Into the forest

Geetanjali Krishna goes on an eco-friendly excursion near the Corbett Tiger Reserve

The car throws up flurries of dust at the old footbridge over Ramganga near Marchula. As we stretch our legs after the seven-hour drive from Delhi, a laughing thrush breaks the silence with its raucous call. From the bridge, in the crystal clear Ramganga, hundreds of mahseer swim lazily in the sun. 

We cross and begin our 2.5-km hike to the Vanghat River Lodge, with the river as our constant companion. After we’ve made our breathless way uphill and downhill several times and crossed the river twice on a homemade raft, we finally see a thatched roof in the forest. A pitcher of nimbu pani awaits at Vanghat, and as I gulp it down, my heartbeat slows down to match the rhythm of the forest.  

There’s something magical about living this close to nature, I muse later, after we’ve checked into our room — a mud cottage with a thatched roof. From the verandah, beyond the silk cotton tree abloom in scarlet, the Ramganga flows on its stony bed, with low mountains all around. 

“We’re flanked on one side by the buffer zone of Corbett Tiger Reserve and the river on the other,” says Vanghat owner Sumantha Ghosh. “Luckily for us, the forests across the river are freely-accessible van panchayat land, and that’s where we’ll hike tomorrow.”

Bird-watching during a trek. Photo: Gaurav Sharma

The next morning, we set off at sunrise. After we cross the river, Ghosh points out some interesting bird species, and we spot two Himalayan gorals, small but incredibly nimble ungulates that I’ve never seen while on safaris in the park. When we’re high enough for the sound of the river to fade to a distant gurgle, a langur begins an insistent alarm call. Then, from lower down the hill, we hear a growl. Then, another. “The tiger is warning us to stay away,” whispers Ghosh, motioning u to retreat. 

I’d not expected to hear a big cat outside the reserve, but Ghosh tells me that they routinely see its scat and pugmarks here. I have renewed respect for Jim Corbett, who walked through these forests often armed with little more than his deep knowledge of jungle lore, and a sense of relief at not having had a closer encounter with the tiger. Ghosh agrees: “Most of my guests feel the same way; they’re happy simply knowing that the tiger is still around in these forests. Seeing one becomes immaterial.”

 The cottage at Vanghat. Photo: Gaurav Sharma

The day stretches lazily ahead after we return from the 8-km trek. Ghosh and I walk around Vanghat, and he tells me that running a camp with a minimal ecological footprint is hard work. “I agonise over everything — detergents, pest control, garbage disposal, sensitive lighting so that it doesn’t disorient wild animals and birds, and much more,” he says. 

Vanghat has solar lights, but at night they prefer to use earthen lamps in deep niches. “We don’t have geysers in the bathrooms, as hot showers simply waste too many precious resources,” he says.

As he frets over the lighting of the lamps and the extra man he’s hired simply to ferry hot water to guests, I sit back and watch the stars come out in a darkening sky, one by one. Later, in the cover of darkness, a flock of bar-headed geese flies over us to the upper reaches of the Himalayas. The silence is so absolute that we can clearly hear their wings flap overhead. As I drift into sleep, I muse that I’ve never experienced the forest as intimately as I’ve done here. 

Crossing the river on a raft to reach Vanghat

That night, as we sleep, an elephant decides to amble through our camp, leaving broken branches and a mountain of dung in its wake. Consequently, in the morning, Ghosh deems it prudent not to go on another hike. Instead, we walk by the riverside on boulders marked by ancient water currents. In the river, the golden mahseer surface again and again to hunt insects and we sit a while to watch. 

As we make our way back to Vanghat, I espy a wild curry leaf sapling next to a marijuana plant with its characteristic star-shaped leaves. They have deep roots, but we somehow manage to dig them out, wrap them in leaves and splash some water from the river on them. If they survive the drive, maybe I can imprison them on my Delhi balcony as reminders of the time when I walked free in the forests of Uttarakhand.

The Himalayan goral