Kullu Valley.

During our last high mountain pass, I'm tired but determined to make it. Clouds roll over the Rohtang Pass, hiding and then revealing the lush green Kullu Valley 32 miles down. The mist is dangerously thick at some points, which forces me to concentrate all my attention on my front tire in order to maneuver the bike over the slick, mud-covered rocks on the road. At other times, the mist is a translucent curtain parting to display the verdant foothills and rocky moraines. As approach the descent into the valley, tiny pink wildflowers cover the ground like spilled dusting powder. According to local myth, the principal deity of the valley, Jamlu, was carrying all the important Hindu gods across the mountains in a casket. Suddenly a gust of wind blew open the box and spilled all the contents into the area, which earned Kullu the moniker"valley of the gods." But even among the beautiful flowers, it is hard not to notice how quickly we were moving from the divine to the mundane. Road signs—warnings of the dangerous curves on these snaking mountain descents—are at times too amusing to take seriously: "What Goes Up, Must Come Down." "Divorce Speed." "Be Gentle on My Curves."

Roadside warning for downhill riders.

The only other traffic on the road is diesel-spewing Indian Tata trucks. Some of the truck drivers slow down next to my bike, hang their torsos out of the cabins, and give me a very noisy and very unwelcome air-kiss. I don't wish to be part of this Bollywood movie scene! Finally I wind down the valley and into the outskirts of Manali. The sun turns into a blur in the evening fog as I work my way through a traffic jam of two trucks, four jeeps, and about three dozen sheep. My bike shoes sink into the six-inch deep mud as I drag my bike across a part of the road too glutinous to ride through. When I get to Manali, it looks like many tourist towns around the world—overrun with visitors, restaurants, banks, and hotels.

Finally we are at the end of our journey. We cycle through the dark pine forests and rolling apple orchards of Himachal Pradesh to the holy city of Manikaran. Manikaran is a town built around hot sulfur springs, purportedly the hottest in the world. Around town are giant wells with boiling water at the surface. We each take a dip in the tiled baths that are built into the ground floor of the hotel. Glenn, our guide, is the first to arrive. By the time I get there, he is ordering our cooks around like a rogue Roman emperor, barefoot and dressed in a towel.

Into Manikaran.

At the temples, Hindu and Sikh pilgrims wrap rice in thin pink scarves and place them in the water to be cooked, blessed, and eaten. Sitting next to one boiling hot spring, a holy man explains to me how the town gets its name. While the goddess Parvati (wife of Siva) bathed in the river, Naga, the serpent god, stole her earrings (manikaran). When Siva found out, he ordered the earrings returned. Angry Naga blew them back from underground, causing hot springs to boil up. That night after dinner, we say good-bye to our camp crew. The journey is nearly over. We have gone from frigid glacial streams to boiling hot springs, from the massively contorted cliffs and dusty, lifeless plateaus to raging melon-blue rivers and moist pine forests. What could the earth possibly offer that's more spectacular than the Himalayas?

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