We began our journey to Spiti from Chandigarh—a long, winding route that would take two days and carry us from the world we knew into one so stark and elemental, it felt almost otherworldly. Our first stop was Chail, where we had tea at a roadside dhaba owned by a former rally driver who told us stories of daring drives along Himalayan cliffs while pouring steaming cups of chai. We moved on, climbing steadily through the hills, stopping for a quiet lunch at a small eatery in Kumharsain—simple food made with heart. That evening, we halted at Sarhan. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, the air turned crisp. That night, the cold crept in silently. When we stepped out the next morning, a delicate layer of frost coated the cars, glinting under the pale sun—our first tactile reminder of what lay ahead.
The second day brought with it a dramatic shift. The road to Spiti is like an unfolding dream—one moment you’re winding through pine forests, and the next, the landscape strips itself bare, revealing a world sculpted by rock and time. Towering green trees gradually faded behind us, replaced by rugged cliffs and barren slopes. It was February, and yet, strangely, the mountains were mostly brown, devoid of the snow that should have blanketed them this time of year. We grumbled about global warming, half-joking, half-concerned. We drove along the Rampur valley, tracing the path of the Sutlej River, the landscape opening into dramatic vistas. Finally, snow-capped peaks loomed in the distance as we passed Reckong Peo, Kalpa, and Morang. Higher still, we crossed Pooh and Hangrang, entering a realm of wind-carved rock and thinning air. Near Malling Top, we reached Malling Nala—frozen solid, glinting like a shard of glass against the grey cliffs. It was the kind of view that stays with you long after the trip is over. This was my first experience of snow and ice, my first time breathing in air so thin that each step felt heavier, and my first real taste of what it meant to venture into the high-altitude wilderness.
It was somewhere close to Kaza, still an hour and a half away from our destination, that the news came through—there had been a Snow Leopard sighting. The excitement in the vehicle was palpable. This trip was all about chasing that elusive ghost, and now it was within reach. We pressed on with renewed urgency, hearts pounding, every curve in the road bringing us closer.
When we finally arrived and climbed up to the observation ridge, the leopard was there—sleeping. Curled up in a small cave across the gorge, it was barely more than a shadow against the rock, camouflaged perfectly. We waited, hushed and still, cameras trained on that one spot. The day stretched on in slow motion, the cold settling into our bones as we sat with our eyes fixed on that quiet silhouette.
Then, from above, movement—sudden and fierce. A pair of Bearded Vultures, or Lammergeiers, clashed in the sky right above us. Locked in a spiraling battle, their talons intertwined as they tumbled downward in a breathtaking freefall. My instincts kicked in. I hurried to lift my camera off the tripod and swing it skyward, barely in time to catch the incredible moment. Just before hitting the rocks below, the two birds broke apart, wings flaring in perfect unison as they soared back into the heavens—as if nothing had happened. It was wild, raw, and astonishing. The Snow Leopard may have been still, but the mountains had their own ways of keeping us on edge.
Lammergeiers in a duel
The rest of the day passed in silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind and the occasional flutter of wings. And then, just as the light began to fade, the leopard stirred. A long, luxurious stretch, muscles rippling beneath its thick fur. It stepped out onto the snow, moved a few paces with casual grace, and then—vanished. Slipping soundlessly into the valley below like smoke into the sky. We hadn’t seen it move much, but somehow, that single moment was enough to make the entire day feel monumental. The whole day could be distilled into this: nature doesn’t perform on command, but when it does, it’s unforgettable.
One last glimpse of the Snow Leopard before she vanished
The following morning brought more news. The Snow Leopard had returned and was now resting on a ledge along the opposite face of the mountain. We bundled up and returned to our lookout, cameras ready, breath frosting in the frigid air. Again, the day passed in a kind of meditative stillness. The leopard lay still for hours, nothing but a distant silhouette etched into the rock. Then, movement. From nowhere, a pack of feral dogs appeared near the base of the slope, inching toward a carcass—its kill. The leopard rose with slow purpose. What happened next was an astonishing display of power and grace. It charged down the cliffside, scattering the dogs in seconds, reclaiming its place atop the food chain. We watched, transfixed, as it fed—majestic, focused, utterly wild.
But the Snow Leopard wasn’t the only wonder Spiti had in store. One morning, we spotted a herd of Ibex, their scruffy beards giving them comic dignity as they scrambled across a ridge, chased by a pack of large feral dogs. The Ibex held their ground, nimble on impossible slopes, clinging to ledges where no other creature dared. At another moment, looking up from a valley floor, we saw Blue Sheep—silent, still—outlined like statues against a bright, cloudless sky at the very edge of the ridge above.
The Himalayan Red Fox teased us with its laziness. One day, we sat watching it for what felt like hours. It would stretch, yawn, blink at us with bored disinterest, and then curl right back into its fluffy tail. We willed it to move. At one point, a feral dog began descending the slope toward it, and we leaned forward in anticipation—hoping the commotion would rouse it. But halfway there, the dog stopped, turned around, and padded away. Finally, when we had almost given up, another fox trotted into view and approached the sleeper. A brief sniff, a glance exchanged, and just like that, they moved off in different directions.
Later that evening, driving back to our homestay in Chicham in the dark, we saw red foxes dart across the road not once, but four separate times. Thin, agile shapes flashed in the headlights and vanished into the shadows. One of them lingered just long enough for us to capture it in a shaky mobile video—a small, perfect reminder of the day’s strange magic.
When the snowfall finally came, it transformed everything. We had arrived in a Spiti that felt dry and almost eerily snowless for February. Then the sky opened up. Thick, swirling flakes blanketed the village and mountains, and for two days, the landscape was made new. It was my first snowfall—real snowfall. I stood out in the open, letting the snow settle on my jacket and beard, feeling the cold bite my cheeks and not caring one bit. The silence was profound. But the snow brought with it new challenges. The temperature plunged to -35°C. We kept our vehicles running all night so the fuel wouldn’t freeze. In the morning, icicles hung from every edge, the ground turned to ice, and even walking required caution and concentration. Wildlife sightings became rare—like us, the animals had retreated into the warmth of stillness.
On the second snowed-out day, we decided to explore closer to home, wandering through Chicham village with our cameras and eyes tuned to smaller movements. The birdlife revealed itself in flashes of wings and bursts of color—Black-winged Snowfinches flitting between stone walls, Black-headed Mountain Finches and Hill Pigeons huddled near windows, and flocks of Red and Yellow-billed Choughs swooping through the snow, their chatter echoing off the silent hills. It was a different kind of birding—less dramatic, perhaps, but rich in its own quiet way.
Chicham and its neighbouring villages exist in a realm where survival is an everyday triumph. Life here isn’t easy. At these altitudes, the air is thin and breathing is laborious. Komic, which we visited briefly, sits at a staggering 4,587 meters above sea level. Here, there is no running water—pipes freeze in the cold, so ice is melted for everything from drinking to bathing. Toilets are simple pits in the ground because modern plumbing doesn’t survive the freeze. In these places, nothing grows. Supplies must be brought from Kaza, the nearest town—a two-hour drive away when the roads are clear. The locals told us about life before the Chicham bridge was built—when villagers had to trek across snow-laden cliffs to get to the next settlement. And yet, despite the hardship, there’s something deeply grounding about their way of life. There’s warmth in their eyes, laughter in their stories, and an easy generosity that puts you at ease even when the cold is trying its best to break you.
Spiti was more than a trip; it was a lesson in contrasts—beauty and brutality, isolation and connection, silence and spectacle.
Photography in snow had its own challenges—the blinding reflection of the sun, the deceptive haze that could ruin an otherwise perfect shot. I learned the value of layering against the cold, the importance of being prepared, and the humbling reality that no gear, no technology, and no amount of preparation can truly conquer nature.
But most of all, Spiti was a reminder of the unyielding spirit of both man and beast. That no matter how extreme the conditions, life finds a way to thrive—be it in the elusive steps of a Snow Leopard, the soaring dance of a vulture, or the quiet resilience of those who call this frozen wilderness home.
As we drove away, leaving behind the white peaks and frozen rivers, I carried with me more than just photographs. I carried memories etched in frost, moments suspended in time, and the quiet, unshakable magic of Spiti.
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