Porridge and melba toast for breakfast. Followed by a stop at the Mechanic's for a new clutch handle and then we were up n' away, ascending out of the Spiti Valley towards Losar. The state of Himachal Pradesh can be navigated in a convenient circuit during a generous period of time that begins in early June and runs favourable road conditions as late as November. But this was the mid-month of May however, which left it a guessing game for road authorities and tenacious riders alike. There was no telling how far the road would go and/or if the Rhotung Pass that connects the Spiti Valley (where we were) to the Kullu Valley (where we wanted to go) was open or closed. In the tradition of Vagrant Optimism we asked check point officials what the status of the road to Kullu was whenever we could. They all said the same thing: “You won't get much farther than Losar.” So there was, of course, a personal challenge issued and a good looking day to do it in. We hit Losar in no time and rode right past it with balls-out mentality. If we could make it through the Rhotung Pass (which in Tibetan means the pile of corpses) than we had a shot at making it all the way to Kullu and Manali. If we didn't make it, we would either meet our demise to whatever the hell was obstructing the road, or we would have to turn around and drive all the way back the way we came.
It was most definitely the hairiest part of our journey. The road was a series of narrow, hair-pin turns going up an unpaved, rocky terrain. We climbed above 3000 meters in first gear and found ourselves riding with heavy snow on either side of us. It was a bitter cold, but the sun was out, melting the snow into streams of water ran down from the mountains in puddles beyond pools in the middle of our path. We rode through them with our feet up on the leg guards of our bikes and took our time to navigate every obstacle and turn while the road got relentlessly muddier and more challenging. “If one of these ladies (bikes) goes down, we're surely fucked.” I thought out loud. And with that we reached a formidable patch of snow that completely blanketed the road. We could go no further. It was a soft-serve ice cream mix of chocolate and vanilla – relief and disappointment. Lick it up and turn back.
We paused at a majestic summit point to take photos and were about to sit down and make lunch when Jon noticed the dark clouds moving in on us, almost at eye level. It didn't take us too long to get back on the main road that would lead us to Kibber, where we would spend the night. A little outside of Kaza we were waved down by a small group of workers on the side of the road. They invited us for a fresh made pot of chai, so we pulled over and brought some melba toast to our side-o-the-road sit down. We made some hilarious small talk and took some photos, then carried on to Kibber. The road that led us into the village provided a heavenly view as it opened up to a panoramic of colorful mountains and deep gorges that held on to the hands of the sun and guided it gently down.
At the recommendation of Jamaica, Jon sought out the Serkong home-stay while I cruised around the village handing out hard candy that I had left in my pockets. The owner of the home-stay was a warm hearted fellow named Dorje. He was a good friend of Jamaica's and invited us into his carpeted kitchen where we drank tea and dried our cold, wet feet by the small stove in the centre of the room. We ate a solid, home cooked meal of Dal and curd on rice and then retired easily from such a challenging day.
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