Thadiyandamol Trek: the ground beneath my feet

An unedited version of my story published in the August 2015 edition of Outlook Traveller

A view of the summit of Thadiyandamol

“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?

The endangered Blue-eyed bush frog, also known locally as 'Neel-netra', endemic to the Western Ghats

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

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

2014 Travel Calendar

I’d discovered the pleasures of road-trips last year, despite being an anxious road traveller. This year, my romance with asphalt, dust and gravel continued. However, 2014 also led to newer discoveries and experiences - surprise, surprise – solo travel!

I know what you’re thinking: solo travel isn’t very unusual or path-breaking for many travellers. So, why the hullabaloo? For starters, despite being in my thirties, I’ve never taken a holiday without company. Let alone holiday, I’m the kind of person who is uncomfortable eating alone at a restaurant. And though I love my moments of solitude on holidays, I enjoy having just the right company in that solitude, to chat with or share experiences with. Now, having overcome my misgivings and travelled solo, I would happily do it all over again.

On the whole, travel has been very sparse in 2014. I miss those years when I travelled almost every other month. However, this break from travel was probably a blessing in disguise – it allowed me to process my backlog of images from last year, as well as write many stories.

                                                                                                          

Sri Lanka

This was a long-awaited trip to celebrate a momentous milestone. The date for this was hence set in stone – Jan 2014. After a lot of discussions based on our interest, weather suitability in Jan, ease of getting a visa etc, hubby and I zeroed in on Sri Lanka. This misleadingly tiny island effortlessly sustained our interest for 3 weeks, during which we explored west, south and central Sri Lanka. Lovely weather, incredibly friendly locals, scenic landscapes, fiery local cuisine and lots of outdoorsy activities left us with lingering memories. Hiring a car and driving around Sri Lanka was one of the best decisions we made; it was a great way to experience local culture and make serendipitous discoveries at nondescript little villages and towns.

My story about wildlife in Sri Lanka: 
http://nomadandabag.blogspot.com/2015/10/wild-postcards-from-sri-lanka.html

USA

An emotional brother. A benevolent visa officer. Generous parents. Timely summer break in the college I teach at - these sudden turn of events gave me 5 weeks of a much-unexpected holiday, beginning with my brother's graduation. To be frank, USA was nowhere in the top half of my travel wish-list. However, after crisscrossing the country solo, visiting Atlanta, San Francisco, Yosemite National Park, Chicago, Philadelphia, the Poconos, New York, Boston, New Jersey, Atlantic City and New Hope, I ate humble pie – I thoroughly enjoyed the country! I napped in parks, fought pizza wars in Chicago, star-gazed in Yosemite at midnight, stood through the sun-roof of a speeding car, fought over that last cronut, got drenched in fog in SF, pub-hopped in Boston on a weeknight, lived on a couch in New York, and made jam using berries I plucked – a few of the varied experiences I had. Travelling by intercity trains and buses allowed me to strike up interesting conversations. I walked for an average of 8 hours every day, exploring each city. This, I think, is the primary reason I enjoyed this trip – the experience on foot is unlike any other.

Dubare, Coorg

This was my umpteenth visit to the region of Coorg. I didn’t have high expectations from this trip, based on glimpses I’d had of Dubare. Staying by the river Cauvery, I sought out the lesser-known experiences Coorg had to offer. And, Dubare proved to be a pleasant surprise – a little bit of river, some wildlife, a few dilapidated monuments, and lots of lore and coffee.

Read about this trip: http://nomadandabag.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-river-runs-through-it.html

A River Runs Through It

Published in the 01 Dec 2014 edition of www.jlrexplore.com, a nature and wildlife-specific website.

Nanjaraja, the king of Nanjarayapatna, had many enemies. In a dream, he was told that his troubles would vanish if he built a temple in a day. The task seemed impossible, but if anybody had a chance of doing it, it was the masterful Chola architects. They were pressed into service and set about achieving the deadline, working through the night. An errant rooster crowed earlier than usual, and the Chola builders left, assuming it was daybreak. A bridge - presumably across the river Cauvery - remained unfinished. Nobody knows if Nanjaraja’s fortunes reversed.

Fast forward five hundred years - Tipu Sultan’s pillaging army found neither gold nor gems in that temple, known as Veerabhadreshwara temple. Uninterested, they left it half-destroyed, saying “We’ll return another time to do this”, or, “We’ll come dubara”, giving Dubare forest its name.

The ruins of Veerabhadreshwara temple on the road leading to Dubare

A couple of centuries after Tipu Sultan, I packed my suitcase with equal disinterest; I threw in a few long-pending books, confident of finishing them that weekend. Being a seasoned, four-prior-holidays-in-Coorg veteran was reason enough for me to have my nose up in the air - I’d already had a ‘stay in a home-stay’ holiday; I was also done with my ‘pamper yourself in one of Coorg’s resorts’ holiday; I’d also had the rather rare ‘stay with your coffee plantation owner friend’ weekend. All the famous sights had already been seen – Bylakuppe, Abbey falls, Raja’s seat, Omkareshwara temple, elephant bathing at Dubare, Talacauvery. Why, I’d been on a trekking holiday to Thadiyandamol too. I sighed, kicking myself for not planning to go to a new destination.

Of course, lying around reading books with an endless supply of coffee can never be too bad, I consoled myself. My other-half (henceforth OH) had no such motivations for returning to Coorg; he staunchly refused to join me. I unabashedly lied to him, promising we’d spend all three days exploring facets of Coorg we’d never seen before. As we waited by the Cauvery on the bank opposite the Dubare Elephant Camp, for the Jungle Lodges’ boat to pick us up, I wondered how much time I had before my deception was exposed.

The landing dock at JLR Dubare, by the Cauvery

Three days later, OH gently steers our car over a bad stretch of road, to prevent the cheap liquor bottles filled to the brim with luscious Coorgi honey from clanging into each other and breaking. I glance at him for a ‘holiday indicator’ expression that is usually writ large at the end of each trip - a broad grin is plastered over his face.

Me: Enjoyed breakfast today, huh? You’re smiling.

OH: Yeah, the neer dosas were melt-in-your-mouth. And, I’m going to miss this coffee! (glaring at a honking car and frowning) Well, we better get used to our return to the urban jungle.

Me: So you’re glad you tagged along? You almost didn’t!

OH: I frankly didn’t expect the cottages at the JLR property to be set by a peaceful side of the river. I was half-expecting screaming crowds - bathing elephants or boating - right outside my room.

Me: I agree; this was a pleasant surprise. And who knew the forest began in their backyard! I was more thrilled with our morning walks than the jeep safaris, though. Once Putta Naik reassured me about being on foot in elephant territory, the plants, spiders, damselflies and other critters had my undivided attention. I’ve never spent ten minutes watching a spider spin its web!

A nature walk in Dubare, with the river for company

OH: (braking suddenly) We’re almost at the turnoff to Chiklihole…are you sure you don’t want to check if the view today is better?

Chiklihole, a reservoir, is one of Dubare’s little-known secrets. When we’d visited the day before, the weather had been moody. The water was a still, lacklustre sheet, with a mist-covered backdrop. The grey monotone of both the sky and the reservoir offset the vivid colours of the fishing coracles - not your quintessential picture-postcard vista, but, dramatic enough to command attention. The clouds, unfortunately, decided to deny us the spectacular sunset the locals had raved about. I could have spent many hours shooting the breeze, seated on the coarse stones of the humongous embankment, except, OH had dragged me away. For a good cause, though; I would have missed the fish auction if he hadn’t. Grown men running at break-neck speed, all for snapping up some fish, is not an everyday sight. At one point, two men almost got into blows over a beauty; egged on by their respective friends, they persisted for many minutes, until the fishermen intervened to seal the deal.

Fishermen and their fishing coracles, at Chiklihole reservoir

OH: (recollecting the fish-war) The locals sure seem to love their fish!

Me: Fish, and spices! Remember, Harsha showed us those deceptively small Gandhari chillies in his plantation? He was horrified when I said I wanted to taste one; he quietly steered me away from those bushes.

OH: (laughing) You would have been blinded like Gandhari, had you eaten one. I’m glad you forced me to visit a plantation – I feel like a pro, being able to tell the difference between Arabica and Robusta.

Coffee beans, in various stages of drying

Not only was OH happy, spurred by Harsha (our guide), he had even plucked fresh pepper, vowing to make some pickle once home. Harsha and his family invest a lot of time and energy looking after their coffee plantation, like many Kodavas do.  It isn’t easy, despite having sprinklers for watering the plants. Keeping them pest-free and harvesting the beans when just right is hard work. Not all creatures are pests, though; their plantation is home to a host of critters which are welcome – we spotted giant wood-spiders and well-camouflaged toads too.

Camouflaged toad in the coffee plantation

Me: Until Harsha told me, I didn’t know that spiders were such an integral part of coffee plantations.

OH: For that matter, wildlife seems so inseparable from Coorg. Even if you are not looking for wildlife, it finds you. Like when you saw an Indrella ampulla on the compound wall of a devara kadu.

Me: Or when I narrowly missed stepping over the bracket fungi in the devara kadu at Chettalli. I’m so happy we could see a few of these sacred groves.

I hadn’t known about devara kadus until I read an article some months ago. These forest patches have survived the onslaught of development, as sacred groves. Some remain in their primal form under trees, while others are being ‘developed’, with small temple-like structures being built. This trip had allowed me to peek into this spiritual side of life in Coorg.

Bracket fungi and a stream, in a devara kadu by the road, at Chettalli

OH: The next time we visit, we must time it to witness ritual dances at these devara kadus.  Or probably visit in March, when the grand puja is conducted at the Veerabhadreshwara temple - with priests coming from all over Karnataka, it promises to be festive.

Me: I wouldn’t mind another visit. I still need to experiment with photographing star trails. I am unhappy with the results this time, but we should get clear skies once this monsoon passes. You really missed experiencing midnight by the river!

I had spent many hours at night waiting by the river, hoping for the skies to clear. The riverside took on a different character, as the cobalt blue of dusk slowly turned inky. With people tucked away in their homes and hotels, a permeating silence descended on the Cauvery - one that allowed me to hear the gentle sloshing of the currents. Curious to see how the transformation progressed, I awoke at 2 am, only to find the landscape mist-covered and eerily beautiful, bathed in bluish-white moonlight. Though it felt too spooky for a walk, the cottage’s balcony had been perfect to lounge in, at that time.

River-side cottages at JLR Dubare

OH: (smiling) I may have had the energy to wake up in the middle of the night, if I hadn’t spent all evening chasing you around Madikeri’s buildings. You architects are magnetically attracted to buildings, aren’t you?

Me: (embarrassed and defensive) You enjoyed those monuments as much as I did! The Madikeri fort’s upkeep is a little disappointing, but walking on the moss-covered ramparts, taking in the town’s views, made up for it. Very few visitors seem to enjoy it, though.

OH: And even fewer visit Gaddige. The tombs may be decrepit, but their location is beautiful. So is some of the architectural detailing.

Moss-covered Madikeri Fort

Kings’ tombs, called ‘Gaddige’, set on an elevated patch of land in the middle of bustling Madikeri

Me: (laughing) Spoken like an architect’s husband! If only I were born a century ago, we could have lived in a gorgeous ‘Ain Mane’. We were lucky to even stumble upon one of these ancestral houses – most have been demolished to make way for newer homes.

A typical Kodava ‘Ain Mane’

Unlike Tipu’s demolishing soldiers who never returned, OH sheepishly agrees that Coorg definitely merits repeat visits. He still needs to ride down the Cauvery in a coracle. And, Putta Naik, our naturalist, has promised to show us many more critters and interesting insect-behaviour within the Jungle Lodges property.

A leaf-hopper, seen during a nature walk

I, however, had ended my holiday floating in a coracle amidst cheery, bright water lilies, past the resort’s gol-ghar, waving to OH, who had opted for a head start on breakfast. There, in that coracle, I reminded myself - even as a by-now-five-holiday veteran, I have more to seek out in Coorg, if I do come, ‘dubare’.

P.S: My books did not see the outside of my suitcase. Coorg had had the last laugh.

Water lilies and a dragonfly

Coorg: Om Away From Home

‘Wake up and smell the coffee’ has a very different connotation in Coorg: this phrase probably best describes your mornings here. An aroma wafts in from the kitchen, forcing you to wake up sooner than you’d wanted to, on a holiday. It makes you think that having a cup of coffee without brushing your teeth wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. ‘Stop and smell the roses’ too has a Coorgi meaning; as you walk out into the garden, aforesaid coffee cup in hand, flowers in bloom draw you towards them, begging to be smelt. Thus begin your lovely Coorgi mornings.

Coffee beans

If you stay in one of the numerous coffee plantations—and I recommend that you do—the morning cuppa can be followed by a session of lying around in the verandah with a vacant expression. Until, that is, the resident pet comes bounding over and demands your attention and some play. That dealt with, wander around the estate admiring coffee plants, pepper climbers, sunlight streaming through tall trees, and flowers adorned with dew-drops. If you are lucky, the estate will have a pond, a lake, or a river-side; at your luckiest, even a waterfall. Seated by the water, watch kingfishers deftly fish, listen to the gurgling river, and lie down on its bank with the by-now-perfected vacant expression.

When hunger pangs strike, allow the coffee fragrance to guide you back to the house, to partake in an enticing repast: yummy Kodagu breakfasts ensure that you eat like there’s no tomorrow. Then, opt for idling on the verandah, a hot shower, or resuming your nap; after all, you did work hard since morning, what with all the walking and playing with the golden shepherd. A couple of hours later, you wake up once again to the smell of coffee, this time accompanied by lunch. You get the drift. It takes surprisingly little effort to get used to this routine, repeating it until the moon illuminates the trees, and stars hijack the brilliantly clear Coorg sky. Now, it probably seems like there isn’t an awful lot to do in Coorg and you’re most likely worried about the rest of my story being exactly what has been said until now. Allay your fears.

Coorg (Kodagu) lies in south-west Karnataka, near the Western Ghats. Mercara (Madikeri) is the headquarters of this region. Coorgis (Kodavas) are a race with distinct and unique customs, language and clothing. Staying in a local estate allows you to learn about their lifestyle and enjoy the local cuisine. Coorg’s proximity to the Western Ghats endows it with diverse flora and fauna, including frogs, snakes, and other assorted reptiles and insects, many of them endemic. The hilly terrain, also the birthplace of the river Cauvery, makes for challenging treks and adventure activities. The topography has also ensured a generous sprinkling of waterfalls throughout the region. However, with this visit dedicated to the pursuit of doing nothing, my paths were charted only by my search for Zen in Coorg.

Shaking myself to stir beyond the coffee estate, I head to one of my favourite places: Namdroling Monastery at Bylakuppe, one of the largest Tibetan settlements in India. On a day with bright blue skies, you could be forgiven for thinking you are in Tibet, conifers and all. The air resounds with chants of om mani padme hum, and the twirling of prayer wheels. Monks in maroon robes pray or perform their daily chores with a calmness that is infectious; as your gait subconsciously slows down, a group of novice monks playing football vigorously, question your clichéd notions of monkhood. The sound of the Dungche, the Tibetan long-horn, acts as a beacon, guiding you towards the altar. Peeking through the out-of-bounds room’s window reveals chanting monks, seated in a neat row at their desks; the fragrance of incense wafting out through the window grills, which you and they both inhale,  forms a strange bond between you. The only incongruities in this piece of Tibet are the coconut trees swaying into every view.

Swinging the beads in the doorway aside, entering the monastery’s main building through brilliantly painted walls, I have the wind knocked out of me. Though expecting to see golden statues of the Buddha, I wasn’t prepared to be suddenly rendered small and inconsequential by sixty-foot tall statues. I plonk myself on the floor and gaze at Padmasambhava, Shakyamuni and Amitayus, a formidable trio.  Padmasambhava or Guru Rinpoche, is associated with tantric Buddhism. Prince Siddhartha or Gautam Buddha, also known as Shakyamuni, signifies peace and enlightenment. Amitayus is a form of Buddha associated with longevity. It’s relatively quiet inside, if I successfully ignore the screaming kids and a few loud adults.  Luckily, the room is humungous and we can each carve out our space; seeking silence, I move towards the far end, to sit near one of the unused beaded doorways. Just across the beaded curtain, two monks sit on the porch, intently stringing together some beads, unperturbed by the noise around them. Amidst all the madness, they epitomise the peace and quiet I am looking for.

Gurgling water often enhances the feeling of Zen; its search led me to Abbey falls, located within a private plantation. A powerful cascade of bountiful, post-monsoon water, I hear it much before I see it, its sound increasing as I walk through the estate from the parking lot. The steady stream of weekend visitors on the rickety viewing-bridge is not exactly what I had in mind. Uneasy, I slink away to a quiet corner, where the far-reaching spray drenches me; on this hot afternoon, though, it’s quite welcome. I contemplate seeking peace in some of Madikeri’s other sights, but not quite in the mood for a hectic day, I choose instead to settle down on a seat. And no ordinary one at that - nothing but the king’s seat will do for me.

‘Raja’s Seat’ at Madikeri conjures up images of a throne - it’s actually a park located on a plateau, with great views of the valley below, weather permitting. The park is a popular hangout for visitors and locals alike. A strange metallic clanking catches my attention and soon enough, a toy train comes around the bend. Maybe it’s my Coorg-induced Zen state of mind, or maybe I am on a coffee high, but self-consciousness gone with the wind, I get myself a ticket and an ice-cream cone and join the melee of kids for the next ride. The kids eye the ‘crazy aunty’ in their midst, even as I’m tempted to shout “wheeee!” as the train rounds a bend. The ride is over within minutes. By now acutely conscious, I battle my desire to go on another ride. As fountains gurgle to life in the evening, with a few lighting effects thrown in for good measure, I seat myself on a bench overlooking the view, a cheerfully pink cotton-candy in hand. There’s no view, though­ - the valley has clouded, and looks not unlike my cotton-candy.

The view from Raja's Seat, obscured by clouds.

The next morning, I ride a coracle across the river, to reach the Dubare elephant camp. The camp appeals to children and adults alike, especially the morning ritual of bathing elephants in the river. Post-monsoon, you can also raft in this river. The pachyderms, slowly led into the water by their mahouts, seem to enjoy the water and the hard scrub the mahouts give them. Visitors are allowed to help the mahouts; occasionally, a playful elephant squirts water on you. Bath done, they’re taken to the feeding area to be fed their staple: ragi balls and jaggery. What is sad though, is to see the elephants chained at times. Despite the fact that the camp houses forest department elephants who have been retired from work, and they are supposedly well-looked after, it is still heart-wrenching - these giants are meant to roam freely in the jungle.

That afternoon, I head to the riverside within the estate, guided by Tejaswini and Diana, two young girls who live here with their mother. Familiar with every inch of the estate and the wonders it holds, they show me how to blow bubbles using sap from a leaf, spot patterns formed on the river bed by a shoal of fish, and observe footprints on the sand that a heron or an egret has left behind. Throughout the way to the river, I’d been trying hard to keep up with the girls, who were giggling, running about and looking for insects. On the way back in the now-darkening evening, they’re determined to scare the wits out of me by hiding and then giggling at my alarm when I find them missing. At sunset—back on my favourite perch, the verandah—my eyes seek out patterns in the trees silhouetted by twilight. Much further away, the various peaks that surround Coorg would also have formed imposing silhouettes; I wonder how it would feel to lie on one of those peaks at this very moment, looking at the light slowly dim over Coorg.

These peaks are what make Coorg a trekker's paradise; the highest, Thadiyandamol, is especially a favourite. Kodavas will shame you with their athleticism, even as you make an ungainly sight, huffing and puffing up the slope to catch up with your guide, who seems to be what can only be described as ‘bounding daintily’ up the very same slope. Trying to be active is especially hard when Coorg’s cool breeze infuses you with what feels like a sedative.  Vainly trying to conquer this languour in my body which causes my limbs to behave jelly-like, I plod my way to the house for some coffee: in all probability, my last cup this trip. The peaks will have to wait for another time, when I seek another Zen moment - probably while contemplating during a trek.

And if you thought the endless cups of coffee would have left me an insomniac, you are wrong – ‘sleeping like a baby’ too took on a whole new meaning at Coorg.

About my Thandiyandamol Trek:

http://nomadandabag.blogspot.com/2015/08/thadiyandamol-trek-ground-beneath-my.html

Read another story about the lesser-known areas of Coorg:

http://nomadandabag.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-river-runs-through-it.html