If you're looking for a quiet escape to untouched, pristine lands, less of which seem to be remaining every day, then Meghamalai's your answer. Tucked away in the clouds of the Western Ghats, this little-accessible mountain range offers gorgeous views of lush green mountains, dense forests, teal lakes and, above all, peace.
Pruning tea at the Woodbriar estate. The amused workers asked me to give up my job.
Meghamalai, also called the High Wavy Mountains, is located on the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border and can be reached by road from Theni via Chinnamanur, the nearest town. The drive can be a little unsettling on the narrow, winding, muddy path which shows little sign of human activity; it took us almost half a day to traverse the last 40 km of the road. The climb is exhilaratingly steep, with a view of the peaceful Manalar Dam nestling in the valley. The kachcha road then leads to a tar road at the beginning of a sprawling 6,000-acre tea plantation which houses two large, spacious bungalows run by the Woodbriar Group. Scrumptious food and the sounds of birds greeted us at the Sand River Cottage.
The High Wavys Dam nestling in between the mountains.
We soaked in the warm hospitality and the cool mountain climate. Mornings at the cottage were spent in an almost meditative state watching layers of clouds play hide-and-seek with the peaks. A visit to the WoodBriar Tea Factory took us through a behind-the-scenes journey of the fascinating processes that go into the making of our morning beverage. We drove up to Vattaparai in Upper Manalar, famous for its animal sightings, but the clear morning was wrapped in thick fog within minutes, forcing us to go back. Cloud Mountain does live up to its name!
Tea estate in Meghamalai
One afternoon, a plantation worker came running into the bungalow, saying he saw a group of elephants nearby. We set off in the car and after some time, the driver stopped abruptly.
"What happened?" I asked, and was much amused by his embarrassed reply: "Elephant doing bathroom!"
An elephant in the forests of Meghamalai
He pointed to a large dung pile that lay on the road. We got out of the car and walked some distance. Hiding behind the tea bushes we spotted a family of elephants, complete with grandparents and kids, walking in the forest. We made our way back to the car in awed silence and on the way, spotted a bison in the distance and found (much to my delight) tiger scat on the path. I even picked up a porcupine quill.
Long drives in and around Meghamalai are beautiful, with the view alternating between dark-leaved woods and light-green plantations. If you're lucky, you can spot some rare wildlife like the Grizzled Giant Squirrel and the Great Indian Hornbill. These mountains are also home to the one of the world's rarest bats, the Salim Ali's Fruit Bat. From the Maharaja Mettu View Point, one can get a panaromic view of the hills, extending all the way to the plains. The misty mountains of Meghamalai are something out of a fairytale. They invite you to walk, trek, breathe, disconnect, relax and experience a bit of almost tangible transcendence.
Ramya Sriram is an editor, writer and artist of sorts based in Hyderabad. She runs The Tap, a webcomic dedicated to stick figures, and creates customized designs on order. She loves traveling, especially when it involves filter coffee and long train journeys.
Vazhachal Reserved Forest unfurled in front of us – wet, evergreen, wonderful and, as beautiful things go, fragile. The windshield wipers were ineffective at times and the going was slow. Which was as it should be, for the forest is breathtaking. Here, in Vazhachal, is where ferns still live.
Banks rose from the sides of the road, covered in roots and ferns, fungi and moss. Rock-faces seemed to melt into rivulets as water seeped through and over them. Boughs and lianas were smothered in moss, and epiphytes were everywhere. Creepers hung from branches like curtains and every bend in the road had a frothy, white, gushing waterfall. It looked like a set from the movies. The bigger characters in this drama –Nilgiri Langurs, Malabar Giant Squirrels and birds – seemed to respectfully give way to the small, the immobile, and the green. The setting breathed and pulsed with life – from the smallest snails chomping on leaves to the fairy lantern fungi that defied my camera to catch its color.
And then there were the impatiens – little pink, fuchsia and white flowers that grow on wet rock. Whole beds, small clumps, and lone sentinels bending and twisting but holding their own under waterfalls. The sun had pushed its way through the thick blanket of grey and briefly spotlighted a moss here, a fern there. Tucking two cameras and one pair of binoculars under my new rain-jacket, I jumped out and took in a lungful of fresh, drizzly forest air.
Light was low and photography in that rain was a prayer. But for me, the quest for tack-sharp images respectfully retreated behind the grand drama of green that surrounded me. The dark of the rainforest in monsoon is what it is. Raindrops on every blade, every edge, every petal, every moss fruiting body, is life – as it unfolds. Hence, if blurry, grainy, and high-ISO images were to be a legacy of this trip, so be it.
Soaking wet by now, finding a dry corner of my t-shirt to wipe my lens clean was nothing more than a dream. My knees were muddy from kneeling to take eye-level shots. I’d found a couple of leeches on my neck, one on my face and one on my lip. I’d no idea what else was inside my clothes. I was faced with a choice. Wetness and leeches can make one miserable. But I had one glorious day in such a forest, and a few hours to simply soak it all up. And so I took all my leech-bloody-wetness thoughts and locked it up in a small compartment in my head. Then I threw the key away. Access denied to negative emotions, I chased snails and sloshed across a stream to see insanely huge fungi. Clambering up mud walls and slip sliding on leaf litter, I was laughing inwardly at the sheer joy of being there.
It was dark by now – the sun had given up the fight with the clouds and called it a day. I looked at my camera. Surely the lens would be kaput the next day. Fogged up at a minimum. And we’d probably see the highly endangered lion-tailed macaques up close, and I’d have nothing to photograph them with. Well, I thought to myself, there is a way out. I would just have to soak up that experience so deep that I’d remember it forever. Leaning back on the by-now-oh-so-wet Scorpio seat, I smiled a broad, satisfied smile.