Discovering Ladakh’s Uncharted Petroglyphs : A Short Note

 

Whispers on Stone: Discovering Ladakh’s Uncharted Petroglyphs

We were trudging down a dusty trail by the frozen stream near the little village of Lato when something caught our eye: a curious carving on a sun-bleached boulder. At first it seemed like a simple scratch, but as we knelt closer the outlines emerged – faint figures, perhaps animals. Our hearts raced. A closer look revealed many more carvings on adjacent stones, their pale lines surviving in the red-brown patina of the rock. In that quiet Himalayan afternoon, we had stumbled into the remote gallery of ancient hands.

We had been in that area for exploratory mountaineering, prospecting a remote valley for potential future climbs. It was March 2025, and all of Ladakh had just experienced a late winter storm that had blanketed the mountains in fresh snow. On our way out, tired but content, we took a side trail above the river – and that’s when we found the carvings. The discovery felt accidental, but significant: a reminder that in these mountains, even a descent route can lead to something profound. Before reaching any conclusions, we crosschecked with Dr. Sonam Wangchok—widely regarded as an expert in Ladakhi cultural heritage—and he confirmed that this site had not been previously recorded.

We paused in the silence, humbled. Here, etched into stone by someone’s chisel thousands of years ago, were stories left unsought by history. The carved ibex with curved horns, the stocky wild sheep, a hunting scene – these images looked out of place on our modern journey, yet somehow belonged to it as surely as the river belonged to the valley. Encountering them was a moment of wonder and gentle awe. We felt like travellers who had found a secret poem scratched into the earth itself.

Ladakh’s Living Rock-Art Legacy

Our find fits into a vast, little-known tradition. Ladakh’s high valleys are dotted with petroglyphs (rock carvings) spanning millennia. Scholars believe the oldest of these may be about 5,000 years old, dating to the Bronze Age. Carbon dating from nearby sites suggests humans lived here as early as 4700 BCE (Bruneau & Bellezza, 2013). In Ladakh, the prehistoric era’s artists favoured sturdy dark boulders, chiselling out figures of daily life and belief. Over time they recorded hunting, dances, cult scenes and symbols that speak of ancient faiths.

By around 1000–700 BCE, cultures of the Himalayan Bronze Age and wider Eurasian steppes were prolific here. This began an unbroken rock-art tradition from the Bronze Age all the way into the early second millennium CE (Bruneau & Bellezza, 2013). In fact, archaeologists note that this stone art tradition culminates in the spread of Tibet’s great religions: Buddhism and Bon (Bellezza, 2008). Petroglyphs turn up in every Ladakh valley – lower Indus (Sham), Nubra (Shayok), Changthang, Kargil, Zanskar – over 500 sites have now been documented (Devers, Bruneau & Vernier, 2014).

Despite Ladakh’s harsh climate, rock carvings survived here even when ice-age hunters first arrived and when medieval armies marched through. For example, some boulders at Alchi (a famous site) were carved in Bronze/Iron Age styles (hunting scenes, ibex), and centuries later the same rocks were re-carved with Buddhist stupas in the 9th–11th centuries (Denwood, 2008). This continuity shows how Ladakh’s petroglyphs bridge pre-Buddhist shamanic times to the historic era of temples. Our Lato discovery, set in this continuum, likely belongs to those pre-Buddhist Bronze/Iron Age layers, adding precious data about Ladakh’s distant past.

Common Motifs and Their Meanings

Ladakh’s rock art speaks a vivid visual language. Certain themes recur again and again, as if carrying deep meaning for the carvers. Among the most common motifs are:

• Ibex and wild animals: Granite boulders teem with carvings of mountain goats, wild sheep, deer, yaks, and other game. The ibex – with its long, curving horns – is especially ubiquitous (Bruneau, 2013). In fact, "the hunting of game animals is the single most common rock-art theme in Ladakh," and "ibex hunting scenes number in the thousands" (Bruneau, 2013). These herds of etched ibex and their human hunters dominate the imagery because these animals were vital: they supplied food, hides and ritual value.
• Hunting scenes and social life: Men with bows, spears and flutes appear alongside animals. Beyond mere hunting records, these scenes may commemorate rites of passage or clan identity. Scholars note that by the Iron Age hunting’s practical importance had waned, yet hunts retained "high prestige and cultural centrality" (Bruneau & Bellezza, 2013).
• Solar and geometric symbols: Many boulders bear circular suns, spirals, zigzags and concentric rings. For example, sun-wheel symbols appear frequently. In the Alchi carvings, archaeologists catalogue sun, swastika, cross and spiral motifs among the earliest symbols (Jettmar, 1985).
• Mask-like human faces: One especially mysterious motif is the “mascoid”: round human faces with large eyes and simple features. These appear sporadically, notably in Nubra and along trade routes. Recent research links them to the Okunev culture of Bronze-Age Siberia (Snellgrove, 1967).
• Other human forms and symbols: Some boulders show dancing figures, horsemen, or even outline drawings of people. Geometric carvings (grids, mazes, footprints) hint at maps or shamanic talismans. Many petroglyphs were later "borrowed" by Buddhist pilgrims: we find stupas, chortens and Tibetan script carved atop or beside ancient scenes (Denwood, 2008).

New Find Amid Known Sites

Ladakh’s petroglyph hotspots are well-charted in broad strokes, but each new discovery still brings surprises. Known sites include Domkhar (home to Ladakh’s Rock Art Sanctuary), Tangtse, Murgi (Nubra), Khaltsi, Zanskar, and Sasoma. An IGNCA survey notes extensive art across Sham valley, Nubra, Changthang and more (IGNCA, 2012). Compared to these, the carvings at Lato were utterly unknown. We found them unannounced by any official record. Even recent scholarship that has expanded the rock-art map of Ladakh remarks only briefly on new sites near "Gya Chu, Meru and Lato" (Devers et al., 2014).

Continuity and Cultural Significance

These ancient carvings matter because they are history in situ – raw data about Ladakh’s pre-Buddhist era. The Lato engravings likely date to the Bronze/Iron Age, a time when Indo-Central Asian cultures mingled here (Rizvi, 1996). Each figure — an ibex, a hunter, a spiral — is a clue to spiritual beliefs or social life that left no written record. Discovering them is like finding a direct voice from antiquity.

Moreover, these carvings show continuity of tradition. Rock engraving in Ladakh did not end with the Stone Age, nor with Buddhism. As late as the 14th century CE local people still added chortens and prayers to stones (Bellezza, 2001). In Ladakh, the very act of marking rock carries sacred weight. Inscriptions in many languages at Tangtse (Kuχean, Sogdian, etc.) tell of traders and pilgrims over a millennium (van Schaik, 2011).

The imagery also hints at community identity. The high relief of ibex hunts in Ladakh parallels "animal style" art across the Eurasian steppes. By adding our find to the record, we help fill in the map of how different clan groups or migrants moved through Ladakh.

Respecting the Stones: A Trekker’s Duty

As trekkers and climbers, we are outsiders but stewards of these wild places. The Lato petroglyphs we found were fragile relics under our feet. We took photos and notes and then left the rocks as we found them. Modern adventurers have a special role. By venturing into remote corners, we can act as first responders to cultural heritage – spotting undocumented sites, alerting researchers, and educating fellow travellers.

In the hush after sunset, as we packed our camp near Lato, the petroglyphs seemed to watch us depart. They reminded us that even in the most familiar-seeming landscape, the past lies just beneath the surface. Our accidental discovery was modest, yet it connects us to a grand continuum of human creativity. May these ancient stones remain safe, their silent stories heard by all who pass this way.

References

• Bellezza, J.V. (2001). Antiquities of Upper Tibet: An Inventory of Cultural Sites. Asian Highlands Perspectives.
• Bellezza, J.V. (2008). Zhang Zhung: Foundations of Civilization in Tibet. Austrian Academy of Sciences Press.
• Bruneau, L. (2013). "Animal Figures in Rock Art from Ladakh." Rock Art Research, 30(1), 43–54.
• Bruneau, L. & Bellezza, J.V. (2013). "A Preliminary Chronology of Rock Art in Ladakh." Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines, 25, 21–56.
• Denwood, P. (2008). "Iconography and Continuity in Ladakhi Art." Artibus Asiae, Vol. 68(1), 67–94.
• Devers, G., Bruneau, L., & Vernier, A. (2014). "Rock Art in Ladakh: A Thematic Overview." In Ladakh: Culture, History, and Development.
• IGNCA (2012). Documentation of Petroglyphs in Ladakh. Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts.
• Jettmar, K. (1985). Petroglyphs in the Indus and Upper Swat Regions. Heidelberg University Press.
• Rizvi, J. (1996). Ladakh: Crossroads of High Asia. Oxford University Press.
• Snellgrove, D. (1967). The Nine Ways of Bon. Oxford University Press.
• van Schaik, S. (2011). Tibet: A History. Yale University Press.

 

When The Journey Becomes a Product: Certificate Culture in Trekking and Mountaineering

 

In recent years, the culture of trekking and mountaineering has shifted from introspective exploration to externally validated accomplishment. This short essay critically examines the rise of certificate-oriented treks and the commodification of high-altitude experiences, drawing on personal reflection and broader trends in adventure tourism. From summit selfies to laminated certificates, it explores how social media, bucket-list marketing, and consumer expectations have transformed sacred and solitary landscapes into stages of performance. Juxtaposing this trend with traditional values of humility, transformation, and reverence, the essay asks: what is lost when the journey becomes a product? Through examples from Kilimanjaro, Everest, Annapurna, and beyond, it advocates a return to a slower, deeper, more meaningful engagement with the mountains—one not stamped or shared, but quietly carried within.

Summits for Show: On the Commodification of Trekking

In the summer of 2005, I stood atop Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest peak. It was a curious postscript to a much tougher expedition I had just led to Kamet (7,756 m) in the Garhwal Himalaya. Where Kamet demanded every ounce of focus and humility from our team, Kilimanjaro was, for me, undertaken almost light-heartedly—a quick adventure out of curiosity.

At the chilly Uhuru Peak, I took in the moment quietly. It was a still, wordless instant—the kind that plants a seed. In hindsight, that was the germination of my love for Africa. It was only the next day, on my way out of the national park, that a guide pressed a colourfully printed certificate into my hands, congratulating me on my success. I remember thanking him politely and stuffing the certificate into my pack, not ungrateful but faintly bemused. After the profound effort and inner journey of Kamet, this piece of paper felt inconsequential—a token to say I had been there, done that. I folded it away and forgot about it.

Little did I know that this summit certificate—at the time a quirky souvenir—would, in the years to come, become a central artefact in what I now think of as the performance culture of trekking.

The Certificate as Summit

The thought resurfaced years later when a man from Kolkata, quite earnestly, contacted me requesting a summit certificate for Everest—not for himself, but for his wife. They had been part of a guided trip, and whether she had actually reached the summit or not remained unclear. He was desperately seeking the certificate as proof, willing to pay a significant sum for it. The paper, to him, wasn’t a souvenir. It was the summit.

More recently, I saw a Facebook announcement from a trekking operator celebrating that their clients had “earned their certificates” for reaching Annapurna Base Camp. The wording struck me: not “completed the journey,” not “witnessed the mountain”—but earned their certificates. It made me pause. At what point did walking through a Himalayan valley demand official endorsement? When did the validation become more important than the experience?

Welcome to the Era of Trophy Trekking

From Kilimanjaro to the Inca Trail, from Everest Base Camp to Kedarkantha, the certificate has evolved from keepsake to badge of honour. For many, it is the most anticipated moment of the trek—the formal, frame-worthy declaration that one has achieved something. On Kilimanjaro, for instance, the Tanzanian authorities issue green certificates for those reaching Stella Point and gold for those reaching Uhuru Peak, complete with date, altitude, and signature¹.

In Nepal, companies guiding clients to Everest Base Camp (5,364 m) offer "Certificates of Accomplishment" even though it is not a summit. Tibet-based operators describe such documents as “your best bragging rights”². Indian trekking firms similarly issue e-certificates for popular trails such as Kedarkantha, Brahmatal, and Sandakphu. Some even issue participation certificates to those who did not complete the trek³.

At first glance, this may seem harmless. After all, who doesn't like a souvenir? But the certificate culture, as it grows, reveals a deeper transformation in how many people relate to the outdoors. The emphasis is shifting from presence to performance, from experience to evidence, from being moved by a mountain to proving you were there. 

From Souvenirs to Status Symbols

The shift is visible across the adventure tourism industry. Trekking packages often include not just logistical support but also professional photos, achievement badges, and pre-printed banners for summit selfies. An entire economy thrives on producing portable, postable tokens of triumph.

For an increasing number of people, the mountain is not the goal. The goal is what the mountain gives them: a certificate, a selfie, a story to tell, a box ticked on a bucket list. Achievement replaces absorption. And in this shift, something elemental is lost.

This isn’t merely a philosophical issue—it has real consequences. 

The Darker Side: Forged Summits and Faked Proof

The pressure to have done it—and to have something to show for it—has led some to fake it. In 2016, an Indian couple, Dinesh and Tarakeshwari Rathod, claimed to be the first Indian husband-wife team to summit Everest. Nepal’s Ministry of Tourism initially issued them certificates. But their summit photo turned out to be digitally manipulated—a crude Photoshop job superimposing their faces onto another climber’s image⁴. Once the fraud was exposed, their summit certificates were revoked and they were banned from climbing in Nepal for 10 years⁵.

A few years later, another Indian climber, Narender Singh Yadav, claimed to have summited Everest in 2016 and submitted faked photos to obtain an official certificate. He was even shortlisted for India's prestigious Tenzing Norgay Adventure Award—a distinction that, given its recurring controversies, often raises deeper questions about the country’s understanding of adventure itself. It took several whistle-blowers to reveal that Yadav never made it to the top. In 2021, his certificate was rescinded and a climbing ban imposed⁶.

These are not isolated cases. Around the world, from marathon races to mountain ascents, there is a rising incidence of achievement fraud—false claims made to gain social capital, jobs, awards, or simply admiration. When the certificate becomes the goal, truth becomes negotiable. 

Overcrowded Peaks and Cultural Fractures

Beyond ethical concerns, the trophy culture of trekking is putting enormous pressure on fragile ecosystems and traditional communities. In 2019, a photo of a traffic jam near the summit of Everest went viral. Dozens of climbers, crammed into the Death Zone above 8,000 m, waited for their turn on the summit ridge⁷. That same season saw a record number of Everest deaths, many due to congestion.

In India, the popular Kedarkantha trek has been inundated. On New Year’s Day 2022, over 3,000 trekkers attempted the summit. Locals described it as a stampede⁸. The alpine meadow was left littered with plastic, snack wrappers, and liquor bottles⁹. The once-quiet village of Sankri, now a booming trailhead, is struggling with sewage issues, water shortages, and unregulated construction¹⁰.

In Ladakh, the authorities had to close Stok Kangri, once the most climbed 6,000 m peak in India, due to overuse. The sacred mountain was being “loved to death” by trophy-seeking trekkers and operators marketing it as a beginner’s summit¹¹.

And then there’s the cultural toll. As trekking becomes a transaction, locals often become service providers in their own sacred landscapes. Sherpas on Everest, Chaggas on Kilimanjaro, and Quechua porters in Peru carry the weight of other people’s ambitions—often without receiving even the certificates that climbers so proudly display¹². Their knowledge, resilience, and sacrifice are invisible behind the photo ops. 

The Addiction to Applause

Social media has fuelled this performative mindset. Treks are planned with the end-photo in mind. Hashtags and filters replace journaling and reflection. One now prepares not just physically for a climb, but narratively—deciding in advance how the experience will be framed and received online.

As British adventurer Adrian Hayes observed, “All these internal drivers—self-fulfilment, curiosity—have been overtaken. We’re in a massive epidemic. We’re striving for recognition and fame.”¹³

Even the noble idea of turning back, once a mark of wisdom and mountain sense, is now often seen as failure unless mitigated by a photo or certificate of participation. But the mountain does not owe you a summit. Or a certificate. Or a narrative arc. It simply is. 

What We Might Lose—and What We Can Still Keep

When climbing becomes performing, and walking becomes posing, we lose the elemental gift of the mountains: their silence, their challenge, their refusal to flatter our egos.

I have returned from many expeditions with no photos, no summit, no applause. But those are often the ones that taught me the most. The wind on a remote ridge. The decision to turn around. The quiet meal in a shepherd’s hut. These don’t fit easily onto a certificate or Instagram story—but they endure.

So here is my invitation: by all means, accept your certificate if offered. Pose for the photo. But don’t let that be the point. Let the real proof lie in your patience, your humility, your willingness to walk slowly, listen deeply, and return changed. 

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Endnotes

1. “Mount Kilimanjaro Certificate.” Tranquil Kilimanjaro. https://www.tranquilkilimanjaro.com/mount-kilimanjaro-certificate/
2. “Get Mt. Everest Certificate! Your Best Bragging Rights for Tibet Tour.” Tibet Vista, 2024. https://www.tibettravel.org/everest-base-camp-trek/everest-certificate.html
3. “Do you provide a certificate of completion?” Bikat Adventures. https://www.bikatadventures.com/Home/Itinerary/Annapurna-Base-Camp-Trek
4. “Indian Couple Banned from Climbing After Faking Ascent of Everest.” The Guardian, 31 August 2016. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/aug/31/indian-couple-banned-climbing-fake-everest-ascent
5. “Nepal Cancels Everest Summit Certificates.” BBC, 2016. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-37218238
6. “Nepal Bans Three Indian Climbers.” The Guardian, 12 Feb 2021. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/feb/12/nepal-bans-indian-climbers-accused-of-faking-everest-summit
7. “Everest Traffic Jam at 8,000 Metres.” BBC News, 2019. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-48395880
8. “New Year Stampede on Kedarkantha Peak.” Deccan Herald, 2022. https://www.deccanherald.com/specials/insight/is-a-boom-in-trekking-an-uphill-task-for-conservation-1147720.html
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid.
11. “Stok Kangri Trek Banned to Regrow Ecology.” Trekking Community of Ladakh, 2020. https://www.indiahikes.com/blog/stok-kangri-banned
12. “On Summit Certificates, Liaison Officers and Funny Mountaineering Rules.” Mark Horrell Blog, 2016. https://www.markhorrell.com/blog/2016/on-summit-certificates-liaison-officers-and-funny-mountaineering-rules/
13. Hayes, Adrian. Interview in The Guardian, 2019. https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2019/sep/26/everest-instagram-climbers-mountaineering

 

 

The Summit of the Slighted Six

 

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In the wood-panelled head office of Mountains Make Us Human—an old and respected institution whose walls bore the stories of decades past—tea was being served with biscuits of admirable durability. The society had its share of seasoned climbers, armchair philosophers, and earnest enthusiasts, all bound together by a love for the mountains. Its guiding belief, inscribed on a wooden plaque near the entrance, read: “Mountains teach us humility, patience, and perspective—qualities needed in valleys too.”

Rahul, steeped in the quiet confidence of one who had lived most of his life among mountains, sat in the corner, sipping silently. He was known among a few for his favourite line, quietly offered in moments of tension or pride: "Let the mountains judge, for they never lie." He had recently taken it upon himself to ensure that the world-renowned "Curtains and Crags" Mountain Theatre Festival came to Kalibagan, so that the townspeople would not miss the chance to witness such a rare and classic event. He had to do it—because originally, it was meant to be the responsibility of a small clique within the society.

They were known as The High Altitude Gentlemen's Association—or HAGA for short—a curious constellation of six (sometimes eight, depending on whose cousin or a minion was visiting) members from Kalibagan who had long perfected the art of high-decibel irrelevance. While others in the society reminisced about climbs and trails, HAGA specialised in mountaindering—the noble craft of loudly discussing mountains one had never actually visited, often with such flair that listeners forgot to check the facts. Their conversations were long, looping monologues sprinkled with foreign climbing terms and chai-stained maps that rarely left the table.

It had been their task to liaise with the organisers of "Curtains and Crags." Notices had been sent to them. Emails from the society’s headquarters had reached them well in advance. WhatsApp reminders and posters were shared. HAGA ignored them all. Whether through incompetence or indifference, they simply let the opportunity pass. And so, Rahul stepped in.

The event went splendidly: packed auditorium, spellbound audience, standing ovation. Some said it was the most inspiring evening Kalibagan had witnessed in years.

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But now, in the annual convocation of Mountains Make Us Human, the air was thick not with reverence but with rumble.

Led by the venerable Mr. Chatterjee-Mukhopadhyay (who once summited the steps of his bungalow and called it an ascent), HAGA was incensed.

"We were not informed," he thundered, his voice quivering like a tent in a high-altitude storm. "To bypass us is to defy the very summit of decorum. One does not pitch a tent on Everest without first consulting the base camp, gentlemen!"

"Yes, yes," chimed in another, who wore a windcheater untouched by wind. "This is a grave breach of protocol! How could a member host an event without consulting us, the cultural conscience of the club?"

The room fell into a hush, broken only by the clinking of tea spoons and the distant sound of someone unfolding their moral compass (badly). A large portrait of a legendary Himalayan climber looked down from the wall, seemingly unimpressed.

Rahul blinked. He hadn't sent emails—those had come from the headquarters of the society. Official communications had been dispatched through every available channel. There were time-stamped emails. Public announcements. Printed posters. WhatsApp invites. And yes, that noticeboard. But none of it mattered to the members of the HAGA. 

HAGA believed—or pretended to believe—that shouting loud enough would erase the facts. They tried to shout a lie into truth, hoping that volume could substitute for veracity.

But the truth, much like a snowfield under moonlight, does not melt under noise.

And Rahul did not defend. He simply smiled.

Later that year, Mountains Make Us Human decided to honour contributions to the club in a new, inventive way. A new prize was conceived: The Foghorn Fellowship for the Loudest Contribution to Silence.

It was awarded unanimously to HAGA.

There was a touching group photo—windcheaters, hiking boots with showroom shine, and all—and they beamed with pride, oblivious to satire.

Someone asked if they’d like to say a few words.

They said many.

And Rahul? He was on a trek that week, somewhere above the treeline, where echoes fade and silence holds meaning.

In Kalibagan, the mountains remained unmoved.

And somewhere in the distance, a gust of wind laughed.

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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real organisations and events is purely coincidental. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are intended solely for satirical and narrative purposes. Images used here are generated by AI.