From Greg’s Arunachal Ride Journal
The Morning Frost at Shergaon
When dawn touched Shergaon, the world looked as if it had been dipped in silver. Frost blanketed our motorcycles, the seats sparkling in the dim light. My glove left a perfect imprint on the cold leather as I wiped away a patch of ice. The mountains were silent except for the faint creak of woodsmoke chimneys and distant crows.
Inside the homestay, our host was already up, stirring tea over a clay stove. The smell of woodfire and chai leaves filled the room. He smiled as we entered, his weathered face glowing in the firelight.
“Cold morning means clear sky,” he said, handing us steaming cups.
Over breakfast, he unrolled a faded paper map on the table and traced a thin, wavering line through the hills.
“Take the old road,” he said. “Mandala Top. Narrow, broken—but beautiful.”
We didn’t need more convincing. We finished our meal, thanked his family, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. As our Enfields rumbled to life, the sound bounced off the valley walls, echoing back like a call to adventure.
We waved goodbye, helmets fogging with our breath, and rolled out of Shergaon—into a day that would test every ounce of endurance and reward it tenfold.
Climbing Toward Mandala Top
The road quickly narrowed, twisting upward through forests of cedar and pine. Dew dripped from the branches, and the early light flickered like gold through the trees. It smelled of wet earth and resin, clean and raw.
Villages appeared out of nowhere—wooden homes painted in bright reds and yellows, smoke curling from chimneys. Children waved, dogs barked, and every face broke into a smile when we passed. The world moved at a slower, kinder rhythm here.
But the climb was steep. The pavement gave way to gravel and loose rock. At one point, the mist rolled in so thick we could barely see the taillight ahead. The only sounds were our engines and the steady ping-ping of pebbles flung from our tires.
At Mandala Top, we stopped for a few minutes. The ridge opened up to a panorama that seemed endless—mountains fading into clouds, prayer flags whipping in the wind, and the faint scent of juniper burning from a distant monastery.
We turned off the engines and just listened. The silence was immense. It was the kind of quiet that fills you instead of empties you.
Dirang Café: Coffee, Sandwiches, and Preparation
The descent into Dirang was gentler—a winding road bordered by rhododendrons and glistening streams. The air warmed, our hands loosened, and by early afternoon we rolled into town. Nestled in a bend by the river stood the Dirang Café—a modern wooden building with glass windows, colorful prayer flags, and the irresistible aroma of coffee drifting into the road.
We parked the bikes out front, peeled off our helmets, and stepped inside. The warmth hit immediately. The place had the familiar comfort of a roadside diner—riders’ photos on the walls, a playlist of soft guitar music, and the hiss of milk steaming from the espresso machine.
We ordered strong cappuccinos and toasted sandwiches—thick bread, melted cheese, and just enough chili to wake the senses. The owner, a friendly man in a wool cap, asked where we were headed. When we said “Tawang,” he raised an eyebrow.
“Then you’ll need these,” he laughed, pointing to the gray clouds gathering outside.
We took the hint. Before leaving, we zipped ourselves into full rain gear—jackets, pants, gloves sealed tight, visors cleaned. The air smelled of distant snow, the wind carrying that unmistakable chill of higher ground.
It was 2:20 p.m. We still had one of the highest motorable passes in the world to cross—and daylight was already slipping.
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The Long Ascent to Sela Pass
The road began to climb again, rising above the last traces of forest. The temperature dropped with every mile. By 12,000 feet, the world had turned gray and white, a landscape stripped to stone and ice.
The air grew thin, sharp, and strangely still. Each breath felt deliberate, like sipping through a straw. We could feel our hearts working harder, our legs heavier. Around 13,000 feet, the snow started—not a gentle drift, but thick flakes driven sideways by the wind.
We stopped once on the mountainside—just long enough to check our blood oxygen levels with the oximeter we carried. The readings were in the 80s. It explained why our heads felt light, our arms heavy. But the cold didn’t allow much reflection; after ten minutes, our fingers began to sting through the gloves, and we climbed back on.
The Enfields roared reluctantly to life. Their engines coughed in the thin air, but they pressed on. The road wound higher until the prayer flags appeared again—bright, frayed, fluttering in a frozen gale. Then, suddenly, the world opened up.
There it was—Sela Lake. Half-frozen, framed by snowy peaks, its surface shimmered under a muted sun. Beside it stood a tiny temple, its bell swaying soundlessly in the wind.
We didn’t linger long. The wind cut through our layers, and the altitude pressed on our lungs. Just ten minutes of stillness was enough to feel both wonder and warning. Then, with a final glance at the frozen lake, we began the descent.
Through Snow, Silence, and Nightfall
The descent from Sela was less of a ride andmore of a negotiation with the mountain. The road dropped sharply, switching back and forth through endless curls of mist that blurred everything beyond ten feet. Snowflakes turned to pellets of ice, pattering off our helmets like rain on tin roofs. The asphalt underneath had become a treacherous mix of mud, water, and gravel—a surface that shifted with every tire rotation.
Our headlights felt like flashlights in a cave—barely carving tunnels through the gray void. The taillights ahead glowed faintly red, guiding me like a heartbeat in the fog. Every few minutes, we’d pass a truck crawling uphill in low gear, its chains clanking, its driver giving a small nod or wave—a gesture that said, “You’re one of us now.”
The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the engines’ low thrum and the hiss of sleet against our visors. Every breath was cold enough to sting the lungs, every gear shift deliberate and slow. We spoke nothing over the intercoms—no chatter, no jokes, just the rhythm of survival.
Somewhere near a frozen bend, I caught a glimpse of an army camp tucked behind barbed wire, its perimeter lights glowing faintly in the storm. Soldiers stood around a fire, faces half-lit, watching us pass with the kind of quiet respect that comes from understanding what it takes to reach that altitude.
Then darkness truly settled. The snow stopped, but the fog thickened. We were wrapped in a blackness so complete that even the mountains vanished from sense—just the road, the machines, and the steady pulse of focus. Time slowed to a crawl; two hours felt like ten.
When the mist finally thinned, the world revealed itself again—not with fanfare, but with a whisper. Far in the distance, tiny dots of light trembled against the mountainside. At first, I thought they were stars—but no, they were fixed, deliberate, human. Tawang.
That single word cracked through the fatigue like sunrise.
Arrival in Tawang
When we rolled into town around 8:30 p.m., the night was still and bone-cold. The streets were nearly empty, save for a few monks walking briskly under wool shawls and the hum of distant generators. The air carried the scent of incense and wood smoke, blending into something sacred and familiar all at once.
We eased our bikes to a stop in front of a small lodge near the main bazaar. The engines idled for a moment, their warmth radiating against our shins before we switched them off. The sudden silence was immense—a vacuum after the roar of the past twelve hours. You could almost hear the altitude, a faint ringing in the ears from too much wind and too little oxygen.
For a long moment, none of us moved. We just sat there, hands still on the bars, staring at each other through fogged visors. Then, almost in unison, the helmets came off, and wide, exhausted smiles broke through. That grin—the one that says “we did it”—is something no photo can capture.
Inside the lodge, warmth wrapped around us like a blanket. The manager hurried out with cups of butter tea, the steam curling up into the cold air as we settled by the heater. Our jackets dripped melted snow onto the floor, and our faces glowed red from windburn. We didn’t talk much at first—just deep breaths, laughter, and the occasional “Can you believe that road?”
Dinner was simple—rice, dal, and vegetables—but it tasted like a feast. Between mouthfuls, we replayed every detail of the day: the frost at Shergaon, the narrow trail to Mandala, the coffee at Dirang, the oxygen check on Sela. Each story grew louder, warmer, more alive as the tea kept flowing.
When the plates were cleared and the laughter softened, I pulled out my notebook—the same one I’d used to jot customer notes and repair specs back home at Santa Clara Cycle—and wrote a single line:
“Some roads don’t end—they just give you back to yourself.”
As I closed the book, I felt that truth settle deep inside me. The Himalayas hadn’t just tested my riding. They’d reset something quieter—my sense of scale, my patience, my gratitude.
Outside, the wind howled softly through the alleys of Tawang. Inside, the room glowed with heat and silence. And for the first time all day, I realized I wasn’t cold anymore.
That night, before sleep claimed me, I looked out the window at the faint glow of the monastery lights above the town. I whispered to myself, “Tomorrow, we ride even higher.”
And somewhere beyond the mountains, the wind seemed to whisper back, “Welcome.”