What kind of journey?

The smog and traffic of Kathmandu was behind me, ahead a windy, pocked road, climbing to the hills north of the City. It was quite leafy and green, but it appeared that very little traffic used this road out. Fine by me, gave me some time to think.

So that was that then. Everest over, Mark on the plane back home, just me and Ambliss winding up this adventure together.

The road passed through the forest, and then to a small village a the top of the hill. A policeman lazily waved me through a checkpoint. I knew there would probably be good views behind me, but I couldn't be bothered to stop.

It would be a long epilogue - I had to drive back to Delhi before the 20th, which gave me a week. I hadn't planned a route yet - I was toying with the idea of riding straight to the border at Birganj, or heading to a border further west at Sonauli. I was also tempted by the idea of driving back the way I had come, to Mahenendragar, or even putting Ambliss on a train.

Going though a small pass, the valley opened up on the other side into farmland. Staggeringly, almost every part of the steeply sided slopes were terraced. Not only was it a miracle of landscaping and farming, but it looked pretty as a painting too.

I didn't really plan on having any more adventures. The three big things I had wanted to do, drive an Enfield up to Himachal Pradesh, drive through a desert, drive to Nepal and then climb Everest, were done. I had achieved what I wanted to, both inwardly and externally. I began to wonder what kind of journey this last bit would be.

The road passed through a wedding reception and party. A hundred suited farmers and country Nepalese folk gathered outside an official looking building. I tooted as I passed and they all waved at me.

I considered stopping writing blog entries. I had surely said all that I wanted to say; told as many stories as I could; collected some interesting interviews along the way, but that didn't feel right. I wanted to write some more, about what I had learnt about myself and the world over the last few months.

After few small villages the road passed through farmland. Men and women working in fields, waiting for buses, washing vegetables by the side of the road, herding animals.

I yawned. It had been a late night. Another one. The last four or five days in Kathmandu seemed to blend into one big pizza and beer party. Marks last night had started with a quiet beer at 7pm, and finished at four am in our hotel room, reminiscing about the walk, many bottles of beer lining the walls.

Sometimes the road was in the sun, and sometimes in shadow. It was cold then, despite thermals and jacket. Also, there was a lot of dew on the road, and water cascading from the rocks. I skidded off the bike once - the back wheel just bottomed out, and I followed the bike across the road. I was winded, but that was the extent of it. I got straight back on, kicked Ambliss awake, and carried on.

Raju from Royal Mountain travel suggested I go a back way out of Kathmandu - head northwest, to Tinchuli, then take a shortcut from Deva Ghat to the Prithivi highway. A trip of about 6 hours. Why not? I didn't have any real preference or any ideas of my own.

I stopped for tea once, chatted to a few policemen by a bridge, Namaste'd people every time I pulled over. I made the highway about 2pm, and turned West. Raju had suggested a place called Benighat to stay the night, and I was there by three. Tired and ready to stop.

At an ivy clad tea house, called the Big Fig, I pulled over. 'I need somewhere to stay,' I said to the young and helpful restaurant manager. 'Can you suggest anywhere?'

He grinned at me. 'Yes of course. Over there!' He pointed over the other side of the river. I couldn't see any buildings on the other side. 'No not high up, on the shore'.

I looked down. 'Are they tents?' I looked a bit dubious. I figured tents might be a bit cold.

'Yes, our eco canvass village. Its really warm don't worry', he had picked up on my hesitation. 'Come, we will have fun getting the bike over! Only one person has done it on a bullet before!'

I let myself be persuaded. The manager, was personable and enthusiastic, it looked something a bit different and exciting.

I was surprised even one bike had made it across the bridge. A cobbled lane, steep and narrow, let down to the bridge. That was hard enough to drive down. Then the bridge itself, again narrow and swaying in the wind. After that a tough road track leading down to the river. And finally over a sand and stone riverbed to the camp.

Ambliss and I handled everything that was thrown at us. I was really proud of us after not riding for a couple of weeks we could still handle rough terrain.

The tents were surprisingly comfortable. I stretched out in the late afternoon sun, and promptly fell asleep.

What kind of journey would it be back? Perhaps it would not be the dull and empty epilogue after all.