This was the drive I hadn’t been able to complete on an earlier trip with friends: Delhi-Shimla-Sangla-Kalpa-Poo-Tabo-Kaza-Chandratal-Manali-Delhi—or the other way around. We had made it as far as Kalpa from the Shimla side before age and work compelled us to turn back. Yet, I still wanted to finish it.

　　So, on a pleasantly long weekend, when it turned out that my usual expedition buddies were otherwise preoccupied, I asked myself: Why not go alone? I was thrilled, even if most people I told weren’t. Nevertheless, alone and at last, I embarked on the trip of a lifetime.

　　I left Delhi for Swarghat amidst crawling mid-afternoon traffic, speeding past Patiala Chowk, Banur, and Kharar until rains and deep darkness slowed me down beyond Ropar. It was 10 PM on that stormy night when I finally reached Swarghat, reputedly home to "many hotels."

　　I stopped at one such establishment, which appeared to be only 30 per cent complete, and asked for a room. The door wouldn’t open, and a boy brought me sheets riddled with holes. No way. That protest forced me to drive another 90 minutes, covering just eight kilometres in torrential rain and near-zero visibility on a winding road.

　　Adding to the ordeal, my phone refused to connect, leaving me unable to make calls. It was utterly terrifying. The next wayside hotel turned out to be no better, but by then, I was in no state to object. It took two large swigs of rum and a hot dinner of chicken curry with tawa rotis to finally calm my frazzled nerves.

　　A massive traffic jam caused by the previous night’s rains and landslides delayed my journey, allowing me to reach only as far as Mandi the next day. However, the following morning’s drive from Mandi to Manali was breathtaking, especially the stretch of highway beyond Kullu, with the Beas River gurgling along to my right.

　　I arrived in Manali around noon, earlier than expected, and continued onwards to Marhi, a small wayside pit stop located 17 kilometres before Rohtang Pass.

　　Marhi had been without electricity for nearly a month, but as luck would have it, power returned that evening. The owner of the dhaba where I was staying thanked me profusely, joking that I had "brought the light back."

　　After a hearty meal of roti, dal, and sabzi, I unpacked my sleeping bag and settled in for the night, bundled up in my thermals. At an altitude of 11,000 feet, the night was predictably cold, but the stopover proved invaluable in helping me acclimatise to the higher altitude ahead.

　　I left Marhi at 7:15 the next morning, relishing the scenic drive past a serene Rohtang Top. The pass was surprisingly peaceful, with only about 20 vehicles in sight, a far cry from its usual overcrowding. The road, though zigzagging, was broad and well-maintained, making for a smooth and enjoyable journey.

　　Fifteen kilometres later, at Gramphoo, I turned right off the Manali-Leh highway towards Chandratal. It was only later that I realised those were the last stretches of tarred roads I would encounter on this adventure.

　　About four to five kilometres beyond Gramphoo, and after navigating a couple of small water crossings, I encountered a significant traffic jam. Stepping out to stretch my legs, I saw a group of 15–20 men working together to free a Tavera that was stuck in what the locals call the Paagal Nulla ("crazy water stream")—a notoriously tricky stretch of the route.

　　Fortunately, that morning, the water was crystal clear and shallow, making the rocks visible. The most challenging part was at the stream's end, where it dipped before climbing up a steep incline of boulders. If the car’s front hit the larger rocks and the driver failed to pull out in one go, the vehicle could get trapped between rocks, leaving the engine powerless to climb out of the dip. After an hour of strenuous effort, the Tavera was finally rescued.

　　I was fourth in line, behind a Scorpio and two Sumos, with 25 vehicles queued up behind me. The stress was palpable. Some of the drivers came over to reassure me, offering pep talks and reminding me that I had the advantage of a 4x4 vehicle. Everyone was kind and encouraging, even referring to me as "uncleji travelling alone."

　　When my turn finally came, my nerves kicked in. I had no prior experience navigating a nulla like this, and the earlier Tavera mishap—a local taxi—had only added to the tension. Rescuers, I knew, were rough with vehicles in such situations; their priority was clearing the way, not sparing the car.

　　As I drove cautiously over the rocks, I approached the tricky end where decisions had to be made in split seconds. Left or right? With no one to guide me, I floored the throttle and veered left. Success! Cheers erupted as I made it through, waving triumphantly. At that moment, I felt like the coolest uncleji on the road.

　　Cold deserts and solitary roads marked the beginning of a new chapter in my journey. The terrain was vastly different now—rocky pathways that barely allowed me to shift out of first gear. For miles, I encountered no one except the occasional speeding Sumo or the rare bus. It took me three hours to cover the 17 kilometres from Gramphoo to Chhatru, half of which was spent navigating a nulla crossing.

　　Chhatru, with its peaceful meadow, offered a welcome respite. Two dhabas and some tents stood in front, providing a perfect spot to take a break and enjoy some tea. There were a few bikers around, mostly Enfield riders, changing wet socks and trousers after braving the elements.

　　However, I couldn’t afford to linger. About an hour and a half later, I came across a milestone that read “Chhotadara 0km”, but there was nothing there—no teashop, no sign of life. I drove a kilometre further and stopped at a BRO shed, but again, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The solitude of this rugged landscape was starting to settle in.

　　The roads were dusty and seemed endless, but it didn’t bother me much, nor did the solitude of the drive. The craggy mountains were my only companions, standing silent and majestic against the vast landscape. There was a unique beauty to the desert-like surroundings—strewn with pebbles, rocks, and boulders of all shapes and hues. A grey, serene Chandra River ran beside the road for a long stretch, adding to the stunning view.

　　I played music softly on the stereo, with the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds. I smiled to myself, lost in the peaceful rhythm of the journey. Around the next bend, I spotted a shepherd with his herd, their origins and destination a mystery only the land knew.

　　After another 90 minutes, I finally reached Batal, feeling a tremendous sense of achievement. Chandratal was now only 14 kilometres away.

　　The Chacha-Chachi dhaba at Batal is almost revered in online posts, and I had read that they had a satellite phone. I sneaked inside to find about 25 travellers, both Indian and foreign, enjoying dal-rice while sitting on beds (the room turns into a dorm at night). I sipped my tea and asked about the satphone since my phone still wasn’t working.

　　Chacha replied, "Beta, the battery is dead. Maybe it will be alright by evening." Later, I realised that there hadn’t been enough sunlight for the solar battery to charge properly.

　　The road to Chandratal was much narrower, but by then, I was an expert. It was also endlessly winding. Suddenly, I heard a loud blast and realised my rear right tyre had burst. I stepped out, feeling breathless, and what did I see? Two huge mountain dogs were staring at me.

　　At that moment, I couldn't help but marvel at my luck. I stared back at them until they slowly faded away. Phew!

　　I hadn’t changed a tyre in 20 years, and of course, I had to do it on that lonely mountain road. My brand new hydraulic jack was a real saviour, but it soon became clear that I couldn’t replace the burst tyre on my own. I needed both my hands to lift and align the heavy replacement, so I couldn’t manage to insert the bolt. I gave up and decided to wait.

　　Fifteen minutes later, Manu pedalled up. This Bengaluru boy had been cycling from Gramphoo, having been dropped there from Leh. We were both struggling with the tyre when the driver and passenger of another Sumo stopped to help. It was done quickly after that. People are always helpful in the hills.

　　What if another tyre burst? I could fix a puncture, but I didn’t have another spare. Such were my thoughts as Manu and I made our way separately to the legendary Jamaica’s camp near Chandratal. I intended to pitch my tent near it so I could enjoy a hot dinner. It was only about 4 pm, with plenty of time before it got dark. Chandratal was just two kilometres away, followed by a 20-minute trek.

　　I drove along the thin, steep, and curvy road to reach the parking lot (yes, it’s labelled “Parking”). From there, I hiked, stopping to catch my breath, finally reaching the lake at an altitude of 14,100 feet. Oh, what a sight it was! The mesmerizing colours of the blue sky, the white clouds, the jagged mountains, and the incredibly beautiful lake — they justified the 715 kilometres it had taken me to get there.

　　I made my way back to the camp, where Manu and I enjoyed hot rice and dal from Jamaica for dinner. The temperature dropped to -5°C that night, as reported by those who slept with thermometers.

　　I left Chandratal at 9 am and reached Manali by 4:30 pm that evening. En route, I stopped at Batal's iconic dhaba. The satphone was working, so I called home and friends. I had been 'missing' for two days.

　　I couldn't find a tyre in Manali, where I stayed overnight. The next day, I finally bought a secondhand one in Mandi. Day 6 was spent at Swarghat, and exactly a week after I left, almost to the hour, I was back in Delhi. It had been seven days, 1,412 kilometres, and more nerve than I ever thought I possessed.

　　The Information

　　The Route

　　The Shimla route to Chandratal is better for acclimatisation as the climb is gradual, but I didn’t have the time it would take. So, here’s what I did:

　　On Day 1, I drove from Delhi to Swarghat, covering 340km in about 7 hours. The next day, Day 2, I travelled from Swarghat to Mandi, a 105km journey that took 6.5 hours. While the distance is manageable, the route is often slowed down by traffic jams, especially with the trucks heading to the cement factories around Bilaspur. On Day 3, I moved from Mandi to Marhi, covering 146km in 5 hours. The drive from Mandi to Manali (110km/3.5hrs) was relatively smooth, but since the next fuel station was at Kaza, 210km away, I refuelled at Manali and checked my tyre pressure—higher pressure is recommended for rocky roads, as the locals advised. From Manali, I drove to Marhi (36km/90mins).

　　On Day 4, I drove from Marhi to Chandratal, a 96km stretch that took me 8.5 hours. From Gramphoo, I turned right towards Kaza, about 15km from Rohtang Pass on the Manali-Leh highway, with Marhi to Rohtang being about 17km. There are no villages between Gramphoo and Chandratal, but Chhatru and Batal offer dhabas for travellers. The route from Gramphoo to Batal can be divided into three equal parts: Gramphoo to Chhatru (17km/3hrs, delayed due to a Paagal Nulla pile-up), Chhatru to Chhotadara (17km/90mins), and Chhotadara to Batal (16km/90mins). From Batal, I continued towards Chandratal, which is 14km away. However, my progress was delayed by a tyre burst, so it took me longer to cover the stretch. The road to Chandratal begins 2km out of Batal, where I turned off the main Kaza road.

　　On Day 5, I drove from Chandratal back to Manali. On Day 6, I headed from Manali to Swarghat, and on Day 7, I completed the return journey from Swarghat to Delhi.

　　What To Pack

　　You’ll go mad Googling the time taken to cover distances (which are often weird and unrealistic), so printing out a broad route map should be your first agenda item. You won’t need a map for the Delhi-Manali stretch—mine was for the Gramphoo-Kaza route.

　　Be sure to keep a hydraulic jack, foot pump, and tubeless puncture kit handy for changing tyres. You will need camping gear and woollens, of course, and don’t forget to pack a lath (wooden staff) to scare away small animals. Your luggage should also include a Swiss Army knife, hammer, nails, torch, emergency lamp, food, and medicines (keep Diamox handy with a prescription for altitude sickness), as well as music CDs, of course. No mobile network works beyond Rohtang Pass until Kaza, though I was told BSNL works intermittently after Losar.

　　Where To Stay

　　Mostly, I managed with whatever I could find along the way. I missed it during the torrential rain on my onward journey, but stayed at HPTDC's Hotel Hill Top (from Rs 1,450, hptdc.nic.in) on my return. You can book in advance via their website.

　　At Mandi, I checked into the Raj Mahal Palace (from Rs 1,600, rajmahalpalace.com), the heritage property of the erstwhile ruler of Mandi—an excellent choice. My room was comfortable, and the food was great, especially the tandoori trout.

　　There’s a 2-room PWD rest house tucked away from the road to Rohtang at Marhi, offering a spectacular 360-degree view. However, I hadn’t booked it in advance, so the caretaker turned me away without hesitation. That left me with a couple of dhabas, which offered asbestos-roofed brick rooms and shared loos. Your best bet at Batal is the Chacha-Chachi dhaba, where many people stop for the night while travelling between Kaza and Manali. Rates are not fixed and can range from Rs 600 to Rs 1,300 per night at roadside dhabas.

　　Look up Jamaica in Chandratal for tents and hot food (he’s at 91-9418200183, but his number works only when he’s in Manali; reservations are not expected in this part of the world). I paid Rs 150 for my dal-rice dinner, pitched my own tent, and left before breakfast. Jamaica also offers a tent with meals for about Rs 2,000 per day.

　　After roughing it out on my way up, I indulged in a stay at the Citrus Manali Resorts (from Rs 6,000, citrushotels.com) in Manali, a beautiful property by the banks of the Beas, where I slept listening to the divine music of the river.

　　Top Tips

　　I drove a Skoda Yeti 4X4. A decent ground clearance is important to navigate the nullas, so an SUV is recommended. A four-wheel drive is a huge psychological relief, but it's not a must.

　　Drink plenty of water and limit or avoid smoking. Pack breakfast and lunch whenever possible to save time. I usually opted for masala omelettes and stuffed parathas.

　　Best Time To Visit

　　August-September is the best time to visit Lahaul-Spiti. I made this trip over the Independence Day weekend. While planning, a friend directed me to videos posted by an Enfield group tour biker on his blog. The videos showed boulders blocking roads, and water crossings on the final Kaza-Manali stretch looked terrifying, especially since I wouldn’t have anyone to help me through them. I reasoned that there would be less water since my trip was over a month after theirs, and the BRO would have cleared the rocks by the time I arrived. Nonetheless, I packed gumboots to check the depth of snowmelt streams, and tried not to worry about landslides or fresh snowfall in the upper reaches, which could cause water levels to rise considerably downstream.