Chasing Silence in Snow: A Himalayan Vulture and Winter Memory

Standing atop a thick blanket of snow, I tried to gaze into the distance. The snowfall over the past few days had wiped away the horizon, leaving behind an endless expanse of white. Only a few black branches of bare trees broke the uniformity — their leaves taken by the season’s first storm.

In this whitewashed world, visibility was minimal. I shielded my eyes with one hand and stared into the whiteness. And then I saw it — a Himalayan Griffon Vulture, floating like a shadow above the silence.

Wildlife photography was never my pursuit. I have always been drawn to solitude, to silence, to the still life of nature — but seeing this massive bird stirred something in me. How do such creatures survive here, in this bone-chilling, unforgiving cold? When even we struggle to see or walk through the snow, this vulture was navigating with grace and certainty. Its flight felt less like a movement and more like a message from nature.

This was not just wildlife documentation. This was something symbolic — a portrait of raw resilience. Even before lifting my camera, I knew: this image would be more than a frame.

Many villages in Kashmir’s Ganderbal district vanish under snow for months each year. During winters, life pauses. With no work or supplies, many villagers migrate temporarily to Srinagar or nearby towns.

I often took buses from Srinagar with no fixed destination, getting off wherever instinct told me to — usually near isolated, snow-laden villages. From there, I walked deeper into unknown places. There was no itinerary. Just snow, silence, and a camera.

The locals were frequently puzzled. Some asked directly, “Which regiment?” assuming I was part of the Indian Army. I quickly clarified I wasn’t. This suspicion wasn’t unjustified. Many remote Kashmiri villages lie outside tourist routes and have occasionally been used by separatists as hiding spots, prompting army search operations.

I once witnessed such an operation — a full “cordon and search” in a village. Every house combed, every door opened. The silent tension, the wary eyes of villagers, the cold metal of weapons — all of it left an impression on me I cannot forget.

Strangers aren’t always welcome in these parts. And yet, I was rarely treated with hostility. I had learned how to enter such places quietly, without disrupting rhythms. I never acted like an outsider. Over time, I built trust, and some villagers even invited me to stay the night — offering memories and stories that no guidebook could give.

On one such morning, walking through deep snow, the world was silent. Snow had fallen all night, and though it had slowed now, occasional flakes still drifted down like whispers. The trees stood like sentinels — black limbs cloaked in white.

 

The only sound was my footsteps.

And above, circling in wide arcs, was the vulture.

It moved like a dancer, repeating its pattern again and again. I studied its flight, trying to predict its next descent, searching for the right place to stand.

Ansel Adams once said, “A good photograph is knowing where to stand.” That was exactly what I was contemplating.

The village clung to a mountain slope. Below, a narrow river — mostly frozen — wound through the valley. A thin current still flowed, a black ribbon slicing through the snow. In that moment, I felt lucky to be alive. Witnessing something so grand, so vast and fleeting — it made me feel both small and infinite at once.

 

I realized if I climbed a snow-covered slope to my right, I might get closer when the bird circled again. And so I began to climb.

 

I remembered Ernst Haas’s words: “The best zoom lens is your legs.” Five minutes later, I reached the top — breathless but ready.

But the sky was empty.

Just as I was about to give up, the silence broke — something flashed just 10 or 15 feet above me. A blur. A roar. For a second, I thought it was a drone.

No.

It was the vulture.

It had come from behind a ridge and raced forward toward the river. I had no time to react. The bird had outplayed me — this time.

I watched it descend toward the river’s edge and then rise again in a huge arc. That’s when I saw the pattern: it was flying a vast circle across the valley, returning to this spot again and again.

I waited.

This time, I was ready.

The sky darkened. The snowfall intensified. Nature seemed to be setting the stage. And then the bird appeared again, soaring lower than before — its wings stretched nearly six feet across, every feather etched sharply against the white sky.

Its eyes met mine.

In that instant, it felt like a silent challenge.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I held my breath. My fingers tightened around the camera.

And then —

I pressed the shutter.

When the eyes met , Kashmir 2020

 

That photograph wasn’t just about a bird.

It was about presence. About endurance.

About the will to remain graceful in extreme conditions.

I don’t often chase wildlife. But this experience reminded me that, sometimes, the wilderness comes looking for you. It offers you a challenge — not to capture a creature, but to capture a feeling. A story. A moment that will never return.

This is why I photograph.

To find, in the middle of nowhere, in silence and snow —

The exact point where nature, memory, and instinct meet.