Words:
Darren Clarkson

Photos:
Shalabh Gahlaut

Darren Clarkson

About Darren 
Darren is an adventurer whose personal philosophy asks what we can learn when we put ourselves in a place of adventure. Over the last 20+ years Darren has explored some of the worlds most challenging rivers. He specialises in running trips across the Himalaya in Nepal, India, Bhutan, Pakistan and Tibet. To join him for expeditions visit: www.purelandexpeditions.com
www.dirtcanyoncoffee.com
info@purelandexpeditions.com

Full circle

The jeep is making its way up the switchbacks from the burning pyres. Pine forests obscure the snow peaks as we head out of the Ram Ganga valley. The stereo is playing Harry Belafonte, Crass, the Sex Pistols, and Jimmy Buffett before settling on MTV Unplugged and Kurt’s finest hour. My long-time friend Shalabh, the OG of Indian kayaking, is driving. Half asleep in the back of the jeep is Maya, his daughter, with friends Amuu and Daman. Scattered in two other vehicles are an eclectic bunch from India, NZ and the USA.

This trip is possibly the most enjoyable trip I’ve done in the last decade – and it’s not really for the reasons you think. For more details on the rivers, check Manby’s article @ https://paddlerezine.com/the-saryu-and-east-ramganga-into-the-unknown.

On the face of it, this trip started when I sent a message to Shalabh a week or so ago. I was working in Sheffield, on The Manor, a district that perhaps holds the record for the most burnt-out cars and street mattresses per capita. My message read, “Miss you guys, any plans for a trip?” His response. “Ram Ganga and Saryu, we leave in 12 days.” I hastily booked a flight, sorted a visa and shoved some clothes in a bag.

I know nothing of the trip, only that I had to be in Shivanandi on the night of the 9th October, just over a week after my 50th birthday. Shivanandi sits as an unmarked village on the banks of the Alaknanda, but it is home to Shivanandi River Lodge, a haven of peace (when the kayakers ain’t here).

For me, this trip didn’t start when I landed in India; it began decades before in a log cabin in Norway.  Fresh out of university and wet behind the ears, I met an Indian kayaker called Vikram Joshi. I think he was the first Indian kayaker to paddle in Norway. We worked together on safety kayaking and rafting trips. He still tells the story of my first-ever guiding job, when I fell out of the raft four times in one day – I learnt quickly.

He told me story after story about kayaking on the Ganges in Rishikesh. I’ve spent countless seasons here since, although it was Nepal where I met Shalabh 25 years ago.

Now, a time jump: I am chatting with Shalabh in Leh, Ladakh, and his wife, Alice, is holding their firstborn, Maya. – I remember it, but it’s 18 years ago. I know it’s 18 years ago because Maya is 18 and she is asleep behind me. Maya is an Indian-born woman living in Israel, whose mother is an iconic pilot and is now returning without choice to join the IDF.  We don’t talk politics, but if every member of the IDF is as peaceful, loving and caring as Maya, we have nothing to worry about.

I expect you know that this article isn’t going to tell you how to get to the rivers. It’s not going to break down the rapids or tell you how many miles per day. It won’t even tell you what grade it is (let’s just say it’s not class 2). Our nights are spent either sleeping at temples, our slumber at the feet of idols or on sandy beaches. We spent our mornings slowly waking, coffee in sleeping bags after a night under the stars. The rapids roll and thunder. I am under strict instructions not to let Maya out of my sight. She is instructed to follow my lines. Maya wants drylines.

On each rapid, the smooth and stable Arjun zips and carves between the rolling waves and the foam cacophony of the hidden holes. Just over a decade ago, he was the kitchen boy, the chai walla and driver. He recalled one night when his first raft-guiding trip was with me – he was so nervous he asked me to do a group safety brief; we were on the Zanskar.

A new breed of river professionals
Now, Arjun, fresh from working in Iceland, has better gear than I. He is small but powerful. A river professional, trip leader and excellent advocate of all that is good about Himalaya river running. One of the new breed of river professionals from the Himalaya. No longer the poor man of the scene, I suggest many UK paddlers and guides could learn much from Arjun and his friends.

Midway through the Saryu leg of the trip, the river collapses into a steep, fang-toothed aquatic nightmare. If you believe in chance and circumstance, this is where they meet. After we portage the rafts, gear and some kayaks, is the portage mandatory? Three kayaks are left at the top in a jumble of rocks. Arjun, Amuu, and I have seen a line and have chosen to descend into the fangs.

It’s been a few years since I committed to a half blind horizon. Although it is something I did regularly for decades. I pull out of the eddy. I’ve pulled out of thousands. I don’t feel 50. I made strokes like these decades ago, and my muscle memory recalls the descents made throughout the years.

Autopilot
My body and mind fall into autopilot – if this were a movie, it would have a montage scene of previous rivers paddled, perhaps my first run down ‘Doors of Perception’, ‘Reru’, or ‘The Wall’ – and before I know it, I’m past the crux and the line is smooth, the safety of the eddy inevitable. It’s not always like this, early in the trip on a sweeping bend, a minor rapid, the raft had flipped, people scattered. The river always knows the score.

The first leg of the trip closes at the confluence where the Saryu meets the Ram Ganga. We wait until morning for our vehicles. Sleeping in god’s waiting room, where only a short time before, the flames took the bodies from this realm, as ghats will do.

I had heard nothing but good news about the Ram Ganga, all from experienced expedition kayakers. It did not disappoint. A day of constant rapids, of must-make lines. The Ram Ganga – a river where gravity will win, where holes are strong and rapids can approach a kilometre in length, before a short pause and further action. Although now that all seems like describing paddlers like a sock in the washing machine – that’s not right.

Swimming will hurt
I’m hesitant to build the hyperbole on this. Just know that you need a strong team, swimming will hurt, and a keen eye for reading whitewater on the go is a must. Strangely, this was the true gem of the expedition, but it got the lowest word count. Like one of those speeches at the Oscars where the winner didn’t expect to win, so they hadn’t prepared anything.

They thank their agent and that writer, then walk off. That’s how it feels. Only now I’m thankful for the future of Himalayan river running, not its past. A fire that burns brighter with each new season, with each generation.

We return once more to god’s waiting room after egressing the river between the flames and memories of lives lived.