A Walk to the Bridge: Winter in Kibber

Winter, after its long, silent watch, was slowly retreating from the village of Kibber. In this high-altitude world of snow and solitude, the deep stillness of the season had begun to fade—like nature itself was stretching awake after a long slumber.

There were no outsiders here, just me and a woman from South India—a geologist by profession. She had come for work. I had come for beauty.

That morning, as I strolled toward the edge of the village, a familiar uncle greeted me and suggested, “If you follow this road straight for about 5–6 kilometers, you’ll reach a bridge under construction. Go check it out.” Above us, the sky was a serene blue, with a few slow-drifting clouds.

The villagers were out, busy sweeping the snow-dusted path like a carpet, their faces marked with fatigue and resilience. Suddenly, a woman approached me with a stick in hand and a mischievous grin. “Don’t take my picture!” she said, mock-threatening. I smiled, reading her shyness beneath the playfulness. “Alright,” I replied gently. “Respecting your wishes matters most.

The road wound along the mountainside, stretching endlessly under the boundless sky. Kibber—often described as the last Indian village near the Chinese border—was, at the time, connected to the nearby village of Chicham by a bridge still under construction. No one knew its name then. Later, it would be called Chicham Bridge.

I started walking. There’s a certain kind of joy that only walking in nature can offer—unhurried, wordless, and deeply personal. The road was mostly flat, flanked on either side by dry, winter-hardened fields that, within months, would burst into green. This region is known for its green pea cultivation, the primary livelihood here. A few tourists come as well, though the population of Lahaul and Spiti remains sparse, its settlements scattered across vast, rugged terrain.

In the past, this area was isolated to the point of near-inaccessibility. New roads and bridges have changed that—but not without consequences. The influx of social media “travelers” has brought noise where there was silence. The culture is shifting. Pollution is rising. And commercialization is slowly diluting the essence of these remote lands. The claws of capitalism have reached even here, completing a strange cycle that began with the Industrial Revolution in England.

Leaving the village behind, I played *Blowin’ In The Wind* on my phone. Bob Dylan’s voice floated out into the wind, sometimes swallowed by strong gusts, sometimes returning in fragments—creating a kind of broken, beautiful symphony. I kept walking in rhythm with the music.

A little later, I saw a man approaching. “How far is the bridge?” I asked.

“About 4 kilometers more,” he replied with a smile. We exchanged a few simple words—his presence, his honesty, felt like a breath of clean mountain air.

It wasn’t long before the bridge appeared in the distance. The view stopped me in my tracks.

Rugged gray mountains surrounded me, their slopes stripped bare by winter. There was no green in sight—only stone, shadow, and silence. A deep gorge, nearly a thousand feet down, separated two massive cliffs. Looking into it made my head spin. Somewhere far below, I could hear the faint rush of water.

Spanning this gorge was the iron bridge—still unfinished, about 80 percent complete. There was no one around. To the side, I noticed an old ropeway—just a thick steel cable and a small metal box for one person to sit in. This was how villagers once crossed the gorge: pulling themselves across, hand over hand, suspended above a dizzying drop.

The sight reminded me of a distant memory—crossing a swollen river in a similar box years ago. But here, staring into the sheer abyss, I thought: no, not even for a fortune.

Still alone, I stepped cautiously onto the bridge. It felt solid, designed with care, perhaps for strategic reasons—after all, this is a border region. With India and China often at odds, these bridges have military significance. At the time, the Doklam standoff hadn’t happened yet. But looking at the bridge now, it felt like a quiet prophecy.

I crossed slowly, then followed the same road that looped back toward Kibber. Far ahead, perched atop a distant ridge, I spotted a small village—Chicham. People lived there too. As I neared the edge of the path, a strange feeling crept in: if a strong wind blew me off this cliff, no one would ever know. I might vanish without a trace. Perhaps they’d say I disappeared mysteriously. Some might even joke: “Maybe aliens took him.” After all, strange lights are sometimes seen in these skies. I hadn’t witnessed any—but I had heard stories.

I found a large rock and sat down. The silence was deep. I turned off my phone and began to sing—just to myself, just for the sky. My voice, carried by the wind, felt like it belonged there. A small offering to the mountains.

And then, laughter.

Startled, I turned around. Four or five women were standing behind me, probably from Chicham. Their laughter echoed through the valley. They were clearly amused—a stranger singing alone in a language they didn’t understand, on a cold mountain path. And their laughter—bright, full, and joyful—broke the silence like sunlight piercing clouds.

I laughed too.

In that moment, the solitude vanished. The mountains, the wind, my song, and their laughter—all merged into one strange, perfect harmony. It felt like a kind of kinship, not just with them, but with the earth, with the high Himalayas, with something far older and deeper than any of us.

And in that laughter, I realized: the heart of travel is not always in the journey. Sometimes, it’s in a shared moment of joy—simple, human, and unforgettable.