Dr Surender K Vats

Recounting My Days in the Great Himalayan National Park

Joining the field survey teams for the Himachal Wildlife Project (Phases 1 & 2, 1980–1983) was both thrilling and a welcome opportunity. Of my many memories from that time, one stands out vividly today.

In the winter of 1983, our Phase 2 team was led by Dr. Peter J. Garson and included Philip McGowan, Sanjay Monga from the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS), and myself. Our work focused on the scenic Sainj and Tirthan valleys. On this particular day, Sanjay and I were out together. Late in the evening, we pitched our two-man tent deep in the forest on a high ridge, somewhere near Nada Thatch.

Our daily mission was to collect extensive field data. We recorded sightings of birds, pheasants, and large mammals across different altitudes, tracking how vegetation and changing ecological variables affected them. Every evening, we had to write down all our observations.

Before settling in to do our paperwork, I decided to take a short walk as the daylight began to fade. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow. I climbed a short distance, rounded a sharp bend on a narrow path, and froze. Stuck to the resin of a conifer tree was a tuft of black hair—a clear sign that a black bear was nearby. I quickly turned back toward the tent, only to make another chilling discovery: fresh leopard tracks in the snow. They hadn't been there when I walked past just ten minutes earlier. Suddenly, the romantic idea of being in the wild was replaced by cold anxiety. We were not alone.

It was the first day of our latest trek after a short break, so we had brought along some fresh bread and treats to break the monotony of canned food. We made what would soon prove to be a big mistake: we kept the bag of fresh food right inside the tent. We had pitched our camp on a small, stony clearing partially sheltered by a massive overhanging rock—a spot usually used by migratory herders.

Once inside, we turned on our headlamps and spent hours recording the day's field notes. Suddenly, a heavy thud shook the tent. A ball of snow rolled down the canvas. Then it happened again. Soon, it became a steady, rhythmic pounding.

We knew it wasn't a human prank; we were far too deep in the wilderness for that. Exhaustion and fear gripped us. Something sitting on top of the massive rock above us was intentionally scraping snow down onto our roof. If the tent collapsed, we would freeze. I began flashing our heavy hand torches in a desperate bid to scare off whatever was out there. Every second felt like an eternity. We feared a wild beast would tear through the flimsy fabric at any moment. Remembering that loud noises can deter predators, I tried talking loudly, but when I looked at Sanjay, he was motionless and sweating as if he had a high fever. I was just as terrified.

Finally, pushed to the limit, I decided to face the inevitable. I unzipped the double-walled tent, waved my heavy snow boots outside to startle anything waiting, and poked my head out into the freezing night. I saw nothing. To be honest, in those terrifying moments, I found myself remembering all my good friends and happy memories, silently saying a final goodbye. Eventually, whether from dead batteries or sheer emotional exhaustion, we drifted off to sleep. It felt like a ghost dream, except for the heavy animal tracks we found in the snow the next morning.

Yet, the next morning brought an incredible reward. Not only were we alive, but right next to our tent, a rare Western Tragopan was calling and trotting away. I had never seen a Jujurana so close, or looked at it with such appreciation. That morning, life felt incredibly beautiful.