30,000 feet and Climbing

Food and Shelter
Over pizza with some very young Brits last night, we were discussing how we journal our travels. I told them about the little calendar boxes I draw in my notebook and how I write just a few keys words to remind me of the day and the place. Usually it includes what I ate. Unless of course, it was more dal bat. If you’ve traveled in the India-Nepal part of the world, you are familiar with this plate of food. For those who travel vicariously, I will explain. It is a nutritious vegetarian serving of chapattis (fresh whole wheat flat bread) ) rice, soupy lentils or other bean things, and a bit of curried vegetables, usually including potatoes. This is lunch or dinner and costs about 80 cents per plate. Usually, seconds are offered as well as chili chutney. Since food varies little in many parts around here, that is what we eat. And parantha for breakfast, which is the same dough with onion and leftover curried potato folded into the middle, but cooked not dry, as chapatti, but with oil or butter fat, on a griddle. Thank God for Kit Kats, which we found being sold in some of the oddest, out of the way places.

And we’ve stayed in some really out of the way spots. It’s amazing how I took pity on the young Nepali road workers who live in stone hovels along side of the national “highway.” But after sleeping a couple nights in similar tarp-covered, mud and stone huts myself, I don’t think of it as such low accommodation after all. Yeah, the wind can be violent in its loud flapping, and you emerge the next morning with a fine, sparkly silt coating- but earplugs and a sense of fashion negate those problems easily. These impromptu beds are found in Dhabas, which are truck stop/cafes found about every 20-30 kilometers along the way. They offer a few sleeping spots- some separate and also communal with the family. They sell soft drinks. They sell Kit Kats. They sell dal.
But currently, it’s no dal for this doll, for I’m in Manali, the Israeli magnet full of delicious western food. Yesterday was cappuccino and mocha fudge cake for breakfast, batter fried Indian cheese balls for lunch, and fresh tomota soup and full on vegetarian pizza for dinner. Tonight I’m planning on nachos with guacamole for the first course, and hot fudge banana split for desert. And I started the day with a hot, melty, chocolate chip cookie. I actually bought two: one for me and one for Raju, the local man who has been my savior. Unfortunately, during a 2-minute stop to check out a map shop on the 3-kilometer way down to the bustling-with-Indian-tourists area called New Manali to meet Raju, I set my rear wheel and pannier down with his wrapped cookie on top. Next second the shopkeeper said, “I think that dog has taken your food,” whereupon I grabbed his broom from his hand and roared and growled at the full-sized German shepherd that had run off with the contents of my yellow napkin. He dropped the cookie. With the 3-second rule, in effect, (which could easily be expanded to 3 minutes when the cyclists’ rules are applied) I promptly retrieved it, thinkg all the while that probably Raju would not want to eat it after all. But the dog, faced with his loss, decided to charge. Bluff charge? I don’t know. But it was a beating, barking commotion that drew a crowd, including the dog’s presumed Master. “Your dog stole my food. It was a present for down side. 20 rupees!” I yelled. In the end I’m not sure who was shaking more. The shopkeeper said I gave that dog the scare of his life. “And he, me.” I refused the 20 rupees and trembled back to the road to continue on my way down to Raju, short a cookie but long on tale.
I heard about Raju through Cass, from Out There Biking. I knew about Cass from his bike touring website and wrote him a desperate plea for assistance when it became apparent to me that my rear rim was cracked, making the rear brake completely unusable and seriously jeopardizing my safety if not the remainder of the trip. End of story: the hub, cassette and 32 spokes on my rear wheel were rebuilt onto the front rim. The front hub, spokes and quick release were donated to the universe. And I am now sporting a fancy, blue Indian front wheel, complete with 36 shiny, twisty spokes. $3.70 to the wheel builder, $36 for the new wheel, and about $18 in gratuity for Raju’s time and generosity. When we head back over Rohtang Pass tomorrow, I will be able to ride with the confidence that has been missing since we first set out. Much as I hate to admit it, I know I left Alaska with this crack in my rim.

Kaza to Manali, Over Kunzum La and Rohtang Pass
July 4 we rode a short and gentle day, climbing 483 meters, on the first stage of crossing the 4551 meter Kunzum La. Amy agreed to try camping that night, and we settled just off the road, not far from the cement irrigation canal that watered the lifeline of crops on the plain falling away to the gorge-hidden headwaters of the Spiti River, which we’d been following for the past week since leaving the Satlej. The small village of Hul was just two-thirds of a kilometer away, which gave me a calm feeling and brought Amy unease. We’d spent over an hour there, trying to teach the local children how to fly the kite Heidi gave me at the Kayak Symposium ending party in June. Or rather, we were trying to learn how to fly it so we could teach them. There success was irrelevant. Just running through the dreary, dusty landscape with this brilliant rainbow of crisp new nylon, 20-foot tail streaming behind, brought sunshine and laughter to their cooperative, turn-taking faces. It was the perfect place to lighten my load for the climb ahead. I slept soundly, at 3739 meters, enjoying the rhythm of sleeping and waking according to the natural light.

July 5 was another short day with a 549 meter climb, as we rolled into Losar in the mid-afternoon. Dismal at first glance, it evolved into one of the loveliest of stays. The woman who ran the place was a great cook with a warm spirit. We were fortunate to share our little sidewalk eating-seating (inside was rich with atmosphere, prayer wheel, candles and dark wood, but permeated with a thick layer of kerosene) with Hamisch and his partner. He was a tinkerer and persistent, which meant that the broken seat post bolt that Amy suffered that afternoon was finally repaired after three attempts. Eartlier a man about Dhaba had located a spare bolt with matching threads. Too bad it was not a hex head, for it needed to be tightened into a recessed part of the seat clamp. I wasn’t successful in locating washers- which I later realized could be pilfered from Amy’s spare brake pad set- and in the end, the local man tightened the bolt so hard it bent. She rode only 20 meters before she was on a rocking horse on wheels. Pedaling with sandals on clip-less pedals didn’t make things any easier. Before we met Hamisch I tried filling the gaps with finely rolled duct tape wads, clamping the whole thing together with zip ties to reduce the rock and roll. It was effective but far from perfect. Third time’s a charm.

July 6 was a full day. Riding over the Kunzum Pass was actually quite easy. We spent time at the temple and were treated to tea by the local caretaker. We then were accompanied by another local as we attempted the recommended shortcut to Chandra Tal (Moon Lake). Not recommended. After forty minutes of floundering, pushing up a scree traverse, the encroaching weather drip sense into us. We made a hasty retreat back to the temple where there was just enough time to dress in full weather gear before descending 400 meters in the blowing rain. Visibility: 5 meters. A Hindi sign about 8 kilometers down was the only clue that this was our turn-off to the lake. No food and lots of climbing made for my most challenging day. We knew there was a dhaba at the lake but we never found it until after I’d cooked one of our emergency meals- potato soup with coconut milk, and instant beans with crackers. Amy’s late evening reconnaissance mission at least gave us hope for the morning. The next day was the most beautiful, as I circled the lake on the high ridge out, and shoreline back. The winds were truly breath-taking, but they blew out before dawn, leaving a silent turquoise morning, punctuated only by a vocal, orange, migratory Siberian duck.

July 8 was a very short ride to the dhaba at Batal- a strategic move to place us in position for a dawn departure before the impeding headwinds. We spent the afternoon watching busses and jeeps unload their charges briefly for a rice dal feeding and a hunt for some toileting privacy. Earplugs were in order for some sleepable quiet.

July 9 was three separate 17 kilometer stages which brought us finally to the base of Rohtang Pass. This was undoubtedly the most difficult of road surfaces, but some of the most rewarding in scenery. Our first stop was initially disappointing as there was no longer a dhaba, and the government rest house caretaker clearly felt no obligation to entertain us. A bit of insistence on my part convinced him to offer us tea- delicious with sheep milk, a first for me. A series of name-dropping: the Losar proprietess was his auntie, the Kunzum local guide was his nephew- and he was scraping the remains of his fine breakfast curry into a pot to serve us with re-heated chapattis, Gifts exchanged and we departed refueled in both body and soul. The second stage took us to a proper daboa where we met Ollie, a mad Englishman who cycled our route in the oppositie direction of a bike more sad than mine. Pieced together from a parts heap at Raju’s shop, it had only the rear brake in working order, a rim tied- yes, tied- with string a broken crank, and who remembers what else. They had just little day packs and rode with power until they found a dry bed each night. Chow mein at the daba was a delicious break from lentils and rice. The final push involed two long, but not scary, water crossings and two unexpected but not insurmountable climbs. We finally arrived at Gramphoo, the crossroad to Leh and Ladakh north, our destination, and over the Rohtang Pass to Manali south, our detour.


July 10- an easy two and a half hour climb up to the Rohtang top. Physically easy, that is. I had an early morning meltdown, shouting a variety of curses- none repeated- at each of the passing army convoy vehichles who took there half (of the road) out of the middle while I was perched on a skinny outside ledge. I regained composure and made the rest of the climb without incident. Until we reached the zoo at the top. At first I found it entertaining- all the Indian tourists who spend the day going up “to the snow.” There are some dirty snow fields that persist through summer up there. These families and newlyweds and groups of friends hire jeeps to come up and spend the afternoon strutting in rented boots and fur coats and snow suits. They ride ponies around the stupas along the ridge. The eat overpriced corn, grilled over little charcoal fires. They teeter on snow and manage to ignore the dust, the mud, the noise and the stench of belching trucks and motorbikes, passing with dangerous speed in these crowded confines. Oh, and did I mention the road construction? Occasional bulldozers digging giant holes, uncontrolled and seemingly never finished. But that was nothing at all compared to the descent. One-lane, monsooned, muddy mess of a road, with non-stop trucks and busses and motorbikes and more and more jeeps and tour vans and private cars coming up and going down all in the one-lane quagmire. With two enormous vultures hovering only feet overhead as they swooped and glided in slow motion, presiding over the stillness of the natural world that they saw, ignorant of the clamatous chaos surrounding them. I lasted about 8 minutes. A kind man had his driver stop, “I’ve cycled 10,000 kilometers in India” he said. In the end, he stopped one of the ”goods carriers” that was returning empty from Leh and within minutes, Amy and I were holding on for dear life in the lurching metal hull with our bikes carefully insulated by our panniers underneath. It didn’t last too long, for at the first stop- two cars cannot pass at the same time on these roads, there is always negotiation and often backing up- I ran to the front (which side is the driver’s side here anywhay?!) and he and his two helpers made room for us in the cab. A white-knuckled descent, when were were not a a standstill. 10 minutes in one place left me skeptical as we watched water run through the newly-bulldozed earth on the bank to our left, which then catastrophically rebalanced with a mini landslide. The pile of rubble in front of us was building and the consensus eventurally led the driver to cancel his patient waiting and make an assertive move out of that tenuous spot. He was careful and kind, and despite an occasional scream or eye-closing, breath-holding moment, we safely descende and were gently deposited in this bustling town of Manali where there is no shortage of good things to eat.