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A Manikaran gurudwara, or Sikh temple, overlooking the village hot springs. Ariel Sophia Bardi.

Each week, Roads & Kingdoms and Slate publish a new dispatch from around the globe. For more foreign correspondence mixed with food, war, travel, and photography, visit its online magazine or follow @roadskingdoms on Twitter. After spending the final weeks of summer camped in a stooped, square- mouthed Himalayan cave, Justin Shetler was tired. The 3. 5- year- old American outdoorsman had walked away from a job at a tech startup three years earlier, blogging about his growing unease with a life defined by stale luxury and high- end hotels. Since “retiring,” as he put it, in 2. Shetler had set off on a series of daring journeys, donning a bark loincloth to hunt alongside Indonesia’s Mentawai tribe and trekking in duct- taped flip- flops across Tibetan snow passes. Then he bought a Royal Enfield motorcycle and started for India’s famed mountains.

On his blog, Adventures of Justin, videos, podcasts, and photos chronicled his excursions, with Shetler’s long, sinewy frame posed artfully against spectacular backdrops: blurred, chalky stretches of shimmering desert; hulking green mountain ranges rippled with white snow. I’m a nomad, adventurer, and ninja of sorts,” his Instagram bio read, “currently living in a cave in India.” The sporting tone of his prose drew a motley of envious followers on social media. I am truly moved by your adventurous wild ninja story,” one commenter wrote. Shetler’s final entry came this past August. A Sadhu has invited me on a pilgrimage,” he posted.

Cold, weak, and underfed, Justin was steeling himself for one last adventure in Himachal Pradesh, a North Indian state popular with trekkers, hash- smokers, and spiritual seekers, before pushing on, by motorbike, to nearby Ladakh. The sadhu, or Hindu ascetic (known colloquially as a baba), had invited Shetler to follow him on a weeklong hike to the holy lake of Mantalai. The trail is notorious and it’s landslide season,” he reported. I should return mid- September or so.

If I’m not back by then, don’t look for me,” Shetler added, signing off with an emoji wink. I spent the fall meandering through the same region as Shetler, in the scenic valleys of Kullu and Parvati on the way from Ladakh, taking time to write up a few articles I had spent the summer researching. Known alternately as the “hash trail” or the “hummus trail” (with an overlapping demographic in mind), the mountain route is clogged with backpackers in high season.

Summertime vibes are festive, even giddy. Thousands climb the hills for bacchanalian full- moon parties, where DJs with names like Space Buddha and Mountain Monk spin psychedelic trance music. Others, like Shetler, come to ape the lives of local sadhus—followers of the formidable, three- eyed god, Shiva—squatting in stone caves and tree hollows.

But the region is not just a hippie haven. Since 1. 99. 8, more than 2. Tourist traffic continues despite Parvati Valley’s ominous, Lonely Planet–christened nickname: the Valley of Death. By the time my overnight bus bounced me down the mountains back to Delhi at the start of October, Shetler’s family had sounded the alarm, mounting a Go.

Fund. Me campaign to launch a search party. He left with a holy man on or about the 2. August,” the page read. After running into a few trekkers on his return from Mantalai on Sept.

I’ve heard stories about the magical powers of these Babas,” Justin had written in an Instagram post. They can bless or curse.

Police won’t arrest them; even for murder, which happens I’m told.” His sadhu guide, a middle- aged, Nepali- born holy man by the name of Satyanarayan Rawat, was nonetheless taken into police custody. Then came a sinister second act. A guard returned from a quick bathroom break to find the baba dead, hanging from the top bar of his tiny holding cell by his langot, a traditional Indian loincloth. It was all the guards had left on him throughout eight days of interrogations. A taxi stand in Kasol, one of the region's main tourist hubs. Ariel Sophia Bardi. The news shook the region, bringing the hilltop state’s hotbed of contradictions—a mix of drugs, spirituality, and politics—to the fore.

Shetler’s disappearance set off a firestorm of panicky tweets—#Lostin. Parvati—and, later, an outpouring of digital eulogies. A prolonged forensic search concluded that Shetler had fallen into river rapids—but whether he was pushed or had tripped, no one knew. Shetler and I were distantly connected—a friend of my mother’s knows his family well—and traveled through the same places at the same time, but we never met. Still, the case obsessed me, likely on account of our parallels.

For two months, I pored over news reports and Shetler’s own entries, looking for answers. Finally, this December, I decide to go back up into the mountains. On a frigid, foggy morning, I drop by the police outpost in Manikaran, a holy village renowned for its hot springs, where Rawat lived out his grim, final days. A small space heater glows red in the inspector’s well- furnished office. Down the hall, the cold, shadowy cell where the baba died now holds a new inmate lying stone- faced on blankets on the floor. Shetler’s exploits are well- documented, but all I knew of the baba was from Shetler’s last blog entry, a dim, somewhat mythologizing portrait—he describes the baba’s eyes as “5,0.

Shetler yoga and supplied him with chapatis and tea once he had run out of money. Pulling out a battered file, the subinspector relays Rawat’s brief life story. Disfigured by a skin disease, the baba claimed his wife and family had abandoned him in Nepal. In his blog, Shetler assumed that the humps of flesh around his joints were the result of rigorous yoga practice.) A distraught Rawat wandered around India, was initiated by a sadhu, and came to Kheerganga the previous spring to begin his life as a hermit. In Hindu belief, the mountaintop retreat—named after kheer, or Indian rice pudding, on account of its fast- flowing river’s milky rapids—served as the honeymoon spot of Shiva and his divine consort, Parvati, and is imbued with power. Gangster`S Paradise: Jerusalema Full Movie Part 1. The subinspector doubts that the baba killed Shetler. He thinks that the social stigma of arrest drove him to suicide—that shame, not guilt, motivated his desperate actions.

Sitting up in a plush, tiger- print chair, I ask if the baba had been beaten during interrogations. No, no,” a young constable demurs. I persist. “Not at all?” “Well, sure,” he answers.

Slapped around two or three times.”In India, a controversial judicial procedure called remand allows authorities to hold suspects in custody before they have been charged. During these detentions, beatings, torture, and coerced confessions happen frequently. The officer who questioned Rawat has been suspended. I wonder what duress the baba had been under during those eight long days.

In the village of Tosh, one of the region’s main hash hubs, I settle into a guesthouse stenciled with long, limping psychedelic mushrooms. In the common room, a bong plastered with fluorescent green Bob Marley stickers lies on a low table, and a poster tacked to one window exhorts guests to “Live for today … Party tonight!”The banks of the Parvati River, on the road to Manikaran. Ariel Sophia Bardi. Himachal Pradesh is world famous for top- quality cannabis, with harder drugs in local circulation, and the drug trade is to blame for some of the region’s seedier elements.

Sporadic raids on marijuana fields and cursory checks on the grungiest- looking tourists have done little to quash the lucrative trade. In Hindu lore, Shiva was a hash- smoker, giving drug use a spiritual scrim. Sadhus spend whole days in stoned fogs, ostensibly as part of their devotional practice. Tourists follow suit, packing chillums—long Hindu pipes—with inky black hashish. I hear many people say that both Shetler and Rawat were heavy hash users—the concentrated form of marijuana preferred in the area—and one of Shetler’s posts described plans to smoke “probably 2.