I travelled back to India in November to explore some of the country’s wildest extremities – including the high‑altitude landscapes of Ladakh in far northern India.
In Ladakh, my goal was to search for the “ghost cat”: the almost mythical snow leopard that, until recently, seemed to elude all but the luckiest travellers hoping for even a distant glimpse. The snow leopard stayed true to its ghost‑like reputation during my visit, but the experience was no less extraordinary. I found myself immersed in its vast Himalayan kingdom, a landscape it shares with the equally beautiful and deeply rooted culture of Tibetan Buddhism.
The timing of my trip was on the early side for snow leopard tracking, and so many factors – weather, prey movement, sheer luck – all play a part in whether you glimpse one of these elusive cats. The landscape is as demanding as it is beautiful, with vast valleys, snow‑capped peaks, and more snow leopard‑shaped rocks than you can shake a spotting scope at.
The winter snow transforms these mountains, and it’s during this season that guides and dedicated spotters have their best chance of locating a snow leopard. The harsher conditions push prey species such as bharal (blue sheep) and ibex lower in altitude, seeking the relative shelter of deeper valleys. Tracks are also more clearly imprinted in the snow, and the outline of a snow leopard stands out far more sharply against a white canvas than it does against the ochre and grey rocky slopes of the early season.
I was staying at Rumbak Wildlife Lodge, in the Rumbak Valley to the south of Leh. My journey there was relatively straightforward: a two‑hour flight from Delhi, north over emphatic Himalayan scenery and into the stark, high‑altitude Trans‑Himalayan landscapes of Ladakh. The lodge naturalist – who was brilliant – met me on arrival, along with the driver, and together we threaded through the ramshackle streets of Leh, picking up a few last‑minute essentials in the bazaars before crossing the mighty Indus River. The tarmac soon gave way to graded track as we left the road that skirts high above the Indus and began the climb into the Rumbak Valley.
Rumbak Wildlife Lodge sits at around 3,960 metres, roughly 460 metres higher than Leh. Ordinarily we encourage guests to spend one or two nights in Leh to acclimatise, as exertion at this altitude can feel surprisingly demanding – even a gentle walk can leave you short of breath. It’s an environment that asks for a bit of care, as the effects of altitude can escalate if ignored, though each room at the lodge is equipped with an oxygen concentrator to help guests feel more comfortable while they adjust.
The lodge is a cluster of traditional Ladakhi‑style dwellings, their clay‑and‑straw walls and timber‑framed windows reflecting the simple, sturdy architecture of the region. Inside, the rooms are thoughtfully designed to ensure you stay warm and cosy throughout your stay. A Bukhari stove is lit each evening (or at your request) to warm the room, while an electric blanket heats the bed. A reliable hot water supply means you can enjoy a lovely hot shower at the end of the day.
The highlight within the lodge compound is the attractive communal space, where relaxing, reading, socialising, and plenty of eating – along with many cups of tea – take place. Its large windows allow you to sit by the comfort of the fire while keeping an eye on the surrounding slopes and dramatic scenery, with the possibility of blue sheep or other wildlife clambering into view.
Mornings began with a hearty breakfast and a cup of tea, while the spotters – already two hours into their search – returned briefly to share any early signs from the ridgelines. The lodge naturalist and the spotters would then head back out, scanning the slopes with an ease and patience that comes only from years spent reading this landscape. Between scans, they shared stories of their way of life, the Buddhist beliefs woven through it, the history and culture of Ladakh, past sightings, and the delicate balance between predator and prey – as well as the cultural tightrope Ladakh walks between centuries‑old traditions and the modernisation reshaping rural India. Even without a snow leopard in view, there was always something to see: blue sheep picking their way across impossible cliffs, and golden eagles and lammergeiers circling high above.
One afternoon we visited Rumbak Village, a short walk further up the valley and home to the chief spotter and his family. Their traditional Ladakhi house, with its prayer flags fluttering in the wind and its sun‑baked walls, offered a glimpse into the quiet resilience of life at altitude. Inside, the kitchen was warm and welcoming, its shelves lined with copper pots and jars of dried herbs. Over cups of butter tea, we talked about the winter months, when snow can isolate the village for weeks, and about the deep connection between the community and the wildlife that shares their land.
Buddhist culture is woven into every aspect of life here. Mani walls, chortens, and prayer wheels punctuate the valley, and the soft murmur of mantras seems to drift on the wind. Even the approach to wildlife feels shaped by this worldview: a sense of respect, patience, and acceptance that the mountains decide what you will see. Snow leopard tracking is never a guarantee, even in peak season. Instead, it becomes a practice in presence – watching for subtle signs, reading the behaviour of blue sheep, listening for the alarm calls of magpies or choughs, and trusting the instincts of the spotters who know these slopes better than anyone.
Although the “ghost cat” remained elusive during my stay, the experience felt complete in its own right. Each day brought its own quiet rewards: a steaming coffee delivered to warm my numbing fingers as I scanned the ridgelines, the incredible meals that somehow appeared from a tiny high‑altitude kitchen, and the morning I looked out my window to find the entire valley transformed by fresh snow. A red fox trotted across the white slopes that day, its russet coat glowing against the pale backdrop. On another morning, an urgent knock from the naturalist and the single word “wolves” sent me scrambling to pull on thermals and boots, fumbling for binoculars and camera in a burst of adrenaline. Even without a snow leopard in view, these moments stitched together a deeper understanding of the mountains and the people who call them home.
