Impact Feed

A travel journal from the land of the snow leopard.

By Akash Mehta

When I first arrived in Ladakh, the air felt thin, sharp, as if the mountains themselves were testing me. At over 11,000 feet, every breath came with effort, but also wonder. My Nana used to tell me stories about this place, of ghost cats that wandered the white peaks, of a land where silence spoke louder than words. He would call the snow leopard the spirit of the mountains, and as a boy, I dreamt of one day standing where those spirits roamed.

Now, here I was - my Nana no longer with me, but his presence somehow woven into the wind. 

Our first days were spent acclimatising in Leh - wandering its lively streets and meeting the kind, grounded people. We visited members of the forestry department and local wildlife officers, trying to understand the complex balance between people and wildlife. It was there that I learned the real story wasn’t just about snow leopards, it was also about the feral dogs. They, too, are part of this fragile ecosystem, yet their growing numbers have become a threat to livestock and, in turn, to the livelihoods of the Changpa people.

On our second day as we embarked on our adventure, I saw this dynamic play out in real time. A lone feral dog chasing a group of blue sheep up the steep cliffs, relentless and raw. Within hours of arriving, I had witnessed the untamed pulse of this landscape - nature, in its purest form, unfiltered. 

As we travelled higher, crossing the mountain pass of Tanglang La, the altitude began to take its toll. My lips cracked, my head throbbed, and yet my heart was full. We stopped to offer prayer flags to the wind - a gesture of respect to the spirits of the mountains, to wildlife, and to the people who call this place home.

By the time we reached Tso Kar village, we were welcomed into a warm home with fresh chai and a simple home-cooked meal that reminded me of my Nana’s kitchen. In that moment, surrounded by strangers who felt like family, I realised that kindness here isn’t offered - it’s lived.

The following morning, I spent time with local weavers crafting delicate Pashmina shawls. Their hands moved with grace and patience born of centuries of tradition. We spoke about their daily struggles - the cold, the isolation, the dangers posed by wildlife, and their need for stronger predator-proof corrals. I was told of how a single attack from a snow leopard or a feral dog could send a herd into shock, one animal killed, and dozens more lost to fear. It broke my heart to hear how easily their livelihoods could unravel.

That’s why, with support from Elephant Family and the Fable Fund, we’ve committed to building seven predator-proof corrals here — simple, sturdy structures that will protect around 3,000 livestock and safeguard both families and the nearby monastery. It’s a small investment with an enormous impact, a bridge between coexistence and survival.

Later, we journeyed to Lake Tso Kar, a shimmering mirror framed by snowy peaks. I didn’t expect to see a snow leopard; I simply wanted to feel its presence. I accepted that sometimes, reverence is enough — that the spirit of the snow leopard is everywhere, even when unseen. But just as I’d settled into that acceptance, the call came.

A snow leopard had been spotted.

From a hundreds of metres away, through the chill wind, I saw it — the mountain’s ghost, moving silently against the rocks. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment of stillness that felt eternal. People wait years for such a sighting. We had been blessed within days.

And then, on our long journey back - a thirty-six-hour drive through treacherous mountain roads due to closed airspace - came one final miracle. A shadow crossed our path. I thought it was a dog until my eyes adjusted and my breath caught in my chest. A snow leopard, less than five metres away.

I stepped out of the car. There was no fear, only calm. It looked at me, unbothered, its gaze ancient and knowing. For a moment, I felt as if it had been waiting, not for me, but for this connection, this acknowledgment between worlds. No cameras. Just me, the wind, and the ghost of the mountains.

That was the moment I truly understood The Guardians of High Winds.

This journey reminded me why I started the Fable Fund, to experience these stories firsthand, to support those protecting life on the edge, and to ensure every donation makes a tangible difference.

By joining our Giving Circle, you’re not just funding projects; you’re becoming part of them. You’re standing beside the Changpa people, the snow leopards, and every heartbeat that echoes through these mountains.

This was a trip of a lifetime - but it’s also just the beginning. The wild is calling, and I can’t wait to share the next story with you.