LADAKH
After landing in Leh by plane, the first day went by as if in a drunken daze. Acute mountain sickness (AMS) hits quickly―head throbbing, thoughts muddled and the spirit weighing down. It feels worse when you are on assignment. In the past, I had reached Ladakh the slow way, by bike and bus. Days of gradual ascent acclimatised the body to adapt to the thin, high-altitude air. But this time, it was a quick climb. The only consolation was the breathtaking aerial view of the Himalayas unfolding beneath.
Winter had receded, and the landscape had begun to shed its white coat. Snow was giving way to exposed rocks and trickling streams carving through the slopes, revealing a terrain where the enigmatic mammal disappears into its own myth, blending perfectly into the most challenging environment for humans and a perfect habitat for ‘the ghost of the Himalayas’―the snow leopard.
Despite years of wandering through the jungles of south India, I had never once encountered a big cat in the wild, not even by chance. And now, here I was, chasing one of the most elusive felines on the planet. My aim was ambitious: to document not just a sighting, but the complex tapestry of human-snow leopard interaction that had resulted in another rising example of man-animal conflict, the burgeoning snow leopard tourism industry with its promises and perils and the impact of climate change―how it might be subtly altering the behaviour and habitat of this apex predator. That is how I ended up in Ladakh, home to the highest number of snow leopards in India.
None of this would be possible unless I found an obsessive tracker willing to forgo sleep, comfort and meals in pursuit of the wild adventure. Ideally a Ladakhi, who would be a born naturalist aware of the territory and the region’s ecosystem or an ordinary villager who could spot the sleeping feline from far. At worst, I would have to make do with one of those wildlife tour operators who would take me exactly where I needed to go, without a fuss.
The chances of spotting a snow leopard in April were growing slim though. The warming temperatures were clearing snow from the lower mountains and the snow leopards were retreating to higher, inaccessible summits that would take days to reach on foot. In just a few weeks, the summer heat would melt the remaining snow, leaving ice only on the unscalable glaciers. Then it will be impossible to see a snow leopard. I was running out of time, I needed to find a tracker―fast.
High on Himalayas: An aerial view of Ladakh’s snow mountains.
Frantically, I began dialling my conservationist friends, hoping for leads. Most of the contacts they gave expressed doubt about sightings at this time of the year. Others quoted hefty fees. Then, one call brought a glimmer of hope.
“Bhanu ji, come as soon as possible, there have been snow leopard sightings around my village,” said a voice whose name I struggled to pronounce in the beginning. That was how I connected with Rigzen Mingyur, a 33-year-old eccentric who seemed to be an ideal fit―part naturalist, part village activist, an emerging tracker and a pragmatic wildlife tour operator.
I quickly gathered my photographic gear, grabbed my already packed suitcase, and set off. I felt like Jim Corbett on a mountain quest to tell the tale of a rare big cat, except my weapon was a camera.
I had first visited Ladakh in 2010 during a biking trip. I was the first among stranded tourists to cross Baralacha La from the Manali side, just after the Leh-Manali highway reopened following a catastrophic avalanche. After days of gruelling riding and crossing formidable high-altitude passes, I still remember the immense relief I felt on seeing the first human settlement.
The last pass before reaching Leh is Tanglang La. As the road descends from there, the village of Rumtse appears, flanked by rows of green willow trees along the road, and a stream running alongside. It was a comforting sight back then, as it is now over a decade later. I was returning to Rumtse from Leh town, not as a traveller, but as Mingyur’s guest.
It felt almost surreal that the road I had once travelled as a carefree biker was a hotspot for snow leopard activity. The 30km valley stretching from Rumtse to Upshi―known as the Gya-Miru valley―is dotted with hamlets like Rumtse, Gya, Lato and Miru. On the far side of the stream lie smaller settlements like Rong. The mountains here are rugged and unimaginably tall―you have to crane your neck nearly 90 degrees to see their peaks. Beyond them countless peaks disappear into the sky.
Small willow trees line the watercourses, and sparse grasses and wild plants cling to the slopes, seemingly insignificant to us, yet vital to the ecosystem. If you pay close attention, you might spot a blue sheep, also known as bharal―prime prey for the snow leopards―grazing across the ridgelines. But the snow leopards are not here for wild game. In winter, they descend into the valley and prey on livestock like cows, yaks, donkeys, horses and, in rare cases, pet dogs.
Mingyur was confident that we might get a serendipitous sighting in the Gya-Miru valley. He urged me to skip the well-known tourist circuits of Ulley, Saspochey and Hemis Shukpachan in Sham Valley. “If you want the real story,” he said, “you have to go where life is unpredictable, where people live with fear and the wonder of sharing space with a predator.”
On his insistence, I agreed to rest for a night in Leh to let my body acclimatise. We kept the tourist snow leopards for the final day, just in case we failed elsewhere. With uncertainty, I decided to leave early next morning for Gya-Miru valley.
The following day we left the deserted streets of Leh in the biting cold of dawn, heading toward Tanglang La on the Leh-Manali highway. Mingyur’s small car was packed tight with our luggage, camera bags, tripods and a heavy telephoto lens, all balanced along with an emergency medical kit and a portable oxygen tank. With the passes now closed to the public, the road seemed eerily empty. The car’s headlights cut through the darkness, revealing only the stretch ahead while the surrounding mountains remained hidden in the dark.
By the time we reached Upshi, the sky turned light. From that point on, Mingyur grew more alert. “There have been sightings along this road recently,” he said, his eyes scanning the ridges to the right. “If we are lucky, we might spot a snow leopard today. If not, at least a few blue sheep.” He instructed me to keep watch on the left side. As the sun rose, it cast a warm glow across the slopes. We searched for subtle shifts in texture or colour, anything that might hint at movement. The car crawled at 30kmph on the sinuous road.
By the time we reached Miru village, daylight had fully revealed the landscape―bare, stony mountains but the air was still bitingly cold. A narrow stream flowed silently beside the road, cutting through the valley. Mingyur slowed the car below 20kmph, pointing out watercourses, ridgelines and narrow gorges where he had previously spotted snow leopards. Though we had seen nothing so far, he reassured that dawn and dusk were prime prowling hours. “We still have a chance until we reach Rumtse,” he said with quiet confidence. I was shivering in the cold, the heavy jacket I used in Bengaluru’s winter had failed to protect me from the subzero temperature of Gya-Miru Valley.
As the sun climbed higher, the air turned a bit warmer, making the ride slightly more bearable. After we passed Miru, it seemed as if we were the only moving object in the vast stillness of the valley. We stopped the car and took out the binoculars, scanning every inch of the tall mountains for over an hour. I tried to distinguish the shape of a snow leopard from the folds of mud and rock, gazing so intently that my mind began to play tricks. I started experiencing pareidolia, imagining rosettes of the snow leopard on the barren earth, seeing the curves of a sleeping snow leopard in motionless rocks.
With no luck, we drove further toward Gya village, passing a small settlement called Lato. Pointing to an olive green mountain at Lato, Mingyur said, “Locals believe this is where the Eurasian plate collided with the Indian plate during the formation of the Himalayas.” I nodded silently, not buying the theory.
Sensing my mood, he stopped the car near a rustic stupa on the roadside and led me to a nearby mud house. “Fifteen days ago, a snow leopard had killed a cow here,” he said, as we neared the empty cattle pen next to the house. The cows were out grazing, and only a newborn calf remained, locked in a small enclosure next to the pen. Mingyur recalled how a snow leopard, coming from the adjacent valley in the dark, had climbed the pen, forced a gap in the hay roof and slipped inside. After killing the cow and feasting on it a bit, it fled, leaving the carcass behind when the owner came running alerted by the commotion.
We climbed a wall beside the pen. Standing on the roof, I investigated the now-sealed gap carefully. The willow poles used for the roof still bore traces of the encounter―a tuft of creamy coloured fur clung to the wood. For the first time, I truly believed that snow leopards exist―unlike the story about the formation of Himalayas in Lato.
From Lato, the valley widened, pushing the mountains farther into the distance. It would be almost impossible to spot a snow leopard now even if it was walking along the ridgelines. As we moved, agricultural fields began to appear in the seemingly flat landscape, framed by snow-capped mountains on the horizon. We had reached Gya, with 100 traditional Ladakhi homes clustered amid terraced farmland. Villagers were busy tilling the land for the short growing season when potatoes, green peas, cauliflower and other vegetables could be sown. Cows and horses grazed in the green pastures beside the stream, parts of which were still frozen. Colourful prayer flags fluttered above rooftops, a reminder that this was a deeply Buddhist place. From the ridge above, the prayer wheels of the ancient Gya Gompa spun with the wind, chiming mantras into the valley.
“Gya is the first settlement of Ladakh,” said Mingyur. Pointing to a distant cliff, he added, “See those caves? That’s where the early settlers used to live.” Distracted, I nodded silently. My eyes were scanning the slopes one last time as we moved on towards Rumtse to rest till evening.
As we neared Rumtse, workers from the Border Roads Organisation (BRO), mostly locals, were finishing work on the tarmac that would soon open for tourist traffic. They greeted us with a cheerful ‘Julley’. Mingyur asked them if they had seen a shan (Ladakhi word for snow leopard) around; they said no. At the entrance of Rumtse, young men were playing cricket on the empty highway. Most villagers were related to Mingyur, who leapt out of the car to join the game. I was left on the roadside with a group of boys and girls, sitting on a parked jeep, cheering from the sidelines. With no option but to wait, I stood there smiling, the cold mountain air filling my lungs. I started to ponder how most of my stories develop with the quiet rhythms of life―slowly.
Weather changed suddenly―from a bright, sunny day to a dark and freezing one―as rain clouds began to gather over Rumtse. We hurried to Mingyur’s modest house. After unloading half of the luggage, we rushed inside to escape the biting cold. I dumped my bags in a room and joined Mingyur in the kitchen, where he was lying on a bed, singing, “snow leopard, snow leopard, where are you?” to his nine-month-old niece Gama. Wrapped in layers of warm clothes, woollen socks and a monkey cap, she lay snug on his tummy. His sister was making butter tea beside a traditional stove that burned cow dung cakes, filling the room with warmth and the distinctive smell of a Ladakhi kitchen.
Practice of the past: Skeletal remains at the Shandong, a traditional Ladakhi trap meant for predators, near Lato village in Gya-Miru valley.
As I sat down on a low cot, layered with many fleece bedsheets, and introduced myself to his sister Stanzin Yangdol, the kitchen door creaked open. An old woman entered, dressed in a traditional Ladakhi goncha (robe-like dress) and a red woollen cap, leaning heavily on a walking stick. She was Mingyur’s neighbour, Tashi Dolma, said to be around 80 and the oldest person in the village. “Aapne shan ko kabhi dekha hai (Have you ever seen a snow leopard?),” I asked her. “Nahi dekha hai shan ko (I have not seen the snow leopard),” she replied flatly, without much interest.
Her answer surprised me. “You have lived here for 80 years and never seen one?” I pressed on. “People say snow leopards often roam through your village!” More interested in cooing to Gama than answering me, she added casually, “Haan, kabhi kabhi gaay pakad ke le jaate hai... magar maine nahi dekha (Yes, sometimes they take away cows… but I have never seen one).”
Dolma’s response left me bewildered. I turned to Mingyur and said in disbelief, “Not even Tashi Dolma, the oldest in the village, has seen one? And yet you have brought me here to spot a snow leopard?”
Mingyur smiled and said, “Neither Tashi Dolma, the oldest, nor Gama, the youngest, have seen one, because they have never truly looked for it. But we will, because we are looking for one.”
Yangdol handed me a steaming cup of butter tea―the home-made butter floating atop was melting quickly, just like my fading hope. Intense AMS had set in, making my mouth dry and head heavier. Dazed, I turned and smiled at Gama. Sitting statue-like on Mingyur’s belly, she shot me a puzzled look. Meanwhile, it started to snow outside.
After drinking plenty of warm water, we were planning to again scan the road we had travelled in the morning. I had been experiencing mild breathlessness throughout the day as Rumtse is at a higher altitude than Leh. My oxygen level was at 76 per cent (the normal range is between 95 and 100 per cent). Hoping sleep would help, I lay down, bundling myself under several layers of rugs. Still, the cold seeped through the covers, making it hard to rest comfortably.
An hour later, I woke up, packed my camera bag and lenses and got ready for the second scanning session. Our evening scanning stretched into darkness as we trekked a few smaller valleys that intersect the highway. Still, there was no sign of a snow leopard nor a glimpse of a blue sheep. Dull and tired, we returned to Rumtse to retire for the night.
As night fell, the temperature plummeted. I began to shiver, despite wearing two layers of jackets. Yangdol and Mingyur lent me oversized winter wear. That night, I tasted skyu, a Ladakhi pasta made with wheat dough and local vegetables.
On the table in my room, I noticed a framed appreciation letter, awarded to Mingyur’s father, Karma Sonam, by Mysuru-based Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF). The certificate recognised his contribution to conservation efforts in Ladakh. Sonam has been working as a field assistant for high-altitude projects with NCF. As a child, Mingyur often accompanied his father on trips to address snow leopard attacks and assisted him in various conservation efforts. After college, Mingyur joined Sonam Wangchuk’s Himalayan Institute of Alternatives, Ladakh, where he worked with the school of tourism to promote responsible tourism. He was also part of the institute’s ice stupa project, an initiative to build artificial glaciers to store water. Mingyur even travelled to Switzerland to demonstrate the making of these ice stupas.
As I coiled into the bedsheets that night, I realised I was learning more about Mingyur than snow leopards. But that is how wildlife works, through long waits and understanding people who share their lives with wild animals.
At a loss: Sonam Kunzes with her pregnant cow that was attacked by a snow leopard in Rong village in Gya-Miru Valley; the cow died within days of the attack.
The next day, we started again at dawn, making several trips along the 30km stretch―again without any sightings. In the evening, as we were returning from Upshi, we saw a red fox descending from the mountain and crossing the road.
I was growing increasingly distressed at losing days to monotony: scanning in the cold mornings and evenings, resting in the afternoons and eating different kinds of Ladakhi food―tingmo (steamed bread), thukpa (noodle soup), and sometimes pulao at night. I tried to keep myself hydrated with warm water and tea. As days went by, even a wary Gama became an acquaintance.
The third day, the sky turned cloudy by evening. We decided to do something adventurous―drive to the top of Tanglang La (17,480ft-high). It was risky as a white veil of falling snow had blanketed the mountains, signalling heavy snowfall in the higher ranges. The road had not been officially reopened as the BRO was still clearing massive snow walls. But since Mingyur was a local, he was allowed to pass the barricade. As we began to climb, the temperature dropped further and breathing became more difficult.
Midway through the ascent amid falling snow, we spotted movement―a herd of bharals was grazing among the rocks. These large, sure-footed animals dislodged chunks of stone and mud as they climbed higher toward the next bend in the road. We drove up slowly and waited for the herd to approach. It was magical to see them up close―snowflakes on their coat had given them a divine look. They avoided us and continued ascending a snowy patch, searching for dry grass between rocks. Blue sheep along with other ungulates (hoofed animals) like Asiatic ibex, urial and argali form the main prey for snow leopards. We watched them for about 30 minutes, temporarily distracted from our breathlessness.
As we drove between towering snow walls toward Tanglang La top, there was only white wilderness and a deafening silence. Our heads began to feel heavy from low oxygen. Mingyur’s oximeter showed 63 per cent, a dangerously low, life-threatening number. The snowfall was getting heavier and staying longer would only increase the risk. A small avalanche in this region could take an entire day to clear. So, we turned back toward Rumtse. Just as we were exiting the range, Mingyur’s phone rang. He answered in Ladakhi. Though I couldn’t follow much, I clearly heard one word repeated several times in a tense tone―shan.
“A snow leopard has attacked a cow,” said Mingyur. “A villager named Rigzen Tamchos had been trying to reach me for the past half hour, but there was no signal in the valley. He asked me to come immediately.” The message had come in fragments, like an old telegram―short, urgent and vague. “It is in Rong,” he continued “That small settlement we saw across the stream after Lato. Let’s go and check.”
The light was fading by the time we reached Rong. The village consisted of just four houses tucked between steep mountains. Tamchos said the cow―heavily pregnant―belonged to his relative Sonam Kunzes. It was attacked when she left it to graze in a nearby patch. The snow leopard had crept down from the hills and attacked from behind, sinking its claws into the cow’s back and trying to choke it with its teeth. Kunzes rushed to the scene yelling, but the cat barely flinched. It only retreated when several men came running, shouting and banging whatever they could to drive it off.
At home: A blue sheep, also known as bharal, grazes on the slopes of Tanglang La pass.
The ground where the attack happened had turned soft from the struggle and had drag marks. A few streaks of blood stained the earth. The cow, barely conscious, lay on a plastic sheet, its face bleeding and back punctured. “We have been hearing the leopard’s calls for three nights,” said a teary Sonam. “We were watching the cow closely, but today… I looked away for just a moment....” The cow was due to deliver soon and would not survive without treatment. A relative arrived with a small truck and together they loaded the injured animal to take it to a nearby shelter. I went along the mountain base to look for any sign of the snow leopard, but it was already dark.
As we drove back to Rumtse, I turned to Mingyur and asked quietly, “Do villagers ever retaliate after something like this?” He pointed towards a narrow valley before Lato and said, “There is a traditional Ladakhi trap up there called Shandong. It was meant for wolves that kill livestock, but sometimes snow leopards fall into them. When they do, people stone them to death. Tomorrow, we will go see the Shandong.”
If the cow had died, we might have had a chance to set up a hide away from the carcass, hoping the snow leopard would return to feed. But with the injured cow now at a safe place, that was not an option.
That night, I felt unexpectedly energetic after days of high-altitude acclimatisation. Perhaps it was also because of a growing sense of hope―the snow leopard’s presence was becoming more tangible, more real.
Next morning, we headed straight to Rong to check on the cow and look for signs of the predator. The cow was still alive but was unable to eat or drink. We carefully examined the base of the mountain for signs of the snow leopard. There was nothing except pugmarks in the soft mud where the attack had occurred. These had not been there the previous night, suggesting the leopard had returned after the cow was moved. The pugmarks showed it had come down from the mountain and walked towards the stream in the opposite direction. But its trail vanished into the grass, leaving no further clue about which side it had gone.
As we left Rong to see Shandong, the village dog walked us out. Another woolly dog from Lato joined us as we trekked through the valley toward Shandong, located on a knoll. I paused midway, exhausted carrying my heavy equipment bag on my back. The dog jogged ahead and then circled back to keep pace with me. I was disturbed seeing a small red pillar marked with letters and numbers. It was a survey marker, one of many, left by the railway department―evidence of a planned railway line to connect Leh with the rest of India.
After about 30 minutes of fording small streams, we reached a structure that looked like a round rampart of a crude fort―this was Shandong (shanku means wolf in Ladakhi, and dong means trap). Large flat stones carved with Buddhist scriptures had been laid across the top. I climbed onto the mid wall stone and peered inside―a pit, about 15ft deep. The floor was littered not only with old skeletal remains but also the fresh skull of a calf. The trap worked by luring the hungry predator into the pit with the promise of an easy meal. Once inside, the inner leaning concave walls made it nearly impossible to escape. Villagers would then come and stone the trapped animal to death, avenging the loss of their livestock.
Mingyur had explained earlier that this age-old practice had stopped years ago. But someone had revived it quietly, perhaps out of desperation or anger. The narrow entry at the base of the pit, once sealed with stone, had been left open. I crawled inside and saw the scattered bones, skulls and the decomposing remains of a calf. Mingyur peeped in from above, equally disturbed.
Living with the wild: Tsering Dorje of Rumbak locks his cows in a pen decorated with skulls of blue sheep, urial and argali. Rumbak is situated inside the Hemis National Park.
After taking a few photographs, I crept out of Shandong. Mingyur pointed out a narrow path nearby and said, “This is the trail snow leopards often take when they come down toward the village.” On the way back, he showed me a few rocks where snow leopards mark their territory by rubbing their bodies against the surface to leave behind scent and fur―there were rub marks but no fresh scat.
We made our way down to the car, where we set up a small portable table and camp chairs. Mingyur poured hot water into steel cups, dipped green tea bags and we sipped green tea in barren wilderness. The woolly dog that had guided us turned back and disappeared.
This was my fourth day in search of the snow leopard. Instead of heading back to rest, we drove to Upshi at a slightly quicker pace than usual. At Upshi, we crossed the Indus river and continued towards Kharu to refuel. On our return, we stopped at a local restaurant for momos and checked my phone for emails and messages. I had ignored my phone all these days because there was no signal in many places we had been to. In the evening, we were out again scanning the hills, starting from Upshi―still no sign of the elusive cat.
We passed all the villages up to Gya without a trace of the cat. As the sun disappeared beyond the valley, I turned to Mingyur and said, “Let’s go for a second round.” We drove back towards Upshi, scanning every ridge and crevice for movement. By the time we reached Upshi again, darkness had settled in. Soldiers and BRO workers were out on an evening walk with large sticks in hand. When Mingyur inquired about the sticks, they said, “Cheetah bhi hai, kutta bhi hai (There are cheetahs around, and stray dogs, too).” They had mislabelled the snow leopard as a cheetah.
Just as we were about to take a U-turn near the Upshi bridge, a car approached from behind, honking. The driver turned out to be Mingyur’s friend, a fellow snow leopard tracker. She told us she had briefly seen a snow leopard that evening, right by the roadside near Miru!
Excitement surged through us, we turned around immediately, but it was too late. Darkness had already blanketed the valley by the time we reached Miru. We drove straight to Rumtse. As I was showing Mingyur how to properly brew black coffee in kitchen, he received a call. “A snow leopard killed a calf in Miru, it was feeding on it until nightfall,” said the caller. Mingyur sprang up, beaming, and exclaimed, “Bhanu ji! I think we have finally got it!”
That night, I finally got the chance to meet Mingyur’s father. Sonam had been away in Leh for work and had just returned. He had played a crucial role in persuading the community to coexist with snow leopards. Over dinner, he explained how the NCF’s livestock insurance programme worked and how the claim process had been handed over entirely to the villagers.
Mingyur, too, was deeply involved in the village’s development and administration. Whenever a conflict arose between humans and wildlife, it was either Mingyur or his father that people turned to. That’s why he got the first call after a snow leopard attacked the pregnant cow in Rong.
I went to bed that night dreaming of the possibility of photographing a snow leopard the next day. I laid out my clothes with care, selecting each one to help me blend into the environment of Miru. Next morning, I was up and ready by 5am. Mingyur was already awake, his energy matching mine. We drove towards Miru as the sky slowly pulled back its dark curtain and the first light of dawn spilled over the peaks.
Miru is nestled in the upper reaches of Ladakh. One way to identify a naturally rich village here is by counting the number of willow trees and livestock grazing freely in the open. In Ladakhi life, willows and poplar trees are used in almost every structure, from roofs to fences. In these journeys through the Gya-Miru valley, I had noticed that Miru had more willow trees than any other village and more cows lazed on its meadows.
As we approached Miru’s white stupa beside the road, we were joined by the villager who had called Mingyur the previous night. He led us down toward the stream through tall willow trees. We crossed the stream on a dry log laid across it like a narrow bridge. Mingyur raised his binoculars and began scanning the area the villager was pointing to. From our position on the lower ground, neither the carcass nor the snow leopard was visible. The villager moved a few steps ahead and suddenly said, “It’s not there.” That deflated our enthusiasm. But he continued, “Last night, I saw it eating the calf.” He walked forward to get a clearer view of the site. Then, with sudden excitement, he exclaimed, “It is there! It is there!”
A pale, four-legged shape with bright fur lighter than its surroundings moved quickly and disappeared behind a thicket of willow trees. The animal blended into the environment, but I caught a glimpse of something slipping to the left. The three of us were momentarily confused about the direction the leopard had gone. Mingyur insisted it had moved to the right, toward another mountain. I argued that I had seen it veer left toward the fence that separated the village from the wild. The villager simply shrugged and said, “I have to go for work.”
Mingyur and I went near the carcass―it had been partly eaten by the snow leopard and was now being feasted on by magpies. The carcass was right on the brink of the village, near a mud house with bundles of hay neatly stacked on its roof.
We went to the house, hoping to ask the owner for permission to wait inside in case the leopard returned for its meal. But the house was locked. As we surveyed the surroundings, the calf’s owner, Sonam Tsepel, walked toward us. He said that the calf had gone missing the previous evening while on its return from grazing. When villagers told him about a snow leopard sighting upstream, he came looking and found the leopard eating the dead calf. He seemed to have made peace with such attacks. When asked whether he had informed the authorities, he simply said, “Ab tho kya karega hum (What can I do now)?”
I told Mingyur to scan the mountain on the left side. I believed the snow leopard had retreated there and was likely watching us from a hidden perch. It was a strange sensation seeing a snow leopard for the first time. It felt surreal, as though I had seen something that resembled a snow leopard but had not registered it clearly enough to mark it as a historic moment. Suddenly, Mingyur shouted with excitement, “There it is!”
I grabbed his binoculars and scanned the mountainside. Every mud heap, rock, and shadow seemed like it could be a sleeping animal. Then, next to a large boulder, a stone-shaped figure gazed back at us with gleaming eyes. I finally witnessed the moment I came looking for―I saw the snow leopard! It was so perfectly blended into the terrain that it looked like a part of the mountain itself.
It was already 9am. By now, a few more curious villagers had arrived at the site, drawn by news of our presence. I was looking for a place to hide, somewhere I could quietly sit and wait for the snow leopard without attracting people. The cat seemed interested in returning to the kill. Mingyur went to the car to fetch some camp chairs in case we decided to sit down and wait for the day.
My search for a hideout led me to a small doorless room. I stepped inside to check if it offered a direct view of the carcass. The view was okay, but I needed something to cover the open doorway. I quickly took off my favourite scarf―a constant on my assignments―and draped it across the entrance using two sticks and plugging them into a hole in the wall.
I came out and aimed in with my camera and spotted the snow leopard again. It was still there, lying down, seemingly asleep. Hoping to capture it up close if it returned, I slipped into the room and began setting up my tripod and camera. The lens peeked out from under the scarf that now hung like a curtain across the doorway.
As I looked around the room, I noticed it was built of mud with an elevated floor. I stood in the upper section, which had a large gap in the middle, a heap of soil, and a shovel lying in one corner. Just as I was trying to figure out exactly where I was, Mingyur appeared near the door and said with a smirk, “Bhanu ji, this is a Ladakhi compost toilet!”
By then, I had decided to make it my base for the day. The room was clean enough, so I asked him, “Is it an active toilet?” “Yes,” he replied. But seeing that I was determined to stay, he returned with two chairs and joined me inside. Setting up his laptop, he laughed and said, “I’m setting up my office in a Ladakhi compost toilet today.”
I focused on the camera, fixed on the carcass, waiting for that light-coloured coat with dark rosette to appear in the viewfinder. A few more magpies arrived and began squabbling over scraps. Minutes later, the birds abruptly flew away, signalling that something was approaching.
I held my breath, expecting the snow leopard. But instead, a black, woolly shape emerged―a stray dog! Then another joined in. They began tearing at the carcass, pausing now and then to look around. Within an hour, a third dog―a tawny one―joined the feast. Soon, a fourth one came along. Together, they devoured nearly half the carcass. Still, there was no sign of the snow leopard returning.
It was now past 10am. Mingyur looked at his phone and said, “It is unlikely the snow leopard will come back for the kill in broad daylight.” Then, noticing a flurry of missed calls and messages, he added, “A local filmmaker keeps calling and messaging me. I think he has heard about the kill and wants to come film it.”
Worried that our quiet finding would soon turn into a spectacle, I stepped out of the toilet to check on the snow leopard once again. It was still there, lying belly-up, napping. Just then, a father and son were seen walking toward us. Sensing the growing human activity and the dogs at the carcass, the leopard seemed content to wait for a safer moment to return. For the snow leopard, this disturbance was just another part of its life. But for me, the thought of a filmmaker arriving to shoot felt like an intrusion. I turned to Mingyur and said, “Let’s try getting a bit closer for some pictures.”
Overhearing us, a villager said, “Walk all the way to the left and approach from the blind spot; it is easier.” The cat was still asleep. We decided to take the chance. I grabbed my camera, now mounted on a heavy monopod, and followed Mingyur as he led the way towards the hill.
As we reached the fence at the edge of the village, I started to gasp, maybe from the weight of the equipment or maybe from excitement. We slipped through a gap in the fence and began our slow ascent toward the hill. After a few cautious steps, we reached a vantage point from where the leopard was visible. From my newfound hideout near the kill, the mountain had seemed small. Now, standing at its base, it looked considerably large. Thankfully, from this angle, the lower rocks shielded us from the cat’s view.
Panting softly, I followed Mingyur’s trail, inching closer to the animal napping under a large boulder. We moved carefully over the rugged terrain silently, like a snow leopard stalking its prey―without dislodging a single stone.
And then, there it was in full view. It was like seeing snow-capped peaks for the first time―an indescribable feeling! We were just 20m away. I paused, wanting to take in the sight with my naked eyes before seeing it in the digital display of my camera. The magnificent cat lay utterly still, only its belly moving rhythmically to its breathing. Even from this close, it was difficult to tell where its coat ended and the boulder began. That is when I truly understood why snow leopards are called elusive―they are born masters of camouflage.
The leopard had its back to us, its head turned away, which is why it had not noticed our presence. But then it opened its eyes, turned to check its right side and saw us. We locked eyes, and I stopped thinking for a moment! My heart pounded with a mix of awe, exhaustion and fear. Here was one of nature’s most magical creations, looking at me.
The next moment, I lifted my camera and began shooting in a burst. I knew this encounter will not last long. The soft shutter clicks of my mirrorless camera caught the cat’s attention. With an intense curious gaze, it licked its nose with its rosy tongue, stood up with ears alert, and tail swaying. The snow leopard walked gracefully behind the mountain, vanishing from sight. It was the most beautiful wildlife encounter of my life. I stood there speechless, then slowly sat down, dumbfounded. Mingyur’s face was glowing. “That is the closest I have ever been to a snow leopard!” he said, smiling.
On the way back, I was walking and scrolling through the photos on my camera, zooming in on the leopard again and again. When I looked closely at its face, I noticed a large scar above its nose, probably from a fight. Given the way it retreated, shyly, I doubted it would return. But Mingyur said confidently, “It will come back. Not now, but in the evening.”
We returned to the village toilet hideout to gather our belongings. Dogs were already dragging the carcass away. We drove back to Rumtse to celebrate my first snow leopard sighting. At home, I went back to baby Gama and sang, “Snow leopard, snow leopard, we saw one!” She began dancing, waving her hands in air. I downloaded all the pictures to my laptop and kept looking at them. They were not the kind of viral images that would break the internet. But they were mine, proof of an encounter with nature’s most elegant and elusive survivors.
I could not wait to return to Miru and see if the snow leopard had come back for the kill. We drove through the same valley again that afternoon, but this time, my eyes barely registered the mountains. My mind was racing towards Miru, faster than the car.
In Miru, Mingyur’s classmate, another Sonam, joined us for the walk to the kill site. From a distance, I saw feral dogs barking on the mountain slope, moving upward. Unsure what was happening, I continued toward the spot. As I neared the house, I leaned on an unfinished compound wall, and jumped when it shifted under me! It was the filmmaker. He had covered himself and his camera in camouflage netting, waiting for a shot since our departure. Displeased by our arrival, he pulled the net off his body and kept it on his camera “It was coming here,” he said, “but turned back halfway when the dogs started chasing it.”
That explained the barking dogs on the slope. Soon, the dogs returned to the carcass and began devouring the final scraps. I scanned the mountain slope with my telephoto lens. The snow leopard, perched on the far ridge, was looking directly toward the village, at its kill.
I ditched the toilet hideout this time and climbed onto its roof with a chair and my camera. Using the willow tree branches for cover and wrapping my scarf around my upper body, I settled in. The filmmaker, still aloof, returned to his camo net. Mingyur and Sonam climbed onto the locked house roof and tried hiding behind haystacks. I waited motionless for more than an hour. The snow leopard did not appear and the dogs continued to devour the carcass.
Suddenly, a thought hit me. Maybe I was troubling the cat by sitting here? This was not its natural hunting ground, but it had found an opportunity to fill its stomach. To humans this is livestock loss, but to the snow leopards it is survival. The sun was setting, the light fading. I told Mingyur, “Let’s quit, let the snow leopard and the filmmaker have their time.” We went back to the car, pulled out the camp chairs and poured green tea from the flask. I aimed the binoculars at the hill. The snow leopard was still there. I took the first sip in that cold evening.
And then, my calculation went wrong. The dogs began barking incessantly toward the slope. Our view of the plain was blocked by tall willow trees. I set my tea aside, took the binoculars again and saw that the snow leopard was no longer on the slope. The barking intensified. The snow leopard, hungry, had finally decided to face the odds. I grabbed my camera and ran to the terrace of Sonam’s house, situated amid blooming apricot trees, for a better view of the kill site.
The leopard had returned swiftly despite the deafening noise of the dogs. It reached the carcass, but the dogs, now at a slight distance, began nearing it in a pack. From the terrace, we could barely make out the scene through fences and tree branches. Hence, I ran downstairs and toward the stream for a clearer view.
By then, the snow leopard had backed off. It began walking cautiously along the village edge, dogs harassing it from three sides. Frustrated by the relentless chase, the cat stopped, lifted its long and bushy tail and hissed, revealing its fierce teeth. With an explosive pounce, it scattered the dogs in all directions. Then, in its characteristic grace, the leopard walked a few minutes more before disappearing behind the mountain slope. The dogs, regaining their nerve, regrouped and ran in retaliation. I took the pictures without stopping, documenting the entire drama.
Back on the road again, we heard the dog barks echo from behind the mountain. The resilient snow leopard had made it to the mountain top and sat watching the village, waiting for darkness to return to its kill.
We returned to our base to pack our luggage, preparing for the next leg of our snow leopard exploration. Our destination was Tar, a remote and hidden village tucked beyond the Leh-Kargil highway. Known only to a few outsiders, Tar is considered another secret sanctuary of the snow leopard.
The next morning, we left Rumtse, bidding farewell to Stanzin and Gama. As we passed through Miru, we noticed several tourist vehicles parked near the village stupa. News of the snow leopard sighting had spread quickly. Sonam stood beside the road. He told us the filmmaker had waited for about an hour in the darkness before leaving the previous night. In the morning, Sonam had returned to the kill site, only to find skeletal remains scattered across the ground. “The snow leopard must have returned and finished the kill, or scavengers must have cleared it.… There was nothing left,” he said. We glanced one last time through our binoculars at the mountain ridge, but the predator had disappeared.
We began the long journey towards the base of Tar village. After parking our car, we had to trek an hour on foot to reach the village. As we walked, it felt like stepping into another world. The trek to Tar was tiring, especially with our luggage, and the trail was narrow and steep. But after nearly an hour, we arrived sweating and breathing heavily in cold weather. The village, with fewer than 20 homes, felt suspended in time. Tar thrives on responsible tourism built around rural homestays and the chance of spotting snow leopards. Most of the young people had moved to lower altitudes for education or work, leaving behind only elders to tend to the village. A local committee manages tourism here, allocating guests to each house in rotation. I stayed with a 72-year-old couple, Tsering Dorje and Thinles Tsomo. They greeted me with a traditional white khata, a warm cup of butter tea and innocent smile.
Beside the electricity and the distant presence of a cellphone tower, everything about Tar felt like a glimpse into the past. Life here moved slowly, rooted in tradition. Tsomo was churning curd to make butter. I asked if they had seen snow leopards recently, they pointed to a mountain visible through the window. “They roam there,” she said. “But we have not seen one in three days.”
Inspired by the possibility of another encounter, we immediately set off on a trek to higher elevations. Tar is one of the most beautiful villages I have ever seen―a tiny settlement surrounded tightly by mountains that dwarf the houses to mere dots. In winter, the valley transforms into a white wonderland, a paradise for those who can endure its bitter cold. The snow leopards often descend to lower elevations then, sometimes visible from rooftops, playing across the ridges like characters on a giant 360-degree screen. But now, with rising spring temperatures, they had retreated to colder heights. “If you had come 20 days before,” said Mingyur, “you could have seen a mother and two cubs playing right there on that ridge.”
We trekked until evening, scanning the mountains, but the snow leopard remained elusive. Instead, we spotted a group of Asiatic ibex grazing among the rocks. The landscape was dry and desert-like, yet the ibex―fearsome males and cute calves―moved with calm precision. As dusk fell, we made our way back to the village.
The following morning, we trekked back to the base and drove towards Ulley via Hemis Shukpachan, both well-known among snow leopard enthusiasts who come for the tour. Along the road, apricot trees with their striking pink flowers stood out against an otherwise white and brown landscape. We did not spot anything along the road. As we approached Ulley, it began to snow lightly. Within minutes the weather turned cold.
As we drove up the curvy road towards Ulley, we were surprised to find a traffic jam on the upper curves. “There must be a sighting,” said Mingyur. Nearly 30 big tourist vehicles were lined up, their passengers huddled on the roadside in thick jackets. It was a motley crowd of photographers, wildlife lovers and curious tourists, both Indian and foreign. Some were sitting on camp chairs and others standing and talking. Numerous tripods held spotting scopes and long telephoto lenses, aimed at the mountain. Tables had been set up near the cars, with hot tea being served to guests by the operators.
I asked a tracker if there had been any luck. He gestured towards a rocky mountain. Without the aid of a telephoto lens, the entire mountainside appeared as one soft, textured mass. But through my camera lens, I finally spotted it, a young snow leopard curled on a high rock, using its long furry tail to cover its body, seemingly unbothered by the hundred pairs of eyes below. I finally saw the tourism leopard from a distance.
Mingyur later told me the heartbreaking backstory. The adolescent had recently lost its mother during a hunt. Both the snow leopard and an ibex had been found dead at the base of a cliff. According to forest officers, they must have slipped and fallen during the chase. Now the orphaned cub had to survive alone, clinging to the life lessons it had learned from its mother. As we drove further uphill towards luxury lodges, we saw a large signboard at the entrance to the village, listing do’s and don’ts―reminder of a sprawling tourism industry in the fragile ecosystem.
On the seventh day, we travelled within the tourism circuit. From Ulley, we descended towards Leh before turning off-road to reach the remote village of Rumbak, situated deep inside Hemis National Park, an epitome of snow leopard conservation in India. Rumbak is one of the few inhabited settlements within the national park. Homestays and a handful of luxury lodges cater to wildlife enthusiasts and trekkers. Snow leopards roam here freely, often passing close to the village. They occasionally attack livestock, but unlike the Gya-Miru valley―where there is constant threat―here the encounters are sporadic, mostly in the harsh winter months. But I could still sense the fear.
I spoke to Tsering Dorje outside his pen, its door decorated with the skulls of blue sheep, urial and argali. “Snow leopards don’t pose a threat to humans since they are too shy and avoid us most of the time,” he said, locking in his calf. “But for our livestock, they have become a nightmare.” It is the risk villagers have to take for sharing the land that belongs to the wildlife. Unlike other big cats, snow leopards do not get habituated to livestock, preying on them only during winter.
As we were returning from Rumbak, Mingyur was informed about the death of the injured pregnant cow of Rong. Livestock play a vital role in the lives of rural Ladakhis. Villagers depend on them for four essential things: milk, meat, manure and heating. In a place where protein is critical during winter, milk is churned into butter―a key source of nutrition alongside meat. On this barren terrain, manure is used to enrich the soil for growing barley and vegetables in a short window of farming. Most crucially, dried cow dung cakes are burned to heat homes through the long, freezing months.
Thanks to years of awareness campaigns by NCF, many Shandong traps have been transformed into cultural sites. They are no longer seen as tools of vengeance, but as symbols of change. Mingyur’s father had played a crucial role in convincing the community to abandon the brutal ritual and consecrate the sites as stupas. The prayer stone I saw atop the Shandong in Lato was part of that transformation.
Over dinner with Dorje and Tsomo that night, we talked about life in the highlands, about snow leopards, farming and living in harmony with nature. The villagers, who once depended solely on agriculture and livestock, now earn a small but vital income from tourism. It is a shining example of how wildlife conservation and tourism can coexist meaningfully. In Tar, there was no car or crowd. Unregulated tourism could severely harm the existence of snow leopards. There are no incidents of snow leopards attacking humans, but increasing contact with snow leopards and global warming leading to decrease in prey numbers could turn them into man-eaters.
A 2024 survey report published by the government of India under the Snow Leopard Population Assessment in India programme lists 718 snow leopards across the Indian Himalayas, spread across Ladakh, Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, Arunachal Pradesh and Jammu and Kashmir.
The relationship between humans and snow leopards is delicate. Growing feral dog population in wildlife area, development projects in the middle of the habitat, unregulated tourism and increasing human-leopard contact are a growing worry. And yet, unlike many parts of India where wild animals are still stoned to death, the people of Ladakh are choosing to close the Shandongs and suffer the loss of their livestock silently.
There is also a threat from changing weather caused by global warming. Ajay Bijoor, a field coordinator for high-altitude projects of NCF and who works in snow leopard areas in Spiti valley, has observed something strange caught on camera traps. Common leopards are now seen in snow leopard territory. “Overlapping may be a result of changing weather pattern in high-altitude areas, caused by global warming,” he said.
In Ladakh, a quiet fight for coexistence continues. This is perhaps just the tip of the iceberg in India’s long and complicated stories of human-wildlife conflict.
While heading back to the airport to catch a flight to Bengaluru, my head was filled with information, images and unforgettable memories. There was no room for a headache. I was fully acclimatised to the altitude. My mind was etched with memories of snow leopard sighting, like the sacred mantras carved on the stones on the Shandong. It was a spiritual moment for someone who sees nature as God.