June 19th, 2010
The night was brutal. I haven't slept a wink. The combined effect of the frigid cold and the constant rattle of our tin roof has made me nauseous. I will stay in bed long after the rest have exited. Several hours later, I will emerge from the enclosure only to find Motorbreath, RomoeMike, Spiderweb, in that order, sitting in the middle of the lone road leading out of Sarchu, doodling on the tar. Amused I ask them of their intent. The intent, I'm told, is none. The motivation, I'm told, is boredom and lack of options. I laugh and join them. I have a headache. I hold a deadly mix of Rum and Royal Stag to be the culprit. "You shouldn't be mixing your drinks", says one amused Pole. I thank him for his timely suggestion as I splash my face with icy water only to regret it.
The remainder of the day will bring forth no event of note. We'll only have a semblance of excitement when RomeoMike will disappear for several hours leaving us wondering as to his whereabouts. He will return claiming he was at the army base camp trying to determine options to transport his steed to Leh or Manali. Then there is the incident of Motorbreath finally deciding that he could hold it in no longer, walking uphill for 15 minutes to find a suitable and secluded spot, eventually resting behind a big boulder and returning refreshed, rejuvenated but without a hint of water on his hand. He will drink from my bottle of water and when asked if he washed after wiping, he will grunt, walk to a nearby tap and unwillingly wet his hands with a few drops. I will not touch the bottle of drinking water from that point on. But I will grin at the thought how far the bed-begging, wont-sleep-in-the-mud Motorbreath had come in the course of this journey. Perhaps too far in my opinion.
RomeMike goes on to inform me that the army expects to have trucks crossing Baralacha-La over the next few days. However, the timing is uncertain. I rejoice at the thought of our finally being able to cross-over. But as day turns to dusk, information starts pouring in that we might have to hold on for a few more days. With money running out and no ATM for miles, we were beginning to feel the pinch. We'd last a couple of days more at best. And the next time we try, we better make it through for we were on our last few drops of fuel.
The Poles have invited us to a game of cards in their tent and perhaps a round of drinks. Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike will head in their direction. I will prefer to give it a go for I am intrigued by the stories of he who runs the theka. He starts a fire using horse dung as fuel. He speaks of his experiences in Ludhiana. He advices me to bask in the sun more often - for it will, he says, make my bones stronger. He asks of my martial status and advices me to find me a bride. I ask him of his family - he tells me of his wife and child back in Ludhiana. He comments on my mates. Remarks that while RomeoMike seemed quite and sensible, Motorbreath should perhaps smoke less, and Spiderweb, he says, talks too much, boasts too much, but is, in his opinion, isn't capable of much. I laugh but say nothing.
Time flies in the company of his stories, his trysts, his hopes and his dreams. I smile a smile I have not smiled in years. A smile of peace and happiness. Here I am, with no place to go, no desire to go, in the company of one I've just met, and yet come to trust as my own.
It's past midnight. I am about to call it a night, but suddenly I see shadows scurrying in the distance. I hear someone scream. We're caught off guard. I cannot see what the source of interest is. We move closer to the fire wondering if it is a carnivore they see. It is then I hear my companion scream "Oh teri! Oh teri!". He points towards the mountains in the distance. What I see dumbfounds me. I see it! I see it! As clear as day! The unmistakable view of beams of light moving through the mountains towards us. It's happening!! It's happening!!
Baralacha-la is open!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 47: A big setback
June 18th, 2010
3 pm: The clouds are already encircling us. I don't like the way they beleaguer us. We've re-saddled and re-commenced on our course. We won't move but two inches though, for just round this bend, where we previously did not see, lies another sheet of ice. This time round though, Spiderweb suggests we power through adding that I should perhaps try first cause the R-15 is the lightest of the lot the consequence of which is uncertain to my logic. Nevertheless I decide to power through. With a little help, I make it to the middle, but I'm not going to make it out. My rear wheel badgers snow into slush; my steed sinks deep. Throttling, predictably, worsens the situation. RomeoMike suggests we create a rocky path across the snowy bed to give us traction. We find a few flat stones, but not enough to level the snow. The oxygen remains thin, we tire quickly. We can push no more. We can go no further. We realize that even if we did manage to pull through this sheet of snow, there's no telling how many more we will find further along. The Universe is turning hostile on us, the winds meaner. We have neither strength, nor support to push against it. There's is not a soul within our site. We will not survive the night in this terrain. Return we will.
There's a more immediate problem to solve though. My steed stands immobile, clutched within the sweaty palms of a deviant slush. With our throats parched, our chests heaving, we have neither courage, nor strength to rescue it. We idly stroll along a narrow path and find a pond - its surface rich with scum. So thirsty am I, that I push away the scum and take deep sips of the foul water. Spiderweb follows suit. Motorbreath and RomeoMike though will play it safe. On return, RomeoMike will manage to pull my steed out of the snowy rubble by grabbing on the wheel and yanking it across the sheet in a surge of adrenalin rush.
We make our way downstream. Motorbreath complains of a chest pain. I can see why for I can barely breathe as well. We must head back to Sarchu.
As we continue on our way, I notice RomeoMike is trailing. I let him catch up and ask him, "What's wrong? Why are you riding so slow?".
"I think I burnt out my clutch pads. My steed won't roll."
This last piece of news will break everybody down. Motorbreath will suggest we return to Mumbai via Srinagar. Spiderweb will remain silent, but I can see he contemplates the option. RomeoMike says nothing, reveals nothing. I'm no better. Eventually I will find myself saying, unwillingly, that perhaps we should differ making rash judgements, spend another day in Sarchu and then take a call.
The ride back is cumbersome, for RomeoMike's steed will need support to keep rolling. Eventually we will reach Sarchu, find our way to our hosts tent and get back under the sheets. From the looks of it, we have company. The Poles have made it to Sarchu. Three of them find their way into the tent as well. Pretty soon we are engaged in a conversation with them.
While Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike discuss India/Pakistan relations with two of the Poles, I find out more about their journey so far from one other. He tells me they've been travelling for six months in those six months they have visited every corner of North India. They did not all begin the journey together and they will not end it together. They do not share the same destination. Some will depart tomorrow for a mountaineering expedition deep into the Himalayas while the remainder will continue riding to Chandigarh from whence they will board a train, transporting their steeds - Enfields purchased in Delhi a few weeks ago - as cargo to Mumbai. They will eventually, I am told, ferry their bikes into Dubai and then find their way into Poland through whatever channels necessary, biking wherever possible.
Our conversation moves to alcohol and he shares that whilst in Poland it is common for him to begin the day with a drink. He clarifies that the alcohol only gives one the illusion of warmth and in fact causes the body to lose heat. However, the illusion is sufficient to allow him to get out of bed. It is the physicality of the everyday routine and a large portion of meat that gives him the necessary warmth through the day. He adds that he usually avoids alcohol in the night for the very same reason - a motionless ie sleeping body which is also losing heat on account of alcohol is a recipe for disaster - a leading cause of death amongst the homeless in his country.
Eventually as is expected, the conversation converges to women which is always a fun topic of discussion.
Two more Poles join us and ask me if I can help them get a store-house for 4 days to keep their luggage whilst they are away mountaineering. I speak with a local and she says she has space in her shed. When I ask her of the rate, she says "Anything you find OK.". I communicate the same to the Poles and they agree to pay her Rs 400 for 4 days. She accepts it gladly.
The mountaineering duo will thank us with Rum and cigarettes. Spiderweb, in a drunken stupor will ask us to settle the amount for the Rum stating that he will eventually foot the entire bill and that we (the Poles and us) should consider this his treat. He never will foot the bill.
As night falls, we retire to our shed. Once again, our lights go out to the din of a shuddering shed...
3 pm: The clouds are already encircling us. I don't like the way they beleaguer us. We've re-saddled and re-commenced on our course. We won't move but two inches though, for just round this bend, where we previously did not see, lies another sheet of ice. This time round though, Spiderweb suggests we power through adding that I should perhaps try first cause the R-15 is the lightest of the lot the consequence of which is uncertain to my logic. Nevertheless I decide to power through. With a little help, I make it to the middle, but I'm not going to make it out. My rear wheel badgers snow into slush; my steed sinks deep. Throttling, predictably, worsens the situation. RomeoMike suggests we create a rocky path across the snowy bed to give us traction. We find a few flat stones, but not enough to level the snow. The oxygen remains thin, we tire quickly. We can push no more. We can go no further. We realize that even if we did manage to pull through this sheet of snow, there's no telling how many more we will find further along. The Universe is turning hostile on us, the winds meaner. We have neither strength, nor support to push against it. There's is not a soul within our site. We will not survive the night in this terrain. Return we will.
There's a more immediate problem to solve though. My steed stands immobile, clutched within the sweaty palms of a deviant slush. With our throats parched, our chests heaving, we have neither courage, nor strength to rescue it. We idly stroll along a narrow path and find a pond - its surface rich with scum. So thirsty am I, that I push away the scum and take deep sips of the foul water. Spiderweb follows suit. Motorbreath and RomeoMike though will play it safe. On return, RomeoMike will manage to pull my steed out of the snowy rubble by grabbing on the wheel and yanking it across the sheet in a surge of adrenalin rush.
We make our way downstream. Motorbreath complains of a chest pain. I can see why for I can barely breathe as well. We must head back to Sarchu.
As we continue on our way, I notice RomeoMike is trailing. I let him catch up and ask him, "What's wrong? Why are you riding so slow?".
"I think I burnt out my clutch pads. My steed won't roll."
This last piece of news will break everybody down. Motorbreath will suggest we return to Mumbai via Srinagar. Spiderweb will remain silent, but I can see he contemplates the option. RomeoMike says nothing, reveals nothing. I'm no better. Eventually I will find myself saying, unwillingly, that perhaps we should differ making rash judgements, spend another day in Sarchu and then take a call.
The ride back is cumbersome, for RomeoMike's steed will need support to keep rolling. Eventually we will reach Sarchu, find our way to our hosts tent and get back under the sheets. From the looks of it, we have company. The Poles have made it to Sarchu. Three of them find their way into the tent as well. Pretty soon we are engaged in a conversation with them.
While Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike discuss India/Pakistan relations with two of the Poles, I find out more about their journey so far from one other. He tells me they've been travelling for six months in those six months they have visited every corner of North India. They did not all begin the journey together and they will not end it together. They do not share the same destination. Some will depart tomorrow for a mountaineering expedition deep into the Himalayas while the remainder will continue riding to Chandigarh from whence they will board a train, transporting their steeds - Enfields purchased in Delhi a few weeks ago - as cargo to Mumbai. They will eventually, I am told, ferry their bikes into Dubai and then find their way into Poland through whatever channels necessary, biking wherever possible.
Our conversation moves to alcohol and he shares that whilst in Poland it is common for him to begin the day with a drink. He clarifies that the alcohol only gives one the illusion of warmth and in fact causes the body to lose heat. However, the illusion is sufficient to allow him to get out of bed. It is the physicality of the everyday routine and a large portion of meat that gives him the necessary warmth through the day. He adds that he usually avoids alcohol in the night for the very same reason - a motionless ie sleeping body which is also losing heat on account of alcohol is a recipe for disaster - a leading cause of death amongst the homeless in his country.
Eventually as is expected, the conversation converges to women which is always a fun topic of discussion.
Two more Poles join us and ask me if I can help them get a store-house for 4 days to keep their luggage whilst they are away mountaineering. I speak with a local and she says she has space in her shed. When I ask her of the rate, she says "Anything you find OK.". I communicate the same to the Poles and they agree to pay her Rs 400 for 4 days. She accepts it gladly.
The mountaineering duo will thank us with Rum and cigarettes. Spiderweb, in a drunken stupor will ask us to settle the amount for the Rum stating that he will eventually foot the entire bill and that we (the Poles and us) should consider this his treat. He never will foot the bill.
As night falls, we retire to our shed. Once again, our lights go out to the din of a shuddering shed...
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 46: A small start
June 18th, 2010
"Motor tu puri raat hawaa gandi kar raha tha! (Motor, you were stinking up the air all night!)", exclaims RomeoMike. To be fair, we were all guilty. The excruciating cold, the alcohol, the semi cooked meals - had all taken their toll on us.
We jump out of bed, and take turns visiting the john. Motor has yet to excrete. Its been two days and he still won't go. I presume his constant worry about the hygiene conditions and his shyness to just "go anywhere" have put him in a perpetually constipated state. All this will change by the day next, but let me not get ahead of the story.
We scurry through the sparse population in a bid to determine if Baralacha-la was open to scaling. We are informed that while some snow has been cleared its still improbable that we might make it through. Most, if not all reports are discouraging as are our hosts. Most will tell us stories of those that came before us, waited for as many as 20 days and returned from whence they came. One army cadet will respond to our overconfident, "We are going to make it through Baralacha-la today", with an equally cocky, "Sure, take a round and come. I'll see you later in the day."
I notice my fuel indicator is way below the half-way mark. I won't last long. But then again, I assume, naively, we don't have much to ride. "We will certainly find fuel once we reach Manali and I have about enough to get there.", I assure myself.
Bidding farewell to our host, we blaze on. A few minutes out, we are pulled over at an army checkpost. The guard suggests we turn back. The road is not open to the public, he says. I ask him to let us pass - pointing out that we are short on fuel and and cash. We cannot afford to spend another day in Sarchu. We have no choice but to pass. Of course I exaggerate. But the guard takes our word for it, smiles, nods and lets us pass.
Realizing this is probably the last of our adventures, we take things slow - we take many breaks, pose some, chit chat some and ride some. We cross a brook on the way. Gentle in its demeanor, confrontational in its embrace - for it throws our steeds around on its slipper bed making it apparent that our presence in its path was unwelcome.
We have not ridden long, perhaps a little over 6 kilometers, mostly flat terrain. But no sooner do we begin our ascend, we are stopped short. For on a narrow path, our only way up, lies a thick sheet of snow - promising to engulf our engines should we attempt to pass. We try to move the snow with our bare hands, but realize quickly that we fight a losing battle. The altitude has us parched for oxygen. Our chests heave with a few pulls on puffs.
I sit steadfast on my steed as we consider alternatives. In the plateau below, I now notice an alternate pathway that I did not notice before owing to a motored cage blocking its view. The cage had since rolled back towards Sarchu and the pathway lay bare before us. The path seemed to connect to our current path, ahead of the snow and into the clear. We decide we'll take it.
As we approach the path though, we double back in horror for what appears to be a path from where we once stood is a gentle stream flowing down the curves. With a now shy sun, the clear liquid reflects none; its dark wetness the only visible evidence of its presence. As we close in on it though, the liquid is revealed. Nature, the magician, takes a bow as we stand dumbfounded at its feet. Not willing to give up, we decide to push our steeds upstream and get back on the road. I estimate it would take us no more than 5 minutes.
45 minutes into the ticks, the last of us makes it to the top - breathless, beaten. It takes an extreme combination of engine power, muscle and pure adrenalin to push our steeds against gravity, against the slickness of melted snow, against the treachery of rolling rock. But we make it nonetheless. RomeoMike begs Motorbreath to go downslope and fetch his bag - unsaddled to reduce weight. Motorbreath delegates the task to me. I remind him, I'm 33 years old, he's all of 23 or perhaps a shade more. Perhaps he should reconsider his proposition, I suggest. He is, however, unable to move. Our oxygen starved bodies have sent our heart rates spiraling. The surprising lack of oxygen (we have only begun to ascend), keeps the heart beating loudly, endlessly, dysfunctionally, uselessly. I grin and agree to do the needful, if and only if Motorbreath puts an end to his wisecracks on the subject of my age (he has made many, whilst in the company of Aman). He agrees.
Walking downslope that day, I say to myself, "You're a long way from growing old. Look at you, you walk lock-step with those a decade younger." I bring RomeoMike his bag, one painful step at a time. We are all drained. Each of us maxed out, though glad we made it. Little do we realize, our problems have only just begun...
"Motor tu puri raat hawaa gandi kar raha tha! (Motor, you were stinking up the air all night!)", exclaims RomeoMike. To be fair, we were all guilty. The excruciating cold, the alcohol, the semi cooked meals - had all taken their toll on us.
We jump out of bed, and take turns visiting the john. Motor has yet to excrete. Its been two days and he still won't go. I presume his constant worry about the hygiene conditions and his shyness to just "go anywhere" have put him in a perpetually constipated state. All this will change by the day next, but let me not get ahead of the story.
We scurry through the sparse population in a bid to determine if Baralacha-la was open to scaling. We are informed that while some snow has been cleared its still improbable that we might make it through. Most, if not all reports are discouraging as are our hosts. Most will tell us stories of those that came before us, waited for as many as 20 days and returned from whence they came. One army cadet will respond to our overconfident, "We are going to make it through Baralacha-la today", with an equally cocky, "Sure, take a round and come. I'll see you later in the day."
I notice my fuel indicator is way below the half-way mark. I won't last long. But then again, I assume, naively, we don't have much to ride. "We will certainly find fuel once we reach Manali and I have about enough to get there.", I assure myself.
Bidding farewell to our host, we blaze on. A few minutes out, we are pulled over at an army checkpost. The guard suggests we turn back. The road is not open to the public, he says. I ask him to let us pass - pointing out that we are short on fuel and and cash. We cannot afford to spend another day in Sarchu. We have no choice but to pass. Of course I exaggerate. But the guard takes our word for it, smiles, nods and lets us pass.
Realizing this is probably the last of our adventures, we take things slow - we take many breaks, pose some, chit chat some and ride some. We cross a brook on the way. Gentle in its demeanor, confrontational in its embrace - for it throws our steeds around on its slipper bed making it apparent that our presence in its path was unwelcome.
We have not ridden long, perhaps a little over 6 kilometers, mostly flat terrain. But no sooner do we begin our ascend, we are stopped short. For on a narrow path, our only way up, lies a thick sheet of snow - promising to engulf our engines should we attempt to pass. We try to move the snow with our bare hands, but realize quickly that we fight a losing battle. The altitude has us parched for oxygen. Our chests heave with a few pulls on puffs.
I sit steadfast on my steed as we consider alternatives. In the plateau below, I now notice an alternate pathway that I did not notice before owing to a motored cage blocking its view. The cage had since rolled back towards Sarchu and the pathway lay bare before us. The path seemed to connect to our current path, ahead of the snow and into the clear. We decide we'll take it.
As we approach the path though, we double back in horror for what appears to be a path from where we once stood is a gentle stream flowing down the curves. With a now shy sun, the clear liquid reflects none; its dark wetness the only visible evidence of its presence. As we close in on it though, the liquid is revealed. Nature, the magician, takes a bow as we stand dumbfounded at its feet. Not willing to give up, we decide to push our steeds upstream and get back on the road. I estimate it would take us no more than 5 minutes.
45 minutes into the ticks, the last of us makes it to the top - breathless, beaten. It takes an extreme combination of engine power, muscle and pure adrenalin to push our steeds against gravity, against the slickness of melted snow, against the treachery of rolling rock. But we make it nonetheless. RomeoMike begs Motorbreath to go downslope and fetch his bag - unsaddled to reduce weight. Motorbreath delegates the task to me. I remind him, I'm 33 years old, he's all of 23 or perhaps a shade more. Perhaps he should reconsider his proposition, I suggest. He is, however, unable to move. Our oxygen starved bodies have sent our heart rates spiraling. The surprising lack of oxygen (we have only begun to ascend), keeps the heart beating loudly, endlessly, dysfunctionally, uselessly. I grin and agree to do the needful, if and only if Motorbreath puts an end to his wisecracks on the subject of my age (he has made many, whilst in the company of Aman). He agrees.
Walking downslope that day, I say to myself, "You're a long way from growing old. Look at you, you walk lock-step with those a decade younger." I bring RomeoMike his bag, one painful step at a time. We are all drained. Each of us maxed out, though glad we made it. Little do we realize, our problems have only just begun...
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 45: In confrontation
June 17th, 2010
I can't see RomeoMike from where I stand - his fallen steed blocking my viewport. As I rush to his rescue, he lifts himself up. I find him unhurt but for a minor limp that will ease out in the minutes to come. He grins, exclaiming "Accha hua knee guard pehna tha!" (It was a good thing I wore the knee guards!). I grin too, comforted by the fact that he escaped unharmed.
But where are Spiderweb and Motorbreath? Surely they realize we're missing from their viewport for well over 5 minutes? Shouldn't they return to check on us? I learn quickly that they have covered a fair bit of ground without us. I find them waving at us from several meters above, a curiously twisted terrain displaying only a fraction of the ground they covered. We try to indicate to them that RomeoMike had a spill. But to our dismay, they interpret our gestures as playfully fanatical waves as they continue waving back. To my horror, they hop back on to their steeds and continue riding, disappearing into the curves above.
My head explodes. Here we are, minutes away from a spill that could have turned ugly - with only each other to see us through and two of the four, blissfully unaware of an accident that happened but meters away from them ride carelessly on so that they can make it to... make it to where? Where are we headed? Why are we in a hurry to get there? If it is to meet our maker, then the two have certainly adopted an apt strategy. It bothers me that the Spiderweb that saw the disastrous consequences of being left behind in Khardung-La should be so indifferent to the possibility of the very same consequence to those that follow. It bothers me that the two did not witness a crash that was loud both in sound and sight. And where one might forgive the compromise on sound for want of harmonious distraction, one wonders why the compromise isn't offset by a regular check of the rear view to ensure the well-being of your comrades.
We rest for a bit, RomeoMike and I and begin following the trail once more. We find the two posing for pictures next to a sign that announces are arrival at Lachunglung-La.
What follows next is a confrontation between Spiderweb and I, while RomeoMike and Motorbreath watch in silence. I accuse him of being self-centered, of being naive, of being irresponsible, of not being worthy of a lead, for he leads us not - he merely rides ahead - he cares for us not - he cares merely of himself. Spiderweb argues that we should have indicated to him that we had a spill. I inform him that it was exactly what we were trying to do but they misinterpreted our gestures. With no cell phone network, I had no communication alternative. I argue that there is no reasonable excuse for them to be more than a few meters away from us. Riding ahead achieves nothing.
Motorbreath tries to interject and diffuse the situation by taking blame onto himself for not noticing RomeoMike's crash. Spiderweb plays along stating that so long as he saw Motorbreath in his rearview, he deemed everything to be OK. I counter their argument stating that I never stated that Motorbreath was in anyway less irresponsible. Furthermore, I state, its not difficult to keep 3 people in the rearview. Stating that he had eyes only for Motorbreath's well-being was simply ridiculous. When they saw us from above, they should have waited instead of creating more distance between us, I contend.
With tempers ripping through the ether, RomeoMike eventually suggests we keep riding. It would be unwise for us to waste any more time and tempt the terrain to devour us. Spiderweb howls that he will lead us no more - much to my satisfaction. I ask RomeoMike to take lead. With a compromised steed and a recent spill, it would probably be in his best interest that we match our pace with him, instead of vice-versa. Motorbreath follows RomeoMike; I follow suit; Spiderweb tails.
At first I assume I imagine it. But in time it becomes apparent that Spiderweb is lagging. I know his pace, I know he can more than keep up. I suspect he does it to agitate us - in order to prove how our pace feels to him. I ignore his antics and ensure I stop every time he disappears from my rear-view. Anger or not, he is still subject to a spill as much as we are. RomeoMike and Motorbreath too ensure they await my arrival. With time though, Motorbreath seems to be riding with Spiderweb again. As we reach Nakeela, our last pass for the day, both Motorbreath and Spiderweb will refuse to pose for pictures. I ignore the pettiness, get a click of RomeoMike and move on.
As minutes turn to hours, we find ourselves blocked by a stream flowing across our path. A cage struggles to pull itself out of the boulders. RomeoMike hesitates, Motorbreath overtakes him in a bid to lead the way but hesitates too as he slowly makes his way across. Out of the blue, Spiderweb opens his throttle and rips across the stream in a single go, splashing clear liquid all over Motorbreath.
The move angers Motorbreath who, on a later halt, accuses Spiderweb of behaving like a spoilt brat. His disdain is palpable. In time we hit Gata Loops and pose for pictures once more. This time round, Motorbreath chimes in and poses for several minutes with requests for angles.
I recall Spiderweb awaiting the arrival of the Loops from his statements the day prior. He hoped to corner around the loops at breakneck speeds. I throw an open invitation to "those that wish to corner to ride ahead and wait for us if they so please". Spiderweb takes his cue and rides on. The loops though, turn out to be a lot less amenable to cornering. For pristine as they were in the year before - when our predecessors had past, they had since deteriorated aplenty. With gravel strewn across the pathways in no uncertain measure, cornering was not a possibility. In the moments to come, Motorbreath will once again change his mind about Spiderweb and leave us behind to catch up to Spiderweb. I remain lock-stepped with RomeoMike's tempered pace. We find the two awaiting our arrival at the bottom of the loops.
As we continue to ride, Spiderweb continues to trail. Eventually, frustrated with Spiderweb's antics, and aware that we are close to our destination with linear pathways, Motorbreath suggests we max out the throttle and let Spiderweb catch up if he so wishes. If not, we can always track his progress over the horizon. And so we do. We twist the throttle like we haven't in the days prior. It's a welcome relief. Spiderweb will realize quickly that we wait for him no more. He will end the trail game and catch up with us.
By the time we hit Sarchu, the sheer adrenalin rush of the journey so far and the prospect of conquering the final leg has put me in a non-confrontational mood. I believe Spiderweb experiences the same for within the hour we find ourselves chatting about the journey ahead.
Sarchu is brutal. The chill seeps into my bone with excruciating precision for it finds the weakest spots and drills right through them. I find myself shaking uncontrollably. We take cover under heaps of sheets but to no avail. Finally, the host suggests we take a few shots of Rum. To our delight, we find a theka right next door, stocked to the brim. We buy bottles of some local Rum, top it up with Thumbs Up and sink bank under the sheets. RomeoMike though, calms himself with swigs of Royal Stag. In time we will settle down, make friends with some local army personnel and find a way to contact our families using a satellite phone in the army base camp in the vicinity. With messages sent, we now sink back under our sheets and continue drinking. I will not move for several hours, until the host will direct us to our "rooms" - tin enclosures shuddering to the might of the wind.
Our collective lights go out quickly....
I can't see RomeoMike from where I stand - his fallen steed blocking my viewport. As I rush to his rescue, he lifts himself up. I find him unhurt but for a minor limp that will ease out in the minutes to come. He grins, exclaiming "Accha hua knee guard pehna tha!" (It was a good thing I wore the knee guards!). I grin too, comforted by the fact that he escaped unharmed.
But where are Spiderweb and Motorbreath? Surely they realize we're missing from their viewport for well over 5 minutes? Shouldn't they return to check on us? I learn quickly that they have covered a fair bit of ground without us. I find them waving at us from several meters above, a curiously twisted terrain displaying only a fraction of the ground they covered. We try to indicate to them that RomeoMike had a spill. But to our dismay, they interpret our gestures as playfully fanatical waves as they continue waving back. To my horror, they hop back on to their steeds and continue riding, disappearing into the curves above.
My head explodes. Here we are, minutes away from a spill that could have turned ugly - with only each other to see us through and two of the four, blissfully unaware of an accident that happened but meters away from them ride carelessly on so that they can make it to... make it to where? Where are we headed? Why are we in a hurry to get there? If it is to meet our maker, then the two have certainly adopted an apt strategy. It bothers me that the Spiderweb that saw the disastrous consequences of being left behind in Khardung-La should be so indifferent to the possibility of the very same consequence to those that follow. It bothers me that the two did not witness a crash that was loud both in sound and sight. And where one might forgive the compromise on sound for want of harmonious distraction, one wonders why the compromise isn't offset by a regular check of the rear view to ensure the well-being of your comrades.
We rest for a bit, RomeoMike and I and begin following the trail once more. We find the two posing for pictures next to a sign that announces are arrival at Lachunglung-La.
What follows next is a confrontation between Spiderweb and I, while RomeoMike and Motorbreath watch in silence. I accuse him of being self-centered, of being naive, of being irresponsible, of not being worthy of a lead, for he leads us not - he merely rides ahead - he cares for us not - he cares merely of himself. Spiderweb argues that we should have indicated to him that we had a spill. I inform him that it was exactly what we were trying to do but they misinterpreted our gestures. With no cell phone network, I had no communication alternative. I argue that there is no reasonable excuse for them to be more than a few meters away from us. Riding ahead achieves nothing.
Motorbreath tries to interject and diffuse the situation by taking blame onto himself for not noticing RomeoMike's crash. Spiderweb plays along stating that so long as he saw Motorbreath in his rearview, he deemed everything to be OK. I counter their argument stating that I never stated that Motorbreath was in anyway less irresponsible. Furthermore, I state, its not difficult to keep 3 people in the rearview. Stating that he had eyes only for Motorbreath's well-being was simply ridiculous. When they saw us from above, they should have waited instead of creating more distance between us, I contend.
With tempers ripping through the ether, RomeoMike eventually suggests we keep riding. It would be unwise for us to waste any more time and tempt the terrain to devour us. Spiderweb howls that he will lead us no more - much to my satisfaction. I ask RomeoMike to take lead. With a compromised steed and a recent spill, it would probably be in his best interest that we match our pace with him, instead of vice-versa. Motorbreath follows RomeoMike; I follow suit; Spiderweb tails.
At first I assume I imagine it. But in time it becomes apparent that Spiderweb is lagging. I know his pace, I know he can more than keep up. I suspect he does it to agitate us - in order to prove how our pace feels to him. I ignore his antics and ensure I stop every time he disappears from my rear-view. Anger or not, he is still subject to a spill as much as we are. RomeoMike and Motorbreath too ensure they await my arrival. With time though, Motorbreath seems to be riding with Spiderweb again. As we reach Nakeela, our last pass for the day, both Motorbreath and Spiderweb will refuse to pose for pictures. I ignore the pettiness, get a click of RomeoMike and move on.
As minutes turn to hours, we find ourselves blocked by a stream flowing across our path. A cage struggles to pull itself out of the boulders. RomeoMike hesitates, Motorbreath overtakes him in a bid to lead the way but hesitates too as he slowly makes his way across. Out of the blue, Spiderweb opens his throttle and rips across the stream in a single go, splashing clear liquid all over Motorbreath.
The move angers Motorbreath who, on a later halt, accuses Spiderweb of behaving like a spoilt brat. His disdain is palpable. In time we hit Gata Loops and pose for pictures once more. This time round, Motorbreath chimes in and poses for several minutes with requests for angles.
I recall Spiderweb awaiting the arrival of the Loops from his statements the day prior. He hoped to corner around the loops at breakneck speeds. I throw an open invitation to "those that wish to corner to ride ahead and wait for us if they so please". Spiderweb takes his cue and rides on. The loops though, turn out to be a lot less amenable to cornering. For pristine as they were in the year before - when our predecessors had past, they had since deteriorated aplenty. With gravel strewn across the pathways in no uncertain measure, cornering was not a possibility. In the moments to come, Motorbreath will once again change his mind about Spiderweb and leave us behind to catch up to Spiderweb. I remain lock-stepped with RomeoMike's tempered pace. We find the two awaiting our arrival at the bottom of the loops.
As we continue to ride, Spiderweb continues to trail. Eventually, frustrated with Spiderweb's antics, and aware that we are close to our destination with linear pathways, Motorbreath suggests we max out the throttle and let Spiderweb catch up if he so wishes. If not, we can always track his progress over the horizon. And so we do. We twist the throttle like we haven't in the days prior. It's a welcome relief. Spiderweb will realize quickly that we wait for him no more. He will end the trail game and catch up with us.
By the time we hit Sarchu, the sheer adrenalin rush of the journey so far and the prospect of conquering the final leg has put me in a non-confrontational mood. I believe Spiderweb experiences the same for within the hour we find ourselves chatting about the journey ahead.
Sarchu is brutal. The chill seeps into my bone with excruciating precision for it finds the weakest spots and drills right through them. I find myself shaking uncontrollably. We take cover under heaps of sheets but to no avail. Finally, the host suggests we take a few shots of Rum. To our delight, we find a theka right next door, stocked to the brim. We buy bottles of some local Rum, top it up with Thumbs Up and sink bank under the sheets. RomeoMike though, calms himself with swigs of Royal Stag. In time we will settle down, make friends with some local army personnel and find a way to contact our families using a satellite phone in the army base camp in the vicinity. With messages sent, we now sink back under our sheets and continue drinking. I will not move for several hours, until the host will direct us to our "rooms" - tin enclosures shuddering to the might of the wind.
Our collective lights go out quickly....
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 44: The falling
June 17th, 2010
2 am: I suspect you expected this. I suspect you laughed all the while. For we all know what copious quantities of warm water lead into. My bowels scream for mercy as I desperately try to hold on. "Just a few hours and it will be day light.", I think to myself. Trapped under mounds of sheet - no pun intended - I wallow at the fact that my cell phone died several minutes ago. The torch light had been returned on the day prior. Finding my way to "Gents" in pitch darkness seemed like a proposition I could do without. But I suspect I can hold it in no longer. And so I must venture out into the darkness. There's one other problem - I've run out of toilet paper.
With not a moment to spare, I have no time to determine my options. As I exit the tent, I'm struck by the blackness of the dark. I can see little. I'll never make it across the boulder and stone. I decide to let it out in the open. I find a comfortable spot in the vicinity, hoist myself atop two stones and let it all out - all the while looking for movement in the terrains above - for I have been told that nocturnal beings scour the area. My strategy is to make a run for it and the first sign of movement. Having cleansed my bowels, I now turn to the problem of wipes. I have none. Unfortunately, I have failed to notice, that there's no evidence of shrubbery in the terrain about. I have a choice between rocks and sand. Desperate for a solution, I turn my thoughts to the apparel on me. There must be something wipe worthy. "The socks should work just fine.", I think to myself.
10 am: I'm awakened by the movement of the rest rushing to "Gents". Motorbreath awaits his turn. Nobody seems to have noticed that I have but a single sock on. In time I tell Motorbreath my story. He seems more angry than amused. On enquiry, it will be revealed, that he has braved a similar fate and that, had he known of my antics, he would have perhaps joined me in my mid-night shit fest. Frankly, I'm glad I didn't inform him. The last thing I needed was an audience.
We indulge in a brief breakfast. A discussion with a stranger reveals that it was his truck that was the source of the headlights that followed us through the plains. He too has heard of the draconian dacoits; he too feared for his life. He kept pace with us for fear of being alone. I grin at the irony for we fleed from him for fear of being followed.
We gear up. RomeoMike reckons he can skip wearing knee guards. Spiderweb insists he wear them. RomeoMike argues that we do not have much to travel and given that we intend to cruise at a leisurely pace, the probability of a spill borders on the improbable. Spiderweb insists he wear them. RomeoMike argues that the weather has made his skin itchy. We all insist he wear them. He wears them.
We bid our hostesses farewell, mount our steeds and hit Start. A few curious foreigners surround us and ask us of our path. I presume they are friends of the Pole I ran into yesterday. We inform them of our course. They explain their desire to do the same. They will, however, follow suit only a few days hence since a comrade is too unwell to ride. We wish them luck and blaze on.
We ride several hours at a leisurely place. We spot wild goats grazing on the slopes. We click pictures only to find that our pithy lenses are unable to separate their camouflage against the background. We fantasize our response to a snow leopard dropping in on us. We click more pictures.
In time, we discover a stream more more blue than the bluest blue, more pure than the purest pure. Spiderweb and RomeoMike decide it would be criminal not to experience it. They strip down to their underwear. The temperature is dropping fast, I'm breathing shallow. Motorbreath and I will watch from the sidelines. After much trepidation, Spiderweb decides to test the water with his foot. A blinding chill sweeps through his body as he screams "OH FUCK! OH FUCK! IT'S COLD! IT'S VERY COLD!". "Of course it is Genius!", I think to myself. I'll admit, it takes balls to strip down to the bare in the freeze. But you also risk losing them. RomeMike suffers a similar fate but he is far braver than Spiderweb for he spends more time tinkering with the possibility of immersing himself completely. He wisely decides against it.
With the two back in their gear, we ride on. In the minutes to come, RomeMike, engrossed in admiring his surroundings, will ride over a big rock and crash. Motorbreath and Spiderweb, both seconds ahead of him, will hear nothing over the din of music in their ears. The ear plugs will drown out the sickening sound of metal and rock against bone...
2 am: I suspect you expected this. I suspect you laughed all the while. For we all know what copious quantities of warm water lead into. My bowels scream for mercy as I desperately try to hold on. "Just a few hours and it will be day light.", I think to myself. Trapped under mounds of sheet - no pun intended - I wallow at the fact that my cell phone died several minutes ago. The torch light had been returned on the day prior. Finding my way to "Gents" in pitch darkness seemed like a proposition I could do without. But I suspect I can hold it in no longer. And so I must venture out into the darkness. There's one other problem - I've run out of toilet paper.
With not a moment to spare, I have no time to determine my options. As I exit the tent, I'm struck by the blackness of the dark. I can see little. I'll never make it across the boulder and stone. I decide to let it out in the open. I find a comfortable spot in the vicinity, hoist myself atop two stones and let it all out - all the while looking for movement in the terrains above - for I have been told that nocturnal beings scour the area. My strategy is to make a run for it and the first sign of movement. Having cleansed my bowels, I now turn to the problem of wipes. I have none. Unfortunately, I have failed to notice, that there's no evidence of shrubbery in the terrain about. I have a choice between rocks and sand. Desperate for a solution, I turn my thoughts to the apparel on me. There must be something wipe worthy. "The socks should work just fine.", I think to myself.
10 am: I'm awakened by the movement of the rest rushing to "Gents". Motorbreath awaits his turn. Nobody seems to have noticed that I have but a single sock on. In time I tell Motorbreath my story. He seems more angry than amused. On enquiry, it will be revealed, that he has braved a similar fate and that, had he known of my antics, he would have perhaps joined me in my mid-night shit fest. Frankly, I'm glad I didn't inform him. The last thing I needed was an audience.
We indulge in a brief breakfast. A discussion with a stranger reveals that it was his truck that was the source of the headlights that followed us through the plains. He too has heard of the draconian dacoits; he too feared for his life. He kept pace with us for fear of being alone. I grin at the irony for we fleed from him for fear of being followed.
We gear up. RomeoMike reckons he can skip wearing knee guards. Spiderweb insists he wear them. RomeoMike argues that we do not have much to travel and given that we intend to cruise at a leisurely pace, the probability of a spill borders on the improbable. Spiderweb insists he wear them. RomeoMike argues that the weather has made his skin itchy. We all insist he wear them. He wears them.
We bid our hostesses farewell, mount our steeds and hit Start. A few curious foreigners surround us and ask us of our path. I presume they are friends of the Pole I ran into yesterday. We inform them of our course. They explain their desire to do the same. They will, however, follow suit only a few days hence since a comrade is too unwell to ride. We wish them luck and blaze on.
We ride several hours at a leisurely place. We spot wild goats grazing on the slopes. We click pictures only to find that our pithy lenses are unable to separate their camouflage against the background. We fantasize our response to a snow leopard dropping in on us. We click more pictures.
In time, we discover a stream more more blue than the bluest blue, more pure than the purest pure. Spiderweb and RomeoMike decide it would be criminal not to experience it. They strip down to their underwear. The temperature is dropping fast, I'm breathing shallow. Motorbreath and I will watch from the sidelines. After much trepidation, Spiderweb decides to test the water with his foot. A blinding chill sweeps through his body as he screams "OH FUCK! OH FUCK! IT'S COLD! IT'S VERY COLD!". "Of course it is Genius!", I think to myself. I'll admit, it takes balls to strip down to the bare in the freeze. But you also risk losing them. RomeMike suffers a similar fate but he is far braver than Spiderweb for he spends more time tinkering with the possibility of immersing himself completely. He wisely decides against it.
With the two back in their gear, we ride on. In the minutes to come, RomeMike, engrossed in admiring his surroundings, will ride over a big rock and crash. Motorbreath and Spiderweb, both seconds ahead of him, will hear nothing over the din of music in their ears. The ear plugs will drown out the sickening sound of metal and rock against bone...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)