Sapa still wasn’t quite doing it for us.

Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the fact that it was only seven in the morning and a miserable 12 degrees. Or maybe it was because Craig had thoughtfully passed on his Asian flu to me and now the pair of us were wobbling through the mountains feeling like two pensioners on an ill-advised outing.

Neither of us had really caught the Sapa vibe yet.

Craig, meanwhile, had been on quite a journey of his own.

It had all started back in Tam Coc with what I generously described as a dribble.

At the time, it seemed harmless enough. A little sniff. A discreet dab. Nothing to worry about.

But somewhere between Tam Coc and Sapa, the dribble had evolved.

By now it had reached full yak.

Every few miles came the now familiar warning sound, deep from the chest, followed by an almighty blast of snot onto the nearest verge, bush, rock face, or unsuspecting patch of Vietnamese countryside.

The man had become his own weather system, complete with sudden precipitation and unexpected gusts.

Given we were now riding the Roof of Indochina, it felt oddly appropriate that I appeared to have brought my own mountain livestock.

Meanwhile I clung to a tissue and silently resented the fact that he had generously shared the same bug with me.

Still, if there is one way to shake off feeling flat, it is to get on a bike and ride into the mountains.

Riding Out of Sapa into Muong Hoa Valley

We set off from Sapa town towards Silver Falls, then on towards the base of Fansipan and over Tram Ton Pass, with no real plan other than to keep going.

The road quickly opened into the Muong Hoa Valley, and suddenly Sapa began to look less like somewhere we weren’t feeling and more like somewhere quietly preparing to impress us.

The landscape unfolded in layers, tea terraces, patches of rice, and wooden houses on stilts.

Young tribal girls wandered the hills with baskets collecting herbs, while elderly couples gathered wood from the forest. One couple had strapped so many branches onto their motorbike it looked about eight feet wide. How it stayed upright remains one of the great unsolved mysteries of the trip.

Then it hit me.

No karaoke.

For the first time in weeks, there was no distant speaker, no off-key ballad drifting through the hills.

Just wind.

And what wind it was.

All day long, sudden gusts slammed into us, strong enough to make you tighten your grip and question how far we are from the ledge.

Tram Ton Pass and Heaven’s Gate Views

The pass itself was something else entirely.

The locals call it Heaven’s Gate, which feels about right, though it is the kind of heaven where your hair whips into your lip balm and you briefly reconsider all your decisions. 

The mountains stack up in blue layers, clouds spill over the ridge like they have missed their stop, and the air tastes clean enough to make you suspicious.

It is beautiful, ridiculous, and absolutely worth the ride.

The hillside house and the view

We ducked under the barrier and stopped at a small house perched high above the valley.

A lovely woman in traditional tribal dress came out to greet us. Her daughter was inside making tea while the children played nearby on little bikes, completely unfazed by their surroundings.

They live at around 2,000 metres above sea level. Their garden, if you could call it that, included a drop of at least 1,000 metres straight down into the valley below.

I could not help but wonder how on earth you teach children not to wander in a place like this. There are no fences. No warning signs. Just a very real consequence if curiosity gets the better of you.

We of course took the opportunity to take a few photos. Although I struggled slightly with the setting. Standing on a wooden platform held together by what looked like three nails and a prayer, built by a grieving widow, in gusty wind, with a 1,000-metre drop just beyond it, did not exactly fill me with confidence.

The view, however, was extraordinary. The valley stretched endlessly below us in layers of green and drifting cloud. Beautiful, peaceful, and just unsettling enough to keep you very aware of where your feet were.

Craig stood there in his fleece, zipped right up under his chin, looking completely at home in the mountain air, on a plank of wood perched above the valley holding a Vietnamese flag.

Fansipan and the Roof of Indochina

Then it appeared.

Fansipan. My moment. 

A magnificent natural wonder located in the Hoang Lien Son Mountain Range, which is an extension of the famous Himalayas

The Roof of Indochina, rising to 3,147 metres.

It wasn’t the peak itself that stole my heart. It was the peaks that surround it, jagged, sharp, like spikes or shark teeth, cutting through the clouds with a raw, untamed presence. Slopes cloaked in ancient forest, cliffs and ridges that seemed untouched, almost defiant.

The clouds drifted around it like it was auditioning for a fantasy film, revealing spires and terraces one moment and hiding them the next. The light caught patches of mist, making it shimmer as though the mountain were alive.

The sheer scale and the atmosphere, raw, almost otherworldly, completely unspoiled, made me stop.

The mountain range was mighty and powerful, pure beauty that touched something deep inside me. It brought a tear to my eye, overwhelming in the nicest way, and left me utterly grateful to be there.

This was my moment. Craig had his moment with the King Kong jungle trees back in Da Nang, and this was mine.

Some places are beautiful. Others feel almost unreal. This was one of those.

Steep roads and wet bums

Somewhere along the route we spotted a road sign boasting a 28% incline. Steep, yes, not the world’s steepest, but steep enough to make me cling to the handlebars. We wisely did not attempt it.

By now I had also accepted my fate. The bike seat foam was already wet, and every time I sat down it politely reminded me.

Further down, the riverbed lay dry but filled with huge boulders. We crossed the rusty bridge. In rainy season it must be incredible.

We stopped at a fruit seller for a pineapple on the go. Pre-peeled and prepared, leaving just elements of the core to act as their own holding stick. Genius. Quick, sweet, and completely mess-free, unlike everything else today.

Craig climbed off the bike, delivered one particularly committed yak performance into the undergrowth, and got back on looking thoroughly satisfied with himself. I kept my tissue close and my distance closer.

Valley life in full swing

Cows wandered past with bells gently clanging.

A buffalo was being walked uphill by its owner when the younger one suddenly decided it had absolutely no intention of cooperating. A full wobble, a sideways moonwalk, and a dramatic collapse worthy of a soap opera.

The young lad wrestling it back into line was equal parts farmer, wrestler, and unwilling rodeo performer.

It was half farming, half entertainment. All around us, life just carried on.

Sheer drops and questionable decisions

Some of the roads were not for the faint-hearted. Sheer drops, no barriers, just a narrow strip of tarmac and a long way down. My toes curled around the pedals as we moved along at a speed I would have preferred to discuss in advance.

Then a newly cut road appeared through the valley. Craig, as always, was immediately interested.

There must be something good around here.

Which in Craig language usually means, Hold on, Chucky, we’re going on a little adventure.

Storms, Mud and Mountain Roads in Sapa

Then the road simply stopped. Closed due to a mixture of road repairs and new road.

Through sign language, pointing, and process of elimination, we discovered it would reopen in about one hour.

We waited.

A handful of local men were already waiting on their bikes.

We watched a huge digger shift rocks with the calm of an Indiana Jones scene, clearing the debris while the locals casually observed from the edge of the cliff.

Then came the thunder.

A low rumble at first.

Then suddenly we were right in the middle of it.

Thunder cracked so loudly it sounded like dynamite. Lightning tore through the valley, lighting everything up in sharp flashes.

The storm forced us to take shelter in the form of a thin £1 plastic coat, which fluttered dramatically in the gusts while doing almost nothing to keep us dry.

Craig, briefly pausing his yak duties, helped a local woman cut up a large plastic sack so she and her husband could use it as makeshift rain cover.

The storm lasted about twenty minutes.

Then it passed, the road opened and off we set. 

Minutes later, and there they were, the paddy terraces, layer upon layer revealed as if someone had pulled back a curtain.

Mud, rescue and fuel panic

A few miles down the road, Craig decided to follow a wiggly track along the river. Bad choice.

The road turned to mud.

Then more mud.

Then the kind of mud that swallows bikes and dignity.

We got stuck.

Properly stuck.

Thankfully a local appeared and helped rescue us before we became a permanent feature of the valley.

We pushed on for a bit, but the road just got worse. Completely broken and not passable. 

By now the light was fading.

We had only a quarter tank.

We were in the absolute middle of nowhere.

At that point, we decided to turn around. It cost us about thirty minutes of time, but it was worth it as the fuel station appeared as soon as we hit the main road.

The Ride Back Through Muong Hoa Valley at Night

The ride back was wet, dusty, and slightly chaotic.

We drove through the Muong Hoa Valley in the dark, through clouds of dust, dodging buses and lorries, with dogs that chased us around hairpin bends.

But none of it dampened the day. If anything, it made it.

We arrived back around 7:30 pm.

The bike hire guy took one look at the bike, then at us, and silently aged ten years. Both completely covered in mud. Hard to say which had come off worse.

Still, nothing a shower wouldn’t fix.

Craig zipped his fleece right up under his chin, perfectly content in the cool Sapa air. Somewhere between Tam Coc and Sapa, the dribble had become a yak.

And somehow, despite the flu, the fear, the storm, and the mud, it turned into one of the best scenic days we’ve had so far.