My Story of Riding Across Ladakh — Chapter 1: Road to Leh

I have never felt this overwhelmed at the start of writing a travel story before. Usually, the words come naturally. The memories line up neatly. The story almost writes itself. But today feels different. Today, I’m nervous.

Nervous because I genuinely don’t know how mere words are supposed to do justice to what I felt riding through Ladakh — through landscapes so unreal they almost felt fabricated, through roads that made me feel insignificantly small, and through moments that somehow altered something inside me.

People often say Ladakh changes you. I had heard it a hundred times before this trip — “It flips people. Perspectives change. Thoughts reframe.”

At the time, it sounded poetic. Now, sitting here after living through it, I’m not entirely sure if they were exaggerating.

But I guess I owe this story a shot. Just for the lore. So, here is how it went.

Pre-Trip

This story actually begins a year earlier. The Ladakh ride wasn’t originally my idea.

A friend of mine had been dead set on visiting Ladakh — and doing it the only way that truly makes sense: on a motorcycle. I had always heard absurd things about this place. Everyone spoke about the views, obviously — the towering mountains, impossible roads, endless landscapes.

But what intrigued me more was what people said beyond the scenery. Apparently, Ladakh had a strange way of rewiring people.

People returned quieter. Calmer. Different. So I thought — why not?

Everything got booked. Flights, stays, itinerary — the whole thing was locked in.

And then came the Pahalgam attack. Suddenly, everything flipped, no pun intended.

The uncertainty around the region made us call it off entirely. A year later, just as the riding season opened up again, we decided to give it another shot.

And just like that, we were headed to the airport.

The two of us were about to join a group of nearly twenty riders from different corners of the country — strangers united by one slightly insane goal:

To ride across one of the harshest, highest, and most beautiful terrains in the world.

What we didn’t know back then was this: We were unknowingly stepping into what would become an adventure worth remembering for a lifetime.

May 29 — Landing in Delhi

If Ladakh was the main story, Delhi felt like the perfect opening scene.

My friend was visiting North India for the first time and there was absolutely no way I was letting him leave without experiencing Delhi properly.

Not the rushed tourist version, the real Dilli – the chaos, the colours, the history, the absurdly good food. And of course — the Delhi Metro.

Little did we know, the city was about to humble us almost immediately.

The Great Cloakroom Side Quest

We landed sometime around 10 in the morning and headed straight to New Delhi Metro Station. The plan sounded simple:

Drop our luggage at the cloakroom and head out. Sounds Easy right? Except…Delhi had other plans. What followed was nearly two hours of absolute confusion. Wrong turns. Random staircases. Walking in circles.

Asking five different people and somehow ending up more confused after every answer.

At one point, I genuinely started wondering if the cloakroom was some mythical room that only appears to chosen travellers. By the time we finally found it, the exhaustion had already kicked in. But weirdly enough, that tiny bit of chaos became the perfect start. Because every great trip deserves a mildly unnecessary side quest. Doesn’t it?

Chasing Chole Bhature in Delhi Heat

Delhi heat does not negotiate – It attacks.
So before doing anything remotely ambitious, we grabbed a quick soda, gathered ourselves, and set out for what I firmly believe was one of the best parts of the day: Sita Ram Diwan Chand.

Now let me make one thing very clear. If you are in Delhi and enjoy chole bhature, this place is mandatory. No discussions.

The bhature were soft enough to disappear instantly, the chole had the perfect amount of spice, and the entire meal had that dangerous quality where you know you are eating too much but simply refuse to stop. After that food coma, we slowed things down at a café nearby, hiding from Delhi’s unforgiving afternoon heat and mentally preparing ourselves for round two.

Standing Between Two Cities

By evening, we headed to Jama Masjid. It was my first time visiting this place as well. And wow – Some places impress, some places overwhelm. This one did both.

The sheer scale of the mosque is breathtaking — massive courtyards, towering minarets, intricate details everywhere you look. But the moment that stayed with me most wasn’t inside the mosque.

It was from the top. We climbed one of the towers and suddenly Delhi looked different.

On one side stood the dense chaos of Old Delhi — endless rooftops, tightly packed streets, history spilling into every corner. On the other stood New Delhi — wider roads, distant skyscrapers, modernity stretching into the horizon. And somewhere between both sat the Red Fort.

For a brief moment, it almost felt like standing between two timelines.

Golden Hour Through History

From Jama Masjid, we walked through the madness of Meena Bazaar before eventually reaching the Red Fort. The streets were loud, crowded and messy in the most Delhi way possible.

Somewhere in between, we also got financially assaulted by an overpriced plate of golgappas — a mistake I’m still processing emotionally.

Soon after, we rushed toward Humayun’s Tomb, arriving just in time before closing. And honestly? I think the timing made it better.

The crowds had started thinning out. The evening light softened the entire place. Instead of rushing around, we simply slowed down – walked through the gardens, sat in silence for a bit and watched the monument glow under the fading sky.

And then came the final stop – India Gate.
If you’re visiting Delhi for the first time, this place should be illegal to miss.

As the sun disappeared, the lights slowly came alive. The whole place just turned a whole lot prettier – The massive roads, Rashtrapati Bhavan in the backdrop, warm evening lights cutting through the city — it all felt oddly grand.

A Bus to Somewhere Unknown

And just like that, the city chapter came to an end. Dinner done, luggage collected. At about 11pm, we reached the Kashmere Gate Metro Station exit to catch our bus to Manali.

The real adventure was finally beginning. I remember sitting by the window, unable to sit still.

My mind was racing. How would Manali feel? What would it feel like watching lush green valleys slowly transition into Ladakh’s cold, barren landscapes?

Would I even handle those insane altitudes? Could the roads really be as magical as everyone claimed?

Too many questions. Too many unknowns. But hidden beneath all that uncertainty was something I always cherish before any journey: The excitement of experiencing something for the very first time. Because no matter how old you grow — that feeling never gets old.

May 30 — Manali and a quick catchup

After an overnight bus ride from Delhi, the mountains finally began appearing. Slowly at first, then suddenly everywhere.

The first half of the day passed quietly from my bus window as the mighty Beas River accompanied us almost like a guide. The mountains kept growing taller, steeper, more dramatic — as if Himachal was slowly preparing us for what lay ahead. By noon, we were in Manali and slowly, the whole plan was actually starting to take shape.

The Briefing Before the Madness

After checking into the hotel and stealing a little rest, everyone assembled for the official ride briefing.

This was the crew I’d be spending the next several days with — routes were discussed, expectations were set, safety instructions shared. Tomorrow, we would finally ride. But before that, I had unfinished business.

A Small Adventure to Vashisht

A friend of mine — Debiprasad — happened to be in Manali the same day. Now, writing “Debiprasad” repeatedly feels unnecessarily formal, so let’s just call him Debi.

Debi was staying at a hostel in Vashisht, a quiet little village about 5 kilometres away from my hotel. Simple enough – Or at least that’s what I thought.

At around 5 PM, I stepped out to meet him. What followed turned into one of those tiny, oddly memorable adventures that somehow stay with you longer than expected.

I walked for a bit. Caught an auto for a kilometre. And then, for the very first time in my life — I hitchhiked. A local guy delivering groceries happened to be heading the same way and casually offered me a ride. No hesitation, No awkwardness. Just simple human kindness.

And honestly? It felt weirdly wholesome. There was something strangely liberating about simply asking for help and letting the world surprise you.

It made me think:

Maybe we hesitate too much. Maybe there’s a lot waiting for us out there if we just stop overthinking and put ourselves out into the world.

Ramen in the Himalayas

Debi’s hostel turned out to be unlike anything I expected. It was run by a Japanese couple. And apparently, the wife was an exceptional cook — something Debi had praised repeatedly before I even arrived.

Safe to say, expectations were high. And thankfully, reality delivered.

We spent the evening catching up on life — swapping stories, discussing random adventures, laughing about the strange situations we somehow always end up in.

We are, unfortunately, the same type of weird. Always chasing stories. Always collecting what we lovingly call: Dad lore.

Meanwhile, dinner arrived. Fresh ramen and sushi, made by someone who genuinely knew what they were doing. This was my first-ever proper Japanese meal. And somehow, trying authentic Japanese food in a quiet Himalayan village in Manali was not something I had on my 2026 bingo card.

But I absolutely loved it. Comforting, light and needless to say, ridiculously satisfying.

If you are visiting Manali, I highly recommend staying with them – they were the sweetest! The place is called IPPUKU Café

A Goodbye Before the Expedition

After dinner, we stepped out for a short walk. Nothing dramatic. Just conversations drifting aimlessly from one topic to another while the mountains slowly disappeared into darkness.

At some point, we checked the time and reality hit. Debi had a bus to Delhi in a couple of hours. So we wrapped things up, said goodbye to the couple (definitely bookmarking that hostel for another visit), and headed back.

Goodbyes on the road always feel slightly strange. Temporary – Like the universe briefly aligned timelines before splitting them apart again. After dropping him off, I returned to the hotel and packed up my bags – kept my riding gear ready outside. Helmet, Jacket, Gloves – Everything in place. Because tomorrow wasn’t just another travel day. It was THE day.
Tomorrow, the expedition would truly begin – Manali to Sarchu. The first major ride, first mountain pass, first taste of altitude. I could barely contain my excitement.

May 31 – Manali to Sarchu

The Ride Finally Begins

I woke up to rain.

Not the dramatic kind that forces you indoors, but a gentle drizzle that seemed to belong in the mountains. Manali was still wearing its pre-monsoon colours proudly. The hills were impossibly green, clouds floated lazily across the valley, and everything looked freshly washed.

By around 10 in the morning, we were finally ready. The motorcycles had been inspected, luggage offloaded, riding gear zipped up and checked one final time. After a year of planning, postponing, imagining and reimagining this trip, the moment had finally arrived – We were going to Ladakh.

The first stop was a fuel station where everyone topped up their tanks and met the ride lead who would be guiding us till Leh. There was excitement in the air, but also a subtle nervousness. Most of us had spent months consuming Ladakh through YouTube videos, photographs and travel stories to feel this moment.

Today, we were finally stepping into those frames ourselves.

A Breakdown 1.5 Kilometres In

The mountains didn’t waste much time reminding us that plans mean very little out here.

Barely 1.5 kilometres into the ride, the entire group came to a halt. One of the motorcycles had broken down. Completely.

We hadn’t even properly left Manali yet. While the support crew arranged a replacement motorcycle, I found myself staring at my own machine and wondering if it would decide to throw a tantrum somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

In cities, a breakdown is an inconvenience. In the mountains, it can become a story very quickly. Thankfully, the issue was resolved and before long we were back on the road.

The Tunnel Between Two Worlds

Soon, the signboards for Atal Tunnel began appearing.

At roughly nine kilometres long, it is one of the most impressive engineering projects in the Himalayas, connecting the lush valleys around Manali with the dramatically different terrain of Lahaul.

But what fascinated me wasn’t the tunnel itself. It was what existed on either side of it and the sheer transition that made both ends feel like completely different parts of the world.

Before entering, I consciously slowed down and soaked in the greenery around me. Dense forests covered the mountainsides. The roads were lined with trees. Every slope seemed alive. Somewhere in my head, I already knew this landscape wasn’t going to stay for long.

The ride through the tunnel itself was uneventful, but the emergence on the other side wasn’t. And just like that, the scenery took a complete turn – The thick forests were gone.

The mountains still carried patches of green, but the vegetation was noticeably thinner. The slopes appeared rougher and more exposed. It felt as if someone had peeled away layers from the landscape.

The transition was so dramatic that it almost felt impossible.

Nine kilometres.That’s all it took for the Himalayas to completely change character.

The Frame That Didn’t Feel Real

We continued toward Darcha, with the landscape becoming increasingly rugged as we moved ahead. After a lunch stop at Tandi and one final fuel refill, there was a subtle shift in the energy of the day.

The roads stretched longer, the villages became fewer and the mountains grew larger.

And somewhere in between all of that sat a quiet urgency. We still had a long way to go before Sarchu, and mountain roads are not particularly interested in your schedules.

It was somewhere around this stretch, I came across something absolutely mesmerizing. I remember riding through a bend and suddenly seeing a frame so absurdly beautiful that my brain genuinely struggled to process it.

Even now, I have trouble describing it. Everything looked too perfectly arranged to be real.

The mountains stood in impossible proportions, layered against each other like someone had intentionally designed the frame.

I instinctively pulled over. Took off my gloves. Just stood there.

My motorcycle somehow made the frame even prettier, sitting quietly against this ridiculous backdrop.

I tried taking pictures, lots of them. And boy did they fail. After all, no camera really captures scale. Or silence. Or the feeling of standing somewhere that makes your brain briefly go numb. After a while, I gave up trying to preserve it and simply stood there for a moment longer before getting back on the motorcycle. Guess some places are meant to be remembered, not documented.

Following the Bhaga River

For long stretches, the Bhaga River accompanied us on our journey. Sometimes it flowed right beside me, sometimes it disappeared behind mountains only to reappear a few bends later.

The roads through this section were excellent, and credit must be given where it’s due. BRO had done a phenomenal job maintaining these routes.

Yet, despite the smooth tarmac, nothing about the ride felt ordinary. This is where I realised something I had believed for years all over, again.

If you truly want to experience a place, do it on a motorcycle. A bus lets you see a landscape. A car lets you observe it. A motorcycle lets you feel it. And trust me on this incase you can’t relate. It’s just a matter of giving it a shot.

You feel the wind grow colder as altitude increases. You notice the changing smell of the air. You feel every rise, every descent and every shift in temperature.

The mountains stop being a view outside a window and become something you exist within.

Deepak Tal and the Road to Thin Air

Eventually, we reached Deepak Tal. Situated at roughly 12,400 feet, this glacial lake is fed by snowmelt from the surrounding peaks and sits quietly amidst the rugged mountains of Lahaul.

I had been looking forward to this stop because it was the first glacial lake of the trip.

Strangely though, it didn’t leave the impression I expected.

Maybe the mountains around it had already spoiled me. Maybe my expectations were unrealistic.

Either way, after spending some time by the lake, we got back on our motorcycles and continued ahead.

Because something far more exciting awaited us – Baralacha La, Our first pass of the expedition, and my first time crossing 16,000 feet.

Riding Into Snow

As we climbed higher, the landscape continued shedding layers. Even the little bit of grass around, started to disappear. The air grew noticeably colder.

And then, suddenly, snow appeared. Not distant snow on mountaintops – Snow beside the road. Snow on both sides of the road.

Now I have walked in deep snow. But riding a motorcycle right through the middle of it? Incredible. I don’t remember having many thoughts in that moment. I mostly remember silence.

I guess my brain was just too busy processing what it’s seeing.

Crossing 16000 ft

The final approach to Baralacha La was spectacular. The roads were smooth, what had started with patches of snow had become snow walls, as we rode through it.

The air felt noticeably thinner. And somewhere beneath all the excitement was a quiet sense of curiosity – How would my body react at this altitude?Would I feel dizzy? Breathless? Fatigued?

Surprisingly, I felt fine. And before long, we reached the pass crossing.

Ever since I first started watching Ladakh travel videos, those iconic BRO milestones had become symbolic of the adventure itself. I had always imagined what it would feel like standing beside one. Reality, however, had a different plan. The place was crowded. Very crowded.

People were jostling for photographs and rushing to secure their moment with the milestone. Oddly enough, the chaos completely disconnected me from the experience.

Instead of joining the crowd, I walked away. Found an empty spot, and simply stood there. At nearly 16,000 feet, this was the highest altitude I had ever reached.

The feeling of being surrounded by mountains, and being able to experience it without any kind of discomfort – it was a very grateful moment for me.

Eventually, the crowd thinned out. And I finally got my picture too.

The Snowstorm

We started descending soon after, with Sarchu finally beginning to feel close. The day felt complete. The pass had been crossed. The hardest part seemed done.

Naturally, the mountains laughed at our optimism. Because out of nowhere, a snowstorm struck us. An actual snowstorm.

One moment the day seemed to be coming to a peaceful end. The next moment, freezing winds had brought on chaos.

My hands started going numb embarrassingly fast. I remember fumbling around and quickly pulling out my waterproof gloves, which genuinely saved me that day.

For a while, the ride became less about scenery and more about staying warm and focused. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm eased. And what appeared next completely stole the show.

Welcome to the Cold Desert

The world beyond Baralacha La looked nothing like the one we had left behind. Gone were the forests, gone were the green valleys. In their place stood endless mountains of rock, sand and sediment.

The colours changed too. Shades of brown, rust, grey and beige stretched across the landscape in giant layers. Millions of years of erosion had carved strange formations into the mountainsides, creating shapes that looked almost deliberate.

I remember pulling over one final time, and simply standing there. Because I had never seen geography like this before. Not in person. The scale was overwhelming. The silence was overwhelming. Everything felt ancient.

It was my first encounter with the cold desert, and for a few minutes, my mind went completely quiet.

By the time we rolled into our campsite at Sarchu, I was tired, cold and slightly overwhelmed by everything I had seen that day.

In the span of a few hours, I had ridden through rain, crossed my first high-altitude pass, witnessed snow up close for the first time, survived a snowstorm and watched the Himalayas transform from lush green valleys into a landscape that felt almost extraterrestrial.

And somehow, this was still only the beginning. Ladakh hadn’t even started showing off yet and honestly, that thought itself kind of overwhelmed me.

June 1 – Sarchu to Leh

Sunrise Above the Clouds

The previous evening had ended with a snowstorm. The night followed with fresh snowfall around our campsite.

Naturally, I expected to wake up to grey skies and freezing winds. Instead, the mountains had something else planned.

As I stepped out of my tent in the morning, the sun was already beginning to light up the valley. The mountains around Sarchu glowed softly under the golden light, and for the first time since reaching these altitudes, I truly appreciated what sunlight can do.

At nearly 14,000 feet, the cold is no longer a novelty. You feel it constantly. The warmth of the sun on my face combined with the cool mountain air created a balance that felt almost perfect. For a few minutes, I simply stood there. No rush, just a beautiful, slow Himalayan morning.

The Altitude Strikes Back

Yesterday’s rapid climb from Manali to Sarchu had taken a toll on the group – Almost everyone had a headache. Some looked visibly exhausted. Others hadn’t slept particularly well.

Altitude doesn’t care how fit you are. If it decides to humble you, it will. Thankfully, both my friend and I had started taking Diamox before the trip. Whether it was the medicine, luck, or a combination of both, we had escaped relatively unscathed.

A good night’s sleep, No headache, Plenty of energy. And considering what lay ahead, I was incredibly grateful for that.

After breakfast, the motorcycles received some attention too. Chains were cleaned and lubricated after the previous day’s ride through snow, slush and dust. Yesterday had been demanding after all.

Entering Ladakh

By around 9:30 AM, we were back on our motorcycles. Today’s route looked ridiculous on paper – Gata Loops, Pang, Moore Plains, Tanglang La, Leh.

Just reading those names had excited me for months. But standing there, preparing to ride through them, was something else entirely. These aren’t just places on a map. They’re places riders, travellers and adventure seekers across the world dream about experiencing at least once in their lifetime.

And somehow, I was here, on the brink of experiencing this epic adventure. A few kilometres later, we reached the Sarchu checkpost. This was the final reminder that we were about to enter Ladakh.

Everyone suddenly became busy with their phones. Calls were made, Messages were sent. Quick updates were shared with family members. Because once we crossed ahead, mobile connectivity would practically disappear.

I called my parents too – a quick check-in, a quick reassurance. And then, we crossed over. The network bars disappeared, and so did our link with the outside world.

The Road I Had Seen on Television

Soon, the Tsarap River appeared beside us. The valley narrowed, and the road began climbing. And then I saw the first turn – The first glimpse of the legendary Gata Loops.

I genuinely felt my heart skip a beat.I remembered watching this road as a teenager on a History TV18 show named “India’s Deadliest Roads”

Back then, the place felt mythical – The kind of location that existed only on television screens and travel documentaries. The idea of ever coming here felt so unrealistic that even dreaming about it seemed ambitious.

And yet, here I was, Riding right through it.

The Gata Loops

As the loops unfolded one after another, I quickly understood why this road had earned its reputation. The surface was far from perfect – Loose gravel, Dust, Sand, Sharp switchbacks that seemed to fold endlessly into the mountains.

Every turn demanded attention. Every mistake felt expensive. You couldn’t afford to drift mentally for even a few seconds. But that challenge was exactly what made it enjoyable.

There is something deeply satisfying about being completely present – No thoughts about work, No thoughts about life, No thoughts about anything else.

Just you, The motorcycle, And the next turn.

We also crossed the infamous Bottle Point.

According to local legend, a truck carrying supplies got stranded here during harsh winter conditions. While the driver went searching for help, his assistant reportedly succumbed to thirst and starvation.

To this day, travellers leave water bottles at the spot in memory of him.

Whether the story is entirely true or not, standing there reminded me how unforgiving these mountains can be. The landscapes are beautiful. But they demand respect.

When the Mountains Stopped Making Sense

After crossing Nakee La, we continued towards Pang.

And somewhere along the way, my brain quietly stopped trying to understand what it was seeing.

The roads improved, The valleys widened. The mountains became stranger – More dramatic, More barren, More colourful.

The terrain no longer looked familiar. The usual rules seemed broken. Eventually, I stopped beside the road. Not because I was tired. Not because I needed water. But because I needed a moment.

For several minutes, I simply sat there looking at the landscape around me. The silence felt enormous.The mountains looked ancient. The colours didn’t make sense. The shapes didn’t make sense.

Nothing about this place resembled anything I had seen before. And for the first time during the trip, I stopped trying to process it.I just looked. More so because, I was quite literally incapable of expressing logic in that moment.

Pang and a Borrowed Phone Call

By the time I reached Pang, I was running behind the group – significantly behind. Most riders had already arrived. I didn’t care though – places like this aren’t meant to be rushed. Are they?

Before lunch, I approached a local resident and explained my connectivity situation. Without hesitation, she handed over her phone so I could call home and let my parents know everything was fine.

A tiny gesture, but one I appreciated immensely. The mountains have a way of repeatedly reminding you how kind people can be.

Lunch was quick, because the stretch I had been waiting the whole time, finally lay ahead.

The Moore Plains

If someone described the Moore Plains to me without photographs, I probably wouldn’t believe them.

Imagine standing at roughly 15,500 feet above sea level. Now imagine looking around and seeing kilometres upon kilometres of flat desert stretching into the horizon. At that altitude. In the middle of the Himalayas. It feels impossible, atleast to me – yet there it is.

The road runs almost perfectly straight through the valley, the mountains remain far away, the landscape feels endless.

And despite the smooth appearance, the sandy terrain creates constant undulations that make riding surprisingly demanding on that “straight” road.

As I rode through the plains, something unexpected happened.

I started tearing up. Not because of the wind, not because of the cold, but because the entire day had become too emotionally overwhelming for me. There is a limit to how much beauty your brain can process before it simply gives up.

I think I had crossed that limit somewhere around Moore Plains. Even today, when I look at photographs from that stretch, I don’t remember specific details. I remember a feeling. A feeling of disbelief. Of gratitude. Of being somewhere I never thought I’d reach.

Younger me wouldn’t have believed this place existed. Forget riding through it.

A Delay in Paradise

Eventually, I caught up with the group. Or rather, I found them standing around in the middle of nowhere.

One rider had run out of fuel, and the backup vehicle was still on its way. However, nobody seemed particularly stressed. Perhaps the scenery made it difficult to be annoyed.

Once fuel arrived and the motorcycle was revived, we were ready to continue. Our next destination was Tanglang La. And this one was going to be special – we are talking 17000+ ft elevation at this point!

Standing as high as the Everest Base Camp

Tanglang La stands at 17,482 feet. For context, that’s just 100ft. short of the altitude of Everest Base Camp.

Just being able to walk around comfortably at that elevation is remarkable. The approach itself was stunning. But the summit, breathtaking.

Even after crossing all six passes during the trip, Tanglang La remains my favourite – snow-covered peaks stretched endlessly in every direction. The views were completely open, no single mountain dominated the landscape.

Instead, the entire Himalayan horizon revealed itself.

The Worst Possible Setback

The descent from Tanglang La wasn’t easy – melting snow had turned sections of the road into slippery slush. Traffic added another layer of complexity. But then something happened that was the last thing that should’ve happened – Our ride lead developed symptoms of AMS. Acute Mountain Sickness. And it happened fast – one moment he was leading. The next, he was lying down, trying to recover.

It was a powerful reminder of something these mountains repeatedly teach you – experience doesn’t grant immunity. Fitness doesn’t grant immunity. No one is special at altitude. The group found itself in an awkward situation – daylight was fading, Leh was still ahead.

A decisions needed to be made.

Eventually, around six of us continued ahead while the mechanic temporarily took over leadership for the remaining riders.

I made a conscious decision not to dwell on the situation. There was nothing I could change – the mountains were still there, the road was still there. And I wanted to experience every bit of it.

The Villages of Ladakh

The road from Tanglang La towards Leh surprised me. Not because of the mountains, but because of the people.

We passed through villages like Rumtse, Gya, Lato and Miru – tiny settlements surrounded by one of the harshest environments imaginable.

And yet, they were beautiful. There was life brimming. Somehow, people had not only survived here. They had built thriving communities. And I found that deeply fascinating.

The Maroon Mountain

Then came another moment that left me staring. A mountain with a maroon top. Not brown, Not grey – Maroon. It almost looked like someone just spilled buckets of colour on this one.

I remember looking at it and thinking: What exactly is happening here?

My understanding of mountains until then had been embarrassingly simple. Mountains are made of soil. Soil is brown, at best black. End of story. Apparently not.

Later, I learned that these colours result from different mineral compositions oxidizing over time – a little flashback to school chemistry. Only this time, the lesson was being taught at 15,000 feet.

Chasing the Sunset into Leh

Eventually, we reached Upshi and caught our first glimpse of the legendary Indus River – the river that has sustained life in this region for centuries.

From there, Leh was only about 50 kilometres away. The mountains gradually gave way to signs of civilisation – the roads improved, traffic increased, the city was approaching.

The only problem? The sunset.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I absolutely love sunsets. But this particular one had chosen violence. The sun sat directly ahead of us for most of the ride, turning every kilometre into a battle against glare. For once, I found myself wishing the sunset would move somewhere else. Soon, we passed through Stakna. Then Thiksey. Then Shey, and finally— Leh.

End of a Very Long Day

By the time we reached our hotel, the sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains – we had ridden more than 250 kilometres, crossed some of the most iconic roads in the Himalayas, entered Ladakh.

We experienced Moore Plains and we conquered Tanglang La. We experienced more landscapes in a single day than I thought was possible – I wanted to sit quietly and reflect on everything that had happened. But the truth is, I was too exhausted. So I checked in, had some dinner, and jumped straight into my bed – Lights out.

What lie next?

While the story might seem like its coming to an end, it has barely started at this point – what lies ahead is another 7 days of absolute madness that would reveal the complete Ladakh experience, and at this point, I had no clue what was I in for. But I guess, that’s a story for another chapter. Stay tuned!