@ Kinley Wangmo / WWF-Bhutan 

By Kezang Yangden, Conservation Director

The mountains never disappoint. They also have a way of putting everything in perspective. My recent visit to Soe and Nubri in Bhutan's highlands was no different.

Over ten days, we traversed narrow scree slopes and mountain ridges, following trails etched into the landscape. Along the way, we accompanied rangers as they hauled camera traps across steep terrain and installedthem along wildlife trails, hoping to capture glimpses of the elusive species that inhabit these mountains. We also explored opportunities for snow leopard tourism, reviewed our conservation interventions, and immersed ourselves in the spectacular and ecologically important high-altitude ecosystems.

We began our journey in the blue pine forests of Paro, following the Pa Chhu upstream into the mountains. As we gained elevation, the landscape changed around us. Blue pine gave way to mixed conifer forests, which in turn yielded to birch and alpine scrub.

Around the Jomolhari landscape, alpine meadows were interspersed with patches of willows, rhododendrons, and junipers. Glacial streams cut through broad valleys beneath towering peaks, and the landscape felt rich with texture and colour.

As we moved into Nubri, the landscape transformed once again. Shrubs became fewer, and eventually the rhododendrons and junipers disappeared altogether. In their place emerged vast open rangelands stretching toward the horizon, dotted with grazing yaks and framed by endless mountain ranges.

The scale of the landscape was difficult to comprehend. There were moments when it felt as though the mountains and sky occupied everything, while people, livestock, and even wildlife became small details within a much larger world.

Yet despite its apparent emptiness, the highlands were full of life.

The alpine meadows were speckled with tiny blooms of blue, yellow, pink, and white, and in places, transformed into gardens of delicate purplish rhododendrons. Marmots sounded alarm calls whenever we ventured too close, retreating into their burrows before cautiously reappearing at the entrance to watch us pass. Herds of blue sheep moved effortlessly across seemingly impossible slopes, perfectly at home in terrain that left us breathless.

At Jomolhari base camp, the rare Ibisbill moved quietly along the stony banks of a glacial stream. We watched herding dogs chase a red fox across the slopes—a local folklore brought to life. As our young local guide, Jigme, later explained, the fox had borrowed an item from the dogs long ago and never returned it. Ever since, the dogs have continued the chase across the mountains, hoping to recover what is rightfully theirs.

Along one of the paths, we came upon Himalayan griffons feeding on the carcass of a horse that had broken its back while apparently fleeing a predator (Tibetan Wolf?). Further up the trail, another horse from the same group lay dead.

Later, back in the village in Soe, we found one of the surviving mules nursing an injured leg. For much of the time we were there, it stood gazing in the direction from which the animals would normally return. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but it almost seemed as though it was waiting for its companions to show up.

Griffon vultures © Kinley Wangmo / WWF-Bhutan

But the highlight of the journey came while crossing Chungla Pass on the seventh day.

As we crossed the pass at more than 4,700 metres above sea level on our way into Nubri, we came across snow leopard pugmarks, probably a day old, pressed into the snow along the trail.

We never saw the animal itself. But somehow, the tracks were enough. They were a reminder that we were travelling through a landscape still inhabited by one of the world's most elusive predators.

In just a few days, we witnessed life, death, survival, and renewal. What struck me most was how everything seemed connected. Every species played a role. Every interaction, whether dramatic or subtle, was part of a much larger story unfolding across the landscape.

Over the course of our journey, we met with the communities to discuss snow leopards, Tibetan wolves, Asiatic black bears, livestock losses, tourism opportunities, and conservation interventions. These conversations revealed the realities of living in landscapes where wildlife is not something encountered occasionally, but something woven into everyday life.

Yak calves are often lost to the snow leopards and now, increasingly, to the Tibetan wolves. Winters are long. Distances are vast. The challenges are real.

At the same time, I do not wish to romanticize life in the highlands. The beauty of these landscapes often masks the realities of isolation, harsh weather, limited services, and the daily challenges of making a living in some of the country's most demanding environments.

If I am honest, I am not sure I could last a day living the life that many highlanders navigate every day. Perhaps that is why I left with such deep respect. Their resilience is not something they speak about. It is something they live with stoic acceptance.

Yak dung is carefully collected and dried for fuel because there is little fuelwood in the alpine meadows. Nettles are gathered as a vegetable and fodder for the yaks, while their roots are fed to calves. Every resource seemed to have value. Every resource had more than one purpose.

I was also struck by how communities spoke about interventions that, from the outside, might appear modest. A corral fence that now protects yak calves from snow leopard predation. The same fence serving a second purpose months later for growing the fodder grass and securing dried fodder when families move their yaks to higher grazing grounds. Electric fencing around homes that helps deter black bears when households leave for extended periods to herd livestock in distant pastures.

Yak calves in a coral in Nubri © Yangchen C Rinzin / WWF-Bhutan

Listening to the communities, it became clear how much they mattered. They were valued not only because they reduced losses, but because they eased a worry, protected a livelihood, or made life a little less difficult in an already challenging environment.

As people shared their experiences and concerns, I found myself reflecting on a question I had not expected to ask: Who am I in this conversation? There were moments when I felt a quiet discomfort. Almost as though I was expected to have answers and the ability to address all the challenges being laid before us.

I wished I did.

Not because solutions do not exist, but because the challenges are often bigger, deeper, and more complex than any single project, organization, or individual can address.

At the same time, I was reminded that the support provided by conservation organizations like ourselves, government agencies, and development partners does matter.

During the trip, I found myself sharing some of these reflections with a good friend Danielle Brigida, Sr. Communications Director with WWF-US office. As I spoke about the communities we had met, the realities of living alongside wildlife, and the challenges of human-wildlife coexistence, she responded with a thought that stayed with me:

"Isn't it fascinating how the world comes down to giving one another space sometimes, while also helping each other?"

I found myself returning to that thought often as we moved through the highlands.

Perhaps because, in different ways, it seemed to be reflected everywhere. In the relationships between people and wildlife. In the realities of life in these mountains. In the quiet acceptance with which communities navigate uncertainty, loss, and change. And in the landscapes themselves, where countless species coexist, compete, adapt, and survive.

We often describe coexistence through projects, policies, and interventions. Yet what I witnessed felt deeper than that.

Coexistence is not the absence of conflict. It is the willingness to make space.

As I left the highlands, one belief felt stronger than ever. The work we do matters.

Not because conservation is simply about protecting a species. Not because snow leopards are rare or charismatic. It matters because these landscapes matter.

These mountains sustain ecosystems that support biodiversity found nowhere else. Their glaciers feed rivers that sustain communities and economies downstream. Their rangelands support livelihoods, cultures, and ways of life that have endured for generations. Protecting snow leopards means protecting the landscapes that sustain them. Supporting the communities means this the fragile balance is maintained.

Protecting those landscapes means safeguarding glaciers, watersheds, biodiversity, livelihoods, and the communities that call these mountains home.

It is apparent that conservation is not only in service of nature. It is in service of national interest.

A final personal note.

Over ten days, we covered nearly 90 kilometers on foot across some of Bhutan's most spectacular and unforgiving terrain. The very first day involved an 18-kilometre hike over nearly eight hours along a stony, seemingly never-ending trail climbing steadily upward to our first halt.

Somewhere toward the end of first day – tired and legs already negotiating — the cramps hit. Three of them. The kind that freezes you mid-step and makes you question every decision that led to that moment. I quietly braced through each one, waited for it to pass, and kept moving.

It was a small challenge in the context of the journey, but it left me with an even greater appreciation for the people who call these mountains home, and for the rangers who patrol them, monitor wildlife, and carry out conservation work in conditions far more demanding than most of us will ever experience.