We soar over the snowed out vistas.
Lean over the sweeping curves.
Hear the sweet metallic note of the running cycle.
And march along the winding roads.
Skies so blue.
Waters so clear.
Sceneries so verdant.
And nature so virgin.
We are standing at one of the several steep hairpin bends, from where the Kanchendzonga appears just as majestic as it appeared during the sunrise. It has been an hour of steep climb from the Zuluk military base and the place where we stand now has a rich and vivid view of the entire range.
I ask the driver of the support vehicle, to shoot a few photos of myself in the backdrop of the mountain range to say that we have been there, done that and I get a fantastic shot. For a moment I feel really satisfied.
We cross over an iron railing bridge into an Army training battle ground, and the sight ahead shocks me. I still get goose bumps when I think about it. The road through the valley, which has by now completely disintegrated into a dirt track rises almost vertically up the mountain in the form of consecutive 4 "Z"s. I switch to the first gear, hold the accelerator on a high and rise along with the track. The first couple of turns are dangerous and I feel that I might be pushing the motorcycle too hard. But turning back isn’t an option now as we have travelled quite a distance. The steep Zs have become steeper in the upper reaches and the cycle almost stops under the rarefied air. I pause for a moment and balance the cycle with my stretched legs to give a little amount of rest to the strained engine.
I pull over at the Old Baba Mandir, remove the gloves and take a little rest. The Halwa Prasad of the Mandir is flowing with ghee, raisins, almonds and cashew and I take two heavy dips of it. The prasad is heavenly, and the cold and the journey make it a real treat. I get the feeling that satisfaction is something which can never be purchased - it is an intangible byproduct of a process.
The road winds down in a steep incline past the huge Kupup Lake. I pull over at a small café. From the end of the café, I can see a small hut that lies beyond the lake at the far end. It is situated on a hill top, but its view is dominated by the massive peaks that stand past it. More than the lake, it is the solitary hut that stands out.
These high plains are dark and lonely. And add to it the unreliability of disruptive weather. I can only listen to the sound of the rumbling engine and at times Lobzang’s vehicle appears in the mirror. Sometimes I wish secretly to cross over to the lower altitudes.
But the road is tough. And it lingers on. The gusty winds shake up the ride. And at times it is only the winds that I can hear.
And on the side of the road, a few feet below, lies a beautiful lake, so strikingly blue and captivating that it appears like an oasis in this lonely land.
It is a small lake, not more than a 100 ft across, whose shores end in walls of the mountains that border it. I get down from the motorcycle to take a few photos. The shores are wet and marshy and the wind that comes down from the face of the snowed mountain creates small ripples in the water, and they hit the shores where I stand.
Lean over the sweeping curves.
Hear the sweet metallic note of the running cycle.
And march along the winding roads.
Skies so blue.
Waters so clear.
Sceneries so verdant.
And nature so virgin.
We are standing at one of the several steep hairpin bends, from where the Kanchendzonga appears just as majestic as it appeared during the sunrise. It has been an hour of steep climb from the Zuluk military base and the place where we stand now has a rich and vivid view of the entire range.
I ask the driver of the support vehicle, to shoot a few photos of myself in the backdrop of the mountain range to say that we have been there, done that and I get a fantastic shot. For a moment I feel really satisfied.
We cross over an iron railing bridge into an Army training battle ground, and the sight ahead shocks me. I still get goose bumps when I think about it. The road through the valley, which has by now completely disintegrated into a dirt track rises almost vertically up the mountain in the form of consecutive 4 "Z"s. I switch to the first gear, hold the accelerator on a high and rise along with the track. The first couple of turns are dangerous and I feel that I might be pushing the motorcycle too hard. But turning back isn’t an option now as we have travelled quite a distance. The steep Zs have become steeper in the upper reaches and the cycle almost stops under the rarefied air. I pause for a moment and balance the cycle with my stretched legs to give a little amount of rest to the strained engine.
I pull over at the Old Baba Mandir, remove the gloves and take a little rest. The Halwa Prasad of the Mandir is flowing with ghee, raisins, almonds and cashew and I take two heavy dips of it. The prasad is heavenly, and the cold and the journey make it a real treat. I get the feeling that satisfaction is something which can never be purchased - it is an intangible byproduct of a process.
The road winds down in a steep incline past the huge Kupup Lake. I pull over at a small café. From the end of the café, I can see a small hut that lies beyond the lake at the far end. It is situated on a hill top, but its view is dominated by the massive peaks that stand past it. More than the lake, it is the solitary hut that stands out.
These high plains are dark and lonely. And add to it the unreliability of disruptive weather. I can only listen to the sound of the rumbling engine and at times Lobzang’s vehicle appears in the mirror. Sometimes I wish secretly to cross over to the lower altitudes.
But the road is tough. And it lingers on. The gusty winds shake up the ride. And at times it is only the winds that I can hear.
And on the side of the road, a few feet below, lies a beautiful lake, so strikingly blue and captivating that it appears like an oasis in this lonely land.
It is a small lake, not more than a 100 ft across, whose shores end in walls of the mountains that border it. I get down from the motorcycle to take a few photos. The shores are wet and marshy and the wind that comes down from the face of the snowed mountain creates small ripples in the water, and they hit the shores where I stand.
Great post.
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