I slept fretfully all night. Not because my second shot at going to Changu Lake had failed, not only because I had mistaken the gurgling of the Teesta for rain, but because I was worried sick. How on earth did I think that taking two five-year-olds to see Gurudongmar Lake at 17,100 feet was a good idea?

Since what’s been done cannot be undone, we found ourselves, our group of eight — five adults (two sets of married cousins and I), my teenaged nephew and the already mentioned two five-year-old divas — at Lachen, at a height of a little below 9,000 feet.

A steep climb of more than 8,000 feet awaited us.

The journey from Gangtok (5,500 feet) to Lachen was not really smooth. In fact, north Sikkim isn't for the faint-hearted.

Extensively damaged in the 2011 earthquake, the roads are sometimes treacherous, tell-tale signs of landslides almost everywhere. At one point when the SUV tottered precariously over the edge of the mountain, trying to cross a stream strewn with pebbles and our collective OMGs broke out, our driver, Fearless Lamaji’s “Dar gaye, Madamji? Main hoon na” were the only words of comfort we hung on to.

It took us eight hours to climb to Lachen, a small, misty, heritage village with its quaint hotels.

We bundled in for the night, stomachs full with a meal of rice, dal, sabzi and chicken curry. Considering its remoteness, we were pleasantly surprised to find running hot water. The rooms were clean and so were the heavy blankets.

Glimpses of the landscape en route to Gurudongmar lake. Pictures by author

As dawn dawned, realisation also dawned that the trip, unlike Changu which was cancelled because of bad weather, was on.

It wasn’t rain but the Teesta flowing nearby. Lamaji had arrived, his SUV cleaned and gleaming.

“Tea,” hollered a hotel employee. It was a little after 4am.

The ride to a Tibetan village (13,000 feet) en route to Gurudongmar was spectacular, breathtakingly beautiful.

My cousin later said it was the best part of the trip. Four hours into the climb, we arrived at Thangu for breakfast at a log cabin.

A couple who ran the breakfast service offered us a choice of bread with butter or jam and tea or a steaming bowl of Maggie with tea. Maggi never tasted so delicious.

The little divas beamed and agreed. Outside, the wind howled and the white-clad peaks gleamed in the early morning sun.

We had been warned about laboured breathing and headaches in the upper reaches. We had also been instructed not to jabber, well, actually save our breaths. So far, so good.

The little ones were still chatting away merrily. The only time they fell silent was when we came across the Bofors tank-lined landscape, stark, treeless, battle-ready. A little like Ladakh.

We were climbing towards the Chinese border. A signboard said not to venture beyond the wire mesh or the trespasser will be shot. The mesh surrounded the explosives dump.

The first hint of trouble came at 16,000 feet at the huge military establishment of the 6 Jat Regiment. Trouble on two fronts, to be precise. One, the icy wind cut across our faces (the rest of our body parts were well covered) and two, soldiers simply refused the little ones permission to climb to the lake. Come on, we argued, it’s only 1,100 feet left.

“You will thank us later,” one of the soldiers said. “And, no photographs, please.”

With one adult to look after the girls in the army outhouse, the rest of us prepared for the final assault.

Within a few minutes, the narrow winding road suddenly widened into a vast swathe of a stony pass, with patches of snow melting under the now fierce high-altitude sun and flanked by black mountains striped with white. We were crossing the Indian side of the Tibetan plateau with Lamaji constantly muttering hymns in his local tongue. A group of yaks grazed peacefully, a hare darted away at lightning speed.

I hadn’t seen snow before. But then, I have never climbed to 17,000 feet before.

The lake stretched, as clearly blue as the cloudless sky above, one part of it still frozen, its waters feeding one of the source streams of the Teesta. The long line of prayer flags fluttered noisily in the shrieking wind.

Legend has it that Guru Nanak, during his travel through Tibet, dipped his walking stick into the lake where the water never freezes. The lake, one of the 15th highest in the world, takes its name from the dang (stick) of the guru.

Lamaji went down the stone steps to the edge of the lake, lit his incense which he had collected at Thangu, offered his prayers and climbed up to where the vehicles were parked as effortlessly as if he were crossing a road.

The rest of us? Out of breath, panting and feeling the lack of oxygen as our heads throbbed, we remembered wisely that it was time to make a move. We had also been warned that the wind at Gurudongmar knocks cars down like toys if visitors stay beyond noon. It was already 11am.

Steaming glasses of tea, warm water, a packet of biscuits each and almonds were waiting for us as we clambered down. Bless our soldiers.