Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 12 Min Read

Prologue:

At these heights, every breath is a test.

The road ahead was more than a journey; it was a measure of ourselves.

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There is a reason Ladakh is called the land of high passes. Of the world’s ten highest motorable mountain passes open to civilians, a staggering six lie here. During our journey, we were set to cross two of them, along with a third that doesn’t figure in the top ten but still holds an impressive 13th place.

All these passes soar well above 5,000 meters. The ones on our route were nearly at the altitude of the Everest Base Camp (5,364 meters above sea level): Khardung La (5,359 m) ranked 10th, Chang La (5,360 m) ranked 9th, and Wari La (5,312 m) ranked 13th. As you can see, the difference in altitude between them is negligible. The current highest motorable pass in the world, Umling La (5,799 m), is also in Ladakh.

But in these mountains, altitude alone isn’t the challenge—it’s the thin air. At Leh (3,500 m), we had already begun acclimatising to just about 65% of the oxygen available at sea level. At these passes, that drops to around 50%. That is why travelers are always advised not to linger too long outside at the top.

On Day 3, our adventure was about to take flight—quite literally—as we prepared to cross our first high pass, Khardung La. Until now, on our second day in Leh, we had traveled nearly 150 kilometres, but the journey was through valleys, without much ascent. The real climb was about to begin. Excitement mingled with nervous energy—we had butterflies in our stomachs—but this was what we had signed up for. And now, there was no looking back.

Day 3: 22^nd August 2025 – Scaling Up

We set out after breakfast, a little earlier than usual, around 8:30 a.m. There was much ground to cover before reaching Nubra Valley, where we were to spend the next two nights. The distance wasn’t daunting, about 130 kilometres, but with several planned halts along the way, the drive was expected to take five to six hours. Realistically, we weren’t going to reach our hotel before sunset. The most significant stop en route, of course, was Khardung La, just 40 kilometres from Leh.

A few winding turns through Leh’s streets and within ten minutes we were on the Khardung La road. Since our arrival in Ladakh, the daytime sun had been relentless, blazing down with an intensity that seemed at odds with the altitude. That morning was no different. Yet as we began the climb, the air turned noticeably cooler, and thinner too—we could feel its grip tightening with each breath. The ascent was steep and swift: from 3,500 meters in Leh to over 5,300 meters at Khardung La, all in the space of just ninety minutes.

Soon, we arrived at a breathtaking viewpoint and paused to take a few photographs. From there, the vast expanse of Ladakh’s deep valleys stretched endlessly before us, framed by the enormity of towering, snow-capped peaks in the distance. The winding road snaked through the rugged hills, and the cars crawling along it looked like miniature toys scattered across a giant canvas. The sheer scale of the landscape humbles you, a stark reminder of how small we truly are in the lap of nature’s raw and unyielding beauty.

We lingered there for a while, lost in awe, before continuing our ascent. With every turn, that prominent snow-clad peak—always within our sight—drew closer, as if beckoning us higher. Soon, we were level with it, and the smooth tar road gave way to an interlocked one typical of high mountain passes. We had reached Khardung La! The sun blazed brilliantly above, the sky an uninterrupted blue, and a lively crowd had already gathered at this iconic pass.

Khardung La Pass:

For travellers on a shorter or weekend visit to Ladakh from Delhi, Srinagar, or Jammu, Khardung La is an unmissable stop, thanks to its proximity to Leh and the promise of snow. For those on longer journeys, like ours, it serves as the gateway to some of Ladakh’s most celebrated destinations. There was no snow that day, but the view more than made up for it. We spent about fifteen minutes soaking in the panorama from the mountain top, quietly proud of having scaled this altitude without a hitch.

It was, in fact, the highest point I had ever been to—surpassing Zero Point in Sikkim at 4,700 metres, which I had been to last year. Naturally, we took plenty of photographs to capture the moment, though we were careful not to overdo it. Our driver had reminded us that fifteen minutes is all one should ideally spend here, given the thin air and low oxygen levels. With that in mind, we began our descent down the Khardung La road toward Khardung village.

As we ventured deeper into Ladakh, one striking aspect became clear—the near absence of humanity. The extremes of altitude, terrain, and climate make this vast region thinly populated. Even liberal estimates place Ladakh’s population at just over 3 lakhs, spread thinly across the Union Territory. At present, there are two operational districts, Leh and Kargil. In August 2024, the government announced the creation of five new districts—Zanskar, Drass, Sham, Nubra, and Changthang—but these are yet to become fully functional.

Leh city accounts for around 45,000 residents, while the district as a whole has over 1.3 lakh people, making it the most populated in Ladakh. Scattered across the countryside are small villages, usually clustered near rivers, with a Buddhist temple standing prominently at a vantage point. For those of us used to the bustle of cities, the isolation and silence can feel almost unsettling. This is why I’d recommend experiencing Ladakh in the company of a group—unless, of course, you’re someone who thrives in complete solitude.

Khardung Village:

About forty-five minutes after beginning our descent from Khardung La Pass, we reached the quiet hamlet of Khardung. Our driver pulled over at a roadside eatery on the right called Hor Lam Restaurant. The kids were yearning for a plate of Maggi, while we were longing for a hot cup of coffee. What took us by surprise, however, was not the food but the place itself. For a restaurant tucked away in a nondescript mountain village, it was tastefully done up—exactly what we needed at that moment.

The menu was modest but the service pleasantly efficient. It was here that we stumbled upon something unexpected—a juice made from sea buckthorn, a wild orange berry native to Ladakh. Rich in vitamin C and omega fatty acids, it is known locally for its nutritional benefits. The flavor was distinct—tangy, citrusy, with a sharp tartness—unlike anything I had ever tasted before.

For half an hour, the place became our little oasis—perfect to unwind before we continued our journey on the Khardung La road towards Nubra.

Khalsar:

About an hour later, we neared the village of Khalsar, where the cold deserts of Ladakh began to reveal themselves. Despite the name, it wasn’t particularly cold at one in the afternoon, but the stark, sweeping dunes made their presence felt. Our cars pulled into the Desert Himalaya Adventure Park, a hub for adventure activities ranging from ATV rides to ziplining. Hunger pangs made us hesitant at first, but the sight of the dunes was too tempting to resist.

The kids were thrilled by the ATV rides across the sand dunes, which offered just the right mix of excitement and challenge. The desert landscape here has even caught the eye of filmmakers—it was one of the shooting locations for the film Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. For photography enthusiasts, the afternoon light provides endless opportunities for dramatic frames.

But beauty here comes with its own demands. The climate is harsh, and the dry desert air can dehydrate you quickly. So keep sipping water regularly.

After our little adventure, we were now completely famished. Thankfully, the village of Khalsar was just ten minutes away—and so were its restaurants. All we craved for was a patch of shade and something cool to drink. But before we could give in to hunger, our driver reminded us of a go-karting track in the village. That was enough to send the kids into a fresh wave of excitement.

At the counter, we learned that children had to be accompanied by adults and couldn’t drive on their own. Which meant the reluctant fathers suddenly found themselves behind the wheel. The track looked inviting, but what followed was perhaps the slowest set of laps ever recorded. Our efforts were met with jeers and amused smirks from our wives, while the kids looked delighted just to tick off another item from their own little bucket list.

Finally, we decided we had earned our right to shade and food. Khalsar has a line of restaurants, and we picked the one with the biggest crowd, assuming that meant better food. The downside, of course, was the wait—we spent nearly an hour before anything reached our table. That’s something to remember in Ladakh: unlike in cities, most restaurants don’t keep dishes pre-cooked. Everything is made fresh, which makes sense given the unpredictable flow of visitors. Menus, too, are usually simple and familiar—fried rice, noodles, momos, parathas, dal and rice—though this particular place offered a few extras. The food itself was decent enough; given our state, we would have gladly eaten anything that day. The kids, being more adventurous, ordered pancakes but regretted it soon after and returned to the comfort of noodles.

By the time the clock struck three, we still had two more places to cover. Our next stop was the Diskit Monastery, about thirty minutes from Khalsar.

Diskit Monastery:

Perched at a vantage point, the monastery is both imposing and serene, offering sweeping views of the Nubra Valley. Founded in the 14th century, it belongs to the Gelugpa sect—the youngest of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism. The highlight here is the towering 33-metre statue of Maitreya Buddha, which seems to watch over the valley with calm benevolence. Cars can drive right up to the parking area near the entrance, and from there a short walk leads into the sanctum. Even so, the afternoon heat had left us drained, and we found ourselves reaching for cold drinks and fresh juices after exploring the monastery.

Sand Dunes, Hunder:

The final stop for the day was the famous sand dunes at Hunder, just ten minutes from our hotel in Nubra. It was 4 p.m., and we decided to visit before checking in. The heat had softened by then, and a cool breeze swept across the valley. The dunes stretched before us, but with a water body, this place was an oasis. Near the parking area, a small stall sold souvenirs, and a group of local women greeted us warmly—though rather assertively—by dressing my wife, son, and me in traditional Ladakhi attire. Any hesitation on our part quickly gave way to laughter, and in the end, it turned into a delightful photo-op. My son, I must admit, looked the part best, while I found myself distracted by a playful puppy that insisted on my attention. As a dog lover, I was only too happy to oblige, even if it meant fussing over a pup while dressed head-to-toe in Ladakhi clothes.

As we wrapped up our impromptu dress-up session, the women broke into local songs, turning the place into a little carnival for the evening tourists who were starting to arrive. Our legs, however, had given way after a long day, so joining in wasn’t an option. But there was still one more experience we couldn’t leave without—a camel ride on the sand dunes.

Nubra Valley was once a vital artery of the Silk Road, connecting India with Central Asia and Tibet. Caravans passed through here centuries ago, carrying goods, stories, and traditions. The Bactrian camels—with their two humps—are living reminders of that past. Brought here in the 19th century by traders from Yarkand in present-day China, their descendants still roam the valley today.

For ₹500 per person, tourists can take a twenty-minute camel ride across the dunes. The children were more than eager, and after some gentle persuasion, even my mother decided to give it a try. The only tricky bit is holding on when the camel rises to its feet or lowers itself for you to disembark—but otherwise, it felt surprisingly safe. In the end, the riders returned with wide smiles and a sense of contentment.

By now, the sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting the valley in shades of gold and pink. We had covered everything on our list for the day. All that remained was rest and a hearty meal. We reached our hotel—Sand Dunes Retreat—just at sunset. Check-in was quick, and before dinner, we gathered around a bonfire. Under a canopy of stars, with a cool night breeze and a few drinks in hand, we spent an hour recounting the adventures of the day and talking about what awaited us next. It was the perfect end to a long, eventful day on the road to Nubra Valley.

Coming up in Part 3:

We visit the last northern most village of India, Thang, near the POK border, which was seized from Pakistan in the 1971 war. We also visit the famous Turtuk village, not too far from the border, that gets many foreign tourists, known for its Balti culture that is distinct from Ladakhi culture. This and more in the next part. So stay tuned!

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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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