It is called Musa ka Musalla -- the Prayer Mat of Moses, and it is a 4055 metre high whaleback of a mountain forming the watershed between Kaghan valley in the east and Siran in the west. The first time I saw it was twenty two years ago from a hilltop in
Abbottabad: being mid winter the mountain was glinting a brilliant white in its coat of virgin snow and I had remarked to my friend how it so fitted Melville's description of Moby Dick.
As mountains go this isn't even the kind that spawns heroes; it is too puny for real mountaineers to care about. In order to keep their skills honed for the great peaks further to the north, they would perhaps condescend to tackle it in midwinter when several metres of snow and ice make it a bit of a challenge. The Musalla really is meant for lowly mountain walkers like myself -- even so lowly mountain walkers are known to have failed on it.
In October '91 a friend and I tried climbing it only to discover that we had selected the wrong time of the year: the ridge leading up to the mountain was completely desiccated; but for a couple of filthy ponds, and to locate the few springs one had to be more than well acquainted with it. A second attempt was made in July '93 which was thwarted by the worst weather for many years and at one point, tormented by thirst, we decided never to return to the Musalla. But failure is one thing and giving up the mountain wold have been ignominious defeat.
Back in the comfort of my home I was again dreaming of making it to the top, only this time I knew we would have to do it early enough in the season when there would be some snow on the ridge. And so in mid June the most unlikely climbing group arrived in Shinkiari to haggle with Babu Khan, the jeep driver, over the price to Kund Rest House. It comprised of Javed Anwar (JA) the quiet, soft spoken engineer, Javed Buttar (JB) the brash lawyer full of risque stories from the bar room, and yours truly who would dearly have loved to term JB insufferable but for the fact that this would be a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Not long afterwards our jeep was straining around the hairpin bends as it went higher and higher into the forested ridge until the paddy fields and houses in the Pakhli plain below us looked like a monochrome print through the smog and the afternoon light. And if we had thought mid June would be the "right season" for Kund (2500 metres) with plenty of water from some spring or the other, we were in for a surprise. No season is the right season at Kund. Its only water supply is a slimy tank (dicky in local lingo) that takes the run off from the roof and into which the rest house staff dip their buckets and lotas with total disregard for all principals of hygiene. The result is a thriving population of tiny red things writhing merrily about the tank. The staff bring their tumblers brimming out of it and drink them with complete sangfroid. We, however, restricted ourselves to our supply of mineral water.
Moreover, with Kund not exactly in very keen competition with corresponding places in Switzerland, the bearded chowkidar (who looks like he's taking time off from looting travellers on the
Karakorum Highway) has not learned what is to be gained from being nice to tourists. He absolutely refused us the use of any of the drinking water that he was getting by the donkey load from some spring which, if one were to believe him, was somewhere near the Durand Line. However, when JB laid on the solicitor's finesse the man promised to organise a pack horse to get our gear to Shaddal Gali where we hoped to camp the following night.
Irfan, the fellow with the horse, arrived about seven in the morning and it seemed that he had the express orders of his elders never to smile. Either that or God in his infinite wisdom had considered it improper to furnish him with those facial muscles that make a smile -- rather like one of our retired cricketers. And to top it, he was a devious little sneak as I was to learn later.
The load was secured and we set out along the wooded crest of the ridge that runs into the southeast flank of Musa ka Musalla. Soon we had left habitation behind; now the only people we would meet would be Gujjar nomads on their way to the summer pastures in Kaghan valley. Being on the knife edge crest we had views both to the Kaghan and the Siran sides and on either side we could see several columns of smoke rising from the forest. These we naturally took to be forest fires set off by the unusually long dry spell.
Later we learnt that every June, just before the monsoon breaks, the locals set fire to the grass on the forest floor because, they believe, it grows lusher once the rains come. I don't know what all this burning does to the grass but it certainly ravages the environment: sure enough the distant mountains that in October three years ago had sparkled against a crystalline sky were all swathed in a formless grey cloud.
A pleasant three hour walk brought us to the fork where a trail leads down to the rest house of Shaheed Pani. I was a couple of hundred metres ahead of Irfan and his horse and the two Js were somewhere far behind when the man hailed me. "This is Shaddal Gali. This is as far as I had contracted to bring you," he said. It was just too bad that he did not know I had twice before walked this ridge and knew one place from the other. "Is that right?" I asked innocently. The man said it was and started to undo the load. That was when he got what was his due. I told him since he did not know Shaddal Gali I was going to show it to him so that he would not forget it in a hurry and Punjabi being the language it is, there was no ambiguity in the meaning.
In a sweat the man changed tack saying he had never come this far and did not know Shaddal (which was clearly a blatant lie) and since he considered me as venerable as an uncle (thank heavens for grey hair!), he would very willingly follow me to the ends of the earth. In another hour we were at Shaddal, a narrow saddle between two grassy knolls. On the nearer side a large rectangular heap of stones marked the grave of some unknown shepherd killed by raiders from the distant Kala Dhaka mountains near which a Gujjar tent flapped lazily in the breeze. On the far side a hill rose sheer and blocked the view to the north. To our left and right the mountainside fell sharply away to smoke laden valleys, levitating above which in the east was a line of snowy peaks.
Shaddal was a sort of pit stop on the route between Kaghan and Siran valleys and there was a constant coming and going with everybody stopping briefly for tea or a meal: the Gujjars were busily preparing lunch as we came in and soon afterwards were gone; a group of men were making tea; yet others were simply lounging in the warm sunshine before resuming their journeys. There were naturally stories to be told and questions to be asked and our gear to be examined. We were told, as countless before would have swapped the same tale, that a certain shepherd called Musa vowed a session of prayer on the top if Allah would grant him just one favour. The favour was granted and the man betook himself to the mountain. Others believe that it was none but the prophet Moses himself who came here to pray on this mountain.
It was also said that the Gujjars periodically took up their cattle to the shrine on top so that the animals could pay homage to whoever this Musa was. If this was true, it was without doubt a throwback to some long forgotten pagan cult that had been appropriately altered after the coming of Islam to this part of the sub continent.
At 3200 metres Shaddal Gali forms the apex of two wide couloirs on either side of the ridge and despite its height was rather warm so we set up camp on a slight eminence hoping to get the best of the gentle breeze. This was a patently foolish thing to do, more so since it came from me with the boast of "20 years of trekking experience". If that was folly, I don't know what it was when neither tent was secured with pegs. About ten at night the wind rose to a howling 40 knots and our tents began to flap wildly. It seemed the topography of the pass was funnelling the wind up to and over it, magnifying it almost to a storm.
No one could have slept in the din but I was jolted into full consciousness by a frantic call from JB's tent: it had flipped over and JA said I would have to handle this one alone. The tent had turned on its entrance trapping JB inside and was wedged against ours which had probably prevented it from rolling down the slope and carrying on down turning JB into the finest mince meat ever seen in Kaghan. That it had not set our own tent rolling was simply the greatest good fortune. I struggled against a banshee of a storm to deflate the outer fly-turned-parachute and when the tent was right side up JB helped me drive in the pegs. But that was all the sleep to be had that night, for lying in my sleeping bag I had visions of the storm intensifying, yanking the pegs out and sending us crashing down the mountainside.
Sometime towards morning the storm blew itself out and when I started breakfast at four, it was as quiet as death. JB opted to remain in camp and catch up on sleep and so with a light load of stove and tea things JA and I set out just as sunlight was beginning to creep down the mountainsides. The top of the hill that had blocked our view to the north was a wide grassy meadow with excellent views all round. Malika Parbat and Burawai Peak to the right looked deceptively benign and easily climbable in the morning light; Makra was thinly streaked with snow and ice. Straight ahead loomed the Musalla wreathed in nebulous mist beyond which was a great tangle of snowy peaks and to the left far across the Pakhli Plains was the purple ridge of the Kala Dhaka -- Black Mountain.
Within the hour we had descended to the saddle of Thandi Gali where the empty tent of another team of five trekkers told us that we weren't going to be the first to climb the Musalla this season. Snow lay thickly in the corries and there was ample water making this a better camping site than Shaddal at this time of the year.
Another hour and a half and we were at the saddle were my friend and I had turned back more than two years ago: a great crack cutting across the contours of the ridge, three hundred metres across and as much deep. Beyond the crack great patches of snow and ice gashed the ridge and far away at the base of the Musalla we could descry the colourful jackets of the five preceding us. But JA was beginning to flag, complaining of being drained because he had not eaten breakfast. I egged him on promising tea and biscuits just before the last push to the top. And tea we had as I watched in envy the five beginning their climb to the summit.
From a distance it had been difficult to assess the condition of snow on the ridge and now we discovered that traversing the snow slopes without ice axes and crampons was tricky business. But ice axes lying safely in Lahore were no good for the Musalla and I had no one to blame but myself for JA had wanted to bring them along and I had said we wouldn't be needing them! Presently we were confronted by a wide snow slope marked by the footsteps of the team ahead of us. I blundered right into these steps and half way across paused to look down. The slope fell clean away more than two hundred metres without a rock to punctuate the slide of the unfortunate trekker who would slip.
Needless to say that it was the kind of situation that could scare the living daylights out of me -- and it did. I leaned against the upward slope and scurried across shouting for JA to take it only if he really, really felt up to it. A little later I was confronted by another patch of snow and the only way to take this one on was to go straight up. This I did by kicking the toes of my boots into the snow and virtually running uphill until I was out of breath. Eventually I was in the maze of shattered rocks beyond which was only snow and ice. The slope again rose at a dangerous angle and knowing JA was tired I shouted for him not to come any higher for the fatal mistake is made only when the body is overcome with fatigue.
Spurred on by proximity to the crest that had twice before defied me the last bit was quickly done. And then I was on the edge of the flat top that stretched almost five hundred metres to the northwest. In the middle distance a cairn stood grey and stark above the white snow and far away the flags that mark the shrine of Musa ka Musalla fluttered in the wind. Even at midday the snow which lay about two metres deep was still firm and scrunched underfoot as I walked to the shrine.
Only four of the five other trekkers had made it to the top, one having succumbed to altitude sickness. I met them as they were returning and a quick photo session was done. Then I was alone in the consummate silence on the summit. The shrine itself was a large plinth of dressed stones topped by a platform made to look like a prayer mat; but it faced more to the north than the traditional west. Next to it was a small dugout which must have once been a room. Its timbers were burnt, presumably by some shepherd or mountain walker benighted on the windswept summit. I cast about for cow pats to confirm if cattle had ever been brought up to the shrine but found none. These, however, could easily have been concealed by the snow.
The ultra violet glare from the snow was intense (glasses were another implement I had left behind!) and there was no question of stopping long enough for the ceremonial cup of tea for fear of snow blindness. And so, in the tradition of all mountain walkers, having added my rock to the cairn I ran down the snow slopes to where JA was waiting with the others. At Thandi Gali JA opted to stay with them for tea but I hurried on and by four thirty I was back in camp where JB fed me noodles and tea while I screamed at him for not having organised drinking water during the day.
That night I slept so soundly that I did not even know when our tent came off its moorings and the two Js did it up again. After breakfast we made down the slope on the Kaghan side and within two hours were at the beautiful, tree shaded rest house of Nadi Bangla. The sound of running water, the first in three days, was like music to our ears and with it came the much needed bath, shave and change of clothing.
JA and JB fell in love with the setting of the rest house and wanted to stay. But my real objective, Musa ka Musalla, had been achieved and I only wished to get home as quickly as possible. After lunch the chowkidar pointed me in the direction of Kaagan wali Gali (Pass of the Crows) where he said I could get a jeep. But there was none, the nearest they said was at Jabra. There was not one but two jeeps at Jabra -- both waiting for repairs, and it seemed they would be waiting long.
The two brothers who ran the tea shop laughed and said it was pointless waiting for transport and if I kept to the foot trail I would be in Balakot well before sunset. By five I was at the bus stand looking back at Musa ka Musalla and Shaddal Gali, both swathed in the smoke from the grass fires. Twice before I had stood here in failure. Now the Musalla was mine.
