HIMALAYAN RIDE: TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD

A travel journal by Edwin Yu - Oct. 5, 2025

How do you summarize ten days on a motorcycle in the Himalayas? You don’t. Not really. You just try. Because riding here is like life in these mountains — not easy, but worth the struggle.

Our story begins in Leh, Ladakh in late September. After nearly 24 hours of cramped flights and layovers from Manila, we stumbled off the plane into a different world. Eleven-and-a-half thousand feet above sea level, where the air is thin, the sky is impossibly blue, and the jagged Himalayan peaks surround you like ancient gods.

The first day wasn’t about riding. It was about survival. Acclimatizing. Learning to breathe again. Even a short walk to the town center for lunch left us winded — lungs burning, heads light. But then came the food: rich, fragrant, unapologetically Indian. We didn’t know it then, but this would be the last real feast before the road took over.

The next morning, the journey truly began. Engines roared to life, and we pointed our bikes west, toward Lamayuru — a moonscape of rock and dust, the first taste of what the next ten days would demand of us. A honeymoon ride, maybe. The calm before the storm. A chance to get acquainted with our Royal Enfield Himalayan 450s… and with the mountains themselves.

Day 1 (The Honeymoon Ride)

The weather was just right. A crisp chill in the air, softened by the sun that seemed to hang closer here. It was our first time riding outside our own country, and for the first few miles, the left side of the road felt like an alien world. But muscle memory is a quick learner. Soon, the rhythm set in — throttle, brake, lean. The bikes carried us forward as if they knew we needed the confidence.

By the time we rolled into our hotel, it was a little past three in the afternoon. Not a long ride, not a hard one. But a beginning. Day One was a success. The honeymoon phase was intact. But in the back of our minds, we knew this was just the calm before the storm. Tomorrow, we’d ride into Zanskar Valley — a place that doesn’t forgive. The hardest stretch of the journey awaited, and no amount of rest could prepare us for what the mountains had in store.

Day 2 (Zanskar to Padum)

Zanskar doesn’t ease you in. It tests you right out of the gate. The road to Padum was less a road and more a shifting negotiation with the earth — steep climbs, loose gravel that threatened to throw you off, soft sand that swallowed your tires whole. Every turn was a gamble, every mile earned.

Two mountain passes marked the day. SirSir La at 15,700 feet, then Sengge La at 16,500 — walls of rock and sky that dared us to climb. The air was thinner, the ride harder, but our bodies were learning, adapting. By the time we reached camp around five in the evening, we were wrecked. Tired as fuck. But alive.

We hadn’t expected to camp out here, but the Himalayas don’t care about your expectations. Somehow, there was internet, electricity, even heated blankets. Small mercies. Luxuries in a place where survival itself feels like a privilege. That night, the exhaustion didn’t matter. Gratitude did. Gratitude for the road, the bike, and the fact that we made it through the hardest ride yet.

Day 3 (Padum to Gonbo Rangjon)

We left Padum around eight in the morning, stopping briefly at a monastery while waiting for our support vehicles. After the punishment of Zanskar the day before, I wasn’t sure what to expect. My body ached, my mind still replaying the struggle. But today was different. Today, the mountains gave us a little mercy. A recovery ride. And thank God for that.

The roads were kinder, the pace gentler. We saw yaks roaming free for the first time — heavy, shaggy silhouettes against the stark backdrop. I cupped my hands in a stream of mountain spring water so cold and clean it shocked me awake more than coffee ever could. Spirits lifted. By the time we reached camp, there was laughter again.

But the mountains always remind you who’s in charge. No internet here. Limited electricity. And once the sun dropped, the temperature plunged. Freezing. Brutal. Dinner was canned meat, eaten quickly before the cold took over. We layered ourselves in every piece of clothing we had, fighting the cold drafts sneaking through the tents. Sleep didn’t come easy.

Past midnight, I braved the cold and stepped outside. And there it was — a sky so full of stars it felt like the universe had cracked open above me. My hands were raw, my lips split, even the simplest tasks now painful. It was fucking cold. But under that sky, in that silence, none of it mattered. This was why we came.

Day 4 (Padum to Sarchu, Dorje Camps)

Getting out of bed was the hardest part. The cold clung to everything, inside and outside the tent. I called it the “chill ride” just to make a joke, but there was nothing funny about it. In my head, the only soundtrack was “Here Comes the Sun.” Because that’s what everyone was waiting for — a little warmth, a little mercy from the mountains.

The road carried us over two more high passes: Shinkhu La at 16,580 feet and Baralacha La at 16,046. Up here, it felt like we were brushing shoulders with the snow-capped peaks themselves. The riding was manageable today. Maybe it was easier, maybe we were just beginning to adapt to the rhythm of the mountains. Either way, it felt less like survival and more like a ride again.

But the rides are the easy part. It’s the nights that break you down. We rolled into Dorje Camps at Sarchu — an outpost in the middle of nowhere. Isolated. Silent. By late afternoon, the temperature was already plummeting. From a t-shirt to three layers of windbreaker, thermal liner, and vest — all in the space of a few minutes the moment the sun hid behind the mountains. Writing this down was a challenge; my hands shook from the cold. And it wasn’t even dark yet.

By nightfall, electricity and internet were still a distant memory. Two days without. Midnight came, and I forced myself outside. And it was worth it. Stars everywhere. A vast cathedral of light. I saw Saturn, even a shooting star. But the cold closed in fast, driving me back to the tent. The solar blanket was the only thing between me and the freeze.

Come morning, everything was frozen solid. Even the pipes. Out here, survival isn’t romantic. It’s just cold.

Day 5 (Sarchu to Tso Moriri via Gata Loop)

The day began with a loss. Alex wasn’t feeling well, the altitude and cold finally catching up with him. Our guide made the call for him to head back to Leh to recover. For the rest of us, it meant moving forward one man short. The road felt quieter without him, the silence heavier. We kept riding, but our thoughts lingered on his condition.

The route carried us over Nakee La at 15,547 feet, then into the endless winding switchbacks of the Gata Loop — twenty-one tight turns carved into the mountainside, each one stacking higher, pulling us further into the sky. Somewhere along those bends lies a story riders whisper about: a truck driver who broke down here years ago, stranded and dying of thirst. Ever since, travelers leave water bottles by the roadside, offerings to a ghost who still haunts the loop. Riding through, you feel it. That sense that these roads remember.

By midday, we stopped for lunch in Nyoma — a desolate town that felt abandoned decades ago. A ghost town, with only the wind for company.

Then came the first hints of mechanical betrayal. Dino’s bike began to sputter, coughing like it wasn’t sure it wanted to go on. Just a minor failure, but a reminder: out here, machines are as vulnerable as men.

This was one of our longest rides yet. By the time the sun dipped behind the peaks, we finally reached our cabins at Tso Moriri. Exhausted. Spent. But for once, comfort was waiting — cozy rooms, hot water, electricity. Civilization, however fragile. That night, the beds felt like luxury suites. Out here, warmth itself is a gift.

Day 6 (Tso Moriri to Hanle)

After a night of simple comforts — warm beds, hot water, a phone call home to remind loved ones we were still alive — we saddled up again. The road to Hanle stretched wide and open, a rare gift in these mountains. Valleys instead of cliffs, straights instead of switchbacks. For the first time, we could really open the throttle and let the bikes run free. It felt good. Liberating.

Hanle is known not for its roads, but for its skies. An outpost for stargazers and dreamers. Our hosts — a kind, welcoming couple — greeted us with warmth that rivaled the sun. We arrived early enough to play. A few more bursts of speed on the bikes, a short walk to greet a herd of goats and sheep grazing in the open valley. Life out here is simple, almost stripped bare, but there’s beauty in that simplicity.

That night, after a spread of home-cooked meal, we circled around our first bonfire of the trip. Flames dancing, laughter rising into the night. Above us, the Milky Way stretched clear and endless. Stars scattered like broken glass across the blackest sky. Maybe we were watching them… or maybe, just maybe, they were watching us.

We had made it past the halfway mark. It felt like a celebration. But tomorrow wasn’t going to be a party. Tomorrow, we would climb Umling La — the highest motorable pass in the world.

Day 7 (Umling La, The Big Mountain)

Umling La. The big mountain. The culmination of our ride. At 19,024 feet, it stands as the highest motorable pass in the world. This was the day we had been waiting for. But the mountains don’t hand out victories without a price.

That morning, Kyle — the youngest in our crew — got troubling news from back home. It was enough to weigh him down, and maybe slow him just a little. Call it fate, call it premonition. On one of the early bends, loose sand caught him off guard. A spill. Man down.

We hoped for the best, a sprain, maybe just a scare. But the pain told a different story. Serious. The support team rushed him to the nearest medical post, leaving the rest of us — just three riders now, plus our guide Jas — to push on. The mood shifted. The visual of Kyle’s leg pinned under his bike replayed in our heads at every sharp turn.

As we climbed higher, the road narrowed, the ravines yawning wider. A few inches to the wrong side and there was nothing but air and gravity waiting. My legs turned to jelly. Pride told me to keep pace with Jas and JP. Survival told me to back off the throttle. The last stretch was endless. High altitude. Thin air. Relentless winds slamming against us. There was no room for hesitation, no turning back. Only forward.

And then… the summit. Umling La. Nineteen-thousand and twenty-four feet above sea level. Relief and triumph in equal measure. We had made it. We took photos, shouted into the wind, tried to take in the moment. But the cold and lack of oxygen cut it short. Up here, you don’t linger.

The descent was no less brutal. Switchback after switchback, the mountain trying to pull us down faster than we dared to go. Clutch, brake, control. Overheating could mean disaster. By the time we reached the valley floor, we were drained, but alive.

The plains opened before us — wide, sandy, almost inviting. After the terror of the mountain, it felt like freedom. I let loose, throttle wide, dancing on the sand. But the desert plays tricks. What looks flat is often anything but. The first dip appeared out of nowhere, too late to slow down. Both wheels airborne. An “oh shit” moment in slow motion. Miraculously, I landed it. Still upright. Still rolling. Relief washed over me — but the desert wasn’t done. Another dip. Another hit. This time I exploded in a cloud of dust, the comms filled with shouts and curses before cutting to silence.

And then — I rolled out of the chaos. Still upright. Fist in the air. A howl tearing from my chest. Awooooo! Pure, raw, unfiltered joy. The sound of being alive.

That night, back in Hanle, we sat with the knowledge that we had faced the highest road on Earth, and survived. Umling La wasn’t just a mountain. It was a mirror, showing us exactly who we were when the stakes were real.

Day 8 (Hanle to Pangong Tso)

We said goodbye to our hosts at Hanle and rolled out into the silence of the open plains. Three more days of riding left — the homestretch — but the road still had plenty to give. The morning was quiet, almost heavy, with Alex and Kyle absent from our formation. You could feel the gaps, hear the emptiness between the engines.

The plains gave way to desert valleys, and soon enough, the glint of water appeared in the distance. Pangong Tso — the highest saltwater lake in the world. One hundred and thirty-four kilometers long, stretching across borders: one-third in India, the rest spilling into China. On a clear, sunny day, it shimmers in shades of turquoise so vivid they feel unreal, a jewel dropped in the middle of a barren desert. The contrast is jarring. The mountains are bone-dry, the air sharp, yet here lies this endless body of blue. For a moment, I thought of Lake Mead in Las Vegas — water in a place that shouldn’t have any.

We rolled into town late in the season. Most of the shacks and guesthouses were shuttered for the year, the village slipping into its off-season hibernation. It felt like we had the whole lake to ourselves. Even the cows grazing nearby stopped and stared at us, as if wondering what these last stragglers were doing here.

But the day had one more surprise. After settling into our cabins, tired and ready to call it, the door opened — and in walked Alex. Back from Leh, patched up, determined to finish the ride. His return shifted the mood instantly. From quiet endurance to celebration. From holding on to charging forward again.

That night, the lake reflected the last of the light, and our cabins, spacious and warm, looked out over the water. After days of cold, thin air, frozen pipes, and tents leaking drafts, this felt like vacation. A small taste of comfort before the mountains asked for their due again.

Day 9 (Pangong Tso to Nubra Valley)

We left Pangong Tso behind and pointed our wheels toward Nubra Valley. On paper, it was supposed to be an easy ride, a country road cruise to ease us into the final stretch. But nothing in the Himalayas is ever that simple. Roads closed. Detour required. Another mountain pass.

This time it was Chang La — 17,586 feet. After Umling La, it almost felt manageable, like the mountains were testing us one last time just to see if we’d flinch. We didn’t. Asphalt opened wide, the throttle smooth, the rhythm of the ride steady. We were making good time, chasing a small dream: catching sight of Nubra’s famous double-humped camels, wild and wandering. But fate had other plans. No camels. Just empty valleys, and us.

By late afternoon, we rolled into our last stop on the road — The Walnut Inn. After nine days of thin air, tents, freezing cold, and sputtering engines, it felt like paradise. Mountain views framed by intricate architecture, a riot of flowers in the courtyard, rooms so massive and cozy they didn’t seem real. Hot showers, wifi, soft beds. Civilization with all the trimmings.

A reward, after surviving what already felt like a lifetime in nine days. Tonight, we sleep well. Tomorrow, one last ride.

Day 10 (The Final Ride)

We woke up well rested. The air was warmer now, softer somehow, as if even the mountains were easing up on us. One last ride. One last mountain pass.

Khardung La — 17,982 feet. Once called the highest motorable pass in the world. After Umling La, it felt like a victory lap. Roughly 80 kilometers climbing up, but this time it wasn’t a battle. It was a farewell. A piece of cake, if such a thing exists out here.

The ride down into Leh was surreal. Ten days ago, we had arrived strangers to this altitude, gasping for air, unsure of what we’d gotten ourselves into. Now, we were rolling back with the weight of the Himalayas in our bones, the roads etched into muscle memory.

The mountains had taught me something. That when things feel impossible — when the air is too thin, the climb too steep, the road too unforgiving — you just keep calm. You carry on. Inch by inch, turn by turn, until suddenly, impossibility is behind you.

That lesson, like these memories, I’ll carry long after the ride has ended.

Photo credits: @colokal_experience