We had been on the trail for days, searching for the elusive snow leopard in the rugged landscape of Ladakh’s high mountains. The crisp wind carried the scent of adventure, but our patience was wearing thin. Every morning, we rose before dawn, hoping that today might be the day. So far, our efforts had yielded nothing but distant footprints and vague signs of wildlife. Our guide, Tchewang Norbu, remained ever hopeful, his eyes scanning the ridges for any sign of movement.
The village of Ulley, nestled deep in India’s northernmost province, was our base. Known for its proximity to the snow leopard’s habitat, it offered one of the few chances in the world to catch a glimpse of these majestic creatures. We spent our days trekking over shale-covered hills, following trails as faint as whispers. The mountain winds bit at our skin, much colder than our weather apps warned, but still, the “gray ghost” of the Himalayas eluded us.
One afternoon, as Norbu’s crew began unpacking for a brief rest, something changed. “Get in the car!” he yelled, running toward us with a dust cloud trailing him. There was no time for questions; within moments, we were tearing down a narrow, treacherous path, the cliff edge far too close for comfort. Norbu, calm and focused, told the driver to slow as we neared a bend, then ordered him to stop. He jumped out, binoculars in hand, and stared intently at a distant ridge. His grin told us everything.
We piled out of the car, anticipation high. After days of searching, it was happening. “Look there,” Norbu said, pointing across the expanse. I squinted, seeing nothing but rocky terrain. Then, as if summoned by our collective will, a snow leopard appeared, stretching and shaking off the dust of the night. She stood tall, bathed in the soft morning light, her fur shimmering in shades of gray and beige, her long tail flicking lazily. Even from a distance, her elegance was unmistakable.
But she wasn’t alone. Three cubs tumbled around her, playful and curious. One tried to climb onto her back, only to slip and fall. The mother, ever watchful, kept her gaze in our direction. We weren’t the only ones thrilled by the sight. News of the encounter had spread, and other travelers arrived quickly, eager to witness the rare moment. Dust clouds marked their approach, a reminder of how rare and precious these sightings were.
As we stood there, quietly mesmerized, the wind reminded us of the biting cold. The landscape felt alive, with wild sheep grazing above us, completely indifferent to the drama unfolding below. Chukar partridges flitted through the trees. Despite the growing crowd, the snow leopard remained calm, her instincts sharp, but her trust in the stillness of the moment firm.
She finally lay down, her cubs curling up beside her, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. For a brief time, it felt as if we had been accepted into the quiet rhythms of the mountains, as observers of a world so wild, so untouchable, and yet, so breathtakingly close.
The high mountains of Ladakh are quiet, stark, and seemingly barren. Yet among the rocky ridges and steep cliffs, life thrives in ways that are easy to miss. Mountain goats clamber up impossible slopes, yaks wander the valleys, and if you’re very lucky, you might just catch a glimpse of the elusive snow leopard. Norbu, my guide, had promised I wouldn’t leave without seeing the “shan,” as they call it here in Ladakhi. After days of searching, he flashed a smile that told me he was right. Norbu isn’t just a guide—he’s a legend. For years, photographers and filmmakers have followed his lead, trusting his instincts to track one of nature’s most powerful predators. “The snow leopard is like the Dalai Lama of wildlife,” he said one evening as we sat outside Snow Leopard Lodge, scanning the hills. “We look up to the powerful, don’t we?”
It wasn’t always this way. As a boy, Norbu learned to track snow leopards from his grandfather, but not for conservation. Back then, the big cats were the enemy, hunted in revenge for the livestock they killed. Snow leopards were also once targeted for their pelts and body parts, coveted in traditional medicine. The relationship between humans and these majestic predators was one of conflict, not respect.
That began to change in 2002. The Snow Leopard Conservancy India Trust (SLC-IT) introduced a new idea—homestays in villages where human-animal conflict was common. By welcoming visitors into their homes, villagers could earn an income from tourism rather than depending on livestock. “Homestays are the single most important contribution to conservation,” Dr. Tsewang Namgail, the director of SLC-IT, told me. “They’ve reduced environmental stress and brought money directly to local communities.” Now, over 200 homestays are scattered across Ladakh, including Snow Leopard Lodge, which Norbu runs with his family.
Life at the lodge is simple. Rooms are warmed by wood-fired heaters, and hot water is brought in buckets. But it’s a different kind of luxury—one that comes from heartfelt hospitality. The lodge is also a model for responsible tourism. Beyond the homestays, villagers run cafés selling handmade souvenirs, and a livestock insurance program helps cover losses when predators strike. The result? Fewer revenge killings, and a stronger bond between people and wildlife. As Norbu proudly explained, “People realized there’s more to gain by protecting the snow leopard than by hunting it.”
On my final day, I spent hours watching a snow leopard mother and her cubs from a distance. They slept, played, and groomed one another, oblivious to our quiet observation. Norbu shared insights into their behavior—how they feed slowly on a kill to preserve it from scavengers, how they blend into the landscape like ghosts. It was a rare and humbling experience, made all the more special by the understanding that this delicate balance between humans and nature had been hard-won.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, it was time to leave. A long drive to Leh awaited, and I had a flight to catch. Part of me wanted to stay, to watch the snow leopards a little longer. But when I raised the scope for one last look, they were gone. Like shadows at dusk, they had melted into the mountains once more, leaving only a memory behind.
The Reference Article ユキヒョウの神秘:ヒマラヤ山脈での感動的な出会いとエコツーリズムの魅力