This morning the sun is grinning ear to ear. Breakfast is in the family kitchen, then off we go towards the mighty Baralacha La. Just before Sarchu, Tenzig runs a fixed tent camp where we’ll be spending the night—“all inclusive,” as they say (minus the minibar, sadly).
We set off in the best of weather. At an army checkpoint we bump into a gang of Australian (and one ex-Swiss) motorcyclists. The road climbs, and somewhere in the rocks a kind of Himalayan hamster darts across. Every few kilometers we pass men and women with shovels and tarps clearing the stones from the road, a Sisyphean job if ever there was one. New bridges are going up, and the road itself is—miraculously—actually decent.
By noon, with a loyal tailwind pushing us, we reach the Zing-Zing Bar at 4,300 meters. No cocktails here, but a scattering of dhabas, and in one of them they even serve something better than Maggi noodles (praise be).
Traffic is mercifully light, and honking is far less aggressive than on our last Indian cycling trip. Still, the thin air gets even thinner when a couple of India Oil trucks roar past. Otherwise, it’s quiet. Sometimes the only sound is the wind, with 6,000-meter peaks looming above us like unnamed giants. Each rider grinds along at their own pace, and by just before 4 p.m. we crest the pass.
The descent is a technicolor dream: hillsides glowing, little gorges carved deep into sandy plains. Just before Sarchu the roadside fills with tent camps. The last one belongs to Tenzig, our host for the night. We dump our gear, soak up the view, and watch the sun slip away. Dinner is dal and aloo gobi, simple and perfect.
One of the young staffers introduces himself—Pingu, 25, from Kullu, spending the whole season up here. Afterward, with a final tea brewed on our trusty gas stove, I shuffle shivering into my “luxury” tent. All I wish for now: to actually sleep through the night, like a normal human being.