His Holiness the Dalai Lama devotes his time and energy to exposing the plight of the Tibetan people by giving teachings around the world and spreading his message of love.   He returns to his temple on holy occasions and for the month of March every year. During the first two weeks of March teachings are held at the temple for his disciples and its gates are opened to the public. Over the years I had developed a considerable interest in Tibetan Buddhism and was fortunate that my trip to India coincided with the beginning of March.

It was early spring and the air was crisp, snow was melting and swelling the streams that poured down the mountain. The weather had been perfect for the previous two weeks and for the last three days I had not seen a single cloud in the sky.   My backpack was heavily laden with the hiking gear I had lugged across the globe and I was anxious to use it while still in the mountains. Maybe it was the eastern mysticism talking, but the eve of a full moon seemed a particularly auspicious time to go.

I found a track leading up the mountain and set off with no particular destination in mind. Over the next two hours I passed through several smaller villages of just a handful of houses each. I reached the top of the first foothill in good time, there was still plenty of light, no need to look for a camp yet.

As I rounded the peak of the foothill I came across a tiny cobblestone hut that appeared to be a chai house of some kind. I trudged past giving its proprietor an evil glare. It bothered me that no matter how hard you try to find space in India someone has always beaten you to it. I obviously needed to work a little harder if I wanted to find an isolated spot to camp.

Within fifteen minutes I had hit the snow line and begun following a much smaller track that looked wide enough for one or maybe two people at the most. I figured it would take me somewhere secluded, I didn't care where.

After an hour of traversing the mountain in ankle deep snow the skies clouded over without warning, I looked up the steep incline to see a nasty black cloud rolling down towards me. It dawned on me that being on one side of a very steep mountain is not a good place to predict weather patterns, especially when the wind is blowing from the other side. In a matter of minutes I was drenched. It was about then that I remembered I didn't have a tent.

My initial 'good weather' plan had been to walk up the mountain and sleep under the stars, the fact that it might rain had not actually crossed my mind.   Now I was faced with the decision of going forward or turning back. I figured I had about an hour of light, I was one hour from the chai house and three hours from town. If I turned around at that point I would have had a good chance of finding a warm place to stay.

  I could see a river flowing deep in the ravine below and assumed the track would cross it at the crux of the valley. I thought I might find a cave to sleep in by the river or some kind of shelter, but I should have known better. Any caves in those mountains would already be inhabited by ascetic monks or snow leopards.

As the track wound around the edge of the mountain it became thin and precarious. The melting snow had turned the track to mud, the weight of my pack made footing very slippery. At one point the track passed above a steep drop into a gorge filled with boulders. It was only a hundred-meter stretch of muddy track but I probably spent fifteen minutes on that portion alone.

I stopped walking to reassess my situation. The rain was getting heavier and the light was fading, I was running out of options and starting to panic. I scanned the mountainside and realised I had stopped just beneath the remnants of a landslide, I thought the slide might have created shelter along its edges. I wasted another twenty minutes clambering up the mountain looking for a cave. I started a small landslide in the process and realised I was about to become a candidate for 'The Darwin Awards'.

It was now well into twilight and the mist was getting thicker, in about fifteen minutes I would be struggling to see. I reconsidered walking back to the chai house but could not bear to face that steep drop in the darkness.   Fortunately the rain had ceased and a light snow had started to fall, although the new snow was beginning to cover-up the track.

I considered building some kind of shelter by lashing pine branches together in the shape of a lean-to. In my pack I had a down sleeping bag, a therma-rest and a "waterproof" sleeping bag cover that I had never used before. I knew if worse came to worse I could just shelter under a tree and shiver all night. Hopefully with all my clothes and sleeping gear I could generate enough warmth not to freeze to death.

I could hear the sound of rushing water and figured the crux of the valley must be nearby, for want of a better idea I set off in the direction of the noise. The track wound through a grove of pines, stopping at a large boulder overlooking a frozen waterfall. Water poured out from beneath frozen remnants of the river. I looked up the mountain and saw nothing but snow, boulders and mist.

A patch of blue light at the base of the boulder caught my attention, in the twilight it took a few seconds to register what I was seeing. A blue plastic tarpaulin was tethered to a rock wall beneath me.   I could barely believe my eyes.

  I slid off the boulder and climbed down to the tarp.   Underneath I found another silver tarp was facing the ravine, effectively forming a sidewall. The ground directly beneath the tarps was slightly wet but mostly sheltered. Someone somewhere was looking after me.

  I was baffled by the whole scenario but wasted no time setting up my sleeping gear. Apart from the tarps there was no sign of man, no fireplace, footprints or refuse.   The pristine condition of the site suggested the camp had been there no longer than a few days.

The foul weathered continued through the night, switching from rain to snow and back to rain again. In the early hours of the morning an electrical storm broke out, lightning illuminated the snow, thunder echoed down the ravine. The air seemed to crackle with electricity, as if the clouds that engulfed the mountain were charged with static.   I remembered waking up at some point to a vibrant glowing light, I assumed it was the full moon shining through a gap in the clouds. I was wet, but thanks to the down I was also warm.   My waterproof sleeping bag cover had turned out to be no more than a glorified garbage bag, although it did provide one extra layer of plastic for insulation.

I woke in the morning to find the landscape transformed by snow.   It must have started falling again after the electrical storm. I lay in my sleeping bag and watched a small wren flitting around the waterfall. Without the rain and thunder the scene became tranquil and serene. Apart from the bird and the water there was silence. Looking at the peaceful setting it was hard to remember being so scared ten hours beforehand.

I set off along the track, retracing my footsteps and reliving my fear from the previous night. It was mostly easy-going although thanks to the snow the track was hard to find at times. Once again the particularly treacherous portion of mud was a hair-raising experience, and although the light was better now it was still an effort to navigate.

An hour and a half later I was back at the Chai house. I had cursed it the day before but now I was grateful for its entrepreneurial tenacity. To my surprise I was not the only customer, an older Italian man named Moritza was already enjoying a Chai. He asked where I had come from, I told him of the waterfall and the mysterious tarpaulins.

The old toothless chai wallah overheard our conversation and commented with a sideways shake of the head that I was very lucky. His brother had erected the tarpaulins that very day in anticipation of the oncoming hiking season. He was going to set up a chai stall at the waterfall some time in the next week.

The irony was very humbling. If I had arrived at the waterfall two days before I would have found nothing but snow covered boulders and a frozen river. I'm sure I would have survived, but it could have been a close one.

Although I had been in India for six weeks at that point this incident highlighted the fact that I was still incredibly maladjusted. Coming from a first world country, you take ambulances and Search and Rescue teams for granted. You come to rely on them for security, assuming they will take responsibility for you when you put your own life at risk. Later in my travels I learned that people go missing quite regularly in those mountains, like me they might not realise you take full responsibility for your own life every time you step out the door.

After this little misadventure I stopped cursing the chai wallahs for ruining my isolation, and started to accept I was in India after all.