Yak and the Mountain Economy: A Pastoral Future in Transition

“You’re not a Brokpa if you don’t go to the brok (pasture),” says Namrata Tiwari, designer and founder of the social enterprise Its All Folk, who has worked closely with the yak-herding Monpas of Arunachal Pradesh since 2022.

This rugged Eastern Himalayan landscape, especially the high-altitude districts of Tawang and West Kameng, together account for nearly 41 per cent of India’s yak population. Yet, when textiles are spoken of, the spotlight falls on Banaras or Kanchipuram, rarely on these mountains, which are a rich repository of both tangible and intangible cultural capital. It was this gap that drew Namrata into the cloud-swept valleys, guided by a quest: how can I contribute? 

Located at an altitude of 2,400 m (9,000 feet) and above in the Eastern Himalayas, the region is defined by rain-fed forests that transition into alpine pastures. Drifting mist covers bamboo-mat homes and shelters stacked with firewood in a basti or hamlet of Nyukmadung, a Community Conserved Area (CCA) in West Kameng. The air carries both the clang of charkhas spinning wool and the gentle rustle of prayer flags. Making, praying, and surviving are inseparably intertwined here.

But that rhythm is gradually evolving.

The Brokpas, yak herders rooted within the indigenous ethnolinguistic Monpa fold, are contending with shifts driven by both environmental change and human intervention. Declining snow cover and shrinking grazing lands are only part of the challenge.

Seasonal or transhumant herding, where families move with their yaks between high pastures in summer and lower valleys in winter, once formed the cornerstone of Brokpa identity and economy, but is now increasingly seen as untenable. The youth are turning away. “Yak survives in cold,” says Tenzin Ama, 53, a respected elder and community leader. “Living in the high-altitude pastures is strenuous, especially now, with declining income from yak products and no access to education or healthcare up there. Yaks also need constant care. Even drinking unclean water can make them sick.” Rising temperatures mean yaks can no longer thrive at lower altitudes, forcing herders to migrate further up vertically to higher pastures. The journey now takes longer.  

Compounding these challenges is the rise in unmonitored attacks on yak calves by free-ranging dogs, now a more immediate threat than the elusive big cats. The snow leopard, whose population in Arunachal Pradesh is estimated at 36 individuals according to WWF-India’s recent assessment, is revered by this Buddhist community not as a source of fear, but as a sacred and enduring presence.

Women in the basti, as they colloquially call it, are adapting to this uncertainty with resilience and reinvention. Led by master weaver Ama Pem Choton, 47, a 12-woman collective named Norbu, derived from the Monpa word for “yak,” is transforming raw yak wool and hair into handspun, handwoven artisanal products. “We used to make clothes from yak wool for our children — warm and rainproof coats and traditional dresses,” Pem says. “Now we make yardage, bags, and scarves. Earlier, we couldn’t imagine these possibilities.”

Backed by Its All Folk and supported by The WWF Biodiversity Darwin Fund, UK, an emerging rural ecosystem is shaping a pilot craft-to-conservation model in this region. Once used only for ropes and tents, yak fibre is now spun into wearable, functional products. When blended with other natural fibres like jute, eri silk, or sheep wool, it gains improved texture, strength, and versatility. “We used to get only 5-8 kg of sheep wool,” Namrata notes. “This year, we’ve managed 50 kg through collective sourcing. We are cognisant that even the sheep population has seen a steep decline.”

Blending design skills with supply chain know-how, these efforts are small but steady steps toward building an ecosystem shaped by the realities of this bioregion. A pointed example is felting. Once used to make the traditional “Chitpa Jhamu” or the five-pronged cap worn by the Brokpas, the technique is being tweaked and scaled to make handspun yak wool scarves. Weaving, once limited to subsistence use, is being elevated through design interventions and targeted training. 

This model does more than diversify livelihoods. It links natural capital (yaks, sheep, alpine herbs), cultural capital (craft traditions, pastoral knowledge), and economic capital (market access and product design). “We can work indoors, pray, rest, and help pack for migration, to support members who still herd,” says Tenzin. “This work fits into our lives as herding is too hard now, and farming gives poor yields because of the terrain and cold weather.”

The collective’s weaving centre in Nyukmadung functions as a pilot Community Facilitation Centre (CFC), serving as both a production hub and a rural R&D lab for Its All Folk — accessible year-round, supporting seasonal labour, religious observance, and family routines. Global think-tanks such as the World Resources Institute (WRI) recognise such place-based models as effective tools that address climate, biodiversity, and community development in tandem.

Namrata sees the bigger picture. Indigenous communities, she believes, are natural stewards of the land. But for them to continue their transhumant way of life, systems must be built that recognise ecosystem services as critical inputs. Fashion, in her view, can serve as a tool to create financial incentives. However, she cautions that a measurable impact will not be seen for at least a decade. Currently, Its All Folk is engaging with 40-50 yak herders in the Mago-Luguthang region to collectivise yak wool sourcing and strengthen decentralised supply chains.

“My approach is product-agnostic and place-centric,” she says. “We are now reducing our dependence on materials like jute, which must be sourced from West Bengal, and instead prioritising the fibres that already exist in this ecosystem. If a family has 10 sheep, we can’t ask them to shear 50. Regenerative economies are built on diversity, not on volume.” 

Not all youth have left herding. Some, like Pem’s nephew and his Bhutanese wife, who met in the pastures, still go to the brok for several months. For them, it is the only way of life. Research networks such as ICAR-National Research Centre (NCR on Yak) in Dirang, and WWF-India recognise that the waning transhumant lifestyle will lead to severe losses on ecological, sociocultural and economic fronts, with the most challenging being biodiversity loss.

Yaks are not just central to Brokpa identity. This unique bovine species is one of the keystone species for high-altitude ecology. As low-impact grazers, they support the regeneration of native vegetation and microflora, while the dung nourishes fragile soils. In contrast, goats can strip slopes bare.

Over the past few years, government bodies and research institutions have extended support to sustain the Brokpa way of life through different initiatives. At ICAR-NRC, genome mapping and breed improvement programmes for yak are underway, while Tawang’s yak chhurpi (fermented yak cheese) now holds GI status. When combined with regenerative, textile-based social innovations, these efforts can yield higher dividends for occupational herding.

As the seasons turn, so does the rhythm of this landscape and its labours. From October to December, communities harvest wild star anise, a naturally occurring non-timber forest product. In June and July, high-altitude Mago village becomes a centre for harvesting caterpillar fungus (Ophiocordyceps sinensis), a high-value medicinal ingredient. In winter, families descend to lower altitudes, preparing chhurpi and drop-spindling wool into bobbins as they move through the mountains, literally crafting as they go.

Down in this basti in Nyukmadung, women like Pem and Tenzin dry yak fibre on bamboo grids and paddle-card (disentangle) wool to remove debris. A kettle, a jerrycan, and upcycled cardboard boxes tucked into corners in the CFC speak to the resourceful, homegrown nature of this craft ecosystem. Their grandchildren, often educated in distant towns, return home for the holidays.

In Nyukmadung, where there are no factories or formal industries, the Brokpa women’s collective invites us to reconsider what development can look like when rooted in place. Here, a hyper-local ecosystem stretches gently into the five Ps of sustainable development: People, Planet, Prosperity, Peace, and Partnerships. It centres human dignity and knowledge systems, safeguards fragile ecologies, builds modest but meaningful incomes, fosters cultural continuity and thrives through quiet collaborations between herders, artisans, designers, and researchers.

Can tradition, when nurtured with context, care, and creativity, not only survive but regenerate?