Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 52: Pwned.

June 20th, 2010

My last memory of RomeoMike is of him turning back. I had hoped he would, although my reasons remained selfish. I did not want to be anxious over him.

We begin the ascend, Spiderweb, Motorbreath and I, in that order. We will ascend without incidence for many minutes. Through freshly scraped pathways through snow, through camps where trucks rise up in a thunderous roar, across snow and scum. If only RomeMike could have made it till here, I think aloud. The Universe teases us with bursts of snow. It won't throw up much of a challenge. Not yet anyway.

We arrive at what looks like a pathway composed entirely of snow. A gentle stream flows from within its crevices. A few locals, presumably hired hands of BRO, are busy at work shoveling snow off a nearby patch.  Motorbreath hits the snowy pathway first. I follow close behind. Wrong call. This is no pathway. Merely a pond of sludge. Our steeds sink instantly, as liquid crystal begins its rise, shimmering dangerously close to my exhaust. I cannot move. The sludge grabs at my ankles and won't let go. Motorbreath, it would appear, hasn't much luck either as he pulls at the throttle in vain.

We turn around, ask Spiderweb to help us out. Spiderweb will do nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. He will sit there, a few feet away from us in the clear, and watch us struggle against the might of nature. All requests to him to help us out will go completely unheard. We then turn to the locals and beg them to help us. They seem unwilling at first saying they do not want to get their feet wet for they intend to work through the day. They haven't the means to dry themselves. There's not a shard of wood in sight. The warm embrace of fire would be fantasy at best. They tell us that the foreigners that came before us, presumably the Poles, managed to help each other out of the sludge. I point to our only hope, Spiderweb, who sits there looking disinterested and ask the locals if they forsee us getting out of there with THAT help. They see my point and jump into the sludge, dragging us along with our steeds out onto a safer patch.

We will thank them and one by one, make our way through a long slippery pathway onto the other side, fish tailing through for the most part. As I stop to catch my breath, I run into an elderly couple enjoying the view sitting atop a Tavera. They seem American from their accents. They reveal they are originally from Poland but have lived in the United States since their teens. I tell them of the Poles that preceded us. They seems pleasantly surprised and amused for they had a conversation with the Poles as well but had no idea of their origin. They go on to tell us that the pathways on the other side of Baralacha La are completely devoid of snow. We only have a few kilometers to cover. We thank them for the information. They wish us luck. We wave and just like that, we're three revolutions closer to our destination.

We hit what seems like a gentle slope at first but are quick to realize that a stream flows through it. With zero traction, navigating against gravity will require our collective strength. This time round, we gang up. We first push Motorbreath uphill, Spiderweb comes next. I will follow close behind. But an oncoming steed, not one of our own, will slide into my pathway, fish tailing uncontrollably.  I slide my machine out of the way to allow him to pass. By this time, Spiderweb and Motorbreath have hit a bend and are out of my sight. I throttle back up, with a slight sense of urgency. Wrong call. The rear slides, taking the R-15 down. It happens too quickly. I find myself buried under snow and metal. 
Fortunately the engine cuts off.

I try to push the bike away, but its firmly seated on my right leg. Every push sends a seething pain across my foot which is slowly beginning to grow numb under the icy command of nature. A sense of acute claustrophobia envelopes me. I hasten to unstrap my helmet and pull it off. I breathe. I breathe long and hard. Something's not right. I hear loud thumbs just 2 feet from me. I crane to look, only to realize that the stream now grips my helmet and carries it with it down-slope as it bounces across boulder and stone.


With no traction to help me get on my feet and the might of metal pushing me against stone, I scream for help, hoping that either Spiderweb or Motorbreath is within an earshot. I hear nothing, except ripples in the stream, a sound that, to my exhausted mind, sounds more like ticking...