Ride Beyond the Heights: Rama’s Review of Ladakh Journey with Thrillophilia
When Rama Krishna Peri landed in Leh that morning, the world felt slower. The air was thin yet alive, brushing softly against his skin as if reminding him to breathe deeper, slower, with intent. He had come alone, but there was nothing lonely about this journey. The mountains of Ladakh seemed to watch over every traveller, ancient and silent, offering company in their stillness.
The first day unfolded quietly. After settling into his hotel, Rama wandered through the narrow lanes of Leh, the smell of butter tea lingering around every corner. At the Shanti Stupa, he stood for a long while, watching the town stretch below in shades of gold and dust. The white dome gleamed under the evening sun, and somewhere behind it, the Himalayas hid a thousand stories.
The next morning began with the hum of his Royal Enfield. The bike felt heavy yet reassuring beneath him as he rode out toward Sham Valley. Roads curved like ribbons, tracing rivers that danced between rock and sky. At Sangam Point, where the Zanskar met the Indus, he stood still, watching the colours merge in perfect silence. He stopped again at Magnetic Hill, half-smiling as his bike seemed to roll on its own, and bowed his head at Gurudwara Pathar Sahib, where warmth came not just from the butter tea offered but from the kindness of strangers.
By the time he reached Nubra Valley the following day, the world had changed shape. The harshness of Leh’s rocky edges gave way to sand dunes and small green oases. Khardung La tested both his patience and his breath. Its height was brutal, but the reward was unmatched. He stopped for Maggi at the tiny café up there, steam rising into air that seemed almost not to exist. When he finally descended into Nubra, the sun dipped low over Diskit Monastery, casting long shadows across the golden valley.
That evening, under the vast Hunder sky, he watched camels walk across the sand. Their two humps moved like waves against the desert, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the strangeness of it. Snow peaks stood on one side, sand dunes on the other. It was the kind of sight you could never quite describe, only feel.
The next day took him farther north to Turtuk, a village so close to the border it felt like a secret whispered by the mountains. The road there wound through cliffs that opened into green fields and apricot trees. In Turtuk, children ran barefoot past stone houses, and the air carried a quiet rhythm of laughter and wind. He sat near the monastery for a while, watching prayer flags flutter, thinking of how life here seemed suspended between two worlds, peaceful yet edged with history.
From Nubra, he rode towards Pangong Tso. Streams crossed the path often, splashing against his boots, and every few turns offered a new hue of blue. When the lake finally appeared, it was nothing like the photos. It was vaster, calmer, and endlessly shifting. The sky melted into it so seamlessly that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. That night, Rama sat by the lake, wrapped in silence, watching the water change from turquoise to silver as the moon rose. The cold bit his hands, but the stillness warmed him in ways words could not.
The return to Leh was long and beautiful. He crossed Chang La Pass, stopping briefly at the small café perched high above the valley, and then made his way to the Druk Padma Karpo School, known from the film 3 Idiots. There was something oddly comforting in seeing a place once seen only on a screen. Before heading back, he stopped at Thiksey Monastery, where rows of butter lamps flickered softly in the shadows.
By the time he returned to Leh, his journey had looped back to where it began. But it wasn’t the same city anymore, and he wasn’t the same traveller. The markets looked livelier, the people warmer, and the air more forgiving. He spent the last evening walking through the streets again, buying a few trinkets he didn’t really need, smiling at how full the week had been.
When his flight took off the next morning, the view below was a blur of brown ridges and white peaks. Rama felt something settle quietly inside him, a mix of exhaustion, awe, and gratitude. Ladakh had tested him, soothed him, and, in its quiet way, changed him.
Later, when someone asked about the trip, he said simply, “I really enjoyed the ride to Ladakh.”
But what he meant was that the mountains had taught him how to breathe again.
Read More: Thrillophilia Ladakh Reviews