Bike-packing? Do you mean we ride, spend the night in a tent and cook our supper—no lodge or teahouse? It sounded wild—but exciting. Shishir, my cycling companion, nodded. He proposed a ride to Gupteswor Mahadev, some 30 km away in Dhading.
I was skeptical, though; I always keep my riding trips light. The tent and stuff meant heavier backpacks—way out of my comfort zone. But I still gave it a ‘yes’.
It has been 35 years since I last camped out. Guess what! That time, the first thing my wife and I learned in the morning was that we had chosen, of all places, a cemetery ground to pitch our tent.
Coming to the present, after Ramkot, the dirt track turned due south. As we climbed on, we got a bird’s eye view of the sprawling town. Terraced rice fields next to the burgeoning houses lent a breath of greenery to the township. Dense Nagarjun hills commanded the northern skyline.
If early post-monsoon riding has its downside in muddy stretches and unlooked-for rains, it’s also the time lush-green landscapes beckon with open arms.
Around 1pm, we headed up a steep wooded hill to Nursery Bhanjhyang (pass). At the crest, there was a tin shack that served as an eatery. We were not very hopeful about dal-bhat, our favorite; and indeed, we had to settle for egg-veg-noodle soup.
As Shishir busied himself with the camera, clicking at random, I scrutinized the dense woods around, trying to single out the species of trees—not very successfully, though.
At one spot, I noticed a landslip that had taken massive chunks off the greenery from the chain of verdant hills, showing hideous scars—reminding a fair-skinned face of a lady disfigured by burns.
That was a common sight throughout our trip. What was to blame—deforestation, massive stone-quarrying, land-plotting, newly dug roads, or everything thrown in together? I wondered.
Voilà, our steaming hot noodle soup arrived and we wolfed it down in a mighty hurry. The host turned out to be a pleasant fellow, forthcoming and conversant. We struck up a conversation and I asked him what trees they had in Nursery Bhanjhyang.
I got bowled over when he recounted the whole shebang in a single breath: Kafal (bayberry or box myrtle), Katus (chestnut), Rhododendron, Utis (Nepalese alder), Chilaune (Needlewood, Schima Wallichi), Kapur (camphor), Saur (Betula alnoides), Chaamp (Magnolia Champaca), and different species of pine.
The mention of Seti Kath (wood) caught my interest. “It’s a hardwood used in sickle, hammer, and ax handles,” he said. After a filling meal and an enlightening chat, we hopped onto our saddles again.
The dirt track got progressively muddier, and trickier. The rustic setting remained unchanged, green with sparse habitation, copses of wood, and rice terraces that dropped to the foothills. We left behind clusters of roadside villages with forested hillsides.
Next, we stopped at Damdame, a small Tamang settlement, for tea and a brief rest. Our bikes, caked in red mud, looked queer. My Trek’s disc-rotor squealed funny every time I squeezed my brakes—Shishir’s Giant was none the worse. A massive tree stood by the shack, doubling as a tea-shop and living quarters.
An elderly Tamang lady appeared, and we asked her for tea. She barked the order to two young women, one presumably was her offspring and the other a daughter-in-law. A young lad by the side turned out to be her grandson. I went for a second cup and biscuits while chatting with the old lady.
Curiosity had me asking the widowed septuagenarian, Dev Maya Tamang, about the hoary tree. She told me it was a Chiuri (Indian butter tree). “It has been there since I was a toddler,” she said. I learned that Chiuri seeds produce ghee.
Man-o-man, Dev Maya seemed mighty chatty for her age, even had her hair dyed jet-black. She got married when she was just 10. Even her body language created a feel-good vibe. I consider myself a jokester, always up to some wisecrack—but she beat me to it every time.
After refreshing cups of tea and a lively chinwag at Damdame, we bid farewell to the ladies, particularly the 77-year-old Dev Maya. I’d hit it off well with her the next time we met.
I had to admit, albeit miles from urban comfort, the village folks were insatiably curious, smiled profusely, got into playful jabs, and carried a remarkable sense of humor even in deprivation.
The little time spent with the chatty Tamang lady at Damdame made me forget my aching muscles from the long, grueling ride—and off we went again.
