Morning is slow. Boots are frozen stiff, laces like iron wires. It takes time before hands and faces remember how to move. The river feels different today — the ice is clear, shining in the early light. Our breath steams into the pale sky as we set off, each step a sharp crunch. Soon the gorge narrows, and the cliffs rise up like silent guards on both sides. Sometimes the trail forces us to leave the river and scramble up the rocks, clumsy with heavy boots. At midday we rest beside a frozen waterfall, the ice hanging in thick, blue columns. As the cold creeps back in, we push on until Dib Yokma, where the tents stand small against the vast walls. Fires are rare tonight; there’s no wood here. We curl up in thick sleeping bags, listening to the frozen silence.

The deeper we go into the gorge, the older the world feels. These canyons are ancient, shaped by thousands of winters. Our guides tell us that Dib Yokma was once a refuge for traders, monks, and travelers during harsher times. Stories whisper about a hidden spirit that guards the canyon, protecting only those who walk with respect. Even today, Ladakhi porters bow their heads at certain tight corners of the trail. The ice reflects the sun like a mirror, burning the eyes, but at sunset, the cliffs catch fire in orange and red. It feels like walking through the belly of the earth itself.

The cold bites sharper in the morning. Packing up camp is a battle against numb fingers and sleepy bodies. We move steadily, ice crunching underfoot. Sometimes cracks spiderweb under our boots, sending a jolt of fear through the group. Today’s journey takes us through tight ravines, where ice caves glimmer along the sides. Inside some, smoke blackens the ceilings — signs that travelers long ago used them for shelter. We pass one ancient-looking cave where Ladakhi boys are laughing, showing us how they warm their hands with tiny fires. After a few hours, a sharp bend reveals Nyerak’s legendary frozen waterfall, towering above us like a crystal throne. It is a place so otherworldly that everyone falls silent.

The waterfall of Nyerak is sacred to the people of Zanskar. Legends say it was formed when a great monk, seeking enlightenment, froze a river with a single prayer. Villagers from nearby settlements visit it to make offerings, tying prayer flags to the rocks around its base. Standing in front of it, with ice crackling and shifting beneath our boots, it’s easy to believe in miracles. Nyerak Pulu, our camp for the night, feels like a hidden monastery of ice and stone. That evening, tucked into our sleeping bags, I stare at the stars blazing overhead and think how far removed this world is from anything I have ever known.

Today feels heavier, but not just because of the cold. We sense we are nearing the end of the Chadar. We walk for an hour on the ice, the last stretch of the frozen river, the blue surface smooth and glassy. Then comes the steep climb: five hours of uphill through loose rocks and patches of frozen earth. Every step is an effort, breath steaming in front of our faces. Somewhere halfway up, yaks graze lazily on brown grasses poking through the snow, unfazed by the biting wind. Finally, Lingshed comes into view — a scattering of white-washed houses clinging to the hillside, the golden roofs of the monastery catching the last sunlight. We reach the village exhausted but thrilled, welcomed by warm smiles and steaming bowls of butter tea.

Lingshed is a place of stories. Its monastery, belonging to the Gelugpa order of Tibetan Buddhism, dates back over 900 years. More than 60 monks live here, dedicating their lives to prayer and study. Locals say that during the harshest winters, monks would walk the Chadar barefoot as a test of faith. Tonight, we stay in a homestay, warmed by a yak-dung stove. The walls are thick with generations of smoke and prayer. As we sit cross-legged on worn carpets, sipping salty tea, I feel a deep peace. Outside, the wind howls across the plateau, but inside the old houses of Lingshed, time stands still.