It's our seventh day of clambering up rocky ridges in the bone-numbing cold. A curtain of snow is engulfing us, restricting our visibility substantially. I desperately continue to scan the slope ahead of me, but I’m shivering and increasingly distracted by my now painfully numb fingers.
This unforgiving landscape lies on the outskirts of Drass, a small town nestling at 3,300m in the Kargil district of Ladakh. Such an elevation, at which temperatures plummet to -20°C in winter, bestows on Drass the dubious honour of being both the coldest place in India and the second-coldest inhabited place on Earth. But as winter eases into spring, the region is breathtakingly beautiful. Mountain streams collect into the impossibly turquoise waters of the Drass River, which flows through a valley draped in the magenta hues of blooming apricot trees, all against a backdrop of high peaks still locked in ice.
I’ve come to this remote settlement to fulfil a lifelong quest to photograph the largest land carnivore on the subcontinent, but the blizzard is making that possibility more remote by the second. Suddenly, Ahmad Ali, my companion and guide, gestures urgently towards a cluster of boulders partially obscured by snow. I have no idea what he has seen. Then, one of the boulders moves, stands and looks straight
in our direction.
I cannot believe it: it’s a Himalayan brown bear, my dream animal, standing unbelievably close to me. I have been photographing Himalayan wildlife for 10 years and this notoriously secretive subspecies has always eluded me. The whiteout – which lasts for four days – means I can’t get the close-up shot I’ve always dreamed of, but the encounter is thrilling all the same.
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Himalayan brown bears, locally known as dren-mo, are the stuff of legend. These are immense animals – an adult male can weigh up to 400kg and reach 3m in height when standing upright on his hind limbs. Though brown bears are classified as of least concern on the IUCN Red List, the Himalayan subspecies is listed as endangered in the Himalayas and critically endangered in the Hindu Kush mountains, which stretch for 800km from Afghanistan, through northern Pakistan, to Tajikistan.
This enigmatic giant inhabits altitudes between 3,000 and 5,500m, and in India, is distributed over a region of more than 35,000km², of which only 10 per cent is protected. The total wild population is estimated at 750-1,000 individuals, but a formal census has never been carried out, owing to the combined challenges of the inaccessible habitat and harsh weather conditions. This lack of data is proving a major obstacle when it comes to the subspecies’ conservation.
My reasons for going to Drass in April were two-fold. First, the weather conditions are usually favourable; second, this is the month that the bears emerge from their five-month hibernation, along with their cubs, and, in desperate need of food, venture down the slopes towards the town. While their forays into the human landscape offer a chance to see the bears at close quarters, they also trigger alarming episodes of human-wildlife conflict. Locals, concerned for their orchards and livestock, will kill the bears by trapping, beating and poisoning, or ward them off by pelting them mercilessly with stones.
But these cold-adapted bears have no alternative. The Western Himalayas is one of the fastest warming places on Earth, pushing the animals higher up the mountains, where vegetation and prey species, such as ibexes, marmots and pikas are scarce. Entering high-altitude towns and villages is the only way for them to survive.
Ahmad grew up in Drass and has seen Himalayan brown bears since his childhood. He has an unrivalled passion for these animals and is able to pick them out from incredible distances. Yet even with his superior spotting skills, finding the animals is far from easy. They may be large, but their brown coats blend seamlessly with the rocky outcrops. They are also extremely shy, particularly when they have cubs in tow.
Every morning, Ahmad and I would rise at first light and scan the snow-clad ridges. Bears have poor eyesight and usually hunt at twilight, aided by an acute sense of smell, but forays into a human landscape to prey on cattle or scavenge discarded waste are undertaken under cover of darkness. At dawn, they return to their dens, doing their best to keep out of sight. We would usually spot one or two individuals making their way home, but even then only as distant specks through the scope.
Our days were spent embarking on countless arduous treks up cold, craggy slopes, attempting to track the bears by their prints or scats. Still our quarry eluded us, secreted away in the mountainside, keeping their young safe from harm. When the four-day blizzard finally subsided and our quest resumed, we were able to track two males and a female with a pair of cubs. But as ever, they appeared only as apparitions, too far away to observe. After nearly two weeks, we had left no stone unturned; we had climbed every ridge. The trail was as cold as the ice on the peaks.
I filled the empty hours by spending time with the Drass villagers, who imparted interesting information about the bears. In November, these solitary animals retreat into caves for the winter. Cubs are born during hibernation, with new mothers sacrificing their sleep to nurse their offspring. The bears shed considerable fat and body mass during the five-month fast, particularly the nursing females. Untimely snowfall can force them to hibernate for extended periods, which can lead to starvation.
But even more fascinating was hearing tales of the bears’ innovative adaptations to survive. When raiding villages after dark, for instance, they have learned how to break into kitchens and store rooms undetected: using their paws, they feel for a weak spot in a pane of glass, then gently push until they create a hole. They continue pushing until they have removed enough glass to finally gain entry.
The bears – both adults and cubs – are also able to navigate the perilous cliffs in the dark by touch and feel alone. One individual once managed to get its head stuck inside a discarded plastic container. A few well-meaning villagers attempted to remove it, but the blindfolded animal fled and, using just its thickly padded paws, managed to steer itself up a precipitous, jagged ridge to the safety of its den.
Finally, on day 15, we had a breakthrough – and witnessed some astonishing behaviour. Exploring the hills at nearby Hulyal, Ahmad and I stumbled across a tantalising sign of bear presence: the carcass of a horse, neatly covered with a loose layer of soil. Unable to haul their kills up the mountainside, the bears instead bury their food to conceal it from scavengers, later escorting their cubs to the banquet.
Having located the impending feast, we concealed ourselves in the distance and waited. The peace was soon interrupted with first-hand evidence of the resentment held by some of the villagers towards these bears. It was the owner of the horse, understandably angry at his loss and intent on poisoning the carcass in retaliation. Only when we offered him financial compensation did he resist.
Our wait continued. As twilight fell, my heart started pounding as the unmistakeable sillhouette of a female and two cubs appeared at the summit of the nearby ridge. They picked their way down the slope towards the meal, only to be confronted by their next competitor: a pack of feral dogs, who had sniffed out the kill but seemed perplexed by the unusual finding.
As the female unearthed the carcass, the canines closed in, barking to alert their pack mates and persistently harassing her for their share. She pounded around to keep them at bay and allow her cubs to feed. Though a single dog is no match for the heavyweight that is a Himalayan brown bear, just one bite can spread an infection capable of wiping out Drass’s entire population. As the drama unfolded, I too closed in, at last fulfilling my dream of photographing this beautiful animal close-up.
The Himalayan brown bear is a unique species, an apex predator that plays a vital role in the Himalayan ecosystem. Yet it is probably the most blighted of all mammals in the Indian subcontinent, challenged on all fronts. Its habitat is disappearing due to human encroachment, resulting in diminished and fragmented populations. Vital corridors of pastureland are vanishing, drying up in the warming climate, lost to development or given over to livestock. The bears suffer continued conflict with humans, persecuted by farmers and poached for their fur, claws and organs.
Yet we still have a window of opportunity to save this animal from an otherwise bleak future. Simple measures can make a big difference: clean, efficient disposal of food waste and secure enclosures for livestock, for example, can go a long way in mitigating the damage the bears can cause. A suitable cattle-compensation scheme needs to replace the token handouts currently offered, which not only fall grossly short in reimbursing losses, but also demand time and transport costs for any claimants.
On a larger scale, there is potential to develop eco-tourism in Drass, creating jobs for the community and giving locals reason to protect and embrace the bears. A network of protected corridors patrolled by forest guards will help to combat poaching, while a feral dog management programme could keep these competitor numbers in check.
I feel there is hope. Despite the attitudes of many locals, there are people in Drass who admire the bears, particularly among the younger generation. Every day, returning from the field, I would be greeted by a throng of local children, who would huddle enthusiastically around my laptop and admire my photos. I hope they will grow up to be proud custodians of this special animal, and that humans and the dren-mo can find a way to co-exist for years to come.
Words and photographs by Puskar Basu