The Siral Lake surrounded us, dumbfounded us with its awesome out-of-this-world captivating beauty. We were indeed captives as the lake is guarded with high passes all around. We could not take our eyes off from the mini icebergs floating in its magical blue waters. The rays of the setting sun paled and on their footsteps, came stealthily that evening to engulf us in its cold cold lap. The lake was not without habitation, there on the left slope almost descending into waters was a nomad encampment. Some chestnut horses grazed by the lake without raising their necks to see that there were other visitors around.
As par my demand, my tent was erected right beside the waters of lake at such an angle that I could sit within the tent cross legged and watch the mini-iceberg floating like a royal swan. But then appeared ‘Groucho Marx’, with his drooping moustaches in front of me and whistled.
The Groucho Marx was in fact a marmot that was perhaps the lone inhabitant of this lake and my tent was placed right in front of his den. Naturally he did not like this intrusion and came out of his den and stood on his two legs watching me and showing his displeasure by whistling. By the way I hope you know what a marmot is, if you don’t then you have really not lived.
A marmot is one of the most adorable cuddly creatures you have ever set your eyes upon, generally found on higher grounds in our northern areas, Deosai plains, Khunjrab Pass and the valleys of Nanga Parbat are his favourite abodes. The marmot has all the cuddly charms of a miniature bear, swiftness of a rabbit and cunning of a human being. It will stand on his two legs, watch you pass by and then whistle mischievously behind your back. This ‘Groucho’ the marmot was a senior citizen with drooping moustaches and at times practically winked and whistled at me. When I came out of my tent to have a closer look and introduce myself, he immediately disappeared into his below-surface den.
At the height that we were, above the tree line, there was no wood to be found. But our porters had very wisely collected some dry branches and twigs during the trek. Soon it was night, a bonfire was lit and we had our meals beside the fire. And all this time, little ‘Groucho’ kept an eye on our activities, peeping from his den occasionally and then disappearing.
The night of Siral was an experience of a lifetime. The moon was almost full and the white icebergs floating on the waters almost became alive. Many years ago I had witnessed the famed opera The Swan Lake, on the stage of Bolshoi Theatre Moscow. The nimble footed ballerinas dressed in white floated like swans with grace and unparalleled beauty. In that moonlit night, sitting in my tent, wrapped up in my sleeping bag I watched the Siral Lake opera being enacted on the blue waters where the ballerinas were the little icebergs floating and dancing like royal swans. However, I was not the only spectator, ‘Groucho’ the marmot also stood on his two legs and watched this opera, whistling at times to show his appreciation. During the night muffled sounds of glaciers falling into the waters of Siral Lake travelled deep in to my sleepy senses.
I was lost in the dark valley of temporary death i.e.; sleep, when I heard somebody calling my name repeatedly, I tried to open my drowsy eyes and there peeping into my tent was ‘Groucho’ the marmot smiling with a trimmed moustache and plenty of oil applied to his balding head.
“Tarar Sahib,” Groucho was brimming with happiness. “What will you like with your paratha, fried eggs or jam?”
So this morning’s breakfast was on good old ‘Groucho Marx’? I hope he is a good cook and if he is I will send Hafiz Anwar packing and for rest of the trip, we’ll employ ‘Groucho’ as a cook. This will be the stuff of records, the first ever-trekking party to employ a marmot as expedition’s cook.
“Tarar sahib”, he again said “Why don’t you say something, eggs or jam?” And at that moment, when I regained my senses, I realized that it was not the head of Groucho that was peeping into my tent. Rather, it was Bashir. The fault was not entirely mine, there were certain resemblances between these two, specially the moustaches.
“So Bashir what is the action plan today?”, I inquired after the breakfast. However, whenever I looked at Bashir’s face I felt guilty because out of it, always popped up, ‘Groucho’.
“Well sir, we will travel on the slopes and go on the other side of the lake, then climb up to the Nuri Nar pass and descend on the other side and camp.”
“Camp beside which lake Bashir?”
“Not tonight Tarar Sahib.” He said in the same style as Napoleon had uttered, “Not tonight Josephine.”
“After Lulusar, Dudiput and Siral we will be lake-less tonight. But after that, we will Insha-Allah camp beside your dream lake, Ratti Gali Lake”
“Bashir, can’t you promise me this lake without saying Insha-Allah?”
Naturally he was shocked, “Why without it sir?”
“Well Bashir, it is my unfortunate experience that whenever we say Insha-Allah, we mean ‘maybe’”.
Then I told him about a certain German tourist who in my presence wanted to hire a jeep from Gilgit to Rupal, and after paying the jeep owner in advance he demanded, “I want my Jeep in my hotel tomorrow morning at 6.30.” And the owner just said, “Insha-Allah”, upon which the German demanded his money back and said, “I want my jeep at 6.30 in the morning and you say maybe and maybe not?” This he was stating from his experience in Pakistan.
“Sir, I will again say Insha-Allah”, Bashir smiled broadly and very narrowly missed being ‘Groucho’ who by the way was sitting on his den basking in the morning sun and watching us curiously.
Soon our ponies, horses, mares or whatever you may call them, were trotting on the high and precarious pathway above the lake on an almost vertical slope. This indeed was a bird’s eye view, but the bird, which was me, did not want to view and most of the times kept his eyes shut. However, after reaching on the other side of the lake I looked back and from here the view again was fabulous. There at the bottom of slopes lay a cup of green wine, which had intoxicated me with its charm and icy beauty and on the edges of this cup lived my good friend ‘Groucho Marx’. I missed him.
The Siral Lake surrounded us, dumbfounded us with its awesome out-of-this-world captivating beauty. We were indeed captives as the lake is guarded with high passes all around. We could not take our eyes off from the mini icebergs floating in its magical blue waters. The rays of the setting sun paled and on their footsteps, came stealthily that evening to engulf us in its cold cold lap. The lake was not without habitation, there on the left slope almost descending into waters was a nomad encampment. Some chestnut horses grazed by the lake without raising their necks to see that there were other visitors around.
