At the top of this little challenge, there was more rock to be crossed, and from this rocky patch, we could see the path, the proper path, below us, separated from us by 10 feet vertically and maybe 20 feet horizontally – so near and yet so far! It looked as though there was no way it would be humanly possible for us to get there. Behind us, the workmen's children were shouting something. Though we couldn't make out what they were saying, it seemed to be fairly urgent and more or less along the lines of warning us not to attempt the impossible. There had to be another way.

There was, though it was so small as to be entirely unnoticeable. It led through the greenery straight uphill. As we toiled our way up it, huffing and puffing, me in the lead, we met three old men with white hair coming down, chatting, laughing and not in the least put out by the effort of walking. Kuling is just there, you've reached already, they told us. Well, we knew better than to believe the locals by now, but it was reassuring anyway. It also turned out to be true. Another five minutes climbing brought us out of the greenery, to a hilltop. We could see Kuling, and we could also see a potato taxi just pulling out and setting off downhill. It was just 11 am.

Amit had discovered that he had banged his knee somewhere along the way, which was now hurting him very badly. To add insult to injury, our village guide, the young boy, was sitting there as though absolutely nothing of interest had happened all month. Our donkey was there too, waiting with our stuff. How had he come? It had become obvious long ago that donkeys couldn't take the route we had taken. Of course there was an easier route, laughed the donkey's keeper. You took the left at the fork, you should have taken the right. He had come behind us, to call us back, he said, but we had walked too fast.

Though we were now within reach of a taxi, we had no taxi to clamber into. Word had been sent by the potato taxi that any passenger taxis at Loha Jung should be sent up to get us. After waiting for an hour, it looked increasingly likely that there were no passenger taxis at Loha Jung. Besides, there was another party waiting for a taxi as well. What if a taxi came and they took it? There was no point in waiting up here any longer, we decided, we might as well start walking to Loha Jung. We weren’t feeling up to another 4 km walk, albeit on level ground, but there didn't seem to be any option – we could hardly spend the night at Kuling, even if we wanted to. So we got up and set off again.

We were only a short way down the path to Loha Jung when we heard a taxi coming up, loaded with people. We flagged it down resolutely. Some negotiations followed, which were entirely one sided as the taxi driver had a monopolistic market situation and he knew it and was determined to make the most of it. Feeling slightly guilty about hijacking the other party's taxi, we embarked on the boneshaking 4 km ride to Loha Jung.

The next day was full of taxi rides: too many and too mundane to be worth mentioning. They all had an atmosphere of sadness and goodbye. We could no longer see the high hills and the long green meadow of Ali Bugiyal.

At long last we reached Haridwar, well after midnight, too tired to think or eat or bathe. We were happy that we had rooms with beds and blankets and attached bathrooms, but sad to know that the snow peaks and rolling green meadows that we had lived in for a few days, would now visit us only in our dreams.