Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 15 Min Read

Prologue:

Mist veiled the mountains, snow softened the earth—
and somewhere beyond, the lake waited in silence.

***

We woke up to an unusually cold Sunday morning. The weather felt different, almost unsettling. A chill hung in the air, yet it was oddly humid, and a drizzle had begun—though “drizzle” wasn’t quite the word for it. Drops fell one at a time, as if the heavens were testing the day with a hesitant touch. The blazing Ladakhi sun that had greeted us each morning so far was nowhere to be seen. In its place, thick clouds brooded over the valley, and the distant mountains lay veiled in mist.

It was on such a morning that we were to cover 160 kilometres, crossing two of the highest motorable passes in the world—Wari La and Chang La. Roads ahead promised to be unforgiving, and our journey to Pangong Lake was set to be the toughest yet.

Our driver mumbled, “We could see snow today.”

I didn’t know how to respond. A part of me thrilled at the thought of fresh snow, of white flakes falling against a dramatic backdrop. But another part was uneasy—the risk of landslides, roads being blocked, the nightmare of being stranded at 5,000 metres with little but prayer for company. In Ladakh, you learn quickly that the mountains decide your fate. All you can do is whisper a God’s name, trust in luck, and carry on.

And so, after a quick breakfast, at half past eight in the morning, we set off.

Day 5: 24th August 2025: Trusting our luck

As we hit the road, it seemed as though the rain had gathered strength. In truth, it was the wind creating that illusion, pushing the sparse drops harder against the windshield. Ladakh, part of the vast trans-Himalayan expanse, lies in a rain shadow region. The towering Himalayan wall blocks the moisture-laden southwest monsoon, leaving this land parched. What little rain does arrive is rare—and dangerous.

Even a short spell can wreak havoc here. Landslides are common, rivers swell in minutes, and shooting stones tumbling down mountain faces can turn a highway into a death trap. In Ladakh, so much depends on timing. An hour too early, or too late, can decide whether a road is safe or “destined to face the music.”

This is where the value of an experienced driver cannot be overstated. They know the terrain, anticipate the risks, and stay constantly updated—through WhatsApp messages from fellow drivers or official alerts about road closures. Higher up, on the passes we were headed to, avalanches add yet another layer of danger.

Still, for us, the sudden chill in the air felt almost welcome. At last, at this altitude, we were experiencing the kind of weather that felt true to the place.

An hour into the drive, the smooth highway gave way to stretches of gravel and half-built bridges. At places, the river had begun to swell, licking the edges of makeshift crossings. These detours, born out of road repairs and new bridges under construction to connect remote villages, brought with them a strange mix of excitement and unease.

Two hours into the journey, we made our first real halt. Our driver, Sonam, had requested a short diversion to his village. He had been gathering supplies over the last three days—some picked up from friends, others from relatives along the way—and now it was time to unload them at his home. He graciously invited us for tea.

At half past ten, we turned off the main road. Just two hundred metres of a narrow track led us into the village of Tangyar, and right at its entrance stood Sonam’s newly built house. I was eager to step in, not merely for the break, but because this was a chance to glimpse life inside a Ladakhi village—something far more intimate than what any tourist stop could offer.

Tangyar Village

The village was picturesque, cradled by mountains that would be snow-clad for most of the year. A gentle stream cut through its center. At a distance, perched on a vantage point, stood a Tibetan Buddhist monastery—an almost inevitable presence in Ladakhi villages. The houses were modest, single-storeyed structures, yet surprisingly spacious inside, with several rooms laid out for family and guests alike.

Sonam’s wife had already left for the fields—it was harvest season—though not before preparing butter tea and khameeri roti for us. The house itself was still being finished, but inside it felt warm and inviting. Perhaps it was the traditional materials used in construction that held in the warmth. Carpeted floors, wooden-paneled ceilings with little outlets for stove smoke, and corner fireplaces gave the rooms a homely, lived-in charm. These were not luxuries but necessities, for the village would soon be under snow for much of the year.

I sipped the butter tea, its salty tang still something I was learning to appreciate, and my thoughts drifted. What would it be like to spend a few weeks here in winter? To sit by the fire as snow piled outside, waiting for a chance glimpse of wildlife—perhaps even the elusive snow leopard, which draws travelers and naturalists from across the world. Or to let the stillness help me finish the book I’ve been working on, while listening to the stories of villagers who live through such winters year after year.

Someday, I told myself. For now, it was time to head back to the car, carrying with me the quiet memory of Sonam’s village.

We were now on the steep ascent to Wari La Pass. Barely ten or fifteen minutes after leaving Tangyar, the landscape transformed. The winding road carried us through meadowed hills, slowly being swallowed by drifting mist. A persistent drizzle tapped against the windows, keeping us company as we climbed higher.

Wari La Pass: (5312 m above sea level)

Soon, the tarred road gave way to an interlocked one, a sign that we were inching closer to the mountaintop. And then it happened—the drizzle began to change. On the windshield, the wipers cleared away droplets that were no longer just rain, but half-snow, half-rain, slowly thickening with each passing minute. Excitement surged through the car.

Ahead of us, bikers had pulled over, huddling together to warm their hands. Within minutes, the world around us had transformed into a winter wonderland. The slopes, the road, the very air seemed to surrender to the snow. We had reached the mountain top. From every corner came shouts of joy as travelers, like us, stepped out to revel in this sudden gift.

We rushed out too, eager to capture the moment in photographs, our laughter mixing with the crisp mountain air. We made little snowballs and tossed them at one another. Though I had seen snow before, this was my first time witnessing fresh snowfall. And there is something profoundly different about it—like watching the ocean for the very first time, or catching sight of a tiger in its natural domain. It feels divine, almost spiritual.

That morning, destiny had favored us. We had arrived at just the right moment—after an hour or two of snow, but before it grew too thick to block the road. One more dream checked off the bucket list, one of those rare days when luck is undeniably on your side.

As we began our descent from the pass, I noticed two bikes ahead of us, riding close together as if on a planned journey. One bore a West Bengal registration, the other Kerala. Two states close to my heart—one where I had grown up, and the other my home state. Was it divine providence, or simply my mind succumbing to confirmation bias? How else could these two bikes appear before me, at this very place and time? Foolish as it might have been, I couldn’t help but see a story in that coincidence. For a while, the excitement carried me, until it eventually ebbed away with the winding road.

Few realize that descending can be just as risky for those vulnerable to AMS as the climb up. This road, in particular, was treacherous—zigzagging endlessly, testing both nerves and endurance. Kavita was beginning to feel nauseous, while my mother complained of a dull headache. Sensing their discomfort, Sonam agreed to slow down. Yet, there was no luxury of halting completely; heavy snowfall could close the next pass if we lingered too long.

Our driver remained calm, assuring us that these were minor symptoms and nothing to be alarmed about. Severe cases, he said, were unmistakable—and he promised to stop should things escalate. I believed him. Over the past days, he had recounted stories of clients who could not cope, forced to abandon their plans midway and turn back. Quietly, I sent up a prayer that we wouldn’t share that fate.

It took us just under an hour to descend from the mountain top and reach the intersection at Sakthi village. From here, a right turn would lead towards Leh, Kargil, and the Manali highway, while a left turn would take us to Chang La Pass and onward to Pangong. At the junction, we spotted a small restaurant and decided to pause for a restroom break. One thing every traveler should keep in mind about Ladakh is that restrooms along the highways are few and far between—so it’s best to use them whenever you find one. My wife, given her condition, was especially grateful for the stop, even if it meant stepping out into the near-freezing cold.

After a short ten-minute break, we turned left towards Chang La. At such intersections, if routes are blocked by landslides, avalanches, or heavy snow build-up, the police or army usually set up barricades, redirecting tourist vehicles to take a detour or return. Fortunately, the road was clear when we arrived, and we began the ascent to Chang La Pass.

As we gained altitude, visibility dipped. The drizzle had intensified, and the drive was beginning to feel treacherous. Inside the car, nervous excitement was at its peak, and for the first time, we noticed our driver showing signs of unease—though it never affected his steady driving. Soon, the rain turned to snow, and once again, we found ourselves in a snow-clad world. This time, the snowfall was heavier.

Chang La Pass: (5360 m above sea level)

Just under an hour after leaving Sakthi village, we reached the summit of Chang La. Compared to Wari La, the crowd was smaller, which gave us the perfect chance to click photographs and take in the magical sight of fresh snow all around. Ranked the ninth-highest motorable mountain pass in the world, Chang La stands at a staggering 5,360 metres above sea level and serves as the crucial gateway to Pangong Lake. It was also the highest of all the passes we had crossed during our journey.

Being there was exhilarating, but also a stark reminder of how quickly the mountains can humble you. At that altitude, oxygen levels are nearly 50% of sea level, and the shortness of breath was unmistakable. We limited ourselves to just ten minutes at the top before beginning our descent towards Pangong.

The descent took us about an hour, and by the time we reached the village of Durbuk, it was half past two. Hunger had caught up with us, so we stopped at a small eatery on the road to Pangong. The rain continued to fall, and the village was without electricity, though the daylight was still enough to keep things going.

As always, there was a long wait for the food. In the meantime, I sipped on a couple of glasses of warm water to ease my sore throat. I was beginning to feel slightly feverish, though not enough to slow me down. After about thirty minutes, our food arrived—the familiar fare once again, nothing special, but at that moment, all we wanted was to fill our stomachs. We finished quickly and got back on the road to Pangong.

Durbuk to Pangong is roughly an hour’s drive. Though the distance is about 50 kilometres, the road condition was excellent, allowing us to cover it in well under an hour. And then, just like that, we caught our first glimpse of the majestic Pangong Lake. It was a sight to behold, incomparable to any lake I had seen before. We stopped to take a few photographs at a viewpoint.

For tourists, accommodation is available in the villages that line the lake—most notably Man, Spangmik, and Merak. These villages have a range of hotels and homestays, though access to the lake varies; some are within walking distance, while others are farther away. We had chosen Pangong Heritage Resort, at Spangmik, a property just a short walk from the lake. As a bonus, it was only a stone’s throw from the famous shooting location of the film 3 Idiots, which had catapulted the lake to stardom.

Since it was still drizzling, we decided to head straight to the hotel and keep the visit to the shooting spot for the next morning. We reached our stay close to 5 p.m.

From our faces, it was clear that the day had taken a toll on us. Whether it was the altitude, the long hours on the road, the cold weather—or a combination of all three—it was hard to say. We headed straight to our rooms for a much-needed nap.

When I woke up, it was half past six. We ordered tea and some snacks, though my friend Subho and I were more interested in the bottle of brandy tucked away in my suitcase. We figured it would do a better job of warming us up.

The cottages we stayed in weren’t exactly in top shape; they looked like they could use some maintenance. But for a night, it was fine. They were wooden cottages with a lovely view of the lake and the surrounding landscape.

We had chosen to stay close to the lake because we had been told that, on clear nights, the starry skies over Pangong are a sight to behold. The stars reflect on the lake, creating a breathtaking spectacle. That, however, wasn’t to be. The drizzle meant the skies stayed hidden. Still, we rejoiced at our stroke of luck earlier in the day: arriving at the mountain passes just in time to see fresh snowfall before the roads closed. We had not only witnessed snow but had also escaped the risk of being stranded like many other tourists.

The rain, though, came with its share of disappointments. It meant our planned trip to Hanle had to be cancelled. The charm of Hanle lies in its unparalleled night skies—an untouched canvas for stargazing, with no trace of light pollution. But with rain forecast for the next three days, that dream had to be set aside. We had no choice but to head back to Leh the next morning.

Subho and I spent an hour chatting on the armchairs placed in the balcony of the cottage, overlooking the lake. Despite the mist and low clouds, nature revealed itself in all its magnificence. The drizzle continued, each raindrop tapping on the wooden roof and reverberating through the quiet night. It went on without pause, ensuring that our sleep was far from restful.

Day 6: 25th August 2025 – Weathering the Storm

The cold lingered through the night, and when we woke up the next morning, the view before us was breathtaking. The skies were still overcast and the drizzle hadn’t stopped, yet the surrounding mountains had transformed—every peak now wrapped in a blanket of snow.

After breakfast, we checked out of the hotel and headed straight to the 3 Idiots shooting spot we had skipped the previous evening. Even in the rain, a sizeable crowd had gathered there—many of the same tourists we had seen traveling along the road from Leh.

At the site, a few props from the film were on display—the yellow scooter, the colorful plastic (butt-shaped) stools, all arranged as photo ops for a small charge. Yet none of it could compare to the lake itself. Its grandeur overshadowed everything else, reminding us why Pangong remains the true star of the show.

As we drove back to Leh, it struck me just how vast Pangong Lake really is—and how many places along its shores offered better vantage points for photographs than the much-hyped shooting location that had first made it famous among Indian tourists.

The lake itself has an ancient origin, dating back approximately 50 million years. It was formed when the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates collided, displacing the Tethys Sea. As the Himalayas rose, saltwater was trapped in the basin, eventually giving rise to the brackish lake we see today.

What makes Pangong even more captivating is its ever-changing palette. Depending on the day and the light, its waters shift from deep blue to green, and at times, even reddish hues. This play of colors is shaped by the saline content of the water, the surrounding mountains, and the angle of the sun. Yet beyond its colors, it is the lake’s sheer scale that leaves you awestruck. Stretching 134 kilometres in length—with one-third in India and two-thirds in China—its vast expanse feels endless. At its deepest point, it plunges 134 metres, and at 4,300 metres above sea level, it stands among the highest brackish water lakes in the world.

The lake is, in every sense, a beautiful beast.

Coming up in Part 5:

We head back to Leh, disappointed that our trip to Hanle had to be canceled. But with rain forecast for the next 3 days, we didn’t want to take the risk of getting stranded on the road. On our way to Leh from Pangong, we visit the Rezang La war memorial where an unbelievable battle was fought by the 13 Kumaon Regiment in the Sino-Indo war of 1962. The drive back becomes treacherous as the rain intensifies.

We spend a day and half in Leh, hoping to catch the flights back to our cities thereafter. But nature has other plans. This and much more in the next chapter. Stay tuned!

***

About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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