Pangong Tso – Tso means lake, Pangong means, well, Pangong. It’s an interesting endorheic lake; it stretches an unbelievable 134 kilometers, yet it is only 5 kms at its broadest point. Sitting at a cool 14,000 feet, it stares back defiantly as you try to understand how it got there. 2/3rds of the lake is Chinese territory, 1/3rd is Indian, the ducks and geese on the lake however didn’t know the difference when we checked.
You have to work hard to get to Pangong Tso; we certainly had to. The route from Leh passes through the military town of Karu, the mighty Chang La (superlatives attached: second highest, steepest, toughest, mightiest, most difficult to ride on pass in Ladakh), Tangtsey and reaches Lukung and Spangmik, the two primary human settlements along the Indian side of the lake.
Now we didn’t really know about all those superlatives that describe Chang La when it was decided that we were to bike to Pangong. Thanks to a sleepy motorbike rental guy, a leaky petrol can and some inefficient decision-making, we left Leh in our two freshly-hired Thunderbirds at 10 AM against the original plan of 6 AM. Good start, I breathe to myself. The road is peaceful at first. It is cool to be fitted out in protective gear and helmets thundering away – you know, the wind in your hair and the insects in your eyes kinda stuff? 
There’s a lot to take in and I am glad to play the contented pillion rider. The freshly-laid black tarmac is inviting, the boys want to open up the engines and zoom. A convoy of army trucks put paid to that idea, instead they provide a good initial test to the riding and overtaking skills of my two inexperienced-on-heavy-motorbike friends.
Worse, though, is yet to come. We halt for a break. We wonder aloud what the crazy stream – the Paagal naala before Pangong holds in store for us. We’ve been specifically advised to cross it before 11 AM when the water levels are low. Looking back, and considering the sheer elan with which my friends handled it, the stream was probably the last thing we should have worried about. These roads are everything that a road is generally not supposed to be; multiply that by factors varying from 10 to 100 and you get an idea of the various degrees of ‘road’ along the way. It gets worse as you go higher and closer to the Chang La. Your respect for the BRO increases manifold when you see how difficult the terrain is. This is the real deal – man’s morale and sheer numbers taking on brutal nature. We are mostly stuck on first gear with the occasional, short-lived visit to second gear. The bike has to pull a lot, there’s me and Kiwi and there’s our big rucksack and the 10 litres of petrol, all under low oxygen conditions. Looking back on how graciously she discharged her duties, the Thunderbird has earned my respect forever.
All the boulders, little rocks, big rocks and sand lying around meant that I had to disembark from the bike (swinging my cramped leg painfully above the rucksack) every time the road got nasty. And walking at that high altitude, especially when you are unprepared for it is extremely uncomfortable unless you are moving at the pace of a snail. To put it shortly, every short walk was also an exercise in self-control by way of having to restrain myself from kicking the two guys who were putting me through this misery! (Alright alright you two, I can hear you say it’s part of the experience blah blah, but if I am going with you next time, we better have a rucksack that can walk! )
Once you cross Chang La, you are greeted by slightly better roads which eventually smoothen out into runway-like black tarmac roads, albeit slightly narrow. However, we weren’t complaining. The scenery is striking and straight out of the picture books; wild horses grazing on green meadows while the stream gurgles by, wild horses galloping against a striking mountain backdrop, little friendly marmots that look like a cross between a meerkat and a giant squirrel, large, graceful birds, yaks, wild asses(?) and the occasional shepherds. The road ends abruptly at one point and a dirt track twists downwards. We’ve hit The stream. Ok, no big deal, we’ve just got to wind down to the stream and figure out a way and a place to cross it, right? Well, almost. The only difficulty is that you simply can’t see anything that looks even remotely like a road on the other bank. Road or no road, I realize I have to get my feet wet (The water is so cold it cuts through your flesh and makes your bone go numb) and wade across it. Shoot!
We stood there, slightly nonplussed when the voice of an angel hailed us from the mountains. An angel in the form of a Ladakhi road builder drifted down, guided us to the exact point where the two bikes could cross the stream, carried our rucksack across and helped me flit over the stones with minimal difficulty as well! I wanted to give him a hug and a 100 bucks; but considering how shy these people are, we settled for just a 100 bucks. Stream crossing and high-fives done, we continue on our ride and happen upon Pangong Tso. Somewhere just before Pangong lies the dirt track diversion to Marsimik La, the real highest motorable mountain pass maintained in a rough-and-tumble state by the Indo-Tebatan border police. Its questionable whether a road exists, but the specially fitted out army vehicles do make their laborious way up this pass.
The first settlement by the lake is Lukung – a collection of little tents and off-white stone buildings. There is an army settlement not far from the huts which also hosts a souvenir shop and a visitor’s centre of some kind. We walk down to the shores of the lake, triumphant and tired. For some reason that I can’t remember, we decide to ride further and find accommodation in the next town, Spangmik. The road beyond Lukung is just dirt track and after some distance forks into two, one road leading up in to the mountains and another winding down across the plain. For some reason, we choose to go uphill.
Progress is excruciatingly slow. The road has pretty much given up and stopped existing. Dusk falls quickly. And the wind turns extremely cold as the sun sinks. The road seems to lead to nowhere at all. We realize we might have taken the wrong route. Suddenly the hostility of our surroundings engulf us, it is a tiny bit unnerving and we decide to turn back. Enough adventure for the day, I think. The ‘luxury tents’ in Lukung cost more than the off-white rooms. We settle for a room for the night and crash gratefully, but not before a stomach-filling dinner of dal-roti-sabzi and a soul-filling view of the Milky Way.
The lake is stunning, but our ride back beckons. The boys are more comfortable on their bikes and the ride promises to be better as we know what to expect. The stream crossing is actually fun (it was, right guys?) and I graciously cross over with the heavy camera to take photos of the heroics!
We stop at the Peace Hotel to meet the marmots and a big black-necked crane and have a bowl of the yummiest Maggi noodles ever.
Soon its back to boulders and little rocks, medium rocks and big rocks! This time we halt at Chang La to have some of the free mint chai, buy an ‘army’ sunglass, take some photos. We chat up with an ex-army man who had visited here with Rajiv Gandhi. He informs us that he’s visiting here again with his wife and son who is posted around here. The son puts an abrupt end to the conversation, ‘Papa, chalo’. We wind our way down the steep roads and reach Leh just as my spine and I were beginning to get sore again.
It’s fun to ride a big motorbike around this place. Fellow motor-bikers behave like brothers; they smile through their helmets, wave, flash a thumbs-up there, a V-sign here and stop to help you if you seem to be in trouble. People who travel in 4-wheelers throw admiring glances at you and want to take photos of themselves on your bikes (not you though!). They speak to you and want to know how it’s been riding around. You can’t help but say, ’twas ok, pretty good’ and mean it in spite of however miserably your back ached because of that stupid backpack! And I am not quite sure why, but a Thunderbird thud-thudding away against the backdrop of those rough, untamed mountains is among the most appealing sights I’ve ever seen.
It’s time to leave. Bags packed. Bills settled. We reach the airport just as the Jet Airways flights comes in for a landing at the Leh airport. It’s inclined at such a precarious angle on the approach to the airport that I am half-sure it’s going to crash. But that’s normal at Leh – every thing is a little extreme in this place. I gratefully accept the window seat offered to me (thanks buddy!) and as our flight takes off, I sit tight as the plane’s wing gets dramatically close to the mountain ranges. The views of the Trans-Himalaya are needless to say, super awesome. The mountains stretch across forever. There are great sheets of snow that hardly a living soul has stepped on, deep gorges eroded by water and glaciers over the millenia. Serenity and mystery. The whine of the engines is distracting and I recite my goodbyes in my head…
Good bye Rimchen and Shanti guest house and huge French windows and little balcony
and apricots and snow-capped peaks and fresh mountain air and clear streams
and big bad passes and bleak mountain roads and galloping horses and bar-headed geese
and friendly marmots and white snow and cutting wind and cold desert
and sand dunes and two-humped camels and seabuckthorn and friendly taxi-drivers
and generous angels and contented people and herbed maggi noodles and thunderbirds!
Au revoir! We’ll be back!
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