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Shiva's headquarters are said to lie high and aloof amidst the mighty Himalaya, yet I was bound for his branch office. It is atop Mt Kailash in southwest Tibet that he is said to indulge in narcotics and cavort with his lusty consort. Shiva has long been the mountain god, lord of mystics and wanderers, and his mountain lair is lauded in many ancient Hindu texts.

Venerated for millennia by Hindus and Buddhists, Kailash is as remote as it is sacred. Even the gods, it seems, pause on their Himalayan escapades, bewitched by ethereal peaks or seduced by lush valleys. In India's Himachal Pradesh state there are two peaks called Kailash. Neither is quite so high or compelling as their namesake across the border but both subtly mimic some of its divine characteristics and have become pilgrim routes in their own right.

Himalayan pilgrimages are as old as Hinduism. Countless myths and episodes from its scriptures are set among these icy ramparts which are still viewed as spiritual fords. The pilgrimage, or yatra, to Lake Manimahesh is one of the most popular in Himachal. Manimahesh Kailash, a dark forbidding peak, looms over this tarn and towards the end of August each year thousands of yatris head up the steep path destined for exertion if not enlightenment.

Like most I came from Pathankot, the nearest railhead down on the plains. A narrow road wriggles over the first forested ridges of the Himalayan foothills, on through the faded hill station of Dalhousie and plunges to the Ravi River. It is here at Chamba, once a princely state with a thousand year-old line of maharajahs, that the yatra begins in earnest. A ceremonial mace spearheads a rapturous procession up the Ravi and Budhil Valleys, arriving at the holy lake around six days later.

Now, just weeks before the festive crush, the roads were clear and I caught a bus to Brahmaur, erstwhile princely capital. We weaved past forests of deodar and oak, brilliant sunlight glancing off slate-roofed, timber-framed houses. Terraces laddered the precipitous spongy hills and fingers of mist tickled lofty lonely hamlets.

On one of his Tibetan journeys, so the story goes, Shiva paused in Brahmaur with 84 saints. He defied a local goddess who promptly petrified his retinue. Today dinky temples cluster around the 84 phallic lingum, now collectively called "Chaurasi" or ‘84’ in Hindi. The road ends 12km beyond at Hadsar village, a white-knuckle ride of blind bends and sheer drops to the foaming Budhil River. Just outside Hadsar at the mouth of the Gauri side valley stands a brick arch and a small shrine. Sadhus, or wandering ascetics, lounged in the shade around homely little fires. "Today rest, tomorrow quest" announced one brightly. We started on up the Gauri.

In 1991 the Himachal government declared this yatra to be a 'state-level fair' and the trail was improved. Pilgrims – many old, cold, barefoot, unfit and unprepared – venture here in their thousands. The authorities discourage atheist visitors at festival times when space, never mind facilities, is stretched to the limit. In recent years about 75,000 have come over two weeks, with 30,000 bathing in the lake on the most auspicious days.

Yet now, mid-August, all was serene. We could avoid the crowds but there's no escaping altitude. Manimahesh lies at 4170m, 2000m above Hadsar and it's a demanding walk. Soon we were zigzagging above the boulder-strewn torrent through sun-dappled forest. Mule-trains clattered by returning from provisioning trips while locals dashed down the trail like frenzied goats.

We emerged above the tree line near Dancho, a bulge in the steep valley where many halt for the night in rudimentary shacks. Smoke billowed from a hollow of boulders. A naked ash-smeared sadhu sat before a huge burning log gazing contentedly at its smoky plumes and out through his crevice at the creeping dusk. In comparison the shacks were well-appointed, their proprietors rustling up noodle soup, vegetable curry and chapatis. We dined to the solemn background chatter of All India Radio broadcasters and then retired to a rock-walled cubicle of dubious hygiene but utterly snug.

There were other guests ; an elderly man whose head was splitting next morning from mountain sickness, and a smart young couple quietly impervious to the raging discomfort. Further up the trail we passed a family from – and apparently still dressed for – Delhi, ordinary people doing an extraordinary thing. The path climbed into mist. Bright 'om' symbols adorned flat rocks like fancy waymarks. We sheltered from rain in a chai stall whose proprietor came each summer to this same pitch – where he spent three months crosslegged boiling milk and brewing tea.

Beyond a broad slope of lichenous scree the trail levelled out amidst an amphitheatre of peaks. Sheep and goats grazed in meadows and pack ponys were being mustered, preparations for the yatra already under way. Behind the escarpment lay the lake.

At least two myths converge here. A goatherd helped Shiva, now disguised as a shepherd, by carrying a load of salt to its shores. Plunging in from a slab of rock, the lad suddenly found Shiva in its depths and was promptly blessed for his devotion. And, as a pilgrim later told me, the lake also represents the "lady-part" of the god's consort Sati whose ashes he scattered across the Himalaya. We had climbed 2000m to view divine genitalia.

The lake’s rim was dotted with tents and hovels selling pilgrim paraphernalia – bells, coconuts and gaudily coloured powders, crude eateries and cramped beds. A few hardy souls bathed in its freezing water, unmoved by squalls or sun. We orbited the shore and watched a spry couple murmuring prayers before a shrine festooned with flags and tridents. Kailash peak soared before them, sentinel of myriad little acts of homage. Such a long way, I thought, for so brief a moment.

The valleys through which we had travelled are sometimes called Gadderan. They are home to the Gaddis, a semi-nomadic people who practice transhumance. Each summer they take their beloved goats and sheep north across the Pir Panjal range to the nourishing pastures of Lahaul. The Pir Panjal is a climatic and cultural boundary; little monsoon rain crosses its peaks, so Lahaul in summer is more arid and sunny. It marks a centuries-old transition, too, between Hinduism and Buddhism.

It was once also a psychological barrier. When the officials of Chamba state went north on duty, they received a special allowance categorised under 'funeral expenses' since a safe return was uncertain. The Gaddis not only bestride both climes but take its hardships in their stride. Several lofty passes notch the Pir Panjal; the Kugti Pass, favoured by many Gaddis, lies four days' hike up the Budhil Valley from Hadsar.

We had met Tara Chand, a guide, some days earlier in Brahmaur. "Kugti's a little difficult...but no problem for you" he said cheerfully. With directions to find his house in Kugti village, we set off up the leafy Budhil. It's a lovely path, ascending to navigate treacherous riverine cliffs and descending to cross side valleys. Pilgrims – mostly country folk – had also been lured from Manimahesh to pray at another esteemed temple beyond Tara's village.

By late afternoon we reached Kugti, a fetching jumble of stone and timber houses set well above the river. Tara appeared within minutes and ushered us to his home. The family cows chewed languidly by their ground floor stable. Our plans were honed on the verandah over cups of rough whiskey. "This friend" he said nodding at a skinny man heavy-lidded with drink "will carry kitchen" while another sorry fellow would take supplies. But who, I wondered, might carry them?

It was a late start; Kugti's only shop sold adequate provisions, but kerosene was elusive. Two more porters joined us, youths for whom the walk from Hadsar seemed quite enough. They bid elaborate – or reluctant – farewells, and it was midday before the laundrywomen's cackle tailed away behind us. The trail climbed steadily and we soon reached Kailang Temple which draws many yatris. For the Gaddis in particular its three-headed deity protects their flocks, and upon the late-spring migration sheep are sacrificed in its flagstone courtyard.

Fluttering scarlet pennants waved us off. We clambered over sections of path which had slid into the river but even with our heavy packs the porters scrambled across unfazed. At a grassy valley fork, where streams ran high from the day's heat, we halted for the night. Huddled around a fire, dinner was wolfed in the lee of a large rock. It poured in the early hours and we awoke to the yelps of our companions who, tentless, had relied on luck. I dozed amidst uneasy dreams of mutiny and backtracking.

Tara's sleeping bag steamed in the warm morning sun. We sipped tea and smeared thick chapatis with mounds of marmalade, fuel for a short but steep walking day. Flocks speckled the stoney grey slopes across the valley as we climbed to a slender meadow barricaded by austere crags. Here, at the foot of the pass, the air was crisp and the wind chill. The Gaddis' staggered return home had just begun and we were joined by men who were crossing it to help friends in Lahaul. Trail etiquette required us to tackle Kugti together and caution demanded we start at 4AM.

We bedded down beneath a large rock overhang. I prayed it wouldn't rain, that Kugti's goddess might smooth the way, that I'd remember not to knock my head on awakening in our nook. A gibbous moon gilded our wilderness just as altitude stunted our stamina. The path sparkled with frost, then glistened with ice. I gazed up and thought: they must be joking. Somewhere above lay the pass but our implausible route dodged crevasses and negotiated gulleys. Plastic-shoed, the others climbed nimbly and fast with rallying calls and bravado.

Two hours later we crested Kugti. There's a tiny shrine in a pile of rocks crowned with tridents and shredded flags, and the goddess is said to be partial to balls of rice and sweets. Despite our offerings the weather turned quickly. Thick clouds rode a misty drizzle to obscure the yawning valley mantled with glaciers and scree. The shaly trail into Lahaul is notoriously sheer and treacherous, but we were spared ice. A morose shepherd and his weary flock trudged up towards us, dismayed at misjudging the weather but now committed to carrying on.

The Gaddis most important shrine lies in the first meadow on the Lahauli side, and we glimpsed it from a high snout of moraine. Later we stood before it, just a boulder with stone steps topped with pikes and horns. Ripped skins of sacrificed goats lay scattered on the grass, and on a drab day like this the place seemed spooky, primeval.

Our friends headed on down-valley, keen to reach the road by dusk. We lingered another day, wallowing in the opulence of a seasonal stone hut whose floor was goat-dung soft. A carved wooden pillar propped the roof and a small fire made it snug. By late afternoon a hundred or so silky-haired goats had returned from grazing and lay draped over our hillock, sneezing and snorting contentedly.

Next door four shepherds occupied a surprisingly cosy den of rock walls piled around a boulder. They smoked hookahs and offered fresh creamy milk for tea. We pooled our food for supper. "Tomorrow’s an easy day" mused Tara in the firelight but he was really thinking of us. I asked if they would hike back home; he hesitated briefly. "The bus also takes three days....but I'm tired." So the bus it was. For the Gaddis and their flocks there is no choice.

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