Mentok Kangri II

What a coincidence that on Sunday evening I met Sam and Michiel. As I left the main promenade in high spirits after my last Pocket juggling performance, in my mind I was already saying goodbye to Leh. The next day I planned to cycle toward Manali. But at a crossroads, I noticed a bicycle and a man with crutches.

Michiel has piercing blue eyes and muscular arms. After a bus accident in Thailand left him paralyzed from the waist down and took the life of his girlfriend, he spent years in a wheelchair. Today he powers a hand-bike and has just set a Guinness World Record by climbing from the sea in Gujarat to Umling La, a 5,200 meter high pass in Ladakh – the highest point ever reached with a hand-bike. His fair-haired companion Sam carries their luggage, manages the complex logistics and supports him in this extraordinary challenge. Standing in front of a small shop we agree to meet for breakfast.

Sam is gay and her girlfriend is a circus artist. It turns out we have mutual circus friends in Belgium, where she and Michiel come from. The world feels small, and we quickly hit it off. She has extensive travel experience and climbing background, she decides to join me in an attempt to summit Mentok Kangri II (6,250 m). She also carries the ashes of a late friend, which she wishes to scatter in nature. The rest of the day we spend preparing for the ascent.

Two stray dogs nap on the couch at the Mero Expedition agency as we pile up our gear: plastic mountaineering boots, crampons, ice axes, helmets, windproof pants, gloves, a tent, sleeping bags, mats, headlamps, gas canisters and food. While gathering food supplies with our guide Jit – Nepalese, working seasonally in India (as it’s monsoon season now in Nepal) – my phone vibrates persistently. I answer and a polite voice on the other end asks, “Madam, the chief of police, is curious when is your performance today? She would like to watch the show.” Smiling, I explain that I’m heading out on a mountain expedition and my performances are done for now. (Read about my street performing in Leh here.)

Back at the agency, we finalize the price for the trip with Nadya, the helpful officer, but unexpectedly she adds a hefty extra charge – justifying it as her service fee. Sam and I exchange glances. In the end we manage to stick to the agreed price, only conceding a slight adjustment.

We have wonderful dinner at a Korean restaurant with Manuel, whom we accidentally bump into on the street. Both surprised, we realize we had met before in Iran. “Take care of Sam,” Michiel says seriously in my ear as we say farewell in the evening.

We load my bicycle onto the roof of the van. After seven hours of driving along rivers, yak pastures and over mountain passes adorned with prayer flags we reach Korzok, the only village by the sacred Tso Moriri Lake at an altitude of 4,522 meters. Above the simple stone houses with flat roofs the white ridge of Mentok Kangri seems to hang in the air. The first sight is mesmerizing.

We set up camp by a stream at the edge of the village. While my companions nap in the soft grass, I race along the dirt road by the lake on my bike, kicking up clouds of dust. Sitting on the shore I silently speak with the towering mountain.

In the morning we strap on our heavy backpacks. My bike and part of our luggage are stored in the village tavern. A narrow trail guides us through the high-altitude desert, colored in shades of brown and punctuated by occasional glimpses of wild horses in the distance.

I walk in rented plastic mountaineering boots, hoping to break them in and lighten the weight of my backpack. They fit my feet snugly and comfortably. Below us the views of the deep blue lake grow wider and breathtaking. Sam and I jokingly promise that if we reach the summit, we’ll take a dip in the icy waters – though bathing in the lake is prohibited for religious reasons.

The promised ‘few hours’ of climbing stretch late into the afternoon! Not until 5 p.m. do we reach a plateau where water springs from a rocky outcrop surrounded by ice. Just above the base camp, at 5,400 meters, the snow begins. This year we are the first team attempting to summit Mentok Kangri. We set up our tent in the freezing wind.

As I rise from the small stove where I’m heating water for noodles, dizziness hits me and I crouch down. My vision pulses with dark flashes. I feel the altitude. Sam offers me altitude sickness tablets, but I decline, wanting to let my body time to adjust naturally. I believe my acclimatization from cycling over high passes will be enough. Sam has also cycled across 5,000-meter passes, which is why we dared to attempt Mentok Kangri’s summit on such a tight schedule.

Soon we retreat into our warm sleeping bags. The wind rattles the tent fabric. The alarm is set for 2 a.m. By 3 a. m., we plan to begin the ascent to the summit. I’m not expecting much sleep. I toss and turn, gasping for air every now and then. I’ve never spent a night at this altitude before. The Nepali guide next to me sleeps peacefully.

I don’t know if I actually managed to fall asleep or if I simply lay there with my eyes closed, waiting for the climb to finally begin. My excitement is immense. When the alarm sounds in the middle of the night, Sam is just crawling back into the tent. She’s been vomiting repeatedly, her head is pounding and she feels dizzy – clear signs of altitude sickness, despite the pills she took. I’m numb with exhaustion, yet I feel a deep sadness for her. Attempting the summit is no longer an option for her; she needs to descend as soon as daylight comes.

I force myself to eat a portion of instant noodles, though Jit refuses to eat. Crouched in my sleeping bag, I make tea to wake us up and warm our bodies. The air is brittle with frost, the sky crystal clear and pulsating with countless stars. In just a few hours the small streams of water around us have frozen solid. Our headlamps cut narrow beams through the windless night. My body feels heavy. Steadily, stubbornly I move my feet forward, navigating the pathless terrain, over smooth stones and boulders. Jit stops often, slumping onto rocks to catch his breath. “The altitude,” he says simply. “Slowly.”

We reach the snowy ramp below the summit ridge. The snow, sculpted by daily temperature shifts, has transformed into jagged, saw-like blades that crunch rhythmically beneath my boots. My guide lags behind. I see him sitting in the snow, and wait for him. The sun begins to rise behind the mountains opposite us, painting the lake below in shifting hues – from misty gray to sacred blue. It’s a true miracle! I feel an overwhelming gratitude for this moment. Slowly I press on.

At the steepest section of the climb, below the granite summit ramp, we strap on our crampons. With an ice axe in one hand and a trekking pole in the other, I push toward the peak. It feels so close. Seracs hang ominously from the ridge above. Suddenly my camera flashes an error message – it’s stopped working, overwhelmed by the altitude. My phone, frozen since the base camp, is useless, left behind in the tent. I’m free of all electronic distractors … Fortunately, Jit’s phone still works and he manages to capture moments from the summit.

At 8 a. m., we peer over the edge. I lie among the rocks of the peak at 6250 m, stuffing biscuits into my mounth. Unbelievable – I made it. My body endured. A half-formed thought drifts through my groggy mind: “… and then from a summit day, you take away whatever you can …” I gaze out at the vast expanse, with white peaks rising from the desert below. Another thought surfaces, recalling Nejc Zaplotnik’s famous words from his Everest climb in 1979. “The two of us sit at the Chinese pyramid and don’t know what to do,” he reports to the basecamp. Sam, I wish you were here. It is finished in beauty.

A quick descent follows. The softened snow sinks beneath each step and the wind begins to rise. We notice a figure moving near the tent – Sam hasn’t left! Smiling, she says she feels better and decided to stay after seeing us descend. A mixture of joy, disappointment and relief washes over us. We heat up a canned meal, and after lunch, Jit and I collapse into our sleeping bags, falling into a few hours of deep sleep.

I wake with a pounding headache. The walk downhill is grueling, each step heavy and slow, but as the altitude drops, my strength gradually returns and my breaths grow deeper. By evening we are back in the village.

Sam is wandering around, looking for transport. Jit learns that a new client canceled their ascent, so he must return to base camp to retrieve the tent we left standing. Meanwhile, I search for a budget homestay with a view of the lake. At a tin fence surrounding a courtyard with cows, I approach a woman who shows me a simple room with a little window on the lakeside.

I return with my bike and luggage, and Sam joins me, having arranged transport for the morning. I spend the afternoon sleeping. In the kitchen, the hostess hums a prayer while preparing rice with a vegetable for dinner. Her young son Tsening crawls curiously over the rugs, studying the strangers in his home, while making his first steps.

I stay for two nights, giving myself time to recover. Tsening’s lively 8-years-old sister appears, cheerfully climbing onto my bike. I hand her paper and a pen to distract her from it, and she settles in my room to draw. Above the grazing cows my hand-washed laundry hangs to dry. The lake – Tso Moriri means ‘Great Water’ – shimmers with its mysterious reflections.

I visit the puja, the evening prayer at the monastery, and linger by the orange chorten above the village. Animal horns jut from neatly stacked stones. Young monks in red robes tease eachother in the yard.

In the shady courtyards, women weave rugs on long looms. I watch the slow rhythm of everyday life here. Foals race playfully across the meadows. An old woman ties up a calf. Cow dung dries on the rooftops. It feels so tranquil.

I eat, sleep, read, eat again and stroll by the lake. Gradually, my body regains its strength.

High above the lake and the village, Mentok Kangri towers. In the Ladakhi language it means Flower Peak. I gaze at it with a quiet, intimate satisfaction. Yet so many things remain untold, unfathomable. I believe, now I know myself a little better. Thank you, dear mountain.

After a day of rest, I’m back in the saddle, the pedals turning through endless dust and occasional stretches of fading black asphalt. The lake glimmers under the sun.

Farewell, Tso Moriri. I ride toward Manali 450 km ahead – toward the sanctuary of greenery, its fragrant promise beckoning from afar.


* There are other mountains over 6,000 meters in the region. Above the Markha Valley, Stok Kangri (6153 m) was once one of the most popular peaks to climb. It had to be closed due to excessive littering and pollution by trekkers, giving the fragile ecosystem a chance to recover. It still remains closed. Kang Yatse II (6,270 m) has taken over as the most sought-after summit, with the lesser-known Dzo Jongo (6240 m) nearby – much remoter and far less traveled. Kang Yatse I (6405 m), on the other hand, demands more technical skills and sees far fewer climbers. On the ridge of Mentok Kangri there are three peaks: Mentok Kangri I, II and III, wih Mentok Kangri II (6250 m) being the highest.

Text and photos by Uroš Marolt; photos 10, 13 & 15 by Jit, our Nepalese mountain guide