Trekking in Manipur: Shirui Peak

Off to Shirui Peak

I’m on a windswept hill in north-eastern Manipur with three fellow trekkers. It’s January, cold, and a brilliant sun is high in a flawless blue sky. My mind, like the sky, is a blank slate right now. The one burning goal, is the tiny scaffold-structure at the top of Shirui Kashong. No thought-clouds skip behind these eyes yet. Clarity of purpose is meditatively relaxing.

Diamond-dust frost crunches softly underfoot and melts away on dark leafy detritus. Within minutes, we spot some sort of frozen animal spoor on the red-brown hiking trail. This becomes the edge of excitement for the entire journey — every joke, every rustle, every dark patch of vegetation — could it be a leopard? Shit will haunt you if you let it. It also makes for a more exciting life.

Did Anyone Hear an Animal?

The trail leads upwards along the hillside at a steep incline. Coarse vegetation and small thickets of green forestation are interspersed like islands in an undulating sea of blonde grass. It grows knee-high along the trail and runs away as a meadow on either side. In the wet months, this would all be lush green.

We can see sloping farms on neighbouring hills and wonder what they produce. Behind us, a green treescaped valley falls gently away and out of view. There are hills layered beyond the valley into the horizon’s morning haze. The closest undulation piggybacks the town of Ukhrul with it’s tin-roof churches, plank houses and green and white army cantonment.

I’ve been reading about the rare Shirui Lily which blooms here endemically every June. It has seven colors seen through a microscope. In normal pictures though, it looks just like other flowers. Legend has it that it represents a buried princess who protects the hill. Invasive bamboo species, illegal picking and pollution threaten the lily’s existence. Even fairytales seem to be dying modern deaths.

If this flower disappeared, would anyone really care? How many disappearing species does it take? Ignorance is deadly bliss after all.

We tack on. I’m the most breathless. These Delhi lungs can’t take the fresh air. Tiny thoughtful clouds appear on the edge of the horizon, contemplating a run across the blue.

Reeds rustle and in the sunlight, the waving blonde has pretty highlighted tips of red. I’m trying to remember if anyone has hair like this — Korean pop-stars maybe — they have a big influence in this part of the world.

We take breaks and pictures. The air is fresh and clean. It’s a rarity for city-me. My chest aches a little for the air, for the thoughts, as I try to focus on the vertiginous trail.

Oops. There are plastic bottlecaps ground into the mud instead of pugmarks now and potato chip packets replace hidden leopards in the grass. I didn’t realize nature lovers came in junk varieties too. Frito-Lay has biodegradable packaging, but it’s probably too expensive for mass-market India. I’m impressed that the forest department has laid out trashcans, but it requires an effort to hold on to garbage until you reach one. Who’s more at fault for plastic pollution — the producer or the consumer?

We’re finally reaching the peak. A panorama unfurls all around us. Think spinning movie shots with mountains in every direction. This is the highest viewpoint in the state. The scaffold structure is a lookout post. It’s wooden platform has fallen away, but the view is still incredible. The blonde hill crests and dips. I can see Myanmar in the distance with it’s ancient evergreen forests and rolling hills and the promise of great food. I make a note to get there soon, before the teak forests disappear and fast food wins the day. For now I have a golden hill in Manipur and pretty memories to take home with me.

Panorama