High Road to Sapa

As soon as the first rays of sunlight poked through the wooden slats of my veranda window, I walked out to my balcony to greet a new day in Vietnam - what were YOU doing on Monday morning? Ok, bad joke. Sorry all you 9 to 5er's (the very few I actually know).

But my day did start off great - sun shining and not a cloud in the sky. Good thing because I was heading up, up, up and over the tallest pass in Vietnam to the high mountain village of Sapa. Once again, I was amazed at the quality of the road as I started off and hoped that it was as good for the entire 60 km of my motorbiking day. Before leaving Lai Chau, I grabbed a picnic breakfast and tossed it into my backpack. Immediately beyond the city limits (just beyond the Eiffel-shaped radio tower above town) the road started climbing straight up. In second gear with the engine screaming I was able to maintain forward momentum, but any stopping and restarting presented a challenge. After pulling over at a beautiful overlook for a quick bite, I continued on, riding past vertical rock walls, mountain sides drenched in thick tropical jungle, and dozens of waterfalls - including two that had to have fallen over a thousand feet. The landscapes of central Costa Rica, the Annapurna in Nepal, and the pictures of Hawaii's Na Pali I'd seen immediately came to mind.

The top of the pass was obscured by clouds, as it is during most of the year, and as I got closer I had to pull over and add a few layers of clothing. I had been warned that it would be cold at the top - some of the nearby peaks, including Fansipan (at 3143 meters, Vietnam's highest) actually get snow in the winter. After an hour of switchbacking, I crested the top of the pass to find a handful of government vehicles parked at the top and their formally dressed occupants toasting their arrival with rice wine. We waved at each other as I passed by, but there was no reason for me to stop - couldn't see more than 10 feet through the clouds.

I assume the pass marks the dividing line between two provinces or regions because, as often happens in the States at county or state lines, the road went from perfect tarmac to absolute shit. Sixteen downhill km of washboarded, potholed, gravel strewn, muddy "road." Slow going as the clouds began to thin out a bit and I knew that I was approaching Sapa when I began to pass motorbikes going the other direction, toward the cloud covered pass, with their riders - local men at the wheel with pained looking foreigners clinging to the back of the bike, bouncing and weaving on the rutted road.

Before long I was coasting into the village of Sapa - "Queen of the Mountains"