Rajaji National Park

Listen first. Before you look for anything, just listen. A dry sal leaf drops through the canopy and lands with a papery tick. Somewhere ahead, a barking deer gives its sharp, hoarse call. Then comes a long silence. Out here, silence often means something large is moving. The air smells of dust, crushed leaves and, in the morning, faint woodsmoke from villages at the forest edge. You are standing in the foothills of the Himalaya, where the mountains begin to rise out of the Gangetic plain.

This is Rajaji National Park. It spreads across the Shivalik hills of Uttarakhand, close to Haridwar, Rishikesh and Dehradun. The Shivaliks are the youngest and lowest wall of the Himalaya. They are made of soft sediment that rivers washed down from the high peaks over a very long time. That is why the ground here is so loose and pebbly. It is also why dry riverbeds cut through the forest in wide, pale channels of stone.

The park carries the name of a man, not a mountain. Rajaji was the popular name of Chakravarti Rajagopalachari. He was a freedom fighter, a writer and a close colleague of Gandhi. After independence he became the only Indian to serve as Governor-General of India, before the country became a republic. Many visitors assume the name refers to royalty, because Raja means king. It does not. It honours a statesman from the far south, more than two thousand kilometres away.

The park itself is a joining of pieces. In 1983, three older wildlife sanctuaries were combined into one protected area: Rajaji, Motichur and Chilla. Each had its own history of forest management. Joining them made sense for one simple reason, and that reason weighs several tonnes. Asian elephants need room to walk. They follow old routes between feeding grounds and water, and small separate sanctuaries could not hold those journeys.

The elephant is the true master of these hills. This is one of the northwestern limits of the Asian elephant's range in India. Herds move through the sal forest, strip bark, push over young trees and open paths that other animals then use. Look at the ground on any forest track. Large, round, cracked prints in the dust are common here. So are fibrous balls of dung, full of half-digested grass. Each one is a note that a herd passed by recently.

In 2015, the area was declared a tiger reserve. Tigers live here, but in small numbers, and they are shy. Most visitors never see one. Far more often you will meet their prey. Chital, the spotted deer, graze in loose groups at the forest edge. Sambar, the largest deer in India, stand still and watch with heavy ears raised. Wild boar root through the leaf litter. Leopards also live in these hills, and they move closer to human settlements than tigers usually do.

Now look up. The tall, straight trees with broad leaves are mostly sal. Sal is a hardwood that dominates much of the forest in the north Indian foothills. In the dry season, many sal trees shed their leaves and the forest floor turns brown and crisp. Then new leaves arrive in a flush of pale green and copper. Between the sal you will see open grassland, mixed forest and thorny scrub along the riverbeds. Each zone holds a different set of animals.

Birdwatchers come here for good reason. The park records hundreds of bird species, partly because it sits between the plains and the mountains. Great hornbills and other hornbill species fly overhead with a loud whooshing of wings. You can hear them before you see them. Kingfishers wait above the water channels. In winter, migrant birds arrive from colder regions to the north. Even without binoculars, the morning chorus is worth standing still for.

The Ganga flows through this landscape. After it leaves the mountains near Rishikesh, the river crosses the park area and runs on toward Haridwar. That gives the forest a strange neighbour. On one side are elephants and deer. On the other side are temple bells, pilgrims and some of the most sacred bathing places in Hinduism. Few protected forests in the world sit so close to such large religious gatherings. The river connects both worlds.

That closeness creates real problems. Roads, railway lines and canals cut across the old elephant routes between the eastern and western parts of the park. Over the years, elephants have been struck by trains on these lines. Conservation groups and forest officials have worked to protect the corridors, especially the narrow link near Chilla and Motichur. When you cross a highway near the park, remember that elephants try to cross it too, usually at night.

People have also lived inside these forests for generations. The Van Gujjars are a community of forest pastoralists. They traditionally herd water buffalo and move with the seasons, spending winter in the foothills and summer in the higher mountains. Their mud and wood homes, called deras, were once a familiar sight in this forest. Many families have been resettled outside the park. The question of how people and protected forests can share land is still debated across India today.

Most visitors explore the park by jeep safari from one of the entry gates, such as Chilla near Rishikesh or Motichur near Haridwar. Early morning and late afternoon are the best times, because the animals are most active when the heat is low. Wear quiet, earth-coloured clothing. Keep voices low. A good guide will stop the vehicle and simply wait, listening for alarm calls from deer and monkeys. Those calls often tell you a predator is close.

During the monsoon, heavy rain floods the riverbeds and much of the park closes to safaris. The forest turns intensely green. Leeches appear on the trails. Water fills the dry channels and the hills sound different, full of running streams. When the park reopens after the rains, the grass is tall and the animals are harder to spot. As the dry season returns, the grass thins and the sightings become easier.

Before you leave, take one more moment. Look at the line where the forest meets the sky, where the Shivalik ridges rise toward the higher mountains. Notice the dust on your shoes, pale and fine, carried down from the Himalaya long ago. You may not have seen an elephant today. But somewhere in these hills, a herd is moving along a path older than any road. Listen once more... and then walk on quietly.