A Walk Among the Beaches

Around Easter, A. and I took a long weekend in Wilson’s Prom. The Prom, as it’s known here, is one of Victoria’s little secrets. Well known in Melbourne as a getaway and a gorgeous spot for camping, quiet beaches and rugged hikes, it’s little heard-of outside of Australia- and I’m okay with that.

We were blessed with beautiful weather- neither too hot nor too cold, and (a rarity in Victoria) no rain to speak of. Patches of cloud made photography a little more interesting, and we spent several days exploring beaches, cliffs and walking trails up and down the coastline. We also got to know the local wildlife a little better- here, A. made friends with a Crimson Rosella, but the campground at Tidal River is also known for its population of semi-tame wombats, and there are roos and wallabies up and down the length of the trail. Not to mention Tiger Snakes. Oddly enough I didn’t pause to take a photo of the one I nearly stepped on, as I was busy scooting back down the track in a hurry, looking for a large stick.

Wilson’s Prom has been struck with a series of natural disasters over the last few years, including devastating bushfires that damaged much of the park and made many tracks unsafe to walk on. Flashfloods more recently have equally left much of the park’s infrastructure in disarray, and when we were there, many walks were still closed to the public and under repair. It was somewhat disappointing, and we were unable to walk some of the trails we’d been hoping to, but we still found some gorgeous scenery and some great hikes, so we can’t complain. Really, it just gives us something else to go back for. Not that we need the excuse.

I have to confess, we were a little cheeky. Some opportunities were too good to miss, and we ended up scrambling up a couple of closed tracks to find ourselves on secluded beaches and little coves that we had entirely to ourselves. The Prom isn’t exactly crawling with people outside of peak season, but it’s still a popular destination. However,  being the only people in some of these spectacular spots was really quite special, and we relished it.

The coastline at the Prom is rugged- rocky and wild, with coves and beaches interspersed by tall cliffheads and rocky outcrops. It’s a dramatic landscape, and one of the most beautiful along Victoria’s southern ocean shore. The Prom juts out into the Bass Straits, a long and jagged peninsula that is one of the most exposed parts of the state. Once upon a time, a land-bridge joined Tasmania to the rest of Australia, and the Prom is its last vestige. When you look at some of the rocks around the Prom and compare them to, say, the rocks of northern Tasmania, you can see the similarities.

Our favourite walk was the one that led from Darby Saddle to Tongue Point. It’s listed as a moderate hike, which is a fair assessment- lots of ups and downs. Starting well inland at the high point of Darby Saddle (always ominous, because it means you need to end the walk with a climb back to the car), it took us a good chunk of the day to complete- five or six hours, when we factored in the exploring. The views along the way were magnificent, however, and it was well worth the effort.

Towards the end of the walk, the path splits and there’s a little scramble down to Fairy Cove. We were pretty much the only people on the track that day, so we had the spot to ourselves, and it was magnificent- a glorious and footprint-free beach where we could scramble onto the rocks and watch the breakers dash themselves against the headlands, and even a little tidal pool we were able to take a little swim in- still freezing cold, but not as hostile as the ocean itself.

One of the loveliest things about the Prom is the constant drama. With the winds coming off the straits, the clouds are ever moving and shifting the light on the scenery. The sea is restless, and you can sit for hours just watching the waves pound the base of cliffs or swash up around fallen rocks in great foamy charges.

Three things I’m keen to capture on my next trip to the Prom. First off, the night skies are magical out there, so taking a tripod to do some starlight photography is a must. Second, a spot of time-lapse to catch the movement of waves and clouds would be magical. And third, I am busting to get myself a nice telephoto lens and do some nice wave photography. The above shot is about the best of the bunch I was able to get, but I’m only shooting on an 85mm, which doesn’t really have the reach necessary to get those lovely creamy breakers at their best.

Next time.

Seriously, it’s a spectacular spot, and I can’t recommend Wilson’s Prom enough. If you’re coming through Victoria as a tourist, or if you’re just a local Melbournian with a weekend to spare, make sure you get down there.

[More] Snapshots from Nepal

My trip to Nepal remains among my favourite of all time, and sits right at the very top of my want-to-go-back-to list.  Each year that passes makes me itch a little more.  I revisit my photos often as they trigger an array of memories and feelings.  I’ve posted quite a few from Nepal over the months on this site, so here are a few more which take my fancy, and I hope interest you as well.

The image at top is of the unmistakable Macchapuchare, also known as Mt. Fishtail.  Nicknamed the Matterhorn of the Himalayas, it is one of the singly most beautiful mountains on the planet, in this blogger’s humble opinion.  At 6,997m high, it isn’t among the highest peaks of the Annapurna Massif (many of which tower well into the high 7,000s and even top 8,000m), but its prominence is so striking and dramatic that it remains an icon for all those who have visited this region of Nepal.  I couldn’t get enough of it.

Here, early-morning side-lighting shortly after sunrise casts horizontal shadows across a rural landscape.  These little stone cottages made a lovely foreground to add a sense of place to the dramatic sweep of the Annapurna Range at back.  The vista includes (from left to right) Annapurna South, Annapurna I (at 8,091m barely visible behind the peak of Annapurna South), Hiun Chuli, Annapurna III and Gandarbha Chuli (tucked into the saddle between Hiun Chuli and Macchapuchare), Macchapuchare, Annapurna IV, Annapurna II and Lamjung Himal.  Note that the Annapurnas are listed not according to proximity or geographical succession, but altitude, with I being the highest and IV being the lowest (not that at 7,525m we would call Annapurna IV ‘small’).

Here, early morning dawnlight catches on the south face of Annapurna South.  At 7,219m, Annapurna South is one of the smaller peaks in the Annapurna Himal, but its presence is a constant during the 10-day Annapurna Base Camp trek, never absent for more than a few hours at a time while behind an inconvenient shoulder.  Burning like vapourize copper in the angular light of a rising sun, the fierce edges of a mountain scoured by millenia of wind, ice and crustal uplift can be seen in dramatic contrast.  Poking into the jetstream, high-altitude winds whip past the peak tearing off a tail of snow and ice granules which hang like a blowing scarf in the morning air.  Up close, the sound is audible as the roar of powerful engines, but at the distance I took this shot, the calm quiet of a village dawn belied the fierce battle taking place among the jagged heights.

(click to see detail)

This next photo for me captures three things that make my heart ache just a little.  The first is the beautiful north-east face of Annapurna South (and across to Annapurna I at right) as viewed across the dry basin of the Annapurna Sanctuary.  It remains one of the most beautiful, spectacular locations I have ever stood in in my entire (and moderately well-travelled) life.  The second is the marvellous blue sky which accompanied us for most of the trip and made both the trekking and the photography so memorable.  The third are the prayer flags, so symbolic and such a powerful marker in my memory for that place, as well as being a visual feast with their bright colours, and their ethereal spirituality in the face of such intense and tangible physical beauty.

Back in the lowlands, and I snapped this rather undramatic shot of the terraced fields which are the only way in which villagers can farm a living out of the steep-sided valleys.  Among the foothills of the first few days of the trek, before the landscape gave way to rock and glacial moraine, these terraces were the main geographical marker and the symbol of a hardy resilience that the mountain peoples of the Himalayas have had to adopt.  I enjoyed the play of afternoon light across the terraces, and wish I could have done more exploration of them, both on foot and with my camera.

Perched in a village on a rideline overlooking Annapurna South and Hiun Chuli, the name of the teahouse at centre is “Nice View Lodge”.  Talk about understatements…

(click to see detail)

Trekking into the Annapurna Sanctuary, one of the joys was that after five days with the mountains slowly getting larger, but appearing largely unchanged in terms of appearance, suddenly we had come around behind the peaks we had been watching during our uphill slog, and they appeared totally different.  While not the tallest mountain in the Sanctuary, Annapurna South viewed from the north-east was certainly one of the most beautiful of the peaks we saw, with a certain elegance to its primal and inhospitable face.  I loved shooting these mountains in the strong sunlight against a blue sky, as it cast the details of the rock and ice into sharp contrast and allowed for some lovely textured detail.

(click image to see larger)

And back to the prayer flags.  I really can’t get enough of them.  I took a series of shots of Annapurna I viewed through the tangle of prayer flags at the shrine above Annapurna Base Camp South, and the combination of vast mountain (8,091m), blue sky, white ice and coloured flags was spine-chilling in its impact at the time.  I could post these images all day long…

Nepal is a spectacularly beautiful country, with photographic surprises around every corner, and so much to explore.  As you can see from the amount I post & talk about it, it impacted me deeply.  I am still plotting my return…

Moments in Space and Time #2: The Shrine at Annapurna

My trek through Nepal was one of repeated moments that hang viscerally in my memory, and there were probably several that could have made this list, so although this is the second I’m mentioning, in a way I’m showing terrible restraint.

Five days on from the photograph taken of Macchapuchare at Dawn, we found oursleves in the Annapurna Sanctuary, at the Annapurna Base Camp, sitting at 4,300m beneath the yawning face of Annapurna I. As places go, the Sanctuary is up there as in the top two or three most spectacular pieces of scenery I’ve visited anywhere. Ringed by peaks six, seven and eight thousand metres in altitude, it is staggering in scale, in drama and in wild, unrelenting beauty.

Atop a cliff carved by the glacier at its feet sits a shrine (actually a chorten). It has been erected a short walk behind and above the base camp proper, on an outcrop of rock overlooking the glacier, Annapurnas I and South, Tent Peak, Macchapuchare, and a host of other peaks less well known but every bit as dramatic.

The shrine honours mountaineers who have fallen on Annapurna I. Some names are engraved on brass plaques on the side of the shrine. Others have their names on rocks placed at its base. Among the more prominent is that of Anatoli Boukreev, controversial hero of the 1996 Mt. Everest disaster, whose actions both saved lives and, argued by Jon Krakauer in his outstanding tale of that tragedy “Into Thin Air” (one of the best mountaineering books ever written in my opinion), placed them at peril.

As one who loves the mountains (though I would never refer to myself as a mountaineer) I found the shrine deeply moving. A more beautiful setting for a memorial could not be imagined.

Sitting there, the quiet was overwhelming. I was alone. I hung my feet over the edge of the cliff. The sun was warm but the November air was bitterly cold. A wind gusted up the valley, and the streaming prayer-flags snapped and rustled. The belief in the flags is that as the wind moves through them, the words written in prayer on the material are carried to heaven. The tips of Annapurna I and some of its companions are so high that they protrude into the jetstream, and to accompany the fine streams of ice-crystals I could see blowing from their summits, I could hear the deep roar of the high-altitude winds like the rumble of a jet’s engines. Beneath the warming gaze of the sun, ice melted and crumbled, and rocks frozen into the jagged surface of the glacier beneath me were released, where they tumbled with sharp clacks that echoed to where I sat. Far in the distance, hidden somewhere on Annapurna’s vast flanks, a giant avalanche released, an unmistakable noise that sounds like a distant train and shakes the air.

It was a magnificent moment, a place that blended the sheer natural beauty of one of the world’s most spectacular landscapes, with the pathos and energy of human endeavour and its cost. It was at once sensual and spiritual, and in some way, greatly hallowed. Places like this I feel I can reach out and touch God with my soul. I don’t cry easily, but sitting for a few minutes in that place, I found tears stinging my eyes.

A quote from the late Boukreev is inscribed on the base of the shrine, and the words ring true for me and, I’m sure, many others who enjoy the mountains. I still find them moving:

“Mountains are not Stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve, they are the cathedrals where I practice my religion… I go to them as humans go to worship. From their lofty summits I view my past, dream of the future and, with an unusual acuity, am allowed to experience the present moment… my vision cleared, my strength renewed. In the mountains I celebrate creation. On each journey I am reborn.”

Moments in Space and Time #4: Macchapuchare Morning

The ascent from Phedi to Dhampus is a two-hour slog up stone staircases winding their way through the lush overgrown forest of the Himalayan foothills. Upon attaining the ridgeline along which the village’s little stone cottages are spread, a magnificent panorama opens up in the fading afternoon sunlight. The entire Annapurna Massif is laid out, from left to right some of the most magnificent peaks in the world. From Annapurna South and Annapurna I in the west, crowned by the dramatic Macchapuchare in the centre, and around to the enourmous Annapurnas II and IV in the east, the view is simply staggering.

Pemba, our Sherpa, booked us in at a sweet little guesthouse atop the ridge, where the views remained staggering. This was only our first evening on the Annapurna Sanctuary Trek, and it was already delivering the goods in spectacular fashion. The accomodation was rustic- wooden beds and thin mats in what felt like a converted stone barn, accessible by a ricketty wooden ladder slippery with years of tred and woodsmoke.

I got up early the next morning with Lydz and Laura to watch the sunrise. Our vantage looked over the east-facing flanks of the mountains, so as the sun slowly slipped above the distant horizon, they were washed in fresh sunlight, the low angles emphasising the details in the relief. We were standing four and five thousand metres lower than the peaks at which we stared, and the sunlight kissed their tips while our stretch of hillside was still very much swathed in shadow. The air was very still, and hanging with the smoke from early morning fires.

Macchapuchare, or Fishtail Mountain, is known as the Matterhorn of the Himalayas for its distinctive shape and prominence. It is an awe-inspiring peak, and as the sun rose, the light seemed to finger every little crevice and feature on its jagged face. After a little while, the light reached us as well, and a bush exploding with pink flowers in front of me was suddenly bathed in soft light. I balanced a shot with the flowers framing the mountain peak in the background- the sun-splashed petals, the shining peak and the blue sky contrasting with that deep shadows of the valley. The memory of that morning holds a place as one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever witnessed, in one of the world’s most moving settings. The itself photo sits for me as one of the top two or three I’ve ever taken, and I hope you enjoy it as well.

Travelogue: Kathmandu

Note: Courtesy of my Blog Guru Jan, I have now worked out how to re-include links to the bigger-sized photos, so if you click the images you’ll be able to see ‘em all in much more detail, if that’s your thang.  Though please don’t download them for commercial use without talking to me first (not that they’re in top quality JPEG).

I think I’ve mentioned in a previous post recently that I’m not much of a city person.  I still think that stands.  I’m happiest when I’m in the great outdoors (and the outdoors doesn’t get a whole lot greater than in Nepal).  That said, a bunch of cities do make it onto my list of places I don’t mind spending time, and for all its faults (and not getting a mention in my previous post) Kathmandu is one of them.

On the surface, Kathmandu doesn’t have a lot going for it.  It’s a congested, sprawling city with no discernable pattern to its road networks, and far too many people on motorbikes and in decrepit little cars to make the streets a fun place to spend time.  On top of that, it’s a chronically poor place.  Nepal is one of the poorest countries in Asia (usually competing for bottom place with Bangladesh), and at last tally stood at 145th out of 179 countries worldwide on the Human Development Index.  That puts it slightly better off than countries like Sudan (146) and Haiti (148), but below nations such as Mauritania (140) and Burma (135).  It’s dirty, and the air-pollution that gets trapped by cool air in the valley bottom gives rise both to chronic chest infections and eye- and sinus- irritation, as well as frequently obscuring any view of the mountains that ring the city.

But I lucked out.  The flight landed mid-afternoon on a clear blue-sky day in mid-November.  The sun was strong but the air was mild- mid-twenties perhaps- and before people were even off the rolling stairways and onto the apron, they were blocking the Airbus’ exits snapping lame [sorry, but it's true] shots of white-capped Himalayan peaks, partially obscured by the air-traffic control tower [...].

There’s no way around the traffic, of course.  Kathmandu was virtually carless as late as the early fifties (for a fascinating insight into what was a deeply isolated kingdom, read Maurice Herzog’s fabulous account of the 1950 ascent of Annapurna, unsurprisingly entitled “Annapurna“), and so the sprawl and the old-town has a distinct higgledy-piggledy feel, with steep narrow streets navigating gullies and valleys, and ramshackle brick apartment-blocks leaning unconvincingly into oddly-angled and gridlocked intersections.  Headed to the hotel, and the driver navigated shaded back-alleys where monkeys scattered from the garbage they were scavenging.  We slowed at a complicated confluence of roads and watched in sickly slow-motion as a taxi glided serenely into an unsuspecting motorcyclist who was sent sprawling across the asphalt.  Unhurt (and uncharacteristically wearing a helmet), the rider picked himself up, walked up to the cab window, and firmly and deliberately punched the cab-driver in the jaw before retrieving his mount and driving back into the flow.

For me the most interesting portion of the city (and I admit I didn’t venture too far afield) was the bustling hub of Thamel- the old town.  Connaisseurs of Kathmandu, and those who had the opportunity to visit the country in the seventies or eighties (when, tragically, I was otherwise indisposed) will probably scoff at this comment, and for a good reason.  Once a historic district surrounding centuries-old temples and oozing with character, Thamel is now the Vegas of South Asia, a network of narrow winding streets overhung with top-heavy buildings looking for an excuse to crumble, and hung with as much neon and tourist sign-boarding as their architecture can support.  The narrow strip of sky between the congested three- and four-storey shop-house blocks is a tangled web of wires and cables.  There are restaurants and cafes and backpacker hostels and hotels and shops selling pashmina textiles and outdoors gear and backpacks and souvenirs and paintings and handicrafts…  pretty much every square inch of available real-estate revolves around the backpacker industry.  And it really is horrendous.

Perhaps this is what makes it interesting.  It’s a tremendous clash of civilisations.  On the one hand the clutter and artchitectural chaos of what was once a bustling Hindu city in the foothills of the world’s highest mountain range, full of charm and character.  On the other, capitalism in all its merry mirth, run amok among the rambling side-streets and gaping shamelessly from every darkened stoop and entranceway.  Down the muddy footpaths, rickshaw runners and tiger-balm touts mingle with gore-tex clad Europeans and scraggly western travellers on some gap-year kick (often looking far less washed than the impoverished children in grubby clothes sitting on their concrete doorsteps where they empty onto the street).

I enjoy the life and vibrance of the place.  People who talk about ‘genuine’ and ‘culture’ and how Western capitalist intervention has ruined the world are frankly up themselves.  I mean, sure, in many ways it has.  It’d be lovely for us to be able to enjoy the way these people lived traditionally and soak vicariously in their experiences, preserved pristine forever.  Lovely, and a tad patronizing, no?  Cultures change.  Sure, I’d love to be able to brag that I was here before everybody else was.  But I wasn’t.  And Thamel’s fun.  At night-time the streets blaze with neon and hum with music tumbling from a hundred different eateries.  I was told there are quite literally thousands of travel agencies set up in the area.  During the day you can’t go fifty paces without being offered a ride in a rickshaw, a pot of stinging-hot tiger-balm, or a surreptitious baggie of hashish.  Young backpackers wear an expression of studied absence, as if to say “I refuse to see other white people”.  Insence drifts thickly from shrines in shopfronts and mingles with the smell of rotting vegetables from alleyways and sidestreets.  It’s colourful, and life and energy hangs from the place in thick, tangible folds.

A little walk away from the commercial hub- which is really just half a dozen criss-crossing streets over a couple of square kms- and the exploring becomes fun.  Once you get away from the touts, the Nepalis are graciously accomodating, and strangely the white faces start to thin out.  The noise in the narrow architectural canyons becomes a little quieter.  The air is damp and cool.  Life bustles.  People rinse out stainless-steel cookware on front steps and empty grey waste-water straight into ditches at the side of the road.  Motorbikes, horns blaring, carve a path between pedestrians and work their way around handcarts being pulled by young men and often boys.  The odd sacred cow meanders along in search of food-scraps lying in heaps in dim corners, unmolested.  Little temples are dotted about in alcoves, statues draped in yellow marigolds, purple clouds of incense almost overpowering as you walk past, while offerings of what I guess must be paan stain the stonework in visceral blood-like stains.

I wander down an alleyway that turns into a corridor.  It is so dark I can barely see where my feet land, and I have to stoop my head to avoid banging it on the roof.  When I emerge a few seconds later, I am in some courtyard deep within the tangled array of buildings and passageways.  Families are gathered in corners, eating and washing and living their lives.  I smile and wave awkwardly, realising I have blundered into their privacy, and they smile and giggle and wave back in a manner far more gracious than I would have done, had some tourist waltzed into my living room (and as has happened to some of my fellow students while studying at Cambridge University when they failed to lock their doors while stepping out for a short break…).

One of the aspects of the culture I enjoyed most was the respect towards animals, a refreshing change from the often vicious habits of people in Africa, where donkeys and dogs seem to bear the brunt for being the only creatures consistently in a lower station than humans, and are reminded of the fact with vigour.  While I am usually leery of dogs in third world countries (and having had my own fair share of trouble), the dogs throughout Nepal were healthy, friendly and contended things, with furry coats and feathery tails.  They reminded me of my own parents’ dogs, Zac and Zena, who as Tibetan Terriers and therefore Himalayan dogs themselves are no doubt distant cousins.

An enduring image I have while walking the streets of Thamel is of a little girl, a teeny little thing who was still probably as old as four or five, with straight black hair tied in two tails on either side of her head and a grubby brown face.  She emerged from her front door straight onto the street, and there on her doorstep she found herself nose-to-nose with a happy-looking mutt, its tail held high in curiosity.  For a moment they stood their looking at each other in the morning sunlight, and then the dog’s tongue loped out and smeared itself across the girl’s face in a gesture of tail-wagging affection, and the girl chortled happily and wiped the slobber off with the back of her sleeve.  It was a simple image, but one which spoke tomes of the gentle spirit that Nepal tries hard to embody- political turmoil notwithstanding.

The tourist-sites interest me a little less.  I cruised through the historic Durbar Square (the one on the edge of Thamel) in half an hour, enjoying the architecture, but like the cultural heathen that I am, eschewing both guide-books and tour-guides in favour of exploring the nooks and crannies myself.  Likewise Swayanbhunath (the Monkey Temple) is a bit of a grotty place, jammed with tourists, although well worth the visit not so much for the monkies (wretched, diseased and bad-tempered little animals, wherever in the world I go) but for that fantastic staircase (a must-do for trekkers getting themselves ready for a walk in the real mountains) and for the fantastic views of the city on a clear day.  Watching airplanes slip past the crest of the towering foothills, and the angle of the sunbeams gradually flatten until the sun is lost below the distant horizon, is all rather spectacular.

All up, I’ll take Pokhara and the hills any day over Kathmandu, but as cities go, it’s a pretty intriguing one, full of life in all its unfettered and unsanitary glory.  When the air is clear (and I confess we had a string of really beautiful days, so we were lucky) it is quite simply thrilling to look out and see the world’s highest mountain peaks looming just a few dozen miles away, saw-toothed and impending above the charming ramshackle sprawl.  Nepal, as I believe I’ve mentioned elsewhere, was a place I had been trying to get to for more than a decade, and when I finally did, it still exceeded my expectations.

Go before you die.

See my other posts on Nepal here:

In the Foothills

The Faces of Fishtail

Annapurna Base Camp South

An Annapurna Panorama

Macchapuchare Noir

Annapurna Dawnlight

Flags in the Sanctuary

Jinhu Jungle

The Faces of Fishtail

I think I was already in love with Machapuchare before I ever visited Nepal.  My parents went to Pokhara in 2002, and at the time I was most put out.  Since I was a teenager I had had a fascination with travelling to the kingdom to see the Himalaya myself (along with an as-yet unfulfilled dream to travel in Alaska, for much the same reason).  I didn’t have much right to be snarky, of course.  My parents had been trying to go to Nepal since the late seventies together, from the days when they ended up working in Bangladesh and Afghanistan instead.  So I can’t really bugrudge them the trip they’d been hanging out for for more than two decades…

The travelled with our family’s first digital camera, an Olympus 2.1 megapixel beast (which is substantially smaller than the underused camera on my new cell phone), which nonetheless brought back some gorgeous pictures of Pokhara and its jaw-dropping surrounds.  These included atmospheric photographs of canoes on Pokhara’s lake in the early morning sun, where beams of light play in low-hanging mist above still black water.  Taking to a canoe myself on that lake on a bright late-autumn morning almost exactly five years to the week later, I was struck by the incredible play of light in the leaves hanging from the island, and craved my own camera which had tragically given up the ghost ten days earlier at Annapurna Base Camp- possibly the most painful episode of my photographic career to date.

Other photos included some spectacular shots of the Annapurna Himal at dawn, most prominent of which being Machapuchare- which is also visible from the rather posh resort my folks stayed at (and at which Laura, Lydz and myself certainly did not stay at) looming its jagged face over the countryside.  It is a striking sight and a feature of almost any photograph of the town, and long before I ever set foot in Nepal I had its name and form memorized from studying the pictures with awe.

My first view of Machapuchare was from the window of our small Yeti Air flight as it cruised into Pokhara’s little airstrip after a thirty-minute flight from Kathmandu on a cloud-free fall afternoon.  It is a devastatingly beautiful sight, rearing up above the green foothills with its needle-sharp point piercing the sky, and it’s easy to see why it’s called the Matterhorn of the Himalaya.  By no means the highest peak in the Annapurna Range- it sits at 6,993m in a massif dominated by mountains more than a vertical kilometre higher- it is known for its prominence- that is, its elevation relative to the surrounding land (or put simply, how much it sticks out from the rest of the range).  In this it is one of the world’s more remarkable mountains to look at.

Machapuchare changes as you travel around it.  It forms one of the anchors of the Annapurna Base Camp trek (together with Annapurna South).  While Annapurnas II and IV swing out of sight after the first couple of days, and Annapurnas I and III really only show up towards the end of the trek, Machapuchare is rarely out of sight for the entire journey, and for my part, my eyes were rarely off it.  From the south (Pokhara), it resembles the classic off-kilter Matterhorn with its steep angled ridges and pyramidal peak, but as you cross below its western face (craning your neck to catch glimpses of it between the rock-towers above Deurali) it shows its true structure, and the twin peaks seperated by a narrow cleft demonstrate how it takes its nickname, “Fish Tail”, resembling the tail of a fish plunging back into a lake.  When you finally reach the Sanctuary and Annapurna Base Camp and view it from the north, it has once more taken on a pyramidal form, not as visibly prominent from its surroundings, but now shown as the massive mountain it truly is and the tremendous range that its axis holds together.

Machapuchare is considered sacred by locals as a place where gods come down and set foot on earth, and it’s not hard to see how the belief came about, as it is a truly special sight.  It has never been climbed, and the only expedition to be granted permission to climb it was obliged to promise that they would not actually set foot on the summit.  They climbed to within 50m of the summit, then turned around and came back down- a feat of impressive mountaineering overshadowed by a far more remarkable feat of self-control for a mountaineer!  It is now declared sacred and off-limits for climbing parties.

I share these few photos to show its different faces and moods, and hope I can inspire you to pay it a visit someday.  Regretably (due to the death of my Canon EOS 350D minutes after the previous photograph shown here was taken) I do not have as many photographs of the mountain as I might have liked, and I missed some truly exceptional light on her face on our evening at Annapurna Base Camp.  Which is all the more reason for me to go back and pay my respects another time, and soon…

Photographs:

1. Magenta Morning: Machapuchare and Bougainvillea in the morning sunlight from the village of Dhampus.

2. Roof of the World: Framed behind the slate roof of a local cottage, Machapuchare and its roots tower far above the foothills north of Pokhara.

3. Fishtail in the Forest: The peak rises above sprays of rhododendron trees in the lush mild jungles on the approach to the Annapurna Sanctuary.

4. The Umbrella: Machapuchare viewed from the lawn of one of the many tea-houses early in the trek.

5. The Trail Climbs: Machapuchare reappears above blossom trees after half a day of absence following the [heartbreaking] descent and then climb from Chomrong.

6. Cairns: Offerings are laid in reverence of the sacred mountain where it is visible framed by towering rock masses above Deurali.

7. Fishtail Face: From the same angle, the twin peaks and the face that divides them show how Machapuchare got its nickname where it hangs 6,993m above the valley below.

8. In the Sanctuary: Machapuchare dominates the entrance to the Annapurna Sanctuary, with Machapuchare Base Camp nestled in the valley below its formidable face.

9. Himalayan Starlight: Machapuchare anchors the Annapurna Himal with Annapurna South, Annapurna I and Hiun Chuli to the left, and Annapurnas II and IV to the right, while startrails swirl overhead on a long-exposure night-shoot from Dhampus.

Annapurna Base Camp South

I’ve been to a lot of places.  At last count, at least fifty different countries.  And quite a few places within those countries.  So when I say that a place is pretty spectacular, I’ve got quite a lot to compare it to.

I reckon the Annapurna Sanctuary has to rate up in the top three most beautiful places I’ve been to.  I wouldn’t want to try and come up with a definitive list, and certainly wouldn’t want to try and rank them (maybe someday in the future I might give that project a try…), but that gives you an idea for how, well, how awesome it really is.  Sadly, no photography is ever going to capture the true grandeur of standing in that breathtaking arena.

In simple terms, the Sanctuary is a natural basin surrounded by a ring of 7- and 8,000-metre peaks, the tallest of which being Annapurna 1 (8,092m).  Situated at 4,200m and with the South Base Camp as its focal point, these mountains jut upwards with phenomenal ferocity, and in the crisp high-altitude air, they are startlingly close.

This shot is taken looking backwards, towards the one entrance to the Sanctuary and away from Annapurna.  It shows the striking prominence of Macchapuchare, 6,993m, but a face less often seen than the classic view (below) which gives it the nickname ‘Matterhorn of the Himalaya’.

Taking the photo, I’m standing on the wall of a glacial ravine.  Along the left of the frame is the Annapurna Glacier, at the bottom of a 200m drop and looking distinctly like a long river of gravel.  In front of me, in the near foreground, is the South Annapurna Base Camp (the less well-known and less-visited North Camp is actually the camp from which Maurice Herzog launched his historic assault on Annapurna 1, on the far side of this mountain chain behind me.  The southern approach is far more difficult and dangerous- not to take away from Herzog’s finger-chilling heroics of 1951 when he completed the first 8,000m summit, and survived the world’s then-highest bivouac after become trapped just below the peak in the Death Zone, much to the chagrin of his digits…)

Today the South camp is the last in a chain of tourist-oriented tea-houses catering to the thousands of trekkers who climb up to see this natural amphitheatre.  Like most of the stops along the route, it is basic but comfortable, with hot tea and warm food and after the physical exertion of the day, crawling onto those foam mattresses is a delight.  When we were there the toilets were frozen solid, so there was no talk of taking a wash, but we were turned around and gone again within twenty-four hours.

The next time I come here, I’m gonna stay for three days.