Song of the forest

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Mist veils the woods and the road. At Sakleshpur, we are suddenly jerked out of alcohol-induced slumber; the Ghats start here. Unable to resume the party, we gaze at the whiteness outside the van. After abrupt turns and altitude change, we are no longer sleepy, but sick.

Slowly, a reassuring green emerges out of the waning white. People have already started their chores. Women and girls return home with pots of water. Men have taken place at roadside bunds and tea shops. Marketplaces are coming alive. I search for the river Harish has promised.

Kashi, our driver, pulled over the van ahead of a checkpoint. Bisle: the board put up by the forest department reads. A guard allows us in. Another one offers to be our guide. On either side of the road are two houses. A group which arrived later goes into one as we are led to the other.

They were not expecting early guests. A girl rushes to the nearby shop as we sip hot coffee. While they cook, we search for a stream to relieve ourselves: A fitting start to the wild break from urban predictability. Then wheat dosas and uppittu; the freshness made me homesick.

A few kilometres away, we stop by a bridge. The river soothes over the rocky bed. A huge broken tree trunk lies at the centre of the river. It was not this calm here always. Harish said they had to call off the trek midway last year. Impulse is to plunge into the river, but Murali is already heading for the van.

The guide, Gowdar, leads us on the narrow path into the forest. It was raining here three days ago. Brown leaves, still wet and slippery, covers the entire forest like a carpet. In it resides the heirs of the wilderness: red ants, leeches and a variety of exotic insects.

We walk past ancient trees and fallen trunks. Nature doesn't mind the mess. Behind the indolent calmness is natural order. Perennial change. Nothing is dead because nothing is forgotten. Every organism is turned into a memory. (I don't know why I write like this; maybe it's the forest, mystic.)

At the ford, the temptation returns. But Gowdar doesn't wait for us. A wire bridge is broken and submerged in the shallow water. Fish swim in circles in the cool water. But we have to go. The old man's gait is unmatchable. Now on, we go by the river, upstream.

From the top, river looks dangerous with its gigantic rocks. Grey globes flown in some prehistoric rain. Stones with memory of an epic journey. As wilderness becomes harsh, imagination becomes wild. Every sound, every sight, every smell is a story.

The path becomes risky. At some points it vanishes, leaving us to cling to rocks and slide on leaves. The river below doesn't seem that attractive. Leeches had drawn first blood. Tiny pouches of blood sticking from veins. Gowdar's sickle comes to the rescue.

We descend to the river. On a rock, we wrestle with leeches still sucking blood. Suresh tries to crush one with a rock, then burns it. Tired feet are comforted in chilled water. I lie on a rock with water streaming on my body. A pool locked with rocks.

When we got out, Gowdar is missing. We have covered only half the distance, he had said. From above comes the sound of twigs breaking. Gowdar has been clearing a forest cover. One by one, we struggle through the newly cut path. Steep hike through valli...

Forest has raised fences all along to reclaim the stretch man has intruded into. We jump over huge logs and puddles of crystal-clear water. Rocks printed mossy green rise on our path. Without the direction of the river, even Gowdar would be lost in this jungle.

An hour later, we climb to the tar road, exhausted. Adventurers fish out leeches from inside their shoes. With a makeshift stove and ready-to-cook food packs, we prepare lunch. Then the river again. As light fails, we come out reluctantly for the return journey.

Beauty Spot, our last stop. From the vantage point, we savour green hills and vales. The river fences the mountains. Before us, Kumaraparvatha and beyond it, Kodagu. This part of wilderness is a trijunction connecting Hassan, Dakshina Kannada and Kodagu districts. As dark clouds and mist descend to reclaim Pushpagiri and other hills, rises a humming. Lullaby of the forest.

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