In the remote reaches of northern India, high above the tree line, where the air thins and prayer flags flutter on icy winds, lives one of the world’s most elusive predators: the snow leopard.
Known in parts of the Himalayas as the shan, it is both feared and revered—a ghost of the mountains, perfectly adapted to life in the rugged Trans-Himalayas. In Buddhist communities like those in Spiti, where compassion extends to all living beings, this solitary cat is more than just a predator—it is part of the spiritual landscape, often seen as a symbol of mystery, resilience, and sacred wildness.
In autumn 2023, we travelled to the Spiti Valley, a high-altitude desert in Himachal Pradesh, to meet the team from the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF) based in Kibber. We were there to better understand how climate change is reshaping this fragile mountain ecosystem, after funding a project using camera traps to monitor its impact on snow leopard movements.
Welcome to Spiti
Spiti means “The Land Between”—between Tibet and India, between earth and sky. It’s a striking, stark landscape shaped by wind and time, perched on the edge of geopolitical tension. Permits are required to access the valley, and visitors must report to local authorities.
When we arrived, the checkpoint guard asked: “Can I take your photo?” We’d been asked for selfies throughout our time in India and replied, “Yes, of course.” But we weren’t expecting what came next: “It’s so I can identify your bodies if something goes wrong up there.”
We stood awkwardly in a line, unsure whether to smile or not.
The journey had already been long and dramatic – this was a sign of things to come. Landslides triggered by heavy monsoon rains had caused road closures and delays. The roads into Spiti are carved into sheer cliffs, with vertiginous drops and endless switchbacks. Despite visiting during one of the more “accessible” periods—September into October—it was clear that Spiti is never truly easy to reach.
Our driver, Jagdish, seemed to harbour secret ambitions of becoming a rally driver, judging by the way he tackled the hairpin bends and diced with oncoming traffic. The signs from the Border Roads Organization (BRO) lining the route felt ominously accurate: “Arrive in peace. Not in pieces.”
Life on the Rooftop
We stayed in Kaza, the main settlement in Spiti, while visiting the NCF field team in Kibber—one of the highest inhabited villages in the world, at around 4,270 metres. The highest, Komic, stands at 4,587 metres, and we made time to visit there too.
From Kibber, we hiked up (and down) to 4,400 metres to reach a remote camera trap location and known snow leopard haunt. Thinley, our guide, negotiated the trail with ease, striding ahead confidently. The same could not be said for the four of us, who took things slower—not least due to the gradient and the punishing altitude.
The thin air compresses your lungs, making your limbs feel heavy and your temples pound—it’s a strange mix of breathlessness and pressure, like moving through invisible resistance. And yet, when you pause and lift your eyes to the horizon, the view is almost transcendental: uninterrupted ochre ridgelines rolling away beneath a deep cobalt sky.
We didn’t expect to see a snow leopard.
The best time for sightings is during the deep winter months of February and March, when snowfall pushes both predator and prey to lower elevations. Autumn is harvest season. As farming winds down, many families prepare for winter—storing hay, preserving produce, and, for some, turning to eco-tourism as a supplementary income stream. Homestays and wildlife guiding become essential winter livelihoods.
We did spot blue sheep—the snow leopard’s favoured prey—frequenting the mountain slopes and grazing near the villages. The locals mostly grow barley and peas. The Chief of Kibber shared his frustrations: the blue sheep were raiding his crops, just as the cats were attacking his livestock. Predator-proof corrals offer some protection for animals, but safeguarding crops is more difficult. While we favoured the idea of ‘crop watchers,’ the Chief was firmly in favour of a barbed wire fence!
On a lighter note, we visited Hikkim, home to the world’s highest post office at 4,440 metres. We sent postcards home, watching them placed into a cloth bag and carried off—literally—on the back of a local woman down the hillside. They arrived in the UK in time for Christmas.
Occasional roadside dhabas offered welcome respite on the long journey back to Manali—simple wooden shacks where we paused for lemon and ginger tea, sipped slowly while admiring the view and finally filling our lungs again as we descended.
Coexistence in Action
Despite the challenges, Spiti is a model of community-led conservation. For generations, snow leopards were seen as a threat. But with the help of organisations like NCF, that perception is shifting. Locals now help monitor the very animals they once feared. Young men and women train as wildlife trackers, while village elders oversee conservation zones and eco-tourism practices.
Most importantly, conservation in Spiti isn’t something imposed—it’s something lived. In a region where the principles of Buddhism infuse daily life, there is deep respect for all creatures, including predators.
A Fragile Future
Spiti’s beauty masks its fragility. Climate change is altering this landscape at an alarming pace. Glaciers are melting earlier each year, so the meltwater that once sustained crops in summer now arrives too soon—and too briefly. Water scarcity is fast becoming one of the valley’s greatest threats.
As a result, people are moving higher in search of viable land—along with feral dogs, livestock, and even leopards—bringing new pressures and potential conflict with snow leopards. Human settlements now overlap with once-remote wildlife corridors.
You may not always see a snow leopard in Spiti. But their presence is everywhere: in the ridges they roam, the signs they leave behind, and in the quiet dedication of the people who live alongside them.
