Pastoral grief in the high Himalayan rangelands [Commentary]

Snow leopards symbolise Himalayan biodiversity conservation globally, yet yak herders of North Sikkim’s alpine rangelands experience fear, grief and economic loss from predator attacks.
The decline in yak herds erodes not just livelihoods but also a centuries-old cultural practice and ecological knowledge system tied to the region.
Lasting coexistence demands balancing wildlife protection with the dignity and survival of pastoral communities sharing the Himalayan landscape.
The views in this commentary are that of the author.

North Sikkim’s alpine rangelands have for generations sustained both the Lachung and Lachen villages, along with the elusive snow leopard, often called the mountain ghost. In this stunning yet harsh ecosystem, yak herders and snow leopards (Panthera uncia) have long adapted to its rigours. Today, however, both face mounting challenges — from the erosion of herding traditions to the impacts of climate change and the rise in human-predator encounters.

Globally, the snow leopard symbolises hope and commitment towards preserving Himalayan biodiversity. Yet, for the herders sharing the landscape with these majestic cats, the predator’s presence often results in fear, frustration, and a threat to their livelihoods.

Yak herders and snow leopards share these high rangelands of Lachung in North Sikkim. It is a landscape shaped by tradition, loss, and the challenge of coexistence. Image by Pema Yangden Lepcha.

Conservation programmes like the Global Snow Leopard and Ecosystem Protection Program emphasise balancing the protection of apex predators with the sustainability of pastoral livelihoods. This balance, however, remains precarious. While snow leopards are celebrated globally, local herding communities often view them through the lens of livestock loss and economic hardship.

A loss in Yumesamdong

During a recent visit to Yumesamdong, a valley in North Sikkim, I witnessed an intimate moment of grief and resilience between a herder and his yak. A one-year-old yak calf had been killed, most likely by a snow leopard. As someone working in snow leopard conservation, I accompanied the herder to document the incident, expecting to find a half-eaten carcass, the stench of decay, and the typical signs of predation.

We forded a river and climbed uphill through thin, cold mountain air to an old yak corral, abandoned in recent years. The herder shared how this area was once bustling with many yak herds and herders. Over 80% of local yak herds have vanished, a devastating decline linked to multiple factors, including predation and labour shortage. Only a few herders continue this ancient practice, struggling to maintain the tradition against overwhelming odds.

The herder, hired by a local family to look after about 110 yaks, reflected on the rising threats. Snow leopards accounted for around 10% of predation losses. The more alarming problem was feral dogs, which attack young calves grazing far from human watch, intensifying livestock loss and reducing tolerance for all predators.

At the site, the calf lay motionless, its thick wool hiding faint scars. Surprisingly, there were no visible wounds or smell to suggest a kill. As we carefully separated the wool, fresh claw marks appeared on its neck and chest. The herder’s voice was low as he said: Bichara avo, k garnu. “Poor thing, what can I even do now?”

Another herder was heard saying, “When a snow leopard or any other predator kills our yaks, it is deeply painful. We have raised them since they were calves, cared for them, and fed them. They give us milk and are part of our lives, almost like a mother to us.”

For the herder, the loss was more than economic; the calf, if it had survived, could have been worth around ₹80,000 in the following year, a vital asset for any herder living in such a hard and isolated environment. Meat from animals killed by snow leopards is rarely eaten, he explained, as the predator sucks the blood, leaving the flesh tasteless.

A newborn yak calf lies on the grass, watched over by the herd in the high pastures of Yumesamdong, North Sikkim. Image by Pema Yangden Lepcha.

The rituals followed. The herder cut off the calf’s tail, a culturally and economically valuable part, then dragged the body to a secluded spot, where my team assisted him in piling stones over it. “If carcasses are left uncovered,” he said, “they attract more predators and cause more trouble.”

Watching this burial, I reflected on the complex dynamic of life and death here: How leaving the remains of a kill can feed scavengers, but removing them demands physical and emotional labour.

Beyond the loss

The herder then led us uphill to sites where two blue sheep (Pseudois nayaur) had also fallen prey to snow leopards. Along the way, he shared his deep knowledge of local plants like Sikkim Sundari (Rheum nobile), offering medicine and sustenance from the high Himalayas. These ethnobotanical practices, eating medicinal roots and even slugs known for their health properties, are vital survival tools and markers of a sophisticated, place-based ecological wisdom.

This knowledge and resilience contrast strongly with losses suffered from predation and social change. We passed yet another old yak carcass, and stood in silence amidst the snow-capped peaks.

Later, the herder showed us his remaining summer herd, which would graze here until October before migrating downhill. As we walked back to the lower pastures, he offered us another medicinal root to chew and pointed out edible slugs. These practices of plant use, ecological knowledge, and seasonal migrations build cultural scaffoldings that enable coexistence, even when losses due to predation strain it occasionally.

The boon and bane of coexistence

As we returned, a yak in the herd was about to give birth. The herder hurried forward, anxious about feral dogs. Relief washed over his face when both mother and calf were safe. This new birth was a hopeful contrast to the earlier loss, reminding me how vulnerable pastoral livelihoods are.

My work in snow leopard conservation seeks to protect these apex predators while supporting herders who coexist daily with risk and uncertainty. But witnessing a man bury his calf beneath cold boulders revealed the limits of compensation schemes, predator-proof corrals, and livestock insurance policies.

A herder carefully removes the tail of a yak calf lost to a predator, a ritual that honours both tradition and the value of every part of the animal in the high Himalayas. Image by Pema Yangden Lepcha.

How do you quantify grief or honour bonds forged over years of care? These animals are not just assets; they represent tradition, a way of life, and respect in a fragile mountain ecosystem. Financial support alone cannot guarantee long-term coexistence; it must be complemented by recognition and support of the deep cultural, emotional, and ecological bonds pastoral communities share with their herds and the Himalayan landscape they call home.

As Rodney Jackson, a pioneer in snow leopard research, said in a recent webinar: “Anyone can research snow leopards for centuries, but if you want a lasting impact, work with the communities who share the mountains with them.” Lasting coexistence will be measured not only by prey-predator survival but by Himalayan herders continuing their way of life with pride, resilience, and hope.

The author is a research associate at ATREE. She belongs to the Indigenous Lepcha community in Dzongu. Her research focuses on the intersection of culture, biodiversity, and livelihoods.

Banner image: A herder grieves a dead yak calf. Yak herders in the Himalayan highlands repeatedly face the loss of their herds from predator attacks. Image by Pema Yangden Lepcha.