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Dust and Dahlbatt
A bicycle journey through Nepal. December 2017
I’m in the heart of a rhododendron forest, the only sounds my harsh breathing and heavy footsteps. Around me are the beautiful, twisted, mossy trunks and ahead and behind, the steep rutted trail. Sweat drips down my face and I have a serious case of sweaty boob. Somewhere in front is Huw, further behind Rachael. We are all suffering in our own little hells as we carry bikes and bivi kits ever upward. In places the gully is too narrow for the bikes to fit, balanced as they are across our backs. In other spots, water has washed the trail clean away leaving fallen trees and big holes to be navigated. Fortunately no one is close enough to hear my swearing.
Why are we doing this? There must be more fun to be had in these vast mountains that make up the Nepal Himalaya. Well as anyone’s who has set out to a new place, without a guide and armed only with scant information and highly inaccurate maps, will know, plan A does not always work. Sometimes neither do plan B,C or D. after a mix of frustration and joy, we were now on about plan Q. Of course we could have followed the same tourist tracks, biked the Annapurna circuit with hundreds of others and probably had an amazing time. But all three of us wished to see a side of Nepal, less touched by western hands and ideals. We harbored no romantic ideas about rustic ways of life, but wanted to see how communities existed away from the tourist dollars and far beyond the roads and pollution of Kathmandu.
Loading the bicycles up into rice sacks and flying to Tumlingtar, we dreamed of high mountain trails and big glacial valleys. Our first few days riding were exciting, we raced tractors pulling big trailers filled with kids along pebbled river beds and crossed tiny, bouncy, suspension bridges high above ravines to villages tucked into the hillside. We rode narrow single tracks through rice paddies, passing porters carrying inconceivable loads of rice or goods and big mule trains that kicked up dust as they jangled their ways passed. Starting from only 400 meters those first long days were spent climbing, the settlements gradually fading into the odd lone house. Eventually, having left the last remnants of the dust road behind, we arrived at Gothe Bazaar, a porter’s bati, hidden in a dark hollow next to a loud, gushing glacial river. Here, inhabited by three intricately decorated ladies, faces lined with age but filled with extravagant gold jewellery and wearing big toothy grins, we ate dhal bhat late into the night with a mix of men, as they paused on their journeys to bring biscuits and shampoo to the remoter hamlets.
We were shaken awake that night by an earthquake rocking the wooden frame of the building. I thought of the huge devastation of the earthquake of the previous year and thinking of how remote we were, the trail behind us not much more than a trod carved out of the clay hillside by hundreds of feet and hooves, and how easily one could become trapped in a valley. The snoring of the ladies calmed my racing pulse and I soon drifted off.
With sunshine dawning the next day we headed off in high spirits, the trail became increasingly broken; we had to pass bikes up and down steep slabs and were soon carrying more than riding. Eventually after a few hours making only a couple of kilometres, we had to sit down and accept the reality that this trail was not for bikes. Even having started knowing we might have to bail, the disappointment sank deep into us. Sitting with weary faces, trying to be optimistic, we knew we had a long few days retracing our steps back out and some more planning to do. The initial excitement dissolved, and with it our energy. The steep carries that had seemed fun and adventurous on the way up were now fraught as we tried not to argue in our tiredness.
Our descent back to Tumlingtar was made more interesting by a celebration, a giant pig slaughtered in the road and the hair being singed off whilst everyone looked on. We tiptoed around trying not to step in the blood.
These lower hills, the hindu woman were seen as fleeting shadows, disappearing as we approached. Parmitra, a young lady in her early twenties was the first to change this. Seeing us sweating our way past on our uphill journey she came running into the street to greet us and try our bikes, a big infectious grin she managed to communicate better than we could with our dodgy Nepali and left us cycling away energised and giggling. Now on our return we stopped to see if we could find her. Walking slowly past the string of houses, collecting a gaggle of small boys, she spotted us from her shop and called us over, hot tea was ordered as she commanded her little sisters around. The afternoon disappeared fast as she gave us impromptu Nepali lessons and discussed her life as a single young woman. Once she discovered Rachael, nearly 10 years her senior was also single ,she sent the kids out on a whispered mission. Ten minutes later the eligible bachelors of the hamlet started arriving. Laughing, we decided to leave, but not before Rachael was persuaded to have selfies with several of the men.
Later we met three sisters, each quite unique, the oldest, uninterested in boys, keen to be a savvy businesswoman, the middle sister was the poser, whilst the youngest, still at school wanted to study. We stayed up eating late with them, practicing our nepali, they their English, whilst trying to see what weird foods they could convince us naïve foreigners to eat.
Racheal with the sisters 
Parmitra
The next week or so passed in a blur of lumpy dirt roads, spectacular views, endless steep climbs and broken down trucks. We peddled past creaky houses, balconies dripping in orange pumpkins. We pushed through muddy ruts as men ploughed their fields with buffalo and woman sorted rice grain in big round trays. We ate instant noodles and drank sweet lemon tea in roadside shacks and met a hero in one, a guide returning home after a successful Everest summit with his stunning wife and child. Passing through orange country we were implored to take more fruit than we could carry, by smiling faces and friendly words. Chicken and goats ran free between our wheels and children tailed us through every village. Busses passed, loaded to the roof with people and livestock, the suspension groaning over the bumps, their drivers stopping to throw water over the brakes in every streambed. A commander with the Nepali army wined and dined us to his stories of training with foreign princes at Sandhurst. Finally the road took us to Phaplu, a string of houses on a dusty street with the first westerners we had seen in over a week. Boys played with a basic seesaw on a patch of dirt with Mount Numbur looming behind. And here it was that we met the eccentric Mr and Mrs Lama, at their little guesthouse and who told us stories of bears and mountain lions and suggested some routes.
And so we are sweating up this mountain, carrying for over 1000 vertical meters to reach a place Mr Lama suggested. The Duhd Kunda, meaning milky lake, at 4560 m is a place of worship, tucked under the Nimbur mountain range.
Eventually as the steep climb levels off, we regroup on a stunning sinuous ridge. Laughing in the sunshine, hardships forgotten we peddle along, amazed such wonderful trail exists here. Soon though, our bodies remind us of what we have exerted, and that we are now around 4000m and the altitude really kicks in. Trying to ride undulating technical trail on steep hillside is painful, burning legs, burning lungs. I feel wobbly and awkward on my bike and Rachael soon passes me. Gradually as the sun starts to fall and the temperature dips we have to push on faster to reach a suitable bivi spot. It’s a cold night, dinner is a simple affair of boiled egg and yaks cheese. I lie in my under-powered bag shivering, and watch the stars as they twirl slowly above my head. In this empty, silent valley it is hard to imagine the thousands of pilgrims who gather here in summer, with their laughter and cattle and campfire smoke. The altitude makes my head pound and I consider walking down to let it ease but stay, stuck under the weight of the enormous sky.
In the end it is Huw and Rachael who feel the altitude the next day, I scout ahead and bring them the bad news that the trail disappears into the glacial moraines. The bikes must yet again be abandoned. We walk slowly though the rock heaps, admiring the sunrise over Numbur. Finally we reach this place we have desired for so many sweaty hard footfalls. A mountain lake, tucked into this high corrie, beautiful, cold, overhung by seracs and the remnants of the glacier. Before we set out, this harsh barren mountain environment was what we imagined Nepal to be. How little we knew, and how lucky we were fate conspired to push us south. Our journey made so much richer by all the encounters, faces and friends from along the road. We might not have made it with bicycles, but now, to be here is enough.
Scottish Adventures
Bikerafting the edge of Scotland
Sometimes I get envious looking at friends photos from their homelands: vast countries, with huge tracks of real wilderness and endless mountains to explore. It seems like real adventure is just around the corner for them and makes our small island shrink even more into a man managed country park. In summer just trying to find a bit of peace can be hard let alone a multi day journey. But in July that’s exactly what we managed.
It started as all the best plans do, over lemonade in the quiet corner of a pub. An idea I wrote off as being not gnarly enough, possibly a bit pedestrian. However the seed grew and sprouted, and then Huw decided he fancied it. A chance meeting with Sarah and Thor from Alpacka Raft, and the offer of two beautiful boats meant like it or not, I was now committed. Our plan: to circumnavigate the outer Hebridean islands of North Uist and Benbecula using fatbikes and packrafts.
Fast forward to the first morning, on the sea in what should be a very sheltered piece of water; full of skerries, seals and turquoise sand. Instead we are ferry gliding across the wind to hop from eddy to eddy as a force 4 wind races over the water, dark sullen waves beginning to break over our decks. Trying to paddle into the wind is impossible, working flat out, sweat running down my shoulder blades as the rain smashes into my face. After ten minutes I’ve gone two metres. Downwind. Time to give up, we let the wind carry us into the flanks of an island where we quickly jump out and get the boats packed up onto the bikes. With the tide low, there’s a chance we can hop between skerries back to the mainland. Small causeways have been built to allow passage of sheep between the tiny blobs of grazing that speckle the bay here. It is with delight that we can navigate these with only wet feet to the mainland. It wasn’t the start to our trip that we had hoped but at least we had a big reality check on what is possible in these boats.
We had fallen asleep under a still, shimmering, deep orange sky, but in true Scottish style, awoke to horizontal rain battering the tent. Packrafts, if you haven’t been lucky enough to come across them yet, are a lightweight inflatable kayak. Whilst their high volume and low draft makes them excellent for navigating shallow waterways, it does mean that they are a plaything to the wind. Stick an extra two feet of bicycle on the front and you have to go with the whim of the wind.
Back on solid land we pedalled a section of tarmac to keep our journey going. Then, once further round we skipped off onto the rain pockmarked sands of the west. This would be another test of the kit: this time the fatbikes’ turn. Whilst we have used them extensively on the snow, sand was an unknown and we hoped their performance would live up to expectations. The first few kilometres we sped along on firm white sands with dark streaks running through. The tidal ripples added interesting corrugations and the sound the huge rubber tyres threw up was immense. Rounding a point and hitting soft, windblown sand slowed progress slightly, but the wheels kept turning and tyres floated over surfaces that would have mired feet.
The Outer Hebrides, especially the Uists, are home to one of the rarest habitats on earth, the Machair. Found only along the western coast of Scotland and Ireland, it is as fragile as it is beautiful. A combination of crushed shell sands, wind, rainfall and human practices turns these barren looking coastlines into huge wildflower meadows during July. Every area of machair will vary slightly to the next depending on how the crofters have grazed or cultivated the land, so the flowers vary from place to place. At its richest around forty different species can be found per square meter and the air around filled with a variety of insects. Our favourite was to become the great yellow bumblebee that bounced from flower to flower in a comical way, more of a blimp than a concord.
Stopping early to enjoy the beautiful buttercup meadow we set up camp and spent the rest of our evening exploring the dunes and beaches between the huge rain showers still sweeping in from the Atlantic. In between we were rewarded with that very intense golden Hebridean light, as though the sun is trying to make the most of its rare appearances.
The following day whizzed by in a blaze of empty endless sand. The feeling of remoteness was unexpected on an island so small. Our only company the odd fishing boat bobbing in the still churning seas just off the coast. The local crofters presumably too busy with more important things than beach walks, the tourists too far as the road cuts inland, never suggesting the amazing coast only a miles walk away. Although the Uists are only a fragment of the Scottish coastline, they in turn have their own chain of mini peninsular and islands, separated even at low tide by deep fast tidal drainages.
Although the winds were still strong, the packrafts came into their own, allowing us to stay out on the fringes of the land by crossing these channels rather than heading back inland.
We planned to camp on Kirkibost island but with a big swell and running tide, we decided to wait a while and get a bit of food in the only real pub on north Uist. Here we met local fisherman, who, amused by our kit, warned, of sinking sands and dangerous currents. Never wanting to disregard local knowledge we headed out into the sunset to check for ourselves. With the tide out the channel was down to a hundred meters or so with only a remnant of the earlier swell. Setting sail across, glancing back we caught a glimpse of one of the shadowy men, watching us depart.
Kirkibost is a small machair island, once connected to the main island, until a storm in the 17 century it has the ruins of a farmstead, but is now uninhabited apart from the cows that graze it seasonally. Camping tucked out of the winds, in the dunes we could look back on the dots of light showing the indoor comforts but neither of us would swap our wildflower bed for theirs. Here the machair was less yellow, big white daisies reared up above, sheltering tiny purple orchids. We were settling into the rhythms of a trip: ride, paddle, eat, sleep. Relishing every moment of freedom, from the still frequent rain showers to our sand entrenched toes. Waking to a dry tent for once, we were up and away early as there are several large tidal crossing to be done. Although the winds had dropped slightly, we still wanted to catch them at their narrowest, and preferably before the tides began running too strong. A short push through the sharp marram dunes and we were onto the first, over to Baleshare island.
Riding the 7km beach along the island, most notable for not achieving a single contour line on an OS 1:50000 map, with only the gentle hum of our tires and the endless crash of the atlantic surf for company. The sands stretched away for what seemed like forever, the tide lines marked with giant kelps and the odd jewel of jellyfish. The endless horizon to our right and sands infront made this small island a giant universe with us as its only inhabitants. All too soon we reach the next tidal crossing, the packrafts allowing us to jump straight over to Benbecula island without having to make a big detour over the chain of causeways that link the land. A few more sandy kilometres and we descended into the local supermarket in Balivanich for pastries and giant reduced price cookies. The excitement of a shop and lots of delicious food countered the joy of having been self suffient, no need of any human trappings for the past few days. Checking the forecast here, signal being a rare commodity on the islands, we realized that we had a two day window of lower winds to do as much of the east coast paddling before the next big frontal system hit.
Looking at a map of Benbecula and North Uist, it is a packrafters paradise, lots of very sheltered broken sea, and where the Minch becomes too scary, a landscape filled with a complex system of lochs that we would use to link us all the way back to Loch Maddy. Following an old track we cut across the middle of Benbecula, sad to leave behind the machair meadows and white sands for the blanket bogs and seaweed of the east.
In the end the magic low winds never arrived but we enjoyed a day nipping in and out of eddies, sheltered between the islands of Grimsay and Ronay, always followed by the ubiquitous ‘rons’ (the gaelic word for seal). Drifting over the clear water, looking down into the damp world below, filled with beautiful kelps, sparkling fish and clear sands is wonderful. It might not have been adrenaline fuelled fun but worth so much more. Deciding against our more ambitious plan to carry on round the coast, we opted to hop onto the fresh water system where strong winds would be less serious.
The great thing about a boat the weights just a couple of kilos is its very easy to carry. Portages that would be a pain with another craft become fluid parts of the journey. Two short portages later and we made camp under the mighty Eaval, north Uists highest peak at an airy 341m.
One of my favourite things about an OS map, is the names found on them can go back centuries and lead clues to the past, like the Norse name Eaval, possibly dating back as far as 800ad when the Vikings attacked, or translating the Gaelic words, gaelic still being the first language of the islands, can give clues about the landscape. One such word we became acquainted with a little too late.
Delighted to be camped by fresh water for the first time in days, we swiftly set about rinsing the salt crystals from our kit. Then, a tiny jellyfish drifted by in the shallow water. After a short debate about the existence of a freshwater jelly, Huw sampled the water, and quickly spat it out. Here, surrounded by land, in the middle of north Uist, is a saltwater loch. Careful checking of the map later and we discovered a tiny channel marked where the sea flows in. But the name, Loch Obasaraigh, is a give away, Ob, in gaelic meaning a tidal inlet. Not a mistake we will make again.
Camped in this landscape, we can see no people, yet we are surrounded by the remains of them, and signs that the land, even in this remote corner, is still heavily used by them. Down in the loch stand the remains of two duns, a Neolithic fort built on an artificial island often connected by a rocky causeway. High above on the hill, the land has the signs of old drainage channels and peat cutting, looking closer the ruined foundations of a series of old cottages remain. Often the only giveaway being a mound of rock and a change in vegetation, nettles, honeysuckle and brambles have long outlived their human counterparts.
Our last evening of freedom, as tomorrow we would arrive back in bustling lochmaddy. Climbing Eaval for sunset the views opened up the island, revealing all the waterways, hundreds of sparkling lochs and channels. In the low light the land glittered like a giant chanderlier. As darkness lowered we made our way back down the steep hill, watched by the rugged sheep and deer.
Our final day started with some short fresh water paddling where, too lazy to dismantle the boats we dumped them wheels still in place, on our bows and paddled awkwardly. A short portage took us to our final sea passage, crossing loch Euphort. Timing it with the tides we drifted inland, peace interrupted by sparing seals before crossing back past a local lady gathering whelks to sell and onto the next chain of inland lochs that would transport us back to town. Finally with a tail wind, we finished our final portage, put on next to some beautiful lily pads decorated by metallic damsels, got sails up and were away. Eventually bumping into the road, we packed up the boats for the final time and peddled the old road back to Loch Maddy. Passing stacks of drying peat we were left to consider what an amazing journey we had been on, in a very small part of a very small country, but feeling as though we had been to the other end of the world.
Scottish Adventures
Strathpuffer 2019
It took me a long time to adjust to moving to the uk from south africa, but one trait of Britishness that ive come to really love, is the joy of a good old ridiculous sufferfest. Take the Strathpuffer, a 24 hour mountain bike race, but, not content with that being hard enough, they decided to hold it in January, arguably one of the worst weather months in the uk and boasting around 17 hours of dark. This, ladies and gentlemen, is an event that sells out within hours.
This year I only put myself on the waiting list at the end of October, having been injured. Id reconciled myself to the fact i wasn’t going to get an entry when, with two weeks to go, i got offered a place! A lot of last minute bike fettling and baking saw me head up the road to join the long cold queue to gain the all important parking pass to allow entry to the site.
Another great British tradition that fits perfectly with the Strathpuffer is weather forecast watching. Everyone has their favorite forecast and the debate in the build up to the event is often highly entertaining. Will it be icy, will it snow, should i bring ice spikers, will i need every set of water proofs i own and several sets of spare brake pads? In the end the weather has a funny way of changing at the last minute and catching everyone off guard. This year was no exception with snowfall two days before and temperatures dropping way below forecast (at least my favorite forecast 😉 )
Unsupported soloing comes with all the challenges of self sufficiency. In previous years the challenge has been keeping drive trains and brakes working. This year, for me it was staying hydrated. A few cold nights in the van and most of my water was well on its way to freezing. Filling my flasks before the start and thinking I was being really clever by adding isotonic energy drink to my bottles in the hopes it wouldn’t freeze, I wasn’t too worried. At 4am id used all my flask water and everything else was frozen solid. Working out id peed twice in the last 30hours, I was sat on the step of my van chipping ice from my jetboil to try and melt some water to drink. Possibly not the most efficient way to race!
The cold had a big impact in other ways, food that seemed so tasty and had been selected as easy to eat with a high moisture content froze. Try eating solid boiled potatoes at two in the morning. My rice balls followed suit and even pizza developed a certain crunch.
The course in a 24 develops and changes as hundreds of tires fly over the same lines. Each lap is different and this year about 70% of the course required a lot of concentration just to stay rubberside down, never mind go fast. Thing improved after those with ice spikers put them on as this seemed to break up the ice and rough things up. The course improved further after the usual night time exodus, only the most determined riders sitting turning circles through the darkness. The night was stunning, it sparkled, crisp, glittering, crunchy under the moon. The riding became fluid and sublime, dont touch your brakes and it will be fine.
The dawn lap arrived with a flurry of emotions. To survive the night, to have made it through, intact, mentally and physically is one of the best feelings. Now you know you will finish, you have seen it through. You have fought the demons and won. That positivity marred as the beautiful peace and anonymity of the dark is shattered as the course wakes up, and those who have slept through, arrive for a few aggressive final laps. It often these last hours where i find the overtaking deteriorates and the riding becomes scary. Bars clipped, tempers fray, the mud becomes polished as folk start skidding about everywhere. This year the rain on ice added a spiciness that, 22 hours in, we could have all done without. Testing to the end.
This was my third solo, my first truly unsupported. However between friends cheering me on as they sped past and the wonderful, amazing, incredible marshals it never felt lonely or got too tough out there. Thank you to everyone who offered support, who had a chat on their way past or just past nicely. And well done to all those solos who survived the night with me.
Results are here . One day i will make top 10, this year i was happy with a chilled ride to second place female and 19th solo overall.
About Me
About me
Hi, Im Annie, an outdoor girl in the Scottish highlands. I work freelance in outdoor education, living in my van to save up for kit and trips.
Ive transitioned from climber to fell runner to mountain biker and now my main focus is overnight missions, bike packing or bike rafting.
This year im hoping to improve my photography and have a few awesome adventures lined up to tell stories though film so watch this space!
Continuing from 2018, i feel super lucky to be supported by two amazing companies, Alpacka Raft and Revelate Designs. These are both small companies who really love, believe in and thoroughly use the kit they make and sell. Alpacka Raft are also working hard to raise awareness around the arctic refuge and im proud to be part of them.
The photos used in the website are either taken by me or my partner Huw
