Our master plan for Ladakh includes a two-night excursion to the small settlement of Hanle. This is one of the few places where one can reliably see Pallas’s Cat in the wild and an obvious place for us to go and take a look around. The problem with this plan is that it is about 700m higher up and will pose consequent problems for our already taxed metabolisms.

I seem to have settled down somewhat myself, getting a little more comfortable as time passe, but still unsure about how I will react a bit higher up. It is, after all, all uncharted territory for me. What might be seen as more of a concern for all of us is that Fred doesn’t really seem to be doing very well at all, even down here in the valley. Of course, whenever you ask, all you get out of him is the traditional “I’m fine!”, despite strong indicators to the contrary. So, he’s determined to go to Hanle and it make sit three votes in favour.

The drive is a little under 300km and for about two-thirds of this we will be following the main Leh-Manali highway. So, we set off for Leh, pass through the seemingly endless rush-our traffic and head south-east. Soon the terrain begins to rise and, as we follow the Indus upstream, the landscape changes dramatically.

What starts out as a broad valley filled with fields and dormant poplars begins to narrow and steepen. We find ourselves driving alongside the fast-flowing turquoise waters of the river, icy banks just a couple of metres below the level of the road in places. What begins as a valley quickly turns into what can only be called a gorge. In places the road hugs vertical cliffsides – sometimes even overhanging – and at a turn you’ll see the towering peak of another snow-capped summit.

It would be easy to reuse the same superlatives time and time again here, but the ever-changing scenery as we make our slow climb is simply min-numbingly beautiful. We are blessed by blue skies, warm sunshine and quiet roads – save for the dozens of military vehicles moving from one regimental base to another.

When we finally turn off onto the single-track road to Hanle, we are well into the afternoon and the landscapes are changing once again. We’re now at about 4300m (14,000ft) and the narrow valley is far behind us. Instead, there’s the more open country that is true high desert. Scant foliage that’s almost hinting at being green brings grazing kiang (wild asses) and blue sheep into occasional view. The river’s still there in the distance, but now meandering across the high plains. Our route takes us from bowl to bowl, each surrounded by more towering, snow-capped peaks and ridges of dark rock.

When we do now see the river, it is almost completely frozen over, save for the occasional open channel where the water still flows. That rise in altitude brings a corresponding lowering of the temperature and, even in the bright afternoon sun, it’s freezing. We’re all delighted when we reach our home-stay to find that they have liquid-fuelled stoves in the rooms that are at least capable of taking the chill of the air.

I find the change in altitude apparent immediately. Whereas, down in Leh, I could move about on the level without having to think about my breathing, as long as I moved slowly, up in Hanle, even walking from room to room seems to take planning and a few deep breaths. I’m glad it’s warm enough to avoid having to shiver, or I’d be panting desperately.

Unfortunately, that’s what seems to be happening to Fred. His breathing has, to put it mildly, been laboured from the moment we go off the plane, but now he seems to be gasping for breath, barely coherent and struggling to do any more than keep his eyes open for a few moments at a time. When we do get anything out of him, it is the usual response that he’s fine. Clearly this is far from the case and I’m really struggling not to snap at him.

It puts all of us in a very difficult and stressful situation. Chris and I are his travelling companions, but we’re not in a position to make decisions for him, even if he becomes unable to make them for himself. Tashi and the rest of our support team are clearly equally concerned and surely far more accustomed to seeing the symptoms of altitude sickness than we are. Tashi produces a blood-oximeter that we manage to persuade Fred to put on. His saturation readings are terrifyingly low – in the low 60s – and his pulse is racing above 120 to try and compensate.

I tell Fred, quite bluntly, that he is going on oxygen immediately and Tashi sends for someone from the local health clinic. They check him out and quickly get his saturation levels back towards acceptable. Still, we make the decision to descend again the following day, rather than staying at the higher altitude.

This pretty much puts an end to our search for Pallas’s cats. They’re out there and, as we drive out, Tashi gets a very distant image of one, a little like our earlier encounter with the impossibly distant snow leopard. My pragmatic hat is still on – actually, it’s a beanie – and I’m at that stage where I really am just happy to have tried. I don’t think I have any intention of ever going anywhere that’s 4,000m up ever again, no matter what the lure.

The drive back down the valley is every bit as dramatic as the upward one was. You get a different set of views from the reverse perspective and they’re all equally stunning and dramatic. Fred is clearly a bit better – how much of that is from medication will remain to be seen – and more engaged and talkative than for some time. We’ve only a day and a half left at altitude before we head for home, so all I can do is resolve to monitor him if possible. Reading-up on Altitude sickness is a revelatory catalogue of his exact symptoms, so I’m hoping they resolve quickly and there’s no permanent damage to lungs or brain.

For our final full day in Ladakh, Fred and Chris resolve to go out for the morning while I take the time to write this all out. We wake to a light dusting of snow on the ground. It’s evaporated by nine, but, as the others head out it begins to snow again, lightly but steadily for about half an hour or so. It brings with it another change in the view from our windows here, highlighting the ever-changing nature of the place.

This side quest to the absolute roof of the world was always a bit of a long shot. I’m pretty sure that I told anyone and everyone who asked where I was going and why that I had no expectation of seeing a snow leopard. It helps to be pessimistic about these things sometimes and then you might just feel lucky once in a while. The same is true for the Pallas’s cats as well. It was a very long shot indeed.

Our flight out was delayed by more than an hour, but we soon find ourselves back in our now-familiar hotel for a few hours. We’re not even staying the night, as we will have to leave for the airport at about eleven. Still, after almost a week without any running water, it’s really nice to take a long shower and just relax for a little while. I might try and rest for an hour or two after an early dinner, but I’m more likely to just sit here and work as usual.

With the still ongoing chaos of the Heathrow transformer explosion and subsequent shutdown, it was nice to arrive, get online and find that our flight appears to be going as scheduled. I’m pretty sure, even without looking, that it will be a very full flight.

And my verdict on Ladakh? I really liked it, maybe not quite loved it. The wildlife is difficult. The birds are pretty good, especially the big birds of prey and the vultures. Snow leopards are impossible and Pallas’s cats only slightly easier. And when I say easier, you still have to go above 4000m and suffer the consequences for even a chance to see one.

Finally, there’s the landscape itself. It has done its very best to leave me without words – no good thing for someone who purports to be a writer – but I have the advantage that I can let some pictures try and get the message across instead. I’m pretty sure that, if someone says Himalayas, then this is the place they are really thinking of. Surrounded on all sides by snow-capped towering peaks and ridges of dark rock, there’s a feeling of being closed in and surrounded at every turn.