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.

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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.

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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.

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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.