The Journey Home - Kargil to Srinagar

Perfect sunny day to ride. A God-like feeling to roar out of Kargil on the way to Drass. A feeling of calm. And immortality.

Then we see the sign.

Apparently we should exercise caution, since we are under enemy observation. A mental picture of a handheld rocket making its way rapidly toward our trio, from the mountaintops, emerges. Yup, good idea to skip the photo-op at this sign and chug along. Yeah, and scratch the plan of showing Paki border troops, the finger, too. Not good for international diplomacy and that sort of thing. Wouldn’t be kosher. Or Halal, in this case.

A board proclaiming that this is 2nd coldest inhabited place on the planet welcomes us to Dras. It’s so cold that apparently hens lay smaller eggs here. We got this on good authority from the waiter at the dhaba when we enquired why our 4 scrambled eggs look like two. Then he shows us the egg. It was about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

We stop at the Kargil War Memorial, which is just outside Dras. With the Tololing ranges & Tiger Hill in the backdrop, where some of the fiercest fighting that took place, it makes quiet a spectacular view. It’s a grand and solemn tribute to the Kargil war heroes. Being here makes the stories of Capt Vikram Batra and Lieutenant Vijayant Thapar seem more real. And yet, it’s difficult to imagine how in an environment where even walking is strenuous, these guys accomplished what they did in probably the most hostile and stressful of situations. Being here, does a lot for one’s perspective.

Onward to Zoji La pass, the last of the Himalayan gateways on this journey. We ride across some of the most surreal landscape here. The gray-green, snow-capped mountains on either side of a black top road snaking across the wide valley floor, and an azure sky above is a sight which is probably going to stay with us till we die. This is biking Valhalla.

The road to Zoji La however, is complete crap. This is probably the second toughest climb we’ve had, but now riding through water, rocks and rubble has become second nature. It’s an awfully long climb, closeted by rock on all sides. At the top, the mountain is just black rock and dust. I get the same ‘route to Shangrila’ feeling.

We cross the bracket of black rock, that is Zoji La, ride around the shoulder of the mountain and are greeted with a spectacular view. That of the wide open and extremely green Sonmarg valley, a few thousand feet below. It’s almost a sheer drop and it’s a very steep and narrow road descending into the valley. This should be fun.

We are stopped by a group of soldiers atop a boulder by the side of the road for some random checking. They’re really courteous, offering us water and chai while making small talk to check if there’s anything suspicious about us. Though I doubt potential trouble makers in the valley would pick as conspicuous a mode of travel as Enfield motorcycles.

The descent into Sonmarg is incredible…as the altitude drops, the oxygen levels rapidly rise. It’s dramatic, what happens to bike and biker alike here. While our lungs fill up, after almost two weeks, the engine also gets a fresh, clean burst of oxygen rich air. Suddenly, power that you had forgotten, surges forth on twisting the accelerator grip and the bike lunges like a caged cougar set free. Fuckin’ Brilliant…is all I can say.

This reintroduction to BHP, is all it takes to make short work of the otherwise tedious journey to Srinagar from this point onward. The road is good, but there is huge traffic so we zip past, weaving in and out of the endless rows of cars. After what we have ridden through, this seems like a cakewalk.

Srinagar is still a lovely city, but there are some sort of police or paramilitary personnel every 40 yards or so. There is some nervousness, especially around the only place we buy alcohol from. The Govt. hotel with the only licensed liquor shop. Tourism has revived a bit here but nothing compared to the past glory. We stay at lovely, relatively plush hotel, called the Akbar International which looks like an old converted mansion. We get our own valet and room service etc at rates, even fleabag motel owners in Delhi would scoff at.

As we unload our bikes in the hotel driveway, an old car with an old Sikh couple pulls up beside us. As the lady makes her way indoors, the old gent guesses I’m a Punjabi as well since he asks me, in Punjabi, where we’re coming from and where we’re headed. I give him the 3 minute download of our journey.

He looks at me, eyes sparkling, yet wistful and tells me…”changa hai beta..khoob aishaan karo. Ae bada rangeen time hunda ae zindagi da..” (this is great son, have a blast…youth is a really colourful time of one’s life). Not something we haven’t all heard before, but something about the way he said it, really made an impression.

As we settle down and start the daily drinking ritual, I feel lucky to be able to do this now and know it won’t seem terribly long, before I’ll be the old man, reliving this trip, telling some guy to really make the most of his youth before family, mortgages, medical bills, grocery shopping and incessant and frequently trite social compulsions rob him of it.

Tomorrow, we would be heading to Pathankot and this was our last night in the Himalayas. This ride was almost done.