Where the Wind Paused
I feel as if I am standing in the middle of a vast natural amphitheater—before an infinite emptiness, where only silence resonates like music. It is as if an opera singer is singing with the deepest emotions, and the entire world is enchanted by the spell of their melody. I am not an audience member but rather standing backstage, witnessing this ethereal performance, where nature itself is the only listener.
All around me, stretching almost 360 degrees, a dense pine forest forms an invisible wall enclosing the snow-covered, empty bugyal. Perhaps in spring or summer, the slopes here would burst into vibrant greenery, covering the plains with grass, but now there is no trace of that. The entire valley is wrapped in snow as soft as velvet—a perfect, motionless void. A fierce snowstorm has erased all colors, all variations, leaving behind only an endless expanse of whiteness.
Amidst that solitude, right at the center, stands a towering pine tree. Solitary yet proud, as if a great artist stands at the very heart of the stage, radiating its own magnificence. A layer of snow drapes its trunk, and from a distance, it seems as though this lone tree is the sole performer in nature’s vast amphitheater—its very existence is art, a manifestation of an epic.
To witness this mesmerizing sight, Iqbal and I had to endure immense hardship—something difficult to express in words. Every step was a battle, every breath an effort to carve through the ice. At times, the snow was so deep that with every step, we sank up to our knees; at other times, the merciless mountain wind left us breathless. But standing before this view, all our exhaustion vanished—as if such beauty rendered all weariness meaningless, an emptiness so profound that it held within it an unearthly fullness.
A six-kilometer journey—something that would take barely an hour on level ground—had turned into an uncertain expedition in this frozen kingdom. We had to push through waist-deep snow, as if an invisible force was trying to hold us back.
Down in the village, a few horsemen had warned me. Their words were not exaggerated in the slightest—"Don’t go up, there’s too much snow. You won’t be able to return, there’s no place to stay. If you get stuck at night, you’ll freeze to death." There was no fear in their voices, just plain reality. In these snow-covered mountains, where nighttime temperatures plummet far below zero, spending the night without shelter is a sure path to death.
But me? I have always loved unnecessary hardships. Perhaps it’s a kind of backpacking arrogance—a challenge, an obsession with testing my own limits. So I thought, let’s see if I can do it!
I had some trekking experience and a bit of knowledge about surviving in snowy mountains. Still, I didn’t go alone—I took Iqbal with me, a local boy who knew the way. He roamed these mountains regularly, and this snow was nothing new to him.
Right at the start of our journey, within just a few hundred meters of ascent, the tiny settlement below disappeared behind the trees, and the snow ahead grew even deeper. The towering pines leaned towards each other as if they were sharing a secret conversation beyond our understanding. We merged into that pine forest—two travelers stepping into an unknown, frozen realm.
This place didn’t feel like part of the real world—it was like stepping into a fantasy land, like Narnia. It seemed as if, from behind one of these trees, a Faun might suddenly emerge, or just around a bend, the White Witch might be standing. The snow-laden branches occasionally shed their burden in a gentle cascade, as if winter fairies were trying to weave our path in ice.
With each step, I sank almost waist-deep into the soft snow, our pace slowed to a crawl. Even inside my boots, the snow crept in, numbing my toes, yet my mind kept pushing me forward. Having come this far, I had to see it through. Turning back would mean standing at the door of a dream and retreating—I couldn’t do that.
In the mountains, there is a psychological state known as Summit Fever—a kind of madness, where an invisible force drives a person toward their goal, ignoring all risks and hardships. This isn’t something only mountaineers experience; many artists and researchers share the same obsessive drive—to complete something at any cost.
Perhaps that’s what happened to me as well. Otherwise, who would endure such hardship just to photograph a tree? My body was drained, yet my mind was fueled by an inexplicable thrill. It took us almost three hours to reach the top, every step an uncertain battle.
And then, suddenly, the landscape unfolded before my eyes—a scene as if a mysterious world had revealed its doors to me. A vast, snow-covered plateau, as if someone had laid a giant white table atop the mountain. Surrounding it stood solemn mountains, their lower slopes draped in dense pine forests, while the upper reaches were cloaked in an ethereal mist. In the distance, patches of dark rock peeked through the melting snow, while elsewhere, powerful gusts of wind carved the hardened ice into layers upon layers.
Above, fragmented white and gray clouds raced across the sky, casting shifting shadows upon the snow, then vanishing like mist. The wind was so strong that it felt as if it wanted to tear through this vast emptiness. Yet strangely—within this raging wind—there was a profound silence. No birdcalls, no human voices—only the wind’s roar, as if even time itself had come to a halt here.
We didn’t move any further. Instead, we lay down in the snow, as if trying to become one with this immense emptiness, if only for a while. Our bodies were exhausted, but our minds felt rejuvenated. Of all the beautiful places I had visited in my life, this one felt different, incomparable. If only there was a place to take shelter, or if we had brought a tent, I would have surely spent the night here.
Just then, Iqbal gently tapped my shoulder and said,
"Dada, look at that tree... standing all alone!"
I looked up.
Indeed, amidst this vast emptiness of snow, a lone tree stood. There were no other trees nearby, no shrubs or bushes—just this one tree, standing alone amidst the mountains and snow. Looking at it, I felt as if it were a thousand-year-old sentinel, the sole living witness of this cold, desolate valley.
I took several photographs—sometimes standing, sometimes kneeling, sometimes lying on the snow—using long exposure. I wandered through the pine forest, battling the snow with every step. The fine snow had been falling all day, but now it seemed to have intensified. The whistling wind grew sharper, as if it were shattering the surrounding silence into tiny fragments.
I knew that by evening or nightfall, this gentle snowfall would turn into a fierce storm. Surviving under the open sky would become nearly impossible. So, despite my reluctance, I decided to descend.
The return journey was supposed to be easier, but in reality, it was the hardest part. Walking through deep snow had been exhausting, but the descent was even more terrifying. With every step, my feet slipped on the soft, powdery snow, making it difficult to maintain balance. At times, I felt that if I took just one wrong step, I would go tumbling down. But I didn’t stop—not even once.
As we descended, the surroundings gradually darkened. The shadows of the mountains grew deeper, and it felt as though night had fallen even before dusk. I took out my headlamp and switched it on, searching for the path within its faint glow. The reflection of the light on the snow created a strange, mysterious aura. Overhead, dark clouds had thickened, and there was a tense, electric charge in the air—the storm was coming.
We did not pause; we kept descending for six kilometers without a break. The further we went down, the more it felt like I was returning from another world.
When we finally reached the bottom, I saw the windows of the wooden houses glowing with light, the warm flicker of fires illuminating their interiors.
A few horsemen standing below looked up at us, as if they had been waiting, and let out a sigh of relief upon seeing us.
Iqbal spoke to them in Kashmiri.
Walking beside him, I asked, “What were they saying?”
Iqbal smiled and said,
“They were saying, ‘What kind of man is this! He climbed all the way up, took pictures, and walked back down—all in a single day, in this much snow!