There are trails in this world that do not merely cut through mountains but carve through time. In the silent heart of Ladakh, where the wind moves like a whisper between forgotten stones, there is such a trail—an ancient thread spun from the past, worn smooth by centuries of wandering feet. It is known as the Sham Valley Trek, though the name does little justice to its nature. It is not simply a route; it is an unraveling.
The journey begins long before the first step is taken. It begins in the mind, in the quiet unrest that drives a person to seek something more—something beyond the reach of cities, beyond the comforts of familiarity. Here, in the high desert of the Himalayas, the landscape is stripped bare of all but its essence. Rock. Sky. Silence. And between them, a path that leads into the unknown.
In Sham Valley, there are no towering peaks to intimidate, no perilous ridges to conquer. Instead, there are villages where time has slowed to a near halt, where homes built from sun-hardened earth still stand as they have for generations. There are passes where the air is thin but thick with history, where traders once bartered salt and turquoise under the shadow of the Himalayas. There are monasteries where the wind hums through prayer flags, carrying murmurs of devotion to the wide, indifferent sky.
To walk here is to step into an unbroken rhythm, one that has pulsed beneath the earth for centuries. The journey is not just about distance—it is about immersion. It is about listening, not merely with the ears but with the skin, the bones, the breath. Each footstep presses into a land that has seen countless travelers before, and in return, the land leaves an imprint on those who pass through.
Ladakh is a place that does not yield to the hurried. It does not accommodate urgency. The pace here is set by the mountains, by the rivers, by the wind. To truly experience Sham Valley, one must surrender to it. Let the trail dictate the rhythm. Let the silence speak.
And so, the road to Likir begins—not with a march, but with a whisper.
The Road to Likir – A Whisper of the Past
The road uncoils like a serpent, winding its way through the barren expanse of Ladakh. Dust rises in lazy spirals as the journey from Leh begins, a slow retreat from the last traces of modernity. The buildings thin out. The traffic fades. The silence grows.
Likir is not the first stop, but it is the first breath. Here, the land stretches wide, a vast canvas of ochre and rust. The monastery sits perched on a hill, its whitewashed walls gleaming against the stark blue sky. It is a place of prayer, of history, of stillness. The wind moves through the narrow alleys, carrying with it the scent of juniper and the distant echo of chanting monks.
One does not rush through Likir. It demands observation. The towering Maitreya Buddha stands in quiet repose, his gaze unfazed by the shifting years. Below, the village moves at its own measured pace. A shepherd leads his goats through the narrow lanes. An old woman, her face a map of sun and time, sits weaving under the afternoon light. A child, barefoot and unbothered, chases a stray dog past crumbling stupas.
To the traveler, Likir is a threshold. Beyond this point, the world becomes something else. The roads give way to trails. The air, thinner. The silence, deeper. It is here that the journey truly begins—not just in distance, but in perspective.
A single step beyond Likir is a step into the unknown. And the unknown, in Ladakh, is always waiting.
A Journey Begins Where the World Ends
Beyond Likir, the road does not disappear—it simply becomes something else. Asphalt turns to dust, dust to stone, and stone to silence. It is a silence that is neither empty nor absent; rather, it is full—weighted with the footsteps of those who came before, with the murmurs of wind that has known the taste of centuries.
The first steps are hesitant, not because the terrain is difficult, but because the mind is still adjusting. In cities, movement is distraction; here, it is intention. Each footfall on the trail is deliberate, each breath measured against the thin, high-altitude air. The vastness of Ladakh does not just surround—it consumes.
A few steps in, and the past begins to assert itself. The path is not new. It has been walked by traders carrying salt from Tibet, by monks in search of solitude, by shepherds whose eyes have memorized the contours of the land. The trail is not just a connection between places; it is a passage between eras.
The landscape shifts in degrees of emptiness. Low, rolling hills stretch like waves frozen in time, their surfaces scored by wind and sun. The occasional chorten—a solitary white stupa—stands sentinel, marking the presence of devotion in an otherwise indifferent world. Prayer flags, faded and frayed, cling to wooden poles, their fabric whispering mantras into the unbroken blue sky.
And then, the first pass. Phobe La rises gently, unassuming yet significant. It is a threshold, an initiation. The climb is not steep, but it is revealing. With each step, the air grows thinner, the pulse louder. But it is not exhaustion—it is something else. A sharpening. A stripping away of noise, of excess, of the unnecessary.
Reaching the top, there is no grand reward—no summit, no flag, no victory. There is only the land, unfolding in quiet vastness. A valley opens below, its contours softened by distance. The horizon is not a line, but a suggestion, where sky and earth blur into a single endless expanse.
In the cities, the world ends at the edge of sidewalks and skylines. Here, it does not end at all. It simply continues.
The Murmuring Winds of Phobe La
Wind is an old traveler in these parts. It has wandered the ridges of Ladakh for centuries, threading its way through valleys and over passes, carrying with it the voices of the past. Here, on the ascent to Phobe La, it whispers against the stone, as if reluctant to let go of the stories it has gathered.
The climb is slow, not because it is difficult, but because something about the landscape commands patience. The sky, impossibly vast, presses down upon the earth like an ocean inverted. Shadows stretch long over the land, drawn out by the sun’s unfiltered brilliance. There are no distractions—no signs, no roads, no markers of time’s passage except the movement of one’s own breath.
The wind shifts, rising from the valley below. It is cold—not with the sharp bite of winter, but with the steady coolness of altitude. It carries the scent of dry earth, of distant cedarwood smoke from unseen villages, of prayer flags that have long since faded into the sky. Each gust feels like a whisper of something ancient, something just beyond understanding.
Near the summit, the remnants of an old trader’s cairn stand stacked against the wind. The stones, placed by hands long forgotten, are smooth from the touch of weather and time. This was once a route for the caravans, their mules burdened with salt and wool, their footsteps ground into the path that now welcomes only the occasional wanderer.
A lone chorten stands at the pass, white against the barren earth, a quiet monument to those who have passed this way. Bright fragments of prayer flags dance against the blue, their edges frayed from years of exposure, their messages carried outward in every direction. Om Mani Padme Hum—the wind reads the words aloud, though there is no one to listen.
From the summit, the world shifts. The land below is no longer the same; it stretches further, deeper, folding itself into the next valley. The descent ahead is clear, winding through an open basin where the first outlines of Yangthang village begin to emerge in the distance. But for a moment, the wind holds the traveler still.
It is here, standing atop Phobe La, that one begins to understand. The journey is not about reaching the next village, nor about covering distance. It is about standing in these forgotten spaces, between the present and the past, between earth and sky, between movement and stillness.
And so the wind murmurs on, carrying its secrets down the valley, leaving only silence in its wake.
Yangthang – The Village Where Time Stood Still
Beyond Phobe La, the descent begins. But it is not gravity alone that draws the traveler forward—it is the quiet pull of the unknown. The valley opens ahead, a gentle basin where the light pools golden in the late afternoon. Below, scattered across the ochre earth, is Yangthang, a village that seems more memory than place.
The first signs of life are small and deliberate: a trail lined with rough stone walls, a solitary yak grazing beneath the shifting sky, the soft clang of a prayer wheel spinning unseen. The air here is different, thicker with wood smoke and the scent of barley drying in the sun. Shadows stretch long against whitewashed houses, their edges softened by time and dust.
A Ladakhi woman stands at the doorway of her home, her turquoise-studded headdress catching the light. She does not rush to greet, nor does she retreat. Instead, she watches, as though measuring the presence of a stranger against the weight of the land itself. Outsiders pass through; the mountains remain. In this place, time does not move forward. It simply deepens.
The homestays of Yangthang are not accommodations in the typical sense—they are an invitation. To sit within walls that have stood for generations. To eat beside a hearth that has warmed centuries of travelers. To drink butter tea thick with salt and yak milk, its taste both foreign and familiar, grounding the body to the altitude, to the moment, to the story unfolding around it.
Evening in Yangthang is an event in stillness. There are no streetlights, no neon flickers of intrusion. Instead, the night arrives as it always has—soft, inevitable, absolute. The stars emerge, one by one, until the sky is no longer black but silver. Somewhere in the distance, a monk’s chant hums through the valley, curling like smoke into the cold.
Lying beneath this sky, wrapped in the silence of an ancient land, it becomes clear: Yangthang is not a stop along the way. It is a place where the journey pauses, where time folds in on itself, where the traveler is no longer moving through the landscape, but becoming part of it.
And in the morning, when the sun rises over the barley fields and the path beckons once more, the village will not say farewell. It does not need to. The mountains will remember your footsteps. The sky will carry your breath. And the wind, ever patient, will wait for your return.
Nights Beneath a Sky Heavy with Stars
Night falls quickly in Yangthang. One moment, the valley is awash in the fading gold of the setting sun; the next, darkness spills over the land, vast and unbroken. There is no hesitation, no gradual dimming—only the sudden certainty of night, as ancient as the mountains themselves.
In the absence of artificial light, the sky reveals itself in full, an expanse of obsidian cut with silver. Stars, innumerable and alive, press down upon the earth with a weight that is almost tangible. Constellations stretch across the heavens like forgotten stories, their shapes blurred by the sheer density of light. The Milky Way, a river of fire and dust, flows uninterrupted from one horizon to the other. Here, beneath this sky, it is not difficult to believe in gods.
The village settles into silence, but it is not a silence of emptiness. It is the hush of the land listening to itself. The occasional rustle of wind through the barley fields. The rhythmic chime of a prayer wheel turning unseen. The muffled voices of a family inside their homestay, their words slow and unhurried, as if time itself has loosened its grip.
A small fire burns in the corner of the room, casting shadows against the thick, earthen walls. The air is rich with the scent of woodsmoke and butter tea, mingling with the faint metallic sharpness of the high-altitude cold. A cup, warm and heavy in the hands, is passed from host to guest without a word. Hospitality in Ladakh does not come with ceremony—it is simply offered, as naturally as the land offers itself to those who walk upon it.
Outside, the night deepens. The mountains, black against the sky, seem to exhale, their ridges breathing out the warmth of the day into the crisp air. The valley stretches endlessly, and yet, in this moment, it feels contained—held within the palms of the universe itself.
Lying beneath this sky, wrapped in silence and starlight, it is easy to forget the world beyond these peaks. Cities, deadlines, the hum of neon-lit streets—such things seem distant, almost unreal. Here, there is only the cold air and the warmth of firelight. Only the weight of the stars pressing against the chest. Only the slow, steady rhythm of breath syncing with the pulse of the earth.
Sleep does not come easily, nor does it need to. Some nights are meant for rest. Others, like this one, are meant for remembering.
A Ladakhi Dawn—Smoke, Incense, and Prayer Wheels
Dawn arrives in Yangthang not with a rush of light, but with a slow unveiling. The first hints of morning seep into the valley, turning the sky from ink to indigo. The stars, reluctant to leave, dissolve one by one, their last glimmers fading against the cold breath of the mountains. The silence of the night lingers for a moment longer, stretched thin between darkness and the inevitability of day.
Then, a sound. Soft at first, almost imperceptible—the distant murmur of a prayer wheel turning in the wind. The steady rhythm grows, accompanied by the faint scent of juniper smoke curling through the air. Somewhere, unseen, a monk recites his morning mantras, his voice a quiet thread weaving through the fabric of the waking world. The valley stirs.
In the homestay, the air inside is warm, thick with the mingling aromas of butter tea and tsampa. The fire from the night before has burned low, its embers glowing beneath the iron stove. A woman moves quietly through the room, her hands deft and practiced as she prepares breakfast—barley flour kneaded into dough, a pot of salted tea steaming beside her. There is no urgency. Time, here, does not dictate movement; it merely accompanies it.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight spill over the ridges, casting long shadows across the land. The barley fields, dusted with frost, shimmer briefly before surrendering to warmth. Smoke rises from the rooftops of whitewashed houses, drifting upward, disappearing into the thinning morning mist. The air is sharp, clean, electric with the crispness of altitude. Each breath feels like a renewal.
The village begins to wake, but gently. An old man in a woolen robe steps onto his porch, his prayer beads slipping through weathered fingers. A group of children, their cheeks flushed from the cold, chase one another between chortens, their laughter carried away by the wind. A yak-herder, wrapped in layers of faded wool, leads his animals toward the edge of the valley, his pace unhurried, his presence blending seamlessly into the landscape.
There is something sacred about a morning in Ladakh—not in the way of temples or rituals, but in the quiet reverence with which the land awakens. It is a ceremony performed without an audience, a slow unfolding of light and breath and movement. To witness it is to become part of it, if only for a moment.
And so the day begins, not with alarm clocks or hurried footsteps, but with the turning of a prayer wheel, the warmth of tea in cupped hands, the slow bloom of sunlight over a sleeping valley. Here, in the heart of the Himalayas, morning does not break. It arrives, like a whispered promise.
Hemis Shukpachen – Where Cedar Trees Hold Secrets
The trail out of Yangthang is quiet, save for the soft crunch of footsteps against the earth. The morning air, still holding onto the last breath of night, curls cool against the skin, but the sun climbs steadily, its warmth inching down into the valley. This path is older than memory—once walked by monks, traders, and wanderers, now tread by those searching for something they cannot quite name.
At the crest of the ridge, the landscape unfurls in slow motion. Below, scattered across the hills, lies Hemis Shukpachen, a village that seems to rise out of the land itself. The name lingers on the tongue, heavy with its meaning—Shukpa, the Ladakhi word for cedar. This is the place where the trees have chosen to remain.
Cedar trees are rare in Ladakh. Here, where the earth offers little and the sky takes much, they stand defiantly, their gnarled trunks twisted by time, their scent thick in the air. It is said that long ago, wandering monks blessed this village, leaving behind the sacred trees as a mark of protection. Even now, as the wind moves through their branches, it carries the echoes of ancient prayers.
Hemis Shukpachen is different from the other villages. It does not merely sit in the valley; it breathes with it. The houses, whitewashed and timeworn, lean gently against the hills, their rooftops adorned with prayer flags that ripple in the thin air. A small stream trickles through the heart of the village, its water clear as glass, feeding the barley fields that rise and fall with the land’s quiet undulations.
In the center of the village, an old woman sits beside a mani wall, her fingers tracing the worn edges of her prayer beads. Her eyes, lined with the weight of years, lift only briefly to acknowledge a passing traveler before returning to their rhythm. There is no curiosity here, no need for words. This is a place that has seen many arrivals, many departures. It does not ask for names. It remembers only the presence.
The monastery, perched on the edge of the village, is a quiet sanctuary of incense and flickering butter lamps. Inside, rows of ancient texts rest beneath layers of dust, their pages whispering forgotten truths to the empty room. A monk, robed in deep crimson, kneels before the altar, his chant low and steady, folding into the stillness like an echo returning home.
As the afternoon deepens, the shadows of the cedars stretch long over the village, casting patterns against the earth like script unwritten. The air, thick with resin and prayer, hums with something unseen. Here, beneath the boughs of trees older than history, time does not move—it lingers.
And so, the traveler lingers too, if only for a while, before the road calls once more.
Tsermangchen La – The Threshold Between Worlds
Beyond Hemis Shukpachen, the path climbs again, folding itself into the hills like an old memory retracing its steps. There is something different about this ascent, something heavier. The air thins, stretching itself over the ridges, pulling the breath from the lungs. The silence grows deeper, more deliberate. Every footstep presses into an earth that has known many travelers yet recognizes none.
This is the way to Tsermangchen La, a pass that does not separate, but rather dissolves—into sky, into space, into the stillness that lingers between worlds. It is a place of transition, where the familiar loosens its grip, and something vast and unnameable takes its place. Here, the land no longer offers comfort; it offers perspective.
Higher still, the prayer flags appear—fluttering threads of color strung across the emptiness. Their edges, frayed by wind and time, carry prayers that have long since been whispered into the void. Some are newly placed, vibrant against the sun; others are worn to near transparency, their messages now weightless and free. Together, they mark the crossing, a border between the seen and the unseen.
At the summit, there is no fanfare. No marker but the wind, no audience but the sky. The valley below stretches in soft, golden waves, the villages reduced to mere suggestions of life. Shadows move slow across the land, time itself seeming to hesitate here, unsure whether to advance or retreat. The mountains, indifferent and eternal, stand witness to those who pass.
To stand at Tsermangchen La is to feel the weight of both distance and belonging. The journey behind is not the same as the journey ahead. Something shifts. Perhaps it is the altitude, thinning the space between thought and sky. Or perhaps it is the realization that places like this exist—not for the traveler, but for the land itself.
The descent begins, though the body hesitates. Something about this pass lingers, like a thread caught on the wind. The footsteps that leave it behind are lighter, though the soul carries more than before.
The path continues. The valley unfolds. And the wind, ever patient, whispers the journey onward.
The Shukpa Trees and the Stillness of Time
The descent from Tsermangchen La is neither steep nor hurried. The land does not allow for haste. Here, in the thin air of Ladakh, movement is dictated not by urgency but by patience. Each step unfolds into the next, as if the trail itself is deciding how quickly it wishes to be traveled.
Below, the valley of Hemis Shukpachen comes into view—not a grand entrance, but a quiet revealing. The village rests in the embrace of the hills, its whitewashed homes scattered like stones against the golden earth. Yet, what truly sets this place apart are the trees. The shukpa trees, the cedars of Ladakh, stand here as they have for centuries, their twisted branches reaching toward a sky that has never changed.
Cedar trees are rare in Ladakh, where the land is often too dry, too harsh for such persistence. Yet here they remain—silent, immovable, their scent thick in the air. It is said that these trees are sacred, that they were planted by wandering monks who once walked this valley, leaving behind more than just footprints. Whether truth or legend, the presence of the shukpa trees is undeniable. Their shade is cool, their trunks worn smooth by wind and time. To walk among them is to feel something beyond the physical, something rooted deep in the earth itself.
In the village, time slows further. An old woman, her face lined with years of sun and wind, sits outside her home, spinning wool between her fingers. She does not rush. Nothing here does. The sound of a prayer wheel turning echoes through the stillness, the gentle rhythm of devotion blending seamlessly into the landscape. Somewhere, unseen, a dog barks—a single note in an otherwise unbroken silence.
The sun, now high, filters through the branches of the cedars, casting long, shifting patterns against the earth. Beneath one of the larger trees, a small mani wall stands, its stones carved with prayers that the wind alone can read. The words are ancient, but their meaning lingers, embedded in the rock like the roots of the trees themselves.
For a moment, standing in the cool shadow of the shukpa trees, it is easy to believe that time has forgotten this place. Or perhaps, more accurately, that this place has forgotten time. The mountains remain. The trees endure. The prayers continue. Everything else is fleeting.
In the end, the traveler moves on, because that is what travelers do. But something of the valley stays behind—or perhaps, something of the valley is carried forward. The wind shifts through the trees, rustling their branches in quiet farewell. The stillness lingers.
And the journey, as always, continues.
Temisgam – The Final Descent into Memory
Beyond the cedars of Hemis Shukpachen, the trail unwinds itself in slow, deliberate curves, tracing the contours of the valley like an old song. The air is different here—warmer, heavier, carrying the scent of earth that has known rain. The path narrows, winding past ancient mani stones worn smooth by the touch of countless hands, by the hush of whispered prayers carried on the wind. Below, in the distance, Temisgam emerges from the landscape, a quiet constellation of whitewashed homes, barley fields, and the remnants of a forgotten kingdom.
There is a sense of inevitability in this descent, as if the valley itself has been waiting. The mountains, which once towered with silent indifference, now seem to soften, their jagged lines yielding to the curves of the land. The river, a thin silver thread, carves through the basin, feeding the orchards that bloom impossibly here, against all odds. Apricot trees, their branches twisted with time, stand in defiance of the arid terrain, their fruit ripening in the golden light.
At the village’s heart, Temisgam Palace lingers on its hilltop perch, a relic of Ladakh’s royal past. Its walls, though weathered, still bear the weight of history, of battles fought and forgotten, of rulers whose names have dissolved into dust. The fortress does not command the land; it watches over it, an old sentinel bearing witness to the slow erosion of time.
The village itself moves to an unhurried rhythm. A man with silver in his beard kneels beside his field, pressing grains of barley between his palms, feeling their weight, their promise. A woman, wrapped in deep maroon wool, sits in the sun’s quiet warmth, her fingers moving methodically through a basket of apricots, peeling, sorting, preserving. A child, barefoot and unburdened, runs through the narrow lanes, his laughter punctuating the stillness. These are not performances; they are simply life, unfolding as it always has.
Night arrives in measured degrees. The last rays of sunlight stretch long across the valley, painting the land in hues of copper and rose. The scent of woodsmoke drifts through the air, curling from unseen kitchens. Somewhere, the low hum of a prayer rises from a monastery hidden in the hills. Above it all, the stars return, indifferent yet familiar, pressing down upon the land as they have for millennia.
To stand here, beneath the weight of the sky, is to understand something wordless. The journey has been one of distance, of movement, yet it has always led to this: a place where time is not measured in minutes, but in the turning of the seasons, in the quiet persistence of the land and those who belong to it.
The next steps will lead away from here, back to roads and cities, to a world of clocks and schedules. But for now, the valley holds its traveler still. For now, the memory of footfalls on ancient trails lingers in the dust. And perhaps, in some way, the journey never truly ends. It only waits, patient as the mountains, for the return.
The Apricot Orchards of Temisgam
Temisgam does not unfold itself all at once. It reveals its beauty in layers, in whispers rather than declarations. The palace on the hill draws the eye first, but it is the orchards that hold the village’s true rhythm. Rows of apricot trees, their gnarled trunks twisted with time, spread across the valley like an ancient script written in green and gold.
In the late afternoon, the orchards hum with quiet activity. Women crouch beneath the branches, their scarves pulled low over their faces, plucking ripe fruit and gathering it into wide baskets. The air is thick with the scent of sun-warmed apricots—sweet, slightly fermented at the edges, as if carrying the memory of last summer’s harvest. The fruit is soft, golden, the color of the land itself. A bite yields a burst of honeyed tartness, a taste as wild and unyielding as the mountains that cradle this valley.
A man, old but steady, sorts the fruit with practiced hands. His fingers, darkened by years of labor beneath the Himalayan sun, move with a quiet reverence, as if each apricot is a story waiting to be told. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice carries the patience of a land that has never rushed itself. “Everything here is slow,” he says, not as a complaint but as a simple truth. “The trees grow slow. The fruit ripens slow. The seasons turn slow. That is why the taste is real.”
There is a rhythm to life in the orchards, dictated by the sun, by the wind, by the quiet knowledge that nothing can be forced in a place like this. Some of the fruit will be eaten fresh, but much of it will be laid out on rooftops, drying into small, wrinkled gems that will last through the winter. The dried apricots of Temisgam are prized beyond these valleys, carried along ancient trade routes to distant markets where their sweetness is a rare indulgence.
In the evening, when the baskets are full and the work slows, the villagers sit beneath the trees, their hands still moving, peeling, sorting, cutting. A young girl, no older than ten, reaches into a basket and splits an apricot in half, pressing it into the hands of a passing traveler. A silent offering. A taste of the valley. A moment suspended in time.
The wind stirs the branches. A few leaves drift to the ground. The scent of apricots lingers, heavy in the cooling air. Soon, the sun will slip behind the mountains, and the orchards will fold themselves into shadow. But for now, in the golden light of late afternoon, the valley breathes—slow, steady, unchanging.
And the traveler, holding the sweetness of Temisgam on their tongue, begins to understand that some places are not meant to be rushed. They are meant to be savored.
The Palace on the Hill – A Kingdom Forgotten
Above Temisgam, where the valley folds into the sky, the remnants of a forgotten kingdom linger. Temisgam Palace, once a stronghold of Ladakh’s past rulers, now stands as a silent witness to the erosion of time. Its walls, weathered and weary, still hold the echoes of an era when kings walked these halls and the valley below was theirs to command.
The path to the palace winds through the village, past chortens dusted with time, past the barley fields where farmers bend to the rhythm of the land. Upward, always upward, where the air grows thinner, the sound of the river fades, and the stones beneath the feet feel older, wiser. At the summit, the structure reveals itself—not in grandeur, but in quiet resilience.
There is no throne room, no opulence left behind. Only the bones of a fortress, its foundations built upon the ambitions of rulers whose names have been swallowed by the wind. Doorways lead to empty chambers, their wooden beams warped by time. Faded murals whisper forgotten stories across crumbling walls. In the silence, history does not shout—it hums, low and steady, waiting for those who choose to listen.
From the palace terrace, the valley stretches wide. Below, Temisgam appears small, its whitewashed homes clustered like stones smoothed by the river’s passage. The apricot orchards glow in the afternoon light, their golden hues shifting with the wind. In the distance, the jagged lines of the Himalayas carve into the sky, indifferent to the rise and fall of human empires.
A gust of wind rushes through the empty halls, lifting dust from the stone. Perhaps it is the land’s way of reminding that nothing lasts forever—not kingdoms, not rulers, not the ambitions that once filled these walls. And yet, the palace remains. In ruin, yes, but still standing. It is not victory that has preserved it, but memory.
As the sun begins its descent, the palace is cast in gold for a fleeting moment, as if reclaiming its former glory, if only for the briefest breath of time. Then the light shifts, shadows stretch, and the walls fade back into quiet anonymity.
The traveler turns to leave. The wind hums again through the corridors, a final whisper from a kingdom that once was. There is nothing left to rule here, only the land, only the sky. And neither has ever belonged to kings.
A Journey That Never Ends
The road away from Temisgam is not an ending, only a continuation. The mountains do not bid farewell; they do not acknowledge departure. To them, footsteps are merely moments—arriving, leaving, vanishing. The valley folds itself back into silence, reclaiming the echoes of those who have passed.
The final stretch of the journey is neither difficult nor dramatic. The trail descends gradually, following the bends of a dry riverbed, weaving through the low hills like a thought unfinished. The air is warmer here, the altitude less demanding, but something in the weight of the sky suggests that the traveler is not quite the same as when they began. The path may be familiar, but the feet that tread it now belong to someone slightly changed.
In the villages left behind—Likir, Yangthang, Hemis Shukpachen, Temisgam—life continues as it always has. Monks wake before dawn to the rhythm of their own breath. Farmers bend to the pulse of the seasons, hands pressing into earth that gives and takes without promise. Prayer flags, frayed by sun and wind, whisper blessings into the emptiness, unread but not unnoticed.
There is something about this land that refuses to let go. It lingers, caught in the fabric of thought, in the dust that clings to boots long after the miles have been walked. The silence of Ladakh is not empty—it is full, weighted with memory, with presence. And when a traveler leaves, they do not leave alone. They carry with them the hush of the valleys, the scent of juniper smoke curling into the cold, the taste of butter tea thick on the tongue.
Perhaps this is the nature of certain journeys. They do not conclude. They remain, stretched across time like the ancient trails themselves, waiting for return. And one day, when the mountains call again—because they always do—footsteps will find their way back, retracing the old paths, pressing into the same dust, whispering to the same wind.
The road stretches ahead. The sky opens wide. And somewhere, in the distance, the journey begins once more.
Declan P. O’Connor
Writer, traveler, and seeker of untold stories. Capturing the silence of landscapes and the echoes of forgotten trails.
