I’m lucky enough to have drawn the window seat for our hour or so flight to Ladakh. I’ve grown more accustomed to flying as time goes by and I’m no longer someone who needs a window seat to survive the flight, but this is one of those special occasions where it feels like a must.

Ladakh is India more in name than in character, for the most part because it lies beyond what we would consider to be the Himalayas. Leh, the largest town and our destination because it’s the only airport, lies in the upper valley of the Indus River. This gives it the distinction of technically marking the divide between the Himalayas and the Karakoram. Basically, it’s a deepish valley in what is possibly the most mountainous place on Earth.

So, taxiing to our runway in Delhi in the mist doesn’t really fill me with good thoughts for the flight and, as we take off there’s a very definite line of higher and heavier cloud in the distance to the north.

I guess I needn’t have worried at all. As we reach our cruising height of 11,000m, needed for once in my life of flying, the clouds below begin to thin and the first hints of snow-capped peaks begin to be seen. As the power is cut and we begin our approach into Leh, the clouds have cleared almost completely and either side of the plane shows ridge after ridge of white rocky peaks, some already towering above us in the distance.

I’m the first to admit that you can’t really tell what you can see, but we’re definitely within clear-weather viewing range of Nanga Parbat to the west and the incredible K2 massif with its eight peaks over 7000m to the north-west. Whatever might be in view, these are some of the highest peaks in the world and the view is magnificent.

The lower we fly, slowly descending to land, the even bigger and better the views become as you fly down the valley with towering peaks on either side. A quick turn left at the monastery and it’s down on to the ground on one of the longest runways you could ever hope to see. Leh is at more than 3,000m and, as soon as the door opens it shows. Firstly, it’s below zero outside and second, there’s not enough oxygen. The world is trying to tell you something when it’s a gentle ramp to get off the plane, instead of steps. It’s fine going down, but it might be too much climbing up.

By the time we’ve finished writing out our little foreigner registration form I’m already feeling it. Fred suggests that I take it slow and don’t exert myself, but grabbing the bags off the conveyor almost seems too much. When we finally walk outside and are met by our driver, the 100m walk across the car park to the vehicle is slightly uphill and really pushes me to my limit. By the time we reach the cars, for Tashi our host has also arrived, I’m panting as if I’d just run a kilometre and feeling a little nauseous.

Our drive to get to hidden north is, at first, an advertisement for the Indian military. We pass barracks and training camps for several kilometres, before finally heading out into wilder country. Now, as we turn off the main road and the valleys narrow as we climb, the mountains, already a considerable presence, come to dominate the views in all directions.

There has been a bit of snow in the last few days and this serves to highlight the ruggedness and steepness of the terrain around us. My GPS tells me we are now at around 3,600m, somewhere around 12,000 feet. I’m actually feeling a lot better after some food and a quiet sit-down. I can’t sit with my arms folded across my chest though, or I’m gasping after a minute. Still, I feel good enough to watch the ever-changing views of the mountains I can see out of the window of the community lounge.

Plans have already needed to be modified, as the snows have resulted in some of the passes being closed. We are still hoping to go to Hanle, as that road is a little lower, but it will involve staying at a place that’s another few hundred metres higher for a couple of nights. We’ll reserve judgement on that for a couple of days and see how we feel. It is one of the reasons for our coming here, so all of us feel that we might be letting the side down if we don’t go, but common sense will always prevail.

Our hosts, Tashi and Christina are wonderful. Dinner is good and the atmosphere is convivial and relaxed. It is also, however, very, very cold. The moment the last rays of afternoon sunlight leave the window of the common room, the temperature plummets and the wood-burning stove in the middle of the room really can’t totally combat it. Daytime temperature was hovering a few degrees above zero, but after dark it will quickly plummet to perhaps fifteen below or more.

A traditionally-built house here has single-skin walls of brick over a re-enforced concrete frame and floors. The walls are rendered inside and out and well finished but, even by our standards at home, poorly insulated. Window frames are locally made from local wood, finished by an artisan with considerable skill, but they are far from perfect and single-glazed.

It is so cold that there is no possibility of running water, but that’s not a major problem as plenty of cold water is available for the toilet and there’s warm water each morning for a wash and a shave. Still, getting into bed is a traumatic experience, even with an electric heater trying to take the chill off the bedroom before one retires. A really good hot water bottle can take the chill off the bed, but it’s that minute or so when you get undressed and ready for the bed that really is painful.

Even the slightest shiver is a trade of energy for heat and, at this sort of altitude, any use of energy requires a prodigious amount of oxygen that simply isn’t easy to come by. Cue about three minutes of hopeless panting while you shuffle the bottle to fool your body into believing that it’s warm enough to stop shivering and calm down. Once you do, things are actually fine. With a big pile of fluffy blankets and duvets to snuggle under, you can actually feel quite comfortably warm.

And, drawing back the curtains in the morning makes you realize that it is all worth the suffering and effort. A crisp, cloudless dawn brings a snow-capped vista of towering pinnacles of icy rock that I’m not sure I even imagined. The photographs I’d seen before coming here simply cannot and do not do it justice. There is just something lost in the translation of scale with a photograph.

As we head out on the hunt for birds on our first day, I find myself taking more landscapes and panoramas with my phone than photos of birds with my main camera. Each quick drive of a few kilometres along the valley gives another, completely different and equally stunning, view of the mountains that surround you. It’s sometimes hard to know where to look for the best vista.

It is, perhaps, something of an overly-long day for me, as I arrive back at the hose feeling very tired. At least my breathing seems to have settled down into a new rhythm that isn’t strained unless I move uphill. There’s time to do a little internet catching up before dinner and also to make the decision that we will, indeed, go to Hanle.

Day two takes us out for another long day, but for me, it almost seems like a day to forget. That’s mostly because much of it will now be forever lost, as I failed to remember to pick up my phone before going out to the car, leaving me with just the Pentax and the long lens. This is totally unsuited to any sort of landscape photography, even at the 150mm end of its range.

And why, you might ask, is this an issue?

Well, our drive to the west this morning in search of a potential snow leopard sighting was through some of the most incredible mountainous terrain that I’ve ever thought possible. A ridiculously well-maintained road took us from mountain village to mountain village, each more remote than the last and each higher up in the wild mountains. Sinuous hairpin bends snake up precipitous slopes, through high passes and down into the next valley. All the way, the snow-covered peaks surround you, rising to incredible heights on all sides.

Finally, at the very top of the pass, there’s a crowd. Well, half -a-dozen vehicles with tourists and guides. All are out of their cars, telescopes trained on the ridge far across the valley. There is a snow leopard there, but by the time we get telescopes set up and trained on the spot, the cat has moved from sight. So, by the broadest technicality, I’ve seen a snow leopard. It was on the mountain I was looking at with an intent gaze, so my eyes saw it, even if my brain didn’t register the event.

Of all the cats that one might hope to see, the snow leopard is one of the very hardest. I’m sure that everyone comes to Ladakh with the hope of seeing one with their own eyes, but I’ve come to be more of a realist about this. After how hard it has been to see a tiger, I’m prepared to be more pragmatic. The mere possibility that one was in view is enough for me for now. If we have more luck in the next few days, then I’ll surely take what we’re gifted with open arms and a quick shutter button.