Girl Guides in Ladakh: Explore the Markha Valley and follow the path of pioneering female trekkers in a high-altitude adventure.
In the remote and rugged expanse of Ladakh, where the Indian Himalayas stand as silent sentinels, we embarked on a trek under the guidance of a remarkable woman—Thinlas Chorol. In a region where tradition and taboos intertwine, Thinlas has become a beacon of change, breaking through the barriers to become the first female trekking guide in this isolated corner of the world.
The journey began in the quaint village of Skiu, nestled in the Markha Valley. It was day four of what was shaping up to be an unforgettable trek, and Thinlas, our intrepid guide, stood before us, her gaze fixed on a sacred fresco. The small gompa—a Tibetan Buddhist prayer hall—had been unexpectedly unlocked, revealing a monk in residence.
“It’s never been open during my previous visits,” Thinlas mused, leading us into the whitewashed building perched on a promontory. The gompa’s design, with its reverent nod to the surrounding landscape, spoke volumes of Tibetan architectural grace. While my guidebook attributed its origins to the 17th century, Thinlas had uncovered a fresco at the back of the hall that intrigued her.
“I’ve seen similar ones at Alchi,” she remarked. Alchi, renowned for its exquisite gompas above the Indus Valley, was founded in the 11th century by the Buddhist scholar Rinchen Zangpo. He had enlisted Kashmiri artisans to construct monasteries in Tibet, continuing a significant effort to spread Buddhism. The connection with Skiu was tantalizing, though Thinlas could only offer a playful shrug in response. “I’m not entirely sure.”
It’s a rare thing to encounter a trekking guide who also possesses the finesse of an art historian. I silently expressed my gratitude to the universe for leading us to Thinlas. Traveling through this secluded and enchanting Tibetan realm with my children, Rosa, 16, and Joe, 14, I was in search of an exceptional guide. And Thinlas was exceptional indeed, not just for her expertise but for her trailblazing spirit. In nearly two decades of Himalayan trekking, I had yet to meet a female guide, let alone one who had established her own agency.
Thinlas, however, shunned the spotlight. Her story emerged only after some prodding and conversations with her friends. Born in Takmachik, a remote village in western Ladakh, Thinlas faced early adversity with the loss of her mother at a tender age.
Journey to the Heights: The Emergence of a Trailblazing Guide
In the rugged wilderness of Ladakh, my childhood was etched into the rocky canvas of the mountains, alongside my father and our flocks of goats and sheep. I remember those days with a poignant clarity, feeling the weight of responsibility to protect him from the unforeseen perils of the highlands. Those treks with him—those were the golden moments of my youth, the bliss of simpler times.
Transitioning from this sheltered existence to the broader world was not without its trials. My academic pursuits took me to a college near Leh, the sole institution offering Ladakhis from remote corners a chance to study in their native tongue. Surprisingly, despite my petite stature, I excelled at ice hockey—a sport revered in Ladakh, played on the frozen lakes with a fervor that borders on national pride.
Yet, the journey toward my true calling began in those very college halls, where I started trekking with international volunteers. One woman, sharing her harrowing experience of enduring unwanted advances from her male guide, expressed her desire for a female guide. This revelation resonated deeply with me. Having been born amidst these mountains, it felt instinctive to embrace that role.
The experience, however, diverged starkly from those carefree days with my father. Locals mistook me for a tourist, given the unprecedented nature of a female guide. They addressed me in English, a language foreign to the realm I knew so well. Nonetheless, the trek proved successful, and my client’s suggestion—to pursue guiding as a profession—served as a catalyst for change. Bolstered by her encouragement, I embarked on a search for opportunities.
The response from local travel agencies was one of incredulity. While they offered me roles in cultural tours of monasteries along the Indus Valley, the idea of a woman guiding trekkers through the mountains was deemed unacceptable by traditional norms. With determination, aided by an American English teacher, I persevered, acquired necessary qualifications, and eventually founded my own agency.
Today, I am not just guiding but also mentoring aspiring female guides. Tsetan and Tsering, two of my trainees, joined us on the trek, each carrying a bag as part of their learning experience. Many trekkers opt for mules in the Markha Valley, but overgrazing has placed the local environment under strain, so we forgo them. Tsetan, at 19, hails from western Ladakh and often shared laughter with my daughter, Rosa. Tsering, older and from the east, near the Tibetan border, joined us to explore whether guiding was her true calling.
As the trek unfolded, I began to appreciate how serendipitously I had secured the best means to explore the Markha Valley, renowned as Ladakh’s most iconic trek. This labyrinth of peaks, soaring above 6,000 meters, is conveniently close to Leh and has gained popularity due to the rise of homestays—an economical and appealing alternative to camping for both inquisitive backpackers and seasoned trekkers alike.
The concept of homestays in Markha began with the Snow Leopard Conservancy in Leh, which sought to provide local communities a way to benefit from their natural surroundings. Previously, trekkers passed through villages without contributing to the local economy, hiring external staff and importing supplies. Opening their homes to guests allowed local women to earn a livelihood effortlessly. The conservancy established a uniform standard of accommodation, ensuring equitable distribution of earnings and avoiding destabilizing competition. Over the past decade, this model has flourished, instilling newfound confidence in the communities.
While homestays offer basic amenities—a clean room with a mattress, communal meals, and Ladakhi compost toilets—the quality can vary. Despite some homestays falling short of their original ideals, Thinlas’s expertise ensured we stayed in the most welcoming homes, enjoyed the best food, and rested in the most comfortable settings.
With Thinlas’s ability to communicate with the host families in their native language, we were greeted with genuine warmth and gained deeper insights into their daily lives. On our first night in Rumbak, after a scenic walk up the Zingchen River, she enlightened us about cultural customs. For instance, we learned to navigate around the low tables in front of our eating mats to avoid offense—an etiquette that set us apart from other trekkers who, unaware of this subtlety, often irritated their hosts.
Traversing the Markha Valley: A Journey Through Heights and Hopes
In the lofty expanse of Ladakh’s Markha Valley, where the contours of the land blend with the sky, one lesson becomes glaringly apparent: respect the altitude or face the wrath of its relentless demands. Leh, perched over 3,500 meters, greets visitors with a disorienting jolt, a prelude to the challenge of acclimatization. The path ahead promises grandeur, but only if the body is given the grace of time to adjust. Our trek, stretching over three daunting passes that crest around 5,000 meters, stood as a testament to this necessity.
Amidst the isolation of the Markha Valley, some trekkers falter in their understanding of altitude’s peril. We encountered several souls, their faces tinged with an alarming blue, bereft of adequate clothing, and a portrait of desperation against the unforgiving weather.
Our journey traced the serpentine path of the Markha River for days, wading through its waters and meandering past the ruins of a castle that seemed straight out of a gothic novel. The valley eventually gave way to the vast, open expanse of Nimaling’s pasture, a place of serene permanence at 4,700 meters. Here, away from the comfort of homestays, we pitched our tents beneath the looming shadow of our highest challenge yet: the Kongmaru La, ascending beyond 5,150 meters.
The ascent was a slow, deliberate struggle, and then the snow began to fall. After days of basking in cotton T-shirts and slathering ourselves with sunblock, we scrambled into every layer we had packed, including our waterproof Gore-Tex shells. The parachute tents, run by a local herdsman, greeted us with a grim sight—puddles pooling on the floor and water seeping through the roof. Panic surged through us.
In the midst of this, Thinlas, our indefatigable guide, took a deep breath and vanished for ten minutes. When she returned, her trademark grin in place, she had secured us a nearby shepherd’s hut. It came with its own quirks: a resident mouse, a pervasive goat scent, and braying donkeys nearby. Yet, it offered warmth and dryness. The following day, under a sunlit sky, we crossed the pass, gingerly navigating the narrow gorge on the other side until we arrived at our final homestay of the trek.
That evening, in the comforting embrace of a kitchen, we shelled peas from a lush garden, the barren mountain opposite bathed in the golden hues of sunset. Ladakh has transformed markedly in recent decades, and it will continue to evolve as roads encroach further into its remote reaches and tourism reshapes its cultural landscape. Such transformations might seem unsettling, yet Thinlas stands as a beacon of resilience—a woman charting her own path and kindling inspiration for others.
The Reference Article 女性トレッキングガイドとラダックの壮大な冒険
