Sikkim’s last Tibetan sheep herder is running out of time: So are his 55 sheep

A vast stretch of the Tibetan Plateau opened up before us, with distant mountain peaks disappearing under a fresh dusting of seasonal snow. We were minutes from Gurudongmar, one of Sikkim’s highest lakes, nearly 17,800 feet above sea level. We were here to meet the last Tibetan sheep herder left in Sikkim.

In that dry, windy, snowy cold desert, some 55 sheep nibbled at the dust-coloured grass. From our car window, they looked like fuzzy woollen balls, while the lone herder appeared as a distinct black dot. We stopped and waved. The black dot grew larger as he paced towards us. Yes, it was him.

Kalden Singhi Bhutia, a Drokpa, a traditional pastoralist and the last Tibetan sheep herder remaining in Sikkim, greeted us with “Tashi delek!” We answered in unison, almost like a cheer, because we had finally found him. He instructed us, first in his language and then in thick Nepali, to go to his quonset hut across the road.

We parked near his hut and waited. The surroundings were profoundly still for half a minute, until the tinkling of sheep bells broke the silence. An unexpected auditory treat.

Agya Kalden brought his flock in. Two fluffy, Tibetan Mastiff-like dogs stayed close as he whistled and called out, guiding the sheep into a stone enclosure behind his hut. A corrugated metal sheet, propped against an old wooden log, secured the entrance. A rope net reinforced one side, while weathered prayer flags fluttered along another. The open sky was their roof.

The man and the flock

Kalden carries forward a family tradition of Tibetan-Sikkimese sheep pastoralism, shaped by generations of living in the highlands above Lachen. He is now 54 years old, though he kept shaving some years off his age whenever we asked.

“I was only 13 when my parents passed down the practice of sheep herding to me. Devoting myself entirely to the constant, around-the-clock demands of tending to the herd has defined the greater part of my life.”

These sheep belong to Sikkim’s indigenous Tibetan sheep population, locally called Luk, one of the region’s two native sheep breeds, the other being Banpala. Luk sheep typically have white bodies with dark faces and necks. Rams have horns, while ewes usually do not. Their dense, lustrous wool protects them against the extreme cold of the high Himalayas.

The Drokpa pastoralists move across these highlands along seasonal migration routes, travelling through Lhasar and Muguthang in summer and towards Gurudongmar and Tso Lhamo in winter. Their lives revolve around livestock, pasture, weather and the changing seasons, relying on generations of knowledge about the mountain landscape.

At its peak, Kalden’s family flock numbered approximately 700 sheep.

An ICAR study recorded only 235 Tibetan sheep remaining in Sikkim in 2016.

By our interview in October 2026, the number had fallen to just 55.

How the flock began to shrink

Our visit was part of a conservation effort that had been developing over several years. In 2019, Kalden first approached the Echostream (a design consultancy based in Gangtok) office, seeking collaboration to safeguard his flock.

As he grew older and found it increasingly difficult to secure reliable help, maintaining the herd became more demanding and its numbers steadily declined.

In spring 2026, he contacted the office again, explaining that continuing under his existing conditions had become impossible. Reaching him at his summer campsite in Lhasar Valley proved difficult, as relentless rainfall and frequent landslides repeatedly blocked access routes.

When the team finally met him in early October, the gathering offered an opportunity to understand his challenges, assess the remaining flock and consider ways to preserve his livelihood alongside Sikkim’s indigenous Tibetan sheep.

“Caring for my flock means negotiating treacherous terrain while constantly shielding them from harm.

A growing military footprint and food waste near border encampments have triggered a surge in feral dogs, compounded by persistent dangers from snow leopards, military minefields, and shifting climate patterns that disrupt grazing schedules and limit access to vital pastures and water sources.”

He recalled an incident in Lhasar Valley when heavy snow cut off grazing for five days. Running out of feed, Kalden shared his own rations of flour, rice and tea to keep the sheep alive. On the return journey, stray sheep attracted 20 to 30 wild dogs.

Kalden dropped his supplies to recover the sheep, called an army camp using a single bar of mobile signal, and fended off the dogs with river stones until ten soldiers arrived to assist. Together, they guided the flock to safety.

There were other dangers too. When he moved his flock to lower ground, some sheep died after eating unfamiliar, harmful plants. Sudden weather changes, predators and difficult terrain made an already isolated livelihood increasingly precarious.

Alongside the physical hardships of herding, temporary bans and restrictions on selling or using sheep products contributed to many families abandoning sheep rearing altogether.

Finding successors presents another challenge. Young people today rely on connectivity and internet access, making a life of manual labour and isolation less appealing. After a lifetime of herding, Kalden wants to step back, settle down, travel to “Bhutan, Kathmandu, Delhi and Bombay”, and visit the Dalai Lama.

There is a difficult contradiction here. The knowledge needed to preserve this tradition rests with someone who has spent most of his life practising it, but who now wishes to experience a life beyond herding.

Options for the remaining sheep

During our visit, Kalden outlined what he hoped might happen to his remaining flock.

“As for my 55 sheep, if the government is willing to buy them, I am ready to give them up. Otherwise, find people willing to come here and learn. I am willing to train them. If nothing works out, I will have to slaughter and sell them.”

By the time of the interview, some support from the government animal husbandry department had been identified, but these measures had so far proven insufficient to resolve the crisis.

His words make the urgency clear. The remaining flock needs a sustainable future, but Kalden should also be able to decide what that future looks like.

The way ahead

The heritage of trans-Himalayan pastoralism faces a wider threat. If the flock disappears, the loss will extend beyond the animals.

Their wool, meat and manure support livelihoods, while caring for them depends on generations of knowledge about breeding, grazing and survival in harsh mountain conditions. Once this knowledge is lost, recovering it may be difficult.

Keeping the tradition alive requires making herding economically viable. Research could explore the potential of Luk wool for small-scale textile production, alongside the value of manure and other resources.

Echostream is already contributing by buying wool from Kalden and developing products from it, helping make this pastoral livelihood more visible and economically viable.

Passing on practical knowledge matters just as much. A paid apprenticeship or supported herding arrangement could give interested local youth an opportunity to learn, provided it offers fair remuneration, access to grazing grounds and support suited to mountain life.

Collaboration among researchers, government departments and conservation organisations could further support breed documentation, animal health and breeding.

Documentation can preserve Kalden’s story, but the future of pastoralism depends on living animals, suitable grazing grounds, skilled herders and sustained institutional support.

Kalden has devoted much of his life to this work, yet he also deserves the freedom to pursue a life beyond herding. The challenge is to work with him and the wider community towards a future for the flock that respects both the tradition and the person who has kept it alive, before the animals and the knowledge they carry are lost.

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