The Tiger Tank Tigress of Kabini

A cold, winter morning in November. The jungle is still, and the only sound that emanates is the cracking of bones. None of us move, afraid that the slightest movement might spoil her appetite. She’s seen us alright, this undisputed queen of the Indian jungles, but pays no attention. Enthralled, we continue watching, sometimes through binoculars, sometimes through the camera lens, or just directly, drinking in this magnificent sight.

The Tiger Tank Tigress

The Tiger Tank Tigress, as she was christened, tore a piece from the chital carcass, and swallowed.  We heard the “crack, crack,” again, as she breakfasted on a succulent morsel from the carcass.

I’ve heard from many wildlife enthusiasts, that in the tiger’s presence, one fails to notice everything else around them and focuses single-mindedly on this beautiful, sinewy beast. That morning in the jungles of the Nagarahole Tiger Reserve, this theory was put to the test. For nearly half an hour, we watched the Tiger Tank Tigress enjoy her meal. Not once did we notice a pair of elephants, slowly inching towards the tank for a drink of water. It was only when they got too close for the tigress’ comfort did we know of the pachyderms’ presence. The tigress, obviously thirsty from her meal, didn’t welcome the intrusion and snarled in warning. The elephants hesitated for a moment, before beating a hasty retreat. This was her territory, and she could come and go as she pleased. After all, she wasn’t called the Tiger Tank Tigress for nothing.

I watched the tigress enjoy her meal, thinking it was one of the best tiger sightings of my life.
Little did I know that a treat awaited me the following day.

It’s a common myth that a tiger will instantly charge at a human when confronted. As I’ve mentioned in my blog on tigers earlier, these majestic jungle cats are shy and prefer to stay hidden in the presence of humans. A healthy, young tiger, with plenty of game to stalk and kill, will never molest a human. There have been instances, where annoyed tigers have killed humans when provoked, but never ate so much as a bite. Occasionally, thanks to the effects of rapid deforestation, which has resulted in a sharp decline in the deer population, tigers are forced to kill cattle from the villages nearby. Should an angry villager raise his staff at the hungry animal, he might find himself on the menu. But that’s rare. I believe that every time we battle the city traffic, we are more at risk of dying from road accidents than being eaten by tigers.

That said, the following evening, we set off once again towards the jungles. Content with spotting a tiger, wild dogs, elephants, plenty of birds, gaur, langur, and the Malabar squirrel, among other denizens of the forest, we focused on tracking the elusive leopard. Fervently scanning treetops and rocks until my neck ached, we finally settled at a spot where a herd of gaurs grazed peacefully. The gaurs, mostly comprising adult females, didn’t mind the intrusion and continued grazing and grooming their calves. One of them even came close to the jeep and promptly sat down to masticate.

Gaur

A few minutes later, the female gaur stood bolt upright and focused intently on the lantana shrubs ahead. Her body still and alert, she sniffed the air suspiciously and without warning let out a high-pitched guttural sound. It was nothing like I’d ever heard before. On cue, the other females in the herd surrounded the calves protectively, while a second female broke off from her family and joined the first one, adding to the strange cacophony. This continued for a minute or so, before the two alert females charged into the thicket, warning whatever was in there to back off.

Our highly experienced driver, who doubled up as a naturalist, was convinced of a leopard’s presence in the vicinity. However, the gaurs’ warning bellows had given it away, and we were certain that the spotted cat had disappeared into the vegetation. Any leopard, with some bit of common sense, will not take on a fully grown gaur, leave alone two. It was an amazing experience, though to watch the gaurs graze contentedly one minute, and take on an aggressive stance the next.  We still had 30 minutes to go before heading back to our camp. So we drove to the Tiger Tank once more, only to find two adolescent male tigers lounging lazily on the bank. My jaw dropped open. These were the Tiger Tank Tigress’ cubs! Their coats were a deep yellow-orange, and the stripes dark. It was a sight to behold!

One of the cubs though vanished behind some trees the moment we arrived. The bolder of the two stayed and rolled on the grass playfully. As the cameras went berserk, he majestically stretched and made his way to the tank’s edge. Never taking his eyes off us, this handsome, mesmerizing animal quenched his thirst against the backdrop of a lush, green, jungle. We stayed on until we could before our driver reminded us that darkness was fast descending.

We drove back in silence, each one of us quietly replaying these unforgettable experiences in our minds.

As the tiger population in India steadily grows under the protective umbrella of Project Tiger, we must not forget that other animals are just as critical to the ecological balance and harmony of the forests. To me, the sight of elephants tearing into a bamboo grove, or a pack of wild dogs chasing deer is just as important as watching a tiger cross my path. While my affair with the Western Ghats continues, I can’t help but dream of seeing the lions and wildebeest in Africa someday.

An Incident to Remember

I wasn’t a big believer in things like pepper spray. Neither did I carry umbrellas with pointy ends, which can double up as objects for self-defense. I, like most people, believed in the simple principle, “This cannot happen to me”. Until it did.

If you’ve read my blog, 800 Kilometers, and 1 Bike, there’s one incident that I didn’t mention; an incident that was, in part, an outcome of our stupidity and lack of research. So, without further ado, let me share a rather unpleasant, but valuable lesson that my husband and I learned that day.

 The last leg of any journey is always the toughest, and nobody knows it better than us. I remember that fateful day when we were soaked to the bone, our muscles aching from the 5-day motorcycle ride through the Western Ghats. This, coupled with a massive backpack that I carried because I completely lacked common sense, only made things worse.

 “Must buy saddlebags,” I told myself, making a mental note for the hundredth time. My husband, maneuvering the motorcycle in the heavy rain, told me to hang in there just a little bit longer, for we were about 70 kilometers away from Bangalore city. My shoulders were raw from the pain, and my mood crabby, so I pleaded with him to stop at an abandoned bus stop for a 5-minute break. We would, of course, realize shortly that it was a very dumb thing to do.

No sooner had we stopped, then I took the heavy load off my shoulders and stretched my arms to restore circulation. My husband proceeded to exercise his legs as well. That’s when trouble arrived, drunk, on a dilapidated motorcycle. Eyes bloodshot and mean, he parked right next to us. Without getting off his motorcycle, he said, “You grazed my taillight and damaged by bike. Now, pay up for the damages!”

We were aghast. What was he talking about? I blinked, opened my mouth to say something, only a squeak escaping instead of words. Clearly, it was the alcohol talking. But at that moment, logic and reasoning had long since abandoned us. The realization that the drunk bloke was trying to mug us, hit us both at once. He groped into his jacket, trying to find something that would help him extort money from us.

My legs were shaky, and my brain had stopped functioning. All I could think was “Why did we have to stop here?”

Thankfully, my husband remained calm and responded, “You’re clearly lying. We didn’t hit anyone. We should let the police sort this.”

The man hesitated for a second, but wouldn’t let go so easily. After all, he was out of money and need his fix for the day. “I’m going to call my friends from the villages nearby” he threatened, waving a mobile phone in our face. The exchange between the two men had given me enough time to compose myself. “There are two of us,” I reasoned, “… and he’s just one person, and in a highly inebriated condition. We could easily overpower him and speed away.” From the look on my husband's face, I could tell that he had the same thoughts. But neither of us took the first step. Sure, it looks easy in the movies, overpowering the bad guy, throwing a few punches, and emerging the hero. But there were a lot of factors to be considered. Pushing, shoving or tackling someone who’s as inebriated as he was, could turn out to be dangerous. Besides if he had an accomplice somewhere close, then the situation could spiral out of control.

This was when he pulled out a knife from his jacket, the kind that’s used in the kitchen. I looked around frantically for help. Considering we were parked away from the main road, and that our mobile phones were tucked safely away in our bags, we didn’t have an option but to comply. Luckily for us, we never keep all our money in one place when we travel. I reached out for my wallet and fished out whatever I could find, which was around 800 rupees. He snatched it with amazing alacrity and looked expectantly at my husband, who proceeded to hand over whatever little that remained in his wallet, another 300 rupees.

Satisfied, the man shoved the money into his jacket, and thanked us, before speeding away. Now it’s not every day that you find criminals who’re polite, do you? Visibly shaken, but wiser from the experience, we headed home. Had it been for saddle bags, by back wouldn’t have hurt that bad, and we wouldn’t have had to stop for a break at that desolate bus stop. Needless to say, today, we’re proud owners of saddle bags and some essential common sense.

The Sounds of the Jungle

So obsessed are we, in the pursuit to spot the big cats, that we often forget to observe the beauty of the jungles that surround us. We hear, but don't listen. We look, but we don't see. We admire, but seldom appreciate.

The jungle, to me, is a place where imagination comes alive. A large rock sheltered by the bushes resembles a gaur or an elephant in the twilight. Twigs take on the shape of snakes, lying motionless, patiently waiting for an unsuspecting hare or rat to come by. Sometimes, on a moonless night, something scurries past, rustling a bed of dry leaves. And I find myself playing guessing games, wondering what it could be.

It was one such warm, moonless night, when I found myself in a dark tent, surrounded by acres of thick jungle. It was our third visit to the K.Gudi camp in Biligiriranga Hills or BR Hills for short. The fact that my husband and I were the only guests at the camp and the lack of electricity added to the excitement. At about 8 30 that night, after we were done with a delicious, but simple dinner, I decided to step out for a while to take in the familiar, soothing, sounds of the jungle. The cicadas, after making quite the racket, decided to take a break, giving the nightjar the perfect opportunity to make its presence felt. I felt myself being lulled into a stupor, my thoughts wandering all over the place. This blissful state of affairs continued for a good thirty minutes or so until the realization suddenly hit me that all the denizens had quietened down. Now if you've been to the jungles as often as I have, you'll know at once that a silent jungle can mean only one thing – a predator was on the move. I was alert, straining my ears for a faint rustle, or the rough, sawing sounds of the leopard.

Soon enough, the deathly, oppressive silence was shattered by the alarm call of a sambar deer. "Dhonk, dhonk, dhonk!" it went. I followed the direction of the sambar's alarm call, and mentally traced the path of the cat that must have walked around the periphery of the camp, barely 200 meters from the tent. Was it a tiger, or a leopard, I don't know. For I was as blind as a bat, my ears doing all the listening and seeing for me. I retired to the safety of the tent, as the calls continued well into the night. Sleep, of course, eluded me, for I was high on the heady mixture of thrill and curiosity. The sambar stopped calling eventually, signaling that it was safe for the denizens to come out of their hiding. A few hours passed, and I could hear the wild boars outside, sniffing and devouring any tasty tidbits they could find. My glow-in-the-dark watch showed that it was nearly 3 AM, and I decided that I simply had to get some sleep.

"Oye, wake up, wake up," someone whispered frantically. Groggy and confused, I grumbled at my husband for disturbing my sleep. "Listen, it's a barking deer!" he whispered, hardly able to contain his excitement. Sure enough, it was now the barking deer's turn to call out. Something was definitely afoot, moving stealthily about, but this time, the calls were from the opposite direction, indicating that the predator was returning to its lair, which clearly wasn't too far from the campsite. I imagined it to be a leopard, returning from its hunt to the comfort and safety of a tree. We passed, what was left of the night, listening expectantly for more alarm calls. They'd died down of course, and we found ourselves dozing off, as the first light of the dawn kissed the dewy foliage.

Thirty minutes and two cups of tea later, we were on the morning safari. I mentioned the previous night's alarm calls to the driver and the naturalist, and they weren't too surprised, but nevertheless excited.

"We heard it too!" they exclaimed, in unison.

"This particular leopard lives somewhere close to the camp," said the driver. "But, he's a master of camouflage, so the guests rarely get to see him."

No sooner had he spoken, we saw a rush of yellow and dark spots jump across the fire trail, and crash into the bushes. It was the leopard alright! My jaw dropped in awe at the fleeting glimpse of this beautiful creature, just before it vanished.

"You're fortunate madam," the naturalist said, grinning from ear to ear. "Most people only hear him, you got to see him too, albeit for a few seconds."

Lucky indeed! But I couldn't wait for nightfall, until I heard him again, in the alarm calls of the deer, and the silence of the cicadas.

Waiting for Shere Khan

Picture this – tall, dry grass beckoning languidly, clear blue cloudless skies, and the wind gently caressing you, as you wait patiently, ears attuned to every little sound.

Welcome to the Pench National Park, the jungle that inspired Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. Named after the Pench River that divides the forest into nearly two equal halves, the Project Tiger Reserve is located in the Seoni and Chhindwara Districts of Madhya Pradesh. Unlike the jungles in South India, the topography of this tiger reserve is distinguished by grassy meadows, with large tree species like teak, amaltas, dhora, and conspicuous white kulu trees, popularly known as "ghost trees". Treated like the step-sister of the popular Kanha and Bandhavgarh Tiger Reserves (also in MP), Pench (among others) had been on my checklist for as long as I can remember.

Like a middle-aged couple, comfortable in our marriage, the jungles and I have grown to love and respect each other over the years. But every marriage has experiences that awaken you from the deep slumber of domestic bliss; similarly, every once-in-a-while the jungles offer an experience that remains etched in my memory until something better comes along.
What distinguishes Pench from all the other jungle safaris I’ve embarked on so far, is the fact that this time around, I learned to listen; keenly, and patiently for the innumerable sounds made by the various denizens that reside here. The high-pitched "meow" of the peacock, the noisy crescendo of the cicadas, the "whoomph" of the langurs as they leap effortlessly from one tree to another – these are the sounds that bring contentment to my heart and a smile to my lips. Until now, I’d only “heard” these sounds, never actually listened. The "whoomph" of the langur, for instance, varies in crescendo when it’s in a state of sheer panic, quickly transforming into high-pitched shrieks of sheer terror when one of the jungle cats is on the move.

But when the King calls, the jungle listens; all the other sounds fade into the distance.
Our jeep was parked at a "chauraha", the Hindi word for intersection or crossroad, in the jungle. Following the panic-stricken calls of the Sambar with our ears, we waited in complete silence for the reason of the Sambar's alarm to materialize. Surrounded by thick vegetation on three sides, and tall, dry grass that concealed any animal that moved through it on the other, we depended heavily on audioception to determine the direction of the animal’s movement.
The "oongh" was unmistakable. The grass, at a distance, ruffled with every "oongh". I could barely conceal my excitement. If you've heard a tiger call, you'll know what I mean when I say that it's mesmerizing. It transfixes every other creature in its tracks. It's a call that announces the arrival of a creature that’s so beautiful that it's terrifying. Even today, when I close my eyes and think about that day, I can hear the "oongh" coming closer and closer to our jeep. We stared intently, straining our eyes to catch one glimpse of the jungle cat, cameras ready. The screams of the Sambar faded away, as the grass parted finally. I stopped breathing.

Quick as lightning, the tiger bolted and leaped onto the opposite side of the fire-line, vanishing into the wilderness, even before any of us could react or move a muscle. We were aghast. The jungle seemed to have swallowed this beautiful creature whole, leaving us feeling cheated. The driver assigned to our jeep seemed apologetic, like a parent covering up for his favorite child’s mistake. "It isn't just the tiger we've come to see," we told him. "It's the jungle we want to experience."
And what an unforgettable experience it was, as we drove into the fading twilight, watching the stars twinkling brightly in the velvety night sky, as the creatures of the night woke from their long slumber. For their watch had begun, and they wouldn't rest until the first rays of the sun touched the dew-kissed grass once again.

Nature’s Ultimate Predators

"How was the safari?" I asked someone who’d checked-in a day earlier at the Kabini River Lodges near Nagarhole.

"Nothing great!" he exclaimed. "All we saw were some deer, bison, birds, and dogs. I mean, I paid so much to come all the way here just to see some buffalo-like creatures and dogs? No tigers, no leopards. Such a waste!"
It's this single-minded obsession to spot the big cats that prevents people from enjoying their trips to the jungles. Sure, I'd love to see the tiger in all its majesty, or spot the shy leopard lounging lazily on a rock. But what I enjoy the most is the proximity to nature. The calling of the peacocks, trumpeting of elephants, or the "whoop" sounds the langurs make as they swing effortlessly from one tree to another, is music to my ears.

But what I'd never seen, until the recent Kabini trip, is a hunt in progress. Two days, and four safaris; the pack of eight Asiatic Wild Dogs, or the dhole, were a familiar sight. Three out of the four times we spotted them, these fearless, diminutive killing machines looked anything but ferocious. Frolicking in the grass, chasing each other around, this pack would remind anyone of their playful neighborhood dogs. Until, you watch them hunt.
On our last safari, we ran into the dhole family, clicking pictures and watching them from a safe distance. Soon the pack grew bored, and began walking lazily along the jungle track. As we continued watching, we saw a herd of chital or spotted deer, grazing peacefully at a distance. Suddenly, this picture of serenity took on a completely different turn. Pandemonium broke loose the moment the leader of the pack spotted the herd. Emitting a barely audible whistle-like sound, the pack broke into a run, splitting into small groups in a smooth flanking movement, catching the chital by complete surprise as they scattered haphazardly.

Unlike tigers and leopards, these communal hunters don’t give their prey the luxury of time to warn the others of the impending danger. They simply attack, tearing off chunks even as the terrified animal continues to run, eating them alive bite by bite. It is said that even the mighty jungle cats steer clear of dholes. Weighing as little as 13- 17 kilos, these rust-brown carnivores are said to bring down a lone tiger if need be. That said, what’s concerning is that these highly endangered species are ignored by most conservationists and researchers. Perceived as pests, the common folk look at them with the same disdain reserved for street mongrels. Adding to their misery is the fact that they aren’t as beautiful to look at or enthralling as other predators.
Coming back to the hunt. As the chase continued, our jeep followed at a distance, so as to not interfere with nature’s plan. It was chaotic mix of dust and hooves, before the herd and the dhole family disappeared into the thick, impenetrable vegetation. Whether or not the dhole went hungry that day, is something I don’t know. But when a new guest asked me how the safari was, I replied, my eyes twinkling with excitement – "It’s an experience that's going to remain imprinted in my mind for a really long time!"

Taking Home a Tasty Human: Understanding the Tiger’s Palate

The reactions are almost always predictable. Bubbling with excitement, I immediately sent images of the tiger we spotted on our last trip to Biligiriranga Hills (also known as BR Hills) to almost everyone in my phone book. Although some of the reactions were the expected "wow" and "amazing", I was surprised when some folks asked if I wasn't afraid of being attacked.  My response, apart from rolling my eyes, is usually the same. I tell them that it's the elephants I worry about, and not so much the cats.

Thanks to a healthy dose of cheesy Bollywood flicks and folklore, tigers and leopards are perceived to be vicious man-eaters that never miss an opportunity to take home a tasty human or two. Nothing could be further from the truth. Tigers prefer their natural prey like the chital or spotted deer, sambar deer, and other species from the herbivore family. They avoid human settlements and instinctively prefer fleeing to attacking should they run into humans. But one could argue that the phrase "man-eater" wouldn’t exist if there weren't instances of the big jungle cats molesting and devouring humans.

Yes, tigers and leopards have killed before and will kill again. But not because they have developed a "taste for human blood"; it’s because of the extreme human-animal conflict that drives this beautiful, noble creatures into a corner, where they have to choose between killing and being killed. Sometimes, it's a purely accidental attack. Most jungle cats turn man-eaters because they are either old, or injured. It's surely some form of desperation that drives them to kill and devour man. In fact, conversationalists and those working in the forest department will tell you that there have been instances where tigers and leopards have mauled people without so much as tasting their blood! This only happens when they feel threatened.

Of course, by the time I explained this to the umpteenth person who’d asked me this question, I simply lost patience, and found it convenient to smile, play dumb, and say, "Yes, it was so scary!"

My husband and I have been to many safaris in India and have spotted several tigers in the wild. Yet, the feeling of absolute awe, every time we go around a bend, expecting a tiger to emerge, is hard to describe.

If you’ve spotted a tiger in the jungles even once in your lifetime, you must consider yourself fortunate. The rate at which these animals are being hunted (sometimes poisoned) for their skin, bones, and teeth, falsely believed to have medicinal properties and protective powers, we'll soon have to contend with watching the tiger in a cage, pacing about hungrily, stripped of all its dignity and splendor.

800 Kilometers and One Bike: Part II

As promised, I’m back with part II of 800 kilometers and One Bike.

In the first part of the blog, I described our ride from Bangalore to Bhadravati and to Chikmagalur. Now it was time for the second part of road trip from Chikmagalur to Kudremukh and back. Thankfully, this time, the cumbersome backpack was left behind at the homestay in Chikamaglur, and it was a relief to cover this stretch with nothing more than some water and a couple of biscuits in a small bag.

The plan was to cover the 212 kilometer (including the ride back to Chikmagalur) ride in one day, and return to the homestay well before dinnertime. After a hearty breakfast of Shavige bhath (rice vermicelli) and coffee, we were on our way to the abandoned ghost-town of Kudremukh.

First things first, anyone who visits Chikmagalur simply must add Bhadra Coffee Shop to their itinerary. A refreshing change from the loud, colorful, and overpriced coffee shops that are mushrooming in the city and along the highways, this quaint little place is just what the doctor prescribed for coffee lovers. If coffee is not your "cup of tea" then you can always sample the lemon juice, the greasy bread-omelette or the hot holige, among other delicious snacks this place has to offer. Located on the Sringeri-Chikamaglur State Highway, the coffee at Bhadra Coffee Shop is as fresh as it gets. I say this because this coffee shop is located right in the middle of a coffee estate. It can't get better than this. But it does! Besides being freakishly easy on the pocket, the place is clean and has simple outdoor seating, ensuring you enjoy your cuppa while listening to the sounds of the jungle.

As much as we enjoyed our little break at the Bhadra Coffee Shop, we still had a long ride ahead of us and decided it was time to leave. The skies were clear and gave no indication of the bad weather that was in store for us on our way back. But we’ll come to that later. One of the famous trekking destinations in the South of the Indian peninsula, Kudremukh derives its name from the shape of the hill, which looks like the face of a horse. Hence the name Kudremukh, or "horse face". Rich in wildlife, the Kudremukh National Park is a Global Tiger Conservation Priority center and boasts a thriving tiger population (although we didn’t see much wildlife on that trip). We maintained a steady speed of 60-90 kmph, slowing down at the bends at regular intervals. With every passing kilometer, the forest seemed denser, with massive trees and thick shrubs nodding their heads in the cool breeze that was blowing. The ride was simply spectacular!

The road, at one point, forks, with the left fork going towards Agumbe. Although we were very tempted to visit Agumbe, we simply did not have the time to make that detour. My suggestion for someone who plans a ride to Kudremukh, is to also visit Agumbe, one of the most picturesque places in Karnakata. The rainforest boasts several waterfalls, and the vegetation in many places is so thick that it’s impenetrable. However, Agumbe was not on the itinerary, and we continued towards Kudremukh. Bordering the Arabian Sea, the view as you ascend is simply breathtaking! You can also stop by at the Lakya Dam, built by the Kudremukh Iron Ore Company Limited (KIOCL), for some pictures.

On reaching Kudremukh, I was slightly disappointed. The town lies abandoned, with the ghosts of its past sadly beckoning visitors to witness what might have once been a thriving township. It was sad to see the staff quarters standing tall and proud, but ringing hollow with the sounds of the days gone by. We parked the motorcycle and walked towards what looked like a restaurant. Hungry and tired, some food would definitely help. More disappointment awaited.

The staff at the makeshift restaurant in the abandoned office told us that lunch was only rasam, rice and pickle. While I had not expected a 3-course meal, I had definitely not signed up for some strangely sticky rice and watery rasam. However, my rumbling stomach told me it wasn't the time for snobbery and that I should simply make do with whatever was available. After the meal and a bathroom break, we decided it was time to head back to Chikmagalur.

Barely 20 kilometers later, the clouds that looked white, cheerful and fluffy an hour ago, now looked dark and angry. Soon enough, big, stinging drops of rain had us completely soaked in less than 10 minutes. Stopping in the middle of the forest for shelter was out of question; so we decided that the sensible thing to do was to ride on. We weren't prepared for a downpour of this sort and the jackets offered little protection. To add our misery was the low visibility. Still, we rode on, slowly and cautiously, because one wrong turn or slip, we’d find ourselves tumbling downhill. I don’t know if it was that thought or the incessant rains that made me shudder.

But it's the rains that bring out the beauty of the forest. Rich in flora and fauna, the protected forests are home to a wide range of animal, bird, and insect species. In fact, a trek through the forests and you may just end up with leeches enjoying a hemoglobin-rich meal that’s generously provided by you! Thankfully, that wasn't something we had to worry about.

It was near dusk by the time we reached Chikmagalur, and we were really looking forward to a hot meal of biryani and kebabs that our hostess has promised. Satiated and happy, I drifted off into the night, dreaming of jungles and motorcycle rides.

The Where, When and What:

Where to Stay: You could stay at one of the hotels/ homestays in Chikmagalur. The other options are the resorts and retreats at the foothills of Kudremukh, although I cannot vouch for those.

When to Go: If you’re planning to ride up, the best time will be between October and February, when the sun isn't beating down mercilessly. Be prepared for unpredictable downpours though.

What to Do: Kudremukh is popular among trekkers; although special permits from the Forest Department are required. You can also visit Lakya Dam and the Hanuman Gundi Waterfalls.