"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...
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