies arrived and began squabbling over scraps. Minutes later, the birds abruptly flew away, signaling that something was approaching.

I held my breath, expecting the snow leopard. But instead, a black, woolly shape emerged - a stray dog! then another joined in. They began tearing at the carcass, pausing now and then to look around. Within an hour a third dog - a tawny one - joined the feast. Together, they devoured nearly half the carcass. Still, there was no sign of the snow leopard returning.

It was now past 10 AM. Mingyur looked at his phone and said, “It is unlikely the snow leopard will come back to the kill in broad daylight.” Then, noticing a flurry of missed calls and messages, he added, “A local filmmaker keeps calling and messaging me. I think he has heard about the kill and wants to come film it.”

“Who told him?” I asked. “Maybe my friend or some other villager,” he replied. Worried that our quiet finding would soon turn into a spectacle, I stepped out of the toilet to check on the snow leopard once again. It was still there, lying belly-up, napping. Just then, a father and son were seen walking toward us. Sensing the growing human activity and the dogs at the carcass - the leopard seemed content to wait for a safer moment to return. For the snow leopard this disturbance was just another part of its life. But for me, the thought of a filmmaker arriving to shoot felt like an intrusion. I turned to Mingyur and said, “Let’s try getting a bit closer for some pictures.”

Overhearing us, the villager stood next pointed and said, “Walk all the way to the left and approach from the blind spot - it’s easier.” The cat was still asleep. We decided to take the chance. I grabbed my camera, now mounted on a heavy monopod, and followed Mingyur as he led the way towards the hill.

As we reached the fence at the edge of the village, I started to gasp, maybe from the weight of the equipment or maybe from the excitement. The sleeping snow leopard, unaware of our approach from this angle was motionless. We slipped through a gap in the fence and began our slow ascent toward the hill. After a few cautious steps, we reached a vantage point from where the leopard was visible. From my new found hide -out near the kill, mountain had seemed small. Now, standing at its base, it looked considerably large. Thankfully, from this angle the lower rocks shielded us from the cat’s view.

Panting softly, I followed Mingyur’s trail, inching closer to the animal napping under a large boulder. We moved carefully over the rugged terrain silently, like a snow leopard stalking its prey - without dislodging a single stone.

And then, there it was in full view. The moment felt like seeing snow-capped peaks for the first time. A wonderful feeling! We were just 20 meters away. I paused, wanting to take in the sight with my naked eyes before seeing it in the digital display of my camera. The magnificent cat lay utterly still. But its belly moving rhythmically for its breathing. Even from this close, it was difficult to tell where its coat ended and the boulder began. That is when I truly understood why snow leopards are called elusive - born masters of camouflage.

The leopard had its back to us, its head turned away, which is why it had not noticed our presence. But then it opened eye, turned to check its right side and saw us. We locked eyes, I stopped thinking for a moment! My heart pounded with a mix of awe, exhaustion and fear. Here was one of the nature’s most magical creations, looking at me.

Next moment, lifted my camera and began shooting in a burst. I knew this encounter will not last long. The soft shutter clicks of my mirrorless camera caught the cat’s attention. With an intensecurious gaze, it licked its nose with its rosy tongue, stood up with ears alert, and tail swaying. Snow leopard walked gracefully behind the mountain, vanishing from sight. It was the most beautiful wildlife encounter of my life. I stood there speechless, then slowly sat down, dumbfounded. Mingyur’s face was glowing. He smiled at me said “That is the closest I have ever been to a snow leopard!”

On the way back, I was walking and scrolling through the photos on my camera, zooming in on the leopard again and again. When I looked closely at its face, I noticed a large scar above its nose - probably from a territorial fight. Given the way it retreated, shyly, I doubted it would return. But Mingyur, having observed snow leopard behavior and the witnessing number of kills nearby, said confidently “It will come back. Not now, but in the evening.”

We returned to the village toilet hide-out to gather our belongings. Dogs were already dragging the carcass away with a loud brawl. Later, we drove back to Rumtse to celebrate my first snow leopard sighting. At home, I went back to baby Gama and sang, “Snow leopard, snow leopard, we saw one!” She began dancing, waving her hands in air. I downloaded all the pictures to my laptop and kept looking at them. They were not the kind of viral images that would break the internet. But they were mine, proof of an encounter with nature’s most elegant and elusive survivors.

I could not wait to return to Miru and see if the snow leopard had come back to the kill. We drove through the same valley again that afternoon, but this time, my eyes barely registered the mountains. My mind was racing toward Miru, faster than the car.

In Miru, Mingyur’s classmate, another Sonam joined us for the walk to the kill site. From a distance, I saw feral dogs barking on the mountain slope, moving upward. Unsure what was happening, I continued toward the spot. As I neared the house, I leaned on an unfinished compound wall, and jumped when it shifted under me! It was the filmmaker. He had completely covered himself and his camera in camouflage netting, waiting for a shot since we had left. Clearly perturbed by our arrival, he pulled the net off his body and kept it on his camera “It was coming here,” he said, “but turned back halfway when the dogs started chasing it.”

That explained the barking and the dogs on the slope. Soon, the dogs returned to the carcass and began devouring the final scraps. I scanned the mountain slope with my telephoto lens. The snow leopard, perched on the far ridge, was looking directly toward the village, at its kill.

I ditched the toilet hide-out this time and climbed onto its roof with a chair and my camera. Using the willow tree branches for cover and wrapping my favorite scarf around my upper body, I settled in. The filmmaker still aloof returned to his camo net. Mingyur and Sonam climbed onto the locked house roof and tried hiding behind haystacks. I waited motionless for more than an hour. But Mingyur and Sonam’s occasional movement was disturbing. The snow leopard did not appear and the dogs continued to devour the carcass.

Suddenly, a thought hit me. Maybe I was troubling the cat by sitting her? This was not its natural hunting ground, but it had found an opportunity, something to fill its stomach. To humans this was livestock loss. But to the snow leopards it is survival. Meanwhile, the filmmaker, clearly feeling we were intruding his work seemed displeased. I decided it was not worth it. The sun was setting, light was fading. I turned to Mingyur and said “Let’s qui, let the snow leopard and the filmmaker have their time.” We left quietly, back at the roadside to the car, I placed my camera in the back seat, pulled out the camp chairs and poured green tea from flask. I aimed binoculars at the hill, the snow leopard was still there. I took the first sip in that cold evening.

And then, my calculation went wrong. The dogs began barking incessantly toward the slope. Our view of the plain was blocked by tall willow trees, I set my tea aside, took binocular again and saw that the snow leopard was no longer on the slope. The barking intensified, hungry snow leopard had finally decided to face the odds. I grabbed my camera and ran to the roof of Sonam’shouse - situated amid blooming apricot trees - to the terrace for a better view of the kill site.

The leopard had returned swiftly despite the deafening noise of the dogs. It reached the carcass, but the dogs now at a slight distance, began nearing it in a pack. From the terrace, we could barely make out the scene through fences and tree branches. Hence, I ran downstairs and toward the stream for a clearer view.

By then, the snow leopard had backed off. It began walking cautiously along the village edge, dogs harassing it from three sides. And then this happened.

Frustrated by the relentless chase, the cat stopped, lifted its long and bushy tail, hissed, revealing its fierce teeth. With an explosive pounce it scattered the dogs in all directions. Then, in its characteristic grace, the solitary snow leopard walked a few minutes more before disappearing behind the mountain slope. The dogs, regaining their nerve, regrouped and ran in retaliation. I took the pictures without stopping documenting the entire drama.

Back on the road again, we heard the barking echo from behind the mountain. I saw through my tele lens one last time, the resilient snow leopard had made it the mountain top and sat watching the village. Waiting to take the help of the darkness to return to its kill.

We returned to our base to pack our luggage, preparing for the next leg of our snow leopard exploration. Our destination was Tar, a remote and hidden village tucked beyond the Leh - Kargilhighway. Known only to few outsiders, Tar is considered another secret sanctuary of the elusive snow leopard.

The next morning, we left Rumtse, bidding farewell to Stanzin and Gama. As we passed through Miru, we noticed several tourist vehicles parked near the village stupa. News of the snow leopard sighting had spread quickly. Operators specializing in snow leopard tourism had already arrived with their guests, hoping to catch a glimpse. Sonam stood beside the road, we asked him what had happened after we left the previous night. He told us the filmmaker had waited for about an hour in the darkness before leaving, even the dogs had vanished before that. In the morning, Sonam had returned to the kill site, only to find skeletal remains scattered across the ground. “The snow leopard must have returned and finished the kill, or scavengers cleared it I think… there was nothing left” he concluded. We glanced one last time through our binoculars at the mountain ridge, but the predator had disappeared.

We began the long journey towards the base of Tar village. After parking our car, we had to trek an hour on foot to reach the village - an inaccessible and pristine settlement nestled high among the mountains. As we walked, it felt like stepping into another world. The trek to Tar was tiring, especially with our luggage, and the trail was narrow and steep. But after nearly an hour, we arrived sweating and breathing heavily in cold weather. The village, with fewer than twenty homes, felt suspended in time. Tar thrives on responsible tourism built around rural homestays and the chance of spotting snow leopards. Most of the young people had moved to lower altitudes for education or work, leaving behind only elders to tend to the village. A local committee manages tourism here, allocating guests to each house in rotation. I stayed with a 72-year-old couple, Tsering Dorje and Thinles Tsomo. They greeted me with a traditional white khata, a warm cup of butter tea and innocent smiles.

Beside the electricity and the distant presence of a cellphone tower, everything about Tar felt like a glimpse into the past. Life here moved slowly - rooted in tradition. Tsomo was churning curd to make butter, an essential part of their livelihood. Her cows, grazing just outside the house, were as important as family. I asked if they had seen snow leopards recently, they pointed to a mountain visible through the window. “They roam there,” she said. “But we have not seen one in three days.”

Inspired by the possibility of another encounter, we immediately set off on a trek to higher elevations. Tar is one of the most beautiful villages I have ever seen - a tiny settlement surrounded tightly by mountains that dwarf the houses into mere dots. In winter, the entire valley transforms into a white wonderland, a paradise for those who can endure its bitter cold. The snow leopards often descend to lower elevations during that time, sometimes visible from rooftops, playing across the ridges like characters on a giant 360-degree screen. But now, with rising spring temperatures, they had retreated to colder heights. “If you had come 20 days before,” said Mingyur, “you could have seen a mother and two cubs playing right there on that ridge.” pointing at the vista before us.

We trekked until evening, scanning the mountains, but the snow leopard remained elusive. Instead, we spotted a group of Asiatic ibex grazing among the rocks. The landscape was dry and desert like, yet the ibex -fearsome males and cute calves -moved with calm precision. They didnot seem bothered by our presence, though they kept a wary eye on us. As dusk fell, we made our way back to the village.

The following morning, we trekked back to the base and drove towards Ulley via HemisShukpachan, both well-known among snow leopard enthusiasts who come for the tour. The landscape along the road brimming with apricot trees that had burst into bloom, and their attractive pink flowers stood out against a landscape otherwise painted in white and brown. We did not spot anything along the road. As we approached Ulley, it began to snow lightly - within minutes the weather turned cold.

As we drove up the curvy road towards Ulley, we were surprised to find a traffic jam on the upper curves. “There must be a sighting,” said Mingyur as we approached the crowd. Nearly thirty big tourist vehicles were lined up, their passengers huddled on the roadside in thick jackets. It was motley crowd of photographers, wildlife lovers and curious tourists, both Indian and foreign - some sitting on camp chairs and others were standing and talking. Numerous tripods held spotting scopes and long telephoto lenses, aimed at the mountain. Tables had been set up near the cars, serving hot tea to guests by the operators.

I asked a tracker if there had been any luck. Without speaking, he gestured towards a rockymountain. Without the aid of a telephoto lens, the entire mountainside appeared as one soft, textured mass. But through my camera lens, I finally spotted it, a young snow leopard curled on a high rock, using its long furry tail to cover its body, seemingly unbothered by the hundred pairs of eyes below. I finally saw the tourism leopard for a distance.

A Mingyur later told me the heartbreaking backstory. The adolescent had recently lost its mother during a hunt. Both the snow leopard and an ibex had been found dead at the base of a cliff. According to the forest officers, they must have slipped and fallen during the chase. Now the orphaned cub had to survive alone, clinging to the life lessons it had learned from its mother,waiting for its next chance to eat. As we drove further uphill towards luxury lodges built for snow leopard tourists, we saw a large sign board at the entrance to the village listing do’s and don’ts, reminder of sprawling tourism industry in the fragile ecosystem.

On the seventh day, we travelled within the tourism circuit. From Ulley, we descended towards Leh before turning off-road to reach the remote village of Rumbak, situated deep inside HemisNational Park - the symbolic place for snow leopard conservation in India. The journey was rough with rocky track, scattered snow patches and potholes that rattled us and our luggage.

Rumbak is one of the few inhabited settlements within the national park. Homestays and a handful of luxury lodges cater to the wildlife enthusiasts and trekkers. Snow leopards roam here freely, often passing close to the village. They occasionally attack livestock, but unlike the Gya-Miru valley - where threats are constant - here the encounters are sporadic, mostly in the harsh winter months- but I could still sense the fear.

I spoke to Tsering Dorje outside his pen, its door decorated with the skulls of blue sheep and urial and argali. “Snow leopards don’t pose a threat to humans since they are too shy and avoid us most of the time,” he said, locking in his calf. “But for our livestock, they have become a nightmare.” Just a few meters beyond his pen lay a mountain where leopards are known to prowl. It is the risk villagers have to take for sharing the land that belongs to the wildlife.

Curiously, unlike other big cats in rest of India, snow leopards do not get habituated to livestock. They tend to strike mainly in winter - rest of the year - they rely more on wild prey.

As we were returning from Rumbak, Mingyur was informed about the death of the injured pregnant cow of Rong, Livestock play a vital role in the lives of rural Ladakhis. Villagers depend on them for four essential things: milk, meat, manure, and heating. In a place where protein is critical during winter, milk is churned into butter -a key source of nutrition alongside meat. On this barren terrain, manure is used to enrich the soil for growing barley and vegetables in a short window of farming. Most crucially, dried cow dung cakes are burned to heat homes through the long, freezing months. Little Gama stayed warm inside her cozy kitchen because her mother kept feeding the cow dung to the oven cum heater.

Thanks to years of awareness campaigns by the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF), many Shandong traps had been transformed into cultural sites. They are no longer seen as tools of vengeance, but as symbols of change. Mingyur’s father, Karma Sonam, had played a crucial role in convincing the community to abandon the brutal ritual and consecrate the sites as stupas. The prayer stone I saw atop the Shangdong in Lato was part of that transformation.

That night after we came back from trekking in Tar - over the dinner with Dorje and Tsomo - we talked about life in the highlands, about snow leopards, farming and living in harmony with nature. The villagers who once depended solely on agriculture and livestock, now earn a small but vital income from tourism. It is a shining example of how wildlife conservation and tourism can coexist meaningfully, providing not just income but pride in old age. In Tar there was no car or crowd. The unregulated tourism could severely harm the existence of snow leopards. There are no incidents of snow leopards attacking humans, increasing contact with snow leopards and global warming causing decrease in prey numbers may turn snow leopards in to man-eaters too.

A 2024 survey report published by the Government of India under the Snow Leopard Population Assessment in India (SPAI) program lists 718 snow leopards across the Indian Himalayas, spread across Ladakh, Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, Arunachal Pradesh, and Jammu & Kashmir. I had seen only two - one from a distance, and one up close, I had witnessed the stories and sensitive aspects around them. That leaves 716 more across vast, wild landscapes in India. So, thousands of stories remain unheard.

The balance between humans and snow leopard relationship is delicate. Growing feral dog population in wildlife area, development projects in the middle of the habitat, unregulated tourism and increasing human-leopard contact are a growing worry. And yet, unlike many parts of India where wild animals are still stoned to death, the people of Ladakh are choosing to close the shandongs and suffer silently the loss of their livestock in one of the challenging environments for human survival.

There is also a threat from changing weather caused by the global warming. Ajay Bjioor, a field coordinator for high-altitude projects of NCF, working in snow leopard areas in Spiti valley has observed something strange caught in camera traps. Common leopards are now seen in snow leopard territory “overlapping may be result of changing weather pattern in high - altitude areas, caused by global warming” he says.

In Ladakh, people living beside the majestic animal of snow mountains, a quiet fight for coexistence continues. This is perhaps, just the tip of the iceberg in India’s long and complicated stories of human-wildlife conflict.

I was now heading back to airport to catch a flight to Bengaluru. My head was filled with information, images, and unforgettable memories. There was no room left for a headache. I was fully acclimatized to the altitude. My mind was etched with memories of snow leopard sighting like the sacred mantras carved on the stones on the Shandong. It was a spiritual moment for someone who sees nature as god.