“Oops, sorry!” was a
phrase I found myself constantly repeating throughout that day, as I dodged
people. All around me was the clackety-clack of trekking boots and poles, as
trekkers marched past in twos, threes, or fours, nodding at our group in
greeting. I almost felt guilty for not being purposeful enough - for not aiming
to reach the peak quickly - unlike those walking on. A few broke their march-past
to peer into whatever bush we were peering into. They’d see nothing, and walk
away with an indulgent smile and a slow shake of their head. Some, seeing me
sprawled on the ground, stopped to enquire if I was injured and needed help.
Thadiyandamol, Coorg’s highest peak at 5724 ft (1748 mts), is a favourite; enjoying its beautiful vistas and summiting it is on most trekkers’ wish-lists. Timing the trek too is important to many. I, however, had decided to stop and smell the roses - or the Kurinjis, in this case. What if I didn’t look at the views around me, but at the ground beneath my feet, for a change?
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| The endangered Blue-eyed bush frog, also known locally as 'Neel-netra', endemic to the Western Ghats |
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| An endemic snail - the colourful 'Indrella ampulla'. |
I was in Coorg just
on the heels of the monsoon, when an errant painter seemed to have run amok
with his bucket of green. Life-forms were undergoing changes on Thadiyandamol,
after the invigorating rain. Somewhere, a frog croaked to attract its mate. Yet
elsewhere, a snail moved at, well, snail’s pace, glistening raindrops riding
piggy-back on its shell. Picture-postcard streams emitted clichéd gurgles as
they swooshed around egg-smooth pebbles and seeped into parched crevices. A
plant that flowers once in twelve years awaited us, while a carnivorous plant lay
waiting for its next prey.
A cold, damp morning
found our group of five at the beginning of the trekking route, in an open
clearing in the rainforest canopy, through which we locked eyes with an ominously
cloudy sky. Surrounded as the clearing was by some of the tall primary forest
trees which had survived human brutality, this area instantly became the object
of our affections. Rain the previous day
had made the ground slushy, and the morning stillness now reverberated with
sounds of the earth sucking our shoes in, followed by the curt popping of shoes
being released. Alert leeches scanned for heat and blood, clinging tenaciously
as we tried to prise them off.
 |
| The initial path of the trek |
In a corner, a burst
of purple perked up the forest floor – Impatiens nodding away in the gentle
breeze. These bright flowers grow near water or in moist conditions, and are
endemic to the Western Ghats, of which Thadiyandamol is a part. An iridescent
damselfly and a sluggish snail later, our naturalist urged us to move ahead,
only because we needed time at hand for completing the trek before either the
rain appeared or the sun disappeared; at worst, both. If we made good time, we
could be slower on our way back, he promised.
 |
| The bright Impatiens. The ferns seen in this photograph are also typical of rainforests. |
The vistas along the
trek route were undeniably captivating; as we moved first through rainforests
and then through shola-grasslands, we were hard-pressed to look elsewhere. But
then, a sudden flash of colour would catch our eye, or that very faint call
would have us perk up our ears, and a search would ensue. The vegetation along
the path varied – some stretches had trees and plants densely packed on either
side, revealing spiders, grasshoppers, frogs or orchids, if we knew where to
look. Other stretches opened up on the valley side, offering sweeping panoramas
of the shola-grasslands, a characteristic forest type of the region, which
lends the hills the appearance of being cloaked in patterned green velvet.
These grasslands brought
us a variety of wildflowers and a surprise! Every twelve years, Kurinji plants
flower en masse, draping the hills with a purple carpet, a phenomenon which
currently relied solely on my imagination to visualise it. To help me along,
however, a couple of stray Kurinji had decided to be the delinquents of their
tribe, eliciting a jig out of me.
 |
| Kurinjis, or Neelakurinjis,
seen here in their habitat, with a dragonfly hovering over. These distinctive
purple flowers led to the Nilgiris being named so – blue mountains. |
The sudden
calls of the Bright-headed Cisticola – a bird as tiny as its name is long – was
all that was needed for our entire group to first break into a jig, and then a
jog, as we tried in vain to keep up with the hyperactive bird. By then, the sun
had reached its pinnacle, it had begun drizzling, and we had just reached past the
mid-point, identifiable by a big boulder on a fairly level ground. A
deliciously cold stream soothed our aching feet, as we energised ourselves with
lunch and some well-deserved rest before the steep and rocky last leg of the
trek.
 |
| A view from the latter part of the trek, where the sholas give way to grasslands. Trekkers, seen to the right, are a small blip in the vast landscape. |
Nearing the summit,
we stopped yet again. Sure, it helped us catch our breath from the climb, but,
more importantly, it brought us face to face with our most prized sighting –
the carnivorous plant, Drosera. Calling it a ‘sighting’ is probably a stretch –
the species found here is smaller than blades of grass, barely discernible to
the naked eye. The ingenuity of a plant this size is mind-boggling – rather
than being easy prey, it is actually a predator. Each ‘leaf’ has glandular tentacles which are
topped with globules of sticky secretion. Assuming these to be dew, insects get
stuck to the plant, ending up as its food.
We would have missed
all this drama, had we just trekked past. Lying down on the ground had lent a
new perspective – meeting Thadiyandamol’s inhabitants. They hear the grasslands perform a
synchronized sweep in that manic, midnight wind. They live under a sky which
stars light up with different patterns each night. They witness Thadiyandamol disappearing
into the morning mist, only to emerge slowly later, leaving early-bird trekkers
sighing at the poetry of it all.
 |
| Robberflies, mating |
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| Grasshoppers, mating |
Back from the trek, lying
supine on our guest-house’s terrace, we plucked leeches off our clothing –
sometimes stomachs and necks too - with the nonchalance of seasoned ground
crawlers. My energy now draining as fast as the setting sun, I succumbed to the
evening breeze lulling me into a slumber.
In my mental map of
the trek route now are numerous landmarks; what was at the beginning of the
trek just an indistinct swathe of green, now has memories imprinted on it. To the
people I meet, my conversations about ‘The bush where we saw the orange
orchid’, ‘that puddle where the frog was half-submerged’ or ‘that rotten trunk
where the sparkling fungus grew’ may sound like ramblings of an unhinged mind, but
to me, they are indispensable parts of my Harry Potter-esque Pensieve, taking me back to
Thadiyandamol. To that exact spot and that exact moment in time. To relive the
trek, until I add new memories and markers from my next.
 |
| Some trees at the base of Thadiyandamol yield surprising varieties of fungi, like this one |
 |
| The area around Thadiyandamol is host to a variety of butterflies, and their colourful caterpillars can often be spotted feeding on suitable plants. |
For information about the trek and my tips, read this:
http://nomadandabag-guides.blogspot.com/2015/08/thadiyandamol-trek-information-tips.html
In a corner, a burst
of purple perked up the forest floor – Impatiens nodding away in the gentle
breeze. These bright flowers grow near water or in moist conditions, and are
endemic to the Western Ghats, of which Thadiyandamol is a part. An iridescent
damselfly and a sluggish snail later, our naturalist urged us to move ahead,
only because we needed time at hand for completing the trek before either the
rain appeared or the sun disappeared; at worst, both. If we made good time, we
could be slower on our way back, he promised. 
The sudden
calls of the Bright-headed Cisticola – a bird as tiny as its name is long – was
all that was needed for our entire group to first break into a jig, and then a
jog, as we tried in vain to keep up with the hyperactive bird. By then, the sun
had reached its pinnacle, it had begun drizzling, and we had just reached past the
mid-point, identifiable by a big boulder on a fairly level ground. A
deliciously cold stream soothed our aching feet, as we energised ourselves with
lunch and some well-deserved rest before the steep and rocky last leg of the
trek.
Nearing the summit,
we stopped yet again. Sure, it helped us catch our breath from the climb, but,
more importantly, it brought us face to face with our most prized sighting –
the carnivorous plant, Drosera. Calling it a ‘sighting’ is probably a stretch –
the species found here is smaller than blades of grass, barely discernible to
the naked eye. The ingenuity of a plant this size is mind-boggling – rather
than being easy prey, it is actually a predator. Each ‘leaf’ has glandular tentacles which are
topped with globules of sticky secretion. Assuming these to be dew, insects get
stuck to the plant, ending up as its food. 
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