"Mujhse nahin hoga" (I can't do it), I whimpered two hours into the night, the freezing cold and thin air sapping my strength. "Chal aagey badh, dus second rest ho gaya" (Keep moving, ten-second rest is over), Riyaz shot back matter-of-factly, while Rakesh's voice cut through the darkness, "Don't close your eyes, Mumtaz!"

Later, they'd tell me I had the steadiest pace, but I knew the truth. It wasn't just about raw strength; it was about endurance, more mental than physical, fuelled by a simple mantra: 20 steps forward, 10 seconds of rest. Repeat. A simple rhythm to tackle the 9-hour ordeal, fighting biting winds enveloped in blackness, one step at a time. That's how I reached the summit of the 6230m peak on the fifth night of our Dzo Jongo East expedition.

“How Do We Even  Pronounce It?”

Amit, a fellow trekker from Singapore and my partner in crime on Malaysian G7 treks, was hungry for a new challenge – a 6K peak. He'd summited Kilimanjaro last year and, apparently, found it a bit too easy.

After scouring the internet, he stumbled upon Dzo Jongo East, a peak that ticked all the boxes: trekkable, non-technical, 6K, and best of all, it only required 6 days off from work.

"Dzo Jongo? How do we even pronounce it?" I wondered. It was a name I'd never heard of until a couple of months ago.

Turns out, a "Dzo" is a cross between a yak and a cow, and "Jongo" means a grazing ground. So, Dzo Jongo basically translates to "the grazing ground of dzos."  Funny enough, those dzos probably don't venture that high up, but in a heartbeat, six of us were signed up to conquer that high-altitude peak. (I have to admit, the draw of a 6K peak was hard to resist!)

And just like that, we found ourselves frantically ordering spirometers and training masks online, and piling on warm layers at Decathlon every weekend. The adventure was about to begin!

Training at Sea Level

You can shop all you want in Singapore, but good luck finding a mountain to climb! When you live on a flat, sunny island, training for a high-altitude trek requires some ingenuity.

I adapted by using a loaded backpack and turning the available hills and stairwells — Bukit Batok, Bukit Timah, Bedok Reservoir, and even my condo's stairs — into my makeshift Everest.

Thanks to this training, I may have been constantly out of breath in Ladakh, but I never once complained of leg pain.

Leh, Though, Was a Different  Story Altogether

Upon landing in Leh, you spend the first day resting and relaxing as a way to acclimatise.

My hotel room was on the 3rd floor. 10 steps then a landing then 10 more to cover one floor. That was a lot. At every landing, I would pause to catch my breath and say a little prayer.

“Jeez, how am I gonna climb DJE when I can’t even go up three storeys without my heart rate skyrocketing?” I huffed to Vidya, my roommate and soon-to-be tent mate.

I don't think she heard me, as she was gasping for air too.

Dry and Arid Rainbow

Spending the next three days acclimating to the high altitude, I revelled in the raw beauty of the valley. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dry earth. The stark, sun-baked mountains contrasted with the blue sky. High, dry, and dusty, Leh held a timeless charm that drew me back again.

Having begun my trekking career in Ladakh over a decade ago, the place held a special place in my heart, and each visit revealed new layers of its rugged charm. I was eager to explore what this trip had in store.

On a drive to Sangam Point, the wind whispered through the open window of the jeep, carrying with it the scent of dust and distant mountains. Then, the first glimpse of the rainbow mountains took my breath away. Their slopes were a tapestry of browns and purples, streaked with hints of ochre and deep crimson.

Rocky, mighty, and majestic, just as I remembered. A decade had passed, but their towering beauty remained as captivating as ever, a silent promise of the adventure that lay ahead.

DJE awaited me, and I awaited DJE.

Gushing Rivers & Flying Boots

Finally, the day arrived when we packed our gear and set out on our mission. A short, bumpy drive from Leh took us to Lato at 4014m. Later that afternoon, we embarked on an acclimatisation walk that quickly set the tone for what lay ahead. It was clear: this trek wasn't going to be a walk in the park.

The next day's trek began with a gradual uphill climb, the sound of a gushing river echoing through the valley. As we approached, we saw the icy water rushing over smooth, slippery stones. Our group, now down to 12 after one trekker fell ill and couldn't continue, had to cross this formidable obstacle a whopping eight times! We formed a human chain, arms locked, shoes dangling precariously from our hands.

Rajeev, a seasoned trekker with long arms and impeccable aim, had a brilliant idea. He figured it was safer (and perhaps more fun) to fling our boots across the river rather than risk dropping them in the rushing water. At each crossing, I'd hand over my precious boots, cross my fingers, and watch Rajeev launch them to the other side with the precision of an Olympic javelin thrower. With one less thing to worry about, I could focus on not losing my footing and taking an unplanned dip in the freezing river.

And that’s how we reached Shiul Sumdo at 4600m after about 5 hours of water play in the river.

Shifting Scree

Later that afternoon, a group of us ventured onto a nearby mountain for further acclimatisation. Its slopes were blanketed in scree - my nemesis, those loose, shifting rocks that always turn my legs to jelly. The trail-less path along the mountain's edge only amplified the fear. I gripped onto anything I could find, every step a hesitant dance with gravity.

Rakesh, our trek lead, noticed my struggle. “You need to let go of the fear of falling,” he advised. “Trust your body. Try stepping like this.” He demonstrated, turning his body sideways and sliding his foot down the slope with surprising ease.

I took a deep breath and gave it a try. To my amazement, it worked! With each controlled slide, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. The fear started to fade, replaced by a newfound sense of confidence. I was finally getting the hang of this scree thing. As I descended the slope, I realised that the biggest obstacles are often the ones we create in our own minds. Shifting my perspective had allowed me to conquer the scree, and perhaps, it would help me conquer even more.

Mountain Passes & Unexpected Blizzards

The weather forecast had promised sunshine, but today, the third day of our trek, Mother Nature had other plans. A gentle breeze turned into a howling wind, and the overcast sky unleashed a blizzard. We started our ascent in t-shirts, blissfully unaware of the icy surprise awaiting us at the pass.

After a picturesque false pass and a scramble over boulders, we reached the wind-whipped summit of Shiul Pass, where prayer flags danced frantically and the temperature plummeted. Meanwhile, our group dwindled to eleven as another trekker surrendered to the harsh conditions.

With our guide Prasanna escorting the unwell trekker back, Rakesh, our trek lead, was forced to take on the role of sweeper, ensuring no one was left behind. The rest of us were spread out along the trail - some forging ahead, some lagging behind, and a few of us somewhere in between.

As I descended towards Chaksung, our next campsite, with three other trekkers, a whiteout engulfed us. The wind howled, and snow stung our faces as the trail vanished, leaving us shivering and disoriented. We huddled behind a boulder, donned ponchos, and for the next 40 minutes, guessed our way down, finally reaching the dining tent, shaking and grateful.

That day, amidst the biting cold and swirling snow, I learned the true meaning of teamwork. Alone, I might have been lost on that 5200m pass, but together, we found our way. The mountains taught me that even in the face of unexpected challenges, the strength of a team can guide you through the storm. 

Later in the dining tent, sipping hot tea and sharing stories of our near-miss, we felt a renewed sense of fellowship and gratitude for each other.

It didn’t stop being cold throughout the night, but when we awoke the following morning, the sun had returned, casting a warm glow over the valley. With renewed spirits, we were ready to tackle Chak La, another mountain pass towering at 5340m.

Dzo Jongo and its Show-Off Cousins

Not every day is eventful, and thank goodness for that! Our legs definitely appreciated the gentler climb from Chaksung (4900m) to Chak Pass (5340m) and down on the other side to Dzo Jongo Basecamp (5100m). But the real highlight was finally catching sight of the big guys: Dzo Jongo East itself, and its more famous cousins, Kang Yatse I and II. Boy, those peaks were putting on a show!

Kang Yatse I, in particular, was impossible to ignore. It stood tall and glamourous, its glacier-draped face gleaming in the sunlight like a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream. A few peaks to its left, DJE stood equally tall and proud, ready to challenge us in two days' time.

But for now, it was all about basking in the moment. The sun beamed down on us as we reached basecamp, just in time for a delicious hot lunch whipped up by our amazing support crew.

We scattered around, searching for the flattest patches of ground to pitch our tents. This campsite would be our home for the next three nights, so finding a level spot was crucial – nobody wants to roll out of their tent in the middle of the night! We aired out our sleeping bags, soaking up the precious sunshine. Some of us even indulged in an afternoon siesta, sprawled out on the warm earth.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. We had covered a lot of ground in the past few days, and I felt like I'd earned every ray of sunshine. But, as always in the mountains, the weather had a mind of its own. Within hours, the clear blue sky began to shift and change, hinting at the unpredictable nature of our surroundings. It was a reminder that even in moments of tranquility, we must always be prepared for the unexpected turns that lie ahead.

You Live and You Learn (To Hold It In)

The wind, which had been howling like a banshee, finally took a breather. “Hey, the wind's finally stopped. Wanna make a run for it?" I whispered to Vidya around 9pm on our fourth night.

A nighttime toilet excursion at 5100m was no laughing matter. It meant abandoning the warmth of our cozy sleeping bags, wrestling into icy jackets, fumbling with headlamps, unzipping the tent and its frosty canopy, slipping into boots, and then stumbling uphill to the toilet tent. And after the deed was done, repeating the whole ordeal in reverse, just to return to a sleep that was already elusive at this altitude.

By our second night, Vidya and I had become masters of bladder management. We'd figured out that if we finished most of our fluids by 7pm, we could miraculously avoid those dreaded midnight toilet trips. Adaptability, it seems, is what keeps us humans at the top of the food chain. Or at least, helps us stay warm and dry in a high-altitude tent! Darwin would be proud.

The  Calm Before The Climb

The fifth day was a welcome break, dedicated to acclimatisation. The previous night's snowfall had left a delicate layer of frost on our tent. Inside, condensation had made things a bit... damp, let's say. But at 8am, the clanging of the thaali (plate),  our wake-up call for black tea, roused us to a bright and beautiful morning. After days of battling blizzards and fording icy rivers, those extra hours of sleep felt like a gift from the mountain gods.

But the respite was temporary. That night, under the cover of darkness, we'd attempt our summit push – the grand finale of our expedition, a rendezvous with a 6230m peak.

The  Midnight March

The anticipation was over; 10 pm had arrived. The blackness was absolute, broken only by the beams of our headlamps. A chill hung in the air, a reminder of the challenge ahead.

We layered up with every piece of warm clothing we owned, looking like walking piles of fleece and down. Headlamps were strapped on, and backpacks were loaded with water, electrolytes, energy gels, snacks, and even survival blankets – we were ready.

We would be marching in a single file. My heart pounded in my chest. Lead? Me? I swallowed hard as Rakesh called out my name along with four others and asked us to move to the front.

“But, I am slow. I can’t lead,” I protested, my voice a mix of surprise and apprehension.

Shubhra, an experienced trekker, chuckled. “You are slow, and that’s why you will lead.”

And so I found myself near the front, trying to keep up with Prasanna, our guide, who was setting a brisk pace. But after an hour of stumbling over rocks and gasping for breath in the high-altitude air, the pressure of maintaining that pace started to weigh on me. My mind raced with doubts. What if I'm too slow? What if I hold everyone back? Tonight, I wasn't feeling the whole "lead from the front" vibe. I just wanted to focus on my own rhythm, my own journey up the mountain.

Doubts and Determination

Two hours into the climb, the mountain's harsh reality was setting in. One of our group members, visibly exhausted and struggling to breathe, made the difficult decision to turn back. We watched with a mix of concern and understanding as he descended with the other group's dropouts, their headlamps bobbing in the darkness like distant fireflies. The weather had turned brutal; the wind howled relentlessly, its icy fingers numbing our exposed skin. The altitude made each step a laboured effort, our lungs burning and heads throbbing.

The mental pressure was palpable. We were now down to ten. We had prepared as best we could, but tonight's conditions seemed to mock our efforts. A sense of unease gnawed at us, each of us silently confronting our own doubts and fears.

Would we all make it to the summit? I couldn't help but wonder. The mountain loomed above us, a silent giant testing our resolve.

Falling Back

Relieved to be free from the pressure of leading, I fell back into the group, joining Rajeev, Riyaz, and Rakesh at the rear. Rajeev, usually a picture of nonchalance, was surprisingly subdued. The mountain air, it seemed, had even humbled this pro trekker who'd famously hiked to basecamp in shorts and a t-shirt.

He'd already thrown up twice, playfully blaming it on the muesli bars I'd brought for the group. But I suspected the altitude and the relentless climb were taking their toll. The mountains can be hard on anyone, even the most experienced. While I was preoccupied with my own struggles, I couldn't help but feel a pang of concern for him.

The night pressed on, the darkness shrouding us like a heavy blanket. The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the crunch of our boots on the rocky trail.  We trudged forward, each step a battle against the thin air and the growing fatigue.

The Relentless Ascent

Five hours had passed, and the climb felt like an endless test of willpower, each step a struggle against the mountain's unyielding slopes. We paused every 40 minutes, these breaks offering a moment of relief from the cold and the gnawing exhaustion. In the inky blackness, the only constants were the wind's icy whispers and the never-ending climb. My eyelids grew heavy, my body screaming for rest.

"Don't close your eyes, Mumtaz," Rakesh's voice cut through the darkness, a lifeline pulling me back from the brink of sleep. I blinked, startled. Had I started sleepwalking? The thought brought a fleeting smile to my lips, a brief distraction from the overwhelming fatigue.

"What time does the day break?" I asked Rakesh, my voice a mere croak.

"Not long from now," he replied. "In less than two hours."

Two hours? I thought, a wave of despair washing over me.

Just then, my headlamp flickered and died, plunging me into complete darkness. Panic gripped me instantly.

"Riyaz!" I called out to my nephew, my voice trembling slightly. "My headlamp's gone kaput!"

Without missing a beat, he unclipped his own headlamp and handed it to me, switching to his emergency torch. "Here you go,” he said reassuringly.

His kindness warmed my heart, a beacon of light in the darkness. I had the most caring nephew in the world, and I was grateful to be sharing this adventure with him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the first hint of dawn painted the horizon behind us. A faint glow began to spread, promising warmth and light. Soon, the darkness would give way to a new day. Hope flickered within me, a tiny flame against the vastness of the night.

A Helping Hand on the Mountain

The other group was in a tough spot. Their guides had to escort some struggling members back, leaving them without leadership. But Rakesh, understanding their predicament, didn't hesitate to offer help. He welcomed the remaining trekkers into our group, leading us all up the challenging terrain.

It was a true testament to the spirit of camaraderie that thrives in the mountains — competition aside, we were all part of the same mountain family. With three of our four guides still strong, we had the support to ensure everyone reached the summit safely.

Summit Victory

Daylight broke, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange, and within an hour, we conquered the final boulder sections. The sight of colourful prayer flags dancing in the wind brought a smile to my face. We had done it! A wave of euphoria swept over me, and tears welled up in my eyes. All the struggles, the doubts, the exhaustion - it all melted away in that moment of pure joy. Our team had reached the summit!

But even as we celebrated our victory, a sobering thought crossed my mind. The icy wind whipped around us, and I couldn't help but marvel at the fortitude of our soldiers stationed at Siachen, high in the Karakoram Range, not far from where we stood. If this was a taste of their daily reality, they were heroes in my book.

Ascent is Optional, Descent in Mandatory!

The wind whipped at my exposed skin, biting through my layers like a thousand tiny needles. My brain throbbed with the cold, each thought an icy shard threatening to splinter. I'd longed to linger, to etch the majesty of the Himalayas, the Zanskar, and the Ladakh ranges onto my memory forever. I'd dreamt of this summit, this view, every night for the past two months.

But now, standing here, triumph mingled with a bone-deep chill. It was -20 degrees Celsius, a frigid embrace intensified by the relentless wind.

With numb fingers, I captured a few hasty photos, the camera's click echoing in the vast stillness. Then, reluctantly, we turned our backs on the peak and began the long journey down. Each step was a bittersweet farewell to the mountain, a descent back into the world below.

Descent, usually my least favourite part of a trek, was surprisingly manageable this time. In daylight, we retraced our steps, marvelling at the treacherous terrain we had navigated in the darkness. The glaciers we had crossed without a second thought now looked daunting in the harsh light of day.

By mid-morning, we had descended most of the way. Exhausted but elated, our group gathered for a brief rest. I plopped down next to Rakesh, using my backpack as a makeshift pillow. Within seconds, I was blissfully snoring, only to be jolted awake by Rakesh's booming voice: "Stop snoring, get up and move! You can't sleep on the mountain." The group's laughter echoed through the valley, and I sheepishly got back on my feet.

The final two hours were a gruelling slog across a sea of rocks that seemed to stretch on forever. I'd never longed for a campsite as much as I did in those final hours. The memory of ascending this rocky labyrinth in the dark was a blur. It's funny how ignorance can fuel our courage, while awareness can sometimes paralyse us with doubt.

As we finally reached basecamp, a wave of relief and gratitude filled my heart. The Dzo Jongo East expedition had tested my limits, pushed me beyond my comfort zone, and rewarded me with breathtaking views and unforgettable experiences. I had faced my fears, embraced the unknown, and emerged stronger on the other side.

I was grateful for the mountains, for their silent lessons and unwavering beauty. I was grateful for my teammates, for their support, laughter, and shared moments of triumph. And I was grateful for the guides, for their expertise, patience, and unwavering dedication to our safety and success.

Victory Lap (but  Still a Trek)

The summit was behind us, but the adventure wasn't quite over. The next morning, we bid farewell to basecamp and set off for one last challenge: Kongmaru La, a 5254m pass. While not as high as Dzo Jongo East, the pass tested our weary legs. The promise of hot showers and a comfortable bed in Leh kept us motivated, though.

After conquering Kongmaru La, the final descent to Chokdo began. But amidst the tiredness, there were moments of pure joy. Ajay, Shubhra, Riyaz, Prasanna and I, forming a back-of-the-pack brigade, found ourselves thoroughly enjoying the descent.

We posed for photos, marvelled at the breathtaking scenery – the dusty trails winding through the valleys, the crystal-clear streams snaking their way down the mountains, and the occasional glimpse of majestic bharal grazing on the slopes.

Finally, we reached Chokdo, where a dusty bus awaited, a welcome sight after days of trekking. As we bumped along the winding road, the transition from the wilderness back to civilisation was bittersweet, a reminder that all adventures, no matter how epic, must eventually come to an end.

Reflections from the Summit

The journey wasn't over yet, but as the mountains receded in the rearview mirror, a sense of accomplishment battled with the lingering fatigue. We had faced the challenges, embraced the unexpected, and emerged victorious. Dzo Jongo East had tested our limits, but it had also rewarded us with unforgettable memories.

The experience taught me the importance of finding balance, even in the most unstable situations. It was a reminder that life, like the mountain, demands adaptability and a willingness to embrace the unexpected. And just like on that dark, seemingly endless climb, sometimes all it takes is breaking down the overwhelming into smaller, manageable steps - 20 at a time.

The Dzo Jongo East expedition was more than just a trek; it was a profound experience. The mountains, in their silent wisdom, had whispered a profound truth: that even in the face of the insurmountable, the human spirit can find a way. The echoes of the wind, the rhythm of our footsteps, the shared laughter and struggles - they had orchestrated a symphony of resilience and strength, a harmony born from adversity. And as we descended back into the world, I carried that symphony within me, forever changed by the experience.

ABOUT MUMTAZ PACHISA

Mumtaz Pachisa is a Singapore-based trekker and writer passionate about high-altitude adventures in the Himalayas. Originally from Udaipur, she's spent over a decade exploring these mountains, drawn to their challenges and the transformative power of these journeys. Follow her on Instagram @mumtaz.pachisa or read about her experiences on her blog https://medium.com/finsandboots.