The Guide of Tinjurey

In the spring of 2022, I led a trekking adventure to Tinjurey in East Sikkim with 22 of my teenage students. Known for its breathtaking views of Mount Kanchenjunga, Tinjurey is located about 15 kilometers from Gangtok. Our three-hour uphill trek took us past whispering springs, aged trees, rustic bridges, towering bamboo groves, pine forests, and the intoxicating scent of orchids, rhododendrons, and wild berries.

  

 

Our journey began with a gathering at my home. The children arrived at 8 a.m. dressed in hiking-appropriate clothes and backpacks filled with dry snacks and flasks of hot tea. We had hired a private minibus to reach Fambongla Wildlife Sanctuary, the nearest motorable point to Tinjurey. After a group prayer for safe travels, we boarded the bus. The students were visibly excited to hike and witness the majestic Kanchenjunga.

Prior to the trip, I had read and heard several accounts from locals and trekkers about Yeti sightings in the dense forests of Tinjurey. Yeti is believed to be a giant, hairy, human-like creature — standing 7 to 10 feet tall — considered as "The protector of Himalayas" by some old inhabitants, while others regard it as a man-eater.

I was reminded of a similar experience during my college days, when I trekked through Tendong, known for its spiritual importance, natural beauty, and dense forest trek in South Sikkim. That place also had folklore and stories surrounding the Yeti.

During the Tendong trek, our group stumbled upon an old hermit shelter which was inhibited by a monk who looked like a spiritual seeker. The shelter looked temporary and solitary in nature.

It had inscriptions at it's entrance but were faded, and the railings of the hut were broken too, but the door was open, with oil lamps still burning inside. There, we met a monk, probably in his late 70s. He offered us water and advised us to be cautious. We assumed he meant wild animals. But he led us to an isolated side of a shrine nearby, where clumps of hair and long bone fragments lay on the stairs.

“These are human,” he said quietly.

We froze. He then spoke of Yeti sightings and the remains of missing trekkers. The Tendong experience haunted me as we entered Tinjurey’s dense forests.

Signboards warned of Himalayan black bears, leeches, and other wildlife. I briefed the students on safety protocols. We walked in a human chain, navigating the narrow, challenging trail. I stayed at the back with a colleague and one student.

After a few minutes of walking, we came across iron railings and newly plastered cement paths to ease the uphill hike. Suddenly, a young man appeared out of nowhere. Swinging a sickle, he cut bamboo stems and handed us sturdy sticks for walking. I assumed he was a local laborer or firewood collector.

He began chatting with us — sharing tips about Dos & Don'ts while in that forest, bear sightings, and cracking jokes. His conversation was so engaging that we barely realized we had covered half the distance. At a fork in the trail, we paused, unsure which path to take.

“Either one will lead you to the same point,” he said with a smile, choosing the left trail. The other teacher, the student, and I took the right path.

I expected to meet him at the junction, but he never showed up. I figured he had moved on quickly.

At the top, the sight of mighty Kanchenjunga took our breath away. Students regrouped, having split during the climb. The final stretch was steep and perilous — not for the faint of heart. But we made it.

We saw monks reciting mantras from scattered spots on the mountain, as though communing with the spirits of the forest. The wind howled fiercely, slapping against prayer flags. It was as if the mountain itself was speaking.

The trek was worth every effort. The Himalayan range stretched before us like the Sleeping Buddha. In awe, our exhaustion melted away. We snacked at a resting spot, then prepared to head back before nightfall.

At the Fambongla gate, our bus waited. We stopped by a nearby café for hot tea. While waiting, I reviewed my phone — I had kept it in recording mode to document the trek for my vlog. I distinctly remembered capturing candid clips of the three of us — including the strange man.

But he wasn’t in any of the photos or videos.

I called the other students to confirm if they'd seen him. None had. They said they had kept an eye on us from a distance — laughing, whistling, taking photos — but never saw the man I described.

A chill ran down my spine.

I showed the final photos to the last student and the other teacher who had walked with me. They fell silent. At first, they blamed a technical glitch. But I could see their unease.

The elderly caretaker of the sanctuary noticed our pale faces and gently asked, “Are you alright?”

We nodded, but something in his eyes told me he knew.

Later, unable to hold back, I approached him. He was reading an old Nepali newspaper at his cubicle.

“Did you... ever hear of strange things on this trail?” I asked.

He looked up. “Did you reach the fork in the trail?”

I nodded.

“And after that... the man disappeared?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He leaned forward, describing the man — his look, his walk, even the bamboo sickle.

“He was a local guide from Tinjurey. Died two years ago. He fell off the cliff while leading a group to the top,” the caretaker said softly. “He loved his job. And… I suppose he still does.”

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~ The End ~

By: Sumita Pradhan

Pic: Taken on Same Day