India's south-west monsoon comes late to the Himalayas, arriving some time in mid-July, six weeks after it hits the southernmost tip of the country. So it seemed safe enough to begin a motorbike tour through the mountains, starting from the town of Manali on July 5, well before the scheduled arrival of the rainy season.

I'd decided to join the 21-day motorbike tour quite spontaneously, after spending a couple of months meditating at an ashram in a small village in the Kullu Valley, close to Manali. The long period of introspection had made me restless, so when a group of motorcyclists arrived in my village and started using it as a base to prepare for a 2000-kilometer trip, I became curious. A few days later, when they told me they had a spare bike and were looking for one more rider, I found myself signing on for the trip. The sudden switch from calm, inward focus to outgoing adventure, from non-doing to vigorous activity, appealed to my appetite for swinging between opposite extremes.

All the people in the group knew each other in a loose kind of way, having been part of a commune created in the 'Seventies in Pune by the controversial Indian mystic, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, who later became known as 'Osho.' After that experience, we'd become India addicts, each in his own way, spending long periods I Goa, or in the mountains, or doing some kind of export business, never quite being able to say goodbye to this enigmatic subcontinent.

As for me, I could never find an atmosphere so supportive of meditation in any other country, and since eastern spirituality has become an integral part of my life, I've never been out of India for long. The organizers of the trip, two seasoned motorcyclists called Ash and Deepesh -- one born in South Africa, the other in Germany -- were planning a high ride. Just to give you an idea: Manali is 2000 meters above sea level, the Rohtang Pass, located 50 kilometers north of the town, is 4000 meters, and the region that lies beyond is all around 3500 meters, with passes rising up to 4500 and 5000 meters. It's basically mountain desert, with little rainfall -- the monsoon doesn't usually penetrate beyond the first range of the Himalayas.

Our plan was to go first to the Spiti Valley, which borders on Chinese-occupied Tibet, where we'd spend ten days visiting Buddhist gompas and exploring Spiti's many side-valleys, then drive 450 kilometer to Leh, in Ladakh, where we'd do more local trips to places of interest.

We left on schedule. There were five motorbikes and seven of us, including the two organizers, plus a support jeep with a local driver and a mechanic from Manali. We were riding 500 cc Royal Enfields, the bike of choice for almost everyone who takes on the Himalayas. Based on an extinct British prototype and now manufactured in India, these single-cylinder, four-stroke monsters cruise up steep, winding roads with a comforting, low-throbbing "took-took-took sound that becomes music to a biker's ears, so different from the high-pitched whine of most modern machines.

During the days prior to our departure the weather in Kullu had been fine, but I'd been keeping an eye the newspapers and was aware that a big monsoon storm was sweeping up through India from the South, causing flooding in Maharashtra, then in Gujarat, and with perfect timing it arrived in Manali the evening before our departure.

It rained all night. It was still raining when we started out at 6:30 am, and it rained continuously as we drove the 50 kilometers from Manali to the top of the Rohtang Pass. It may seem strange that we didn't wait, but we were confident that once we got to the other side of the pass the rain would stop and the sun would come out -- following the classic weather pattern of mountain watersheds. By the way, if we had decided to wait, our journey would have stalled at the very beginning: a few hours after we drove through, a big landslide closed the Rohtang for three days. Meanwhile, I was beginning to discover how difficult it is to prevent water from getting inside one's clothing while driving a motorbike in pouring rain. In spite of an allegedly rainroof cape and newly purchased boots, the cold water got to my feet, legs, hands, arms and -- most uncomfortably -- around my crotch and ass. I was starting to get very cold, as were some of the other riders, and the higher we drove the colder it got. Of course, if we'd had proper, European-style, wet-weather bike gear, we'd have been a lot better off, but we were expecting dust and sunburn to be the main hazards on this trip, not hard, driving rain.

The top of the Rohtang is normally crowded with Indian honeymoon couples, fulfilling their romantic fantasy of having pictures taken while standing in a few remaining patches of old winter snow - snow is as fascinating and alluring to hot-climate dwellers as beach and sun are to us, in fact, Switzerland is close to the Indian idea of paradise. But on this day the pass was almost deserted. I counted only two taxis, where sometimes you find hundreds. We were dead wrong about the watershed weather pattern. The rain fell on our heads with unabated enthusiasm as we came down from the pass on the northern side, and it continued to rain as we turned off the paved highway and headed East, driving along a dirt road, through a narrow valley, that would lead eventually to Spiti Valley. This tiny road was Spiti's only link with the outside world, the main southern access road having been destroyed a few weeks earlier by a massively swollen Sutlej River. Moreover, this northern route had only just been opened to traffic, due to a late winter. We soon discovered that the dirt road was really a river in many places, with water streaming down the track, and a rocky obstacle course in others, while disintegrating hillsides threatened to block the way with mud slides and rocks.

My experience in driving motorbikes had previously been confined to small city bikes and scooters, so navigating a big Enfield through the valley was a challenging experience. I could feel, very clearly, that I was a greenhorn driver sitting tensely 'on' a motorbike, rather than being one with my machine - a state that I acquired slowly during later stages of the trip. It didn't surprise me that I fell off 2-3 times, mainly in water, but I was going slowly so didn't hurt myself.

Spiti Valley lay about 85 kilometers ahead of us, promising dry weather, but the further we drove the more conditions deteriorated, and pretty soon Spiti began to seem like an unreachable goal. After about 20-30 kilometers the rain turned to snow. I couldn't believe it - in India, in July, for god's sake! Big, soft, wet snowflakes were coming down fast, coating my driving goggles and settling rapidly on the road.

"It's sure to melt," I thought, but it didn't. On the contrary, it kept getting thicker, so soon we were driving on snow, something I'd never done on a motorbike.

By now I was very, very cold and very, very wet, shaking almost uncontrollably from a combination of altitude, exhaustion and hypothermia. I was acutely aware that, within the space of a few hours, I'd propelled myself into an extreme situation well beyond my personal comfort zone. I am not a strong guy, not inclined to strenuous sports, and have never thought of myself as any kind of 'macho dude.' Moreover, at 59, I was the oldest member of the group. Inside, I felt increasingly split between rising panic, as I realized we were going deeper and deeper into a remote snow-filled valley with no end in sight, and an impulsive desire to 'push the envelope' and find out how much I'd been inhibiting myself with preconceived ideas about what I could, or could not do.

"Don't go beyond your limit, Subhuti," Ash had warned me, a few kilometers earlier.

"The problem is I don't know where that is," I joked back.

Eventually, this mild form of schizophrenia ended when I skidded in deep snow and fell off again. Then I understood, quite definitely, that I couldn't continue - I was finished. We left the bike by the side of the road and I climbed in the jeep. We drove on, into a white landscape of ever-thickening snow. Fortunately, there was a small, rather primitive "government rest house" about two kilometers further, where we could all take shelter (Ash and Deepesh immediately went back to get my bike and bring it to the rest house). Seven of us shared the only two rooms, which had attached toilets but no water. Next door, a tiny "dhaba," or makeshift restaurant, offered a bare bones menu of chai, boiled rice and rajma beans, and was crammed with nomadic shepherds sheltering from the storm. Having just brought their flocks to summer pasture in the high mountains, they were now faced with the prospect of taking them down again, because there was nothing for their sheep and goats to eat. Glumly, they were consoling themselves with some dubious-looking liquor and pipes of hashish. After gulping down hot chai we went to our rooms, peeled off our wet clothes, climbed into our sleeping bags, and slowly the shivering and shaking subsided as we warmed up. The basic necessities, shelter and food, were taken care of, and we were grateful for that. Darkness fell early, but we were already in bed. We slept.

Next day, we held council. What to do? I was in favor of immediately returning the way we had come, getting 'back to civilization' while the road was still open - at least, as far as we knew. But everyone else felt it was better to stay put. I knew they were right, and recognized that I'd slipped into my familiar reaction to difficult situations, whereby I'd try to smother my fear by saying, "Hey guys, let's get the fuck out of here quick -- it's so much nicer in Hawaii!" So I took a deep breath, acknowledged my fear, felt myself relax a little, and agreed to stay where we were.

The mountains above us looked solid and firm, as did the glaciers that hung in the saddles between their joining ridges. But the lower slopes immediately surrounding us were made mostly of mud, sand and boulders, an extremely volatile combination when subjected to persistent rain and melting snow, and soon we were informed that avalanches had blocked the road in both directions. In any case, the snow kept falling, making it impossible to drive. An exploratory trip with our jeep ended after only 100 meters when snow on the track, packed high between two deep ruts, left the car marooned, as if raised on a podium, with its wheels off the ground.

Now we were snowed in. Trapped. Unable to move. I was reminded of something I'd read in a local guide book about the pass behind Manali: the word 'Rohtang' is Tibetan, meaning 'pile of dead bodies,' a reference to the fact that, in the era before jeeps and rest houses, traveling in this region could be extremely hazardous, even in so-called summertime. Travelers walking over the high passes would have had no chance if caught in a freak storm like this one. I also recalled that the name "Kullu," given to the lush valley we had so recently left behind, is derived from a Hindi phrase meaning "the end of the civilized world." Clearly, the Indians who named the valley didn't care to explore what lay beyond, content to leave such desolate regions to Tibetans and tribal nomads.

But this was our chosen fate. Willingly, we'd come here, seeking adventure, and most certainly we'd found it.

Once we accepted our confinement, we began to enjoy it, finding ways to hang clothes lines through the rooms to dry our gear, carrying buckets of water through the snow to flush the toilets, eating rice and beans, sharing bars of chocolate, telling stories, trying to guess what the weather was going to do. We discovered the dhaba had a supply of eggs, and I enjoyed making omelets for everyone.

On the afternoon of the second day, with time on our hands, the others invited me to conduct a workshop on the nine personality types of the enneagram - one of my pet hobbies - in which people discover the basic strategy they developed as children in order to survive the family environment. I already knew my type: the fear-based number Seven that wants to always have a pleasant time, leaves any situation at the first sign of trouble, and hates being tied down - I was taking a good look at that.

On the third day, the sun came out and we quickly pulled chairs outside, sunbathed and drank beer (a case had been thoughtfully packed in the jeep before leaving Manali). We were in great spirits. It was kind of like being on the beach in Goa, only whiter and cleaner. In spite of copious layers of sunblock cream, our faces all got burned by the fierceness of solar rays at high altitude. That same afternoon we spotted, away in the distance, a convoy of eleven taxis and one truck coming slowly towards us from the direction of Spiti, following a bulldozer that was clearing mud slides and rocks from the road.

When they arrived at Chota Dara (the name of our little place), two taxi drivers were led slowly into the dhaba, their eyes covered with cloths. They were suffering from snow blindness, having driven without dark glasses through the glaringly white landscape for many hours, and were obviously in great pain. A government official traveling with the convoy politely requested that we vacate one of our two rooms, and since this was an official government rest house we couldn't refuse, so we all piled into one room. Surprisingly, there was no friction between us. In fact, it was a bit reminiscent of old times - in the overcrowded Rajneesh ashram, with hundreds of people wanting to "live in," we'd often slept three or four in one small room.

Later that evening, another man claiming to be a government official knocked on our door and announced that he was going to possess our remaining room, but here I drew the line. I simply stood in the doorway and refused to let him in, explaining that we were on motorbikes, had nowhere else to go, and did not wish to freeze to death in the snow. He got the point and slept in his taxi, like everyone else in the convoy. In the morning it had stopped snowing, the sun was out, and we decided to follow the convoy out of the valley -- back the way we had come. People in the taxis told us there was heavy snow on Kunzum La, the 4,500 meter pass leading into Spiti Valley, which sounded too difficult for our motorbikes, so we figured it made more sense to abandon the Spiti section of our tour and head straight for Ladakh. The taxis and motorbikes lined up behind the bulldozer, which was busy clearing the nearest mud slide, and we all waited impatiently for the road to open. Watching from a safe distance, I saw an extraordinary sight: high above the bulldozer, rocks the size of small refrigerators suddenly started shooting out of a hanging gully, spurred on by a stream of muddy water, then rolled and bounced down the mountainside, but somehow did not reach the road -- only mud, small rocks and water got that far. Once a path was cleared, the taxis and bikes started to race through the danger zone. I was one of the first to go through... and stalled my engine right under the slide! The cars behind me were honking furiously, and suicide was not on my mind, so I quickly tried to figure out... why had I stalled?

I checked the ignition key... on.

I checked the fuel switch... on.

I was in neutral. I kicked the starter pedal... nothing. People were running towards me, either to drag my bike aside or help me start it, but then suddenly I saw that, with my thick Gore-Tex gloves, I'd accidentally flicked the cut-out switch while revving the throttle. In a second, I restarted the engine, and rode on. That was the strongest moment of the trip for me, as well as the moment of greatest danger, and I was pleased that I did not panic.

The convoy made good progress for about 2-3 kilometers, but then Deepesh, who'd ridden ahead to scout for trouble, came back to tell us that a swollen mountain stream had completely washed out the road ahead of us, with no hope of getting through. Repairs would take at least a couple of days.

Many of the taxis went ahead anyway, their passengers intent on walking out of the valley, or else hoping to be rescued by repair teams coming from the opposite direction, but we immediately turned around and headed back to Chota Dara. We wanted our rooms back before anyone else claimed them, and we urgently needed to get past the mud slide before it closed the road once more.

On the way, we met a very friendly Italian Buddhist monk in a taxi, coming from a monastery in Spiti, who told us that the road over Kunzum La was actually much better than first reported. When we told him about the chaotic situation that lay ahead on this part of the road, he muttered something in Italian and crossed himself - obviously, his Catholic upbringing still had some grip on him, in spite of embracing the Eightfold Path.

As for us, we held instant council in the middle of the road, and in the light of the monk's latest information about improved road conditions we decided unanimously to head for Spiti. Suddenly and unexpectedly, our original tour plan was back on the agenda (just three days behind schedule) and we were all very happy about that.

Just to illustrate how fragile the situation was: as we took off towards Spiti from Chota Dara the bikes went ahead, weaving their way through several large rocks that had rolled onto the road after the bulldozer had passed, but our support jeep had to stop to clear a path. Suddenly a new mud slide poured down the hillside onto the road, cutting off the jeep from the bikes, so everyone had to jump on the bikes in order to continue, while the jeep had to wait for the bulldozer to clear a new pathway.

It would have been tricky for bikes to go over Kunzum La in such wet conditions carrying two people, but fortunately we met a taxi at the next dhaba containing only one person. He was a tour guide from Spiti, who'd ventured over the pass that morning to see if it was safe to bring out a large party of middle-aged Germans who urgently needed to get to Manali. Quite clearly, it was not, so he was ready to go back to Spiti, taking our extra passengers with him.

We went over the pass without difficulty and spent one night at a roadside hotel, where a group of young Israelis were urgently phoning friends in Manali, asking them to call the Israeli Embassy in Delhi to send helicopters to get them out (it turned out that hundreds of people had been trapped all over the region by the storm).

Next day, we entered Spiti Valley where, to our relief, the road was clear and the bad weather conditions had stopped. It was simply wonderful next morning to wake up in a beautiful hotel in Kaza, the capital of Spiti, with a hot shower, nice breakfast and sun shining through the window.

That's the story, really. The rest of the trip was amazing, but not so dramatic. I ended the journey, after covering about 2000 kilometers, with a deep appreciation of the untamable and unpredictable nature of the Himalayan mountains, and the value of such wildness in an increasingly dull, safe and suburban world.

I feel deeply grateful to my friends, Digambar, Garimo, Blossom, Parmanand, Ash and Deepesh, who shared the adventure with me. I also admire the rugged strength of Enfield motorbikes for their ability to travel these regions, and enjoyed the feeling of being at home on a big bike, which, as I said, came to me slowly as the trip progressed. And I like the feeling of male strength that comes with an adventure like this, especially in contrast to the essentially feminine experience of meditation - I feel it's important to experience and embrace both sides of one's psyche. Even at 59, it seems there is so much to learn about myself, especially through surprises like this unscheduled adventure, which catapult me beyond my pre-set ideas about who I am, and what I want from life.

There are so many special memories from the trip that it's hard to pick out a few, but I must mention: The glorious view from Baralachala Pass (4600 meters), over gently rolling, sunlit snowfields, with sshimmering blue mountains far in the distance. The sweeping grandeur of the Mori Plains, which look so green and inviting, until you realize no one can live there -- it's just too high for human habitation. The stillness, silence and pristine natural beauty of Pangong Lake, whose 100 kilometer length spans the Indo-Chinese border, at 4200 meters. The surprising luxury of a temporary tent hotel, located half-way between Spiti and Ladakh, which included a buffet dinner, served from heated silver dishes, and hot water bottles to take back to our sleeping bags at night.

The 17th reincarnation of Lama Rin-Chen Zang-Po, known as 'the Great Translator' for bringing Buddhist scriptures from India to Ladakh and Tibet, who in his present body wandered casually into our hotel in Spiti one evening. The brilliant, huge, and magically psychedelic paintings of deities, demons and buddhas on the walls of Kungri Monastery in Pin Valley, which prompted me to coin the phrase "Buddhism on Acid." Gokmik, the highest monastery in the world, which has been misnamed "Comic" on all the tourist maps -- perhaps appropriately, since it greets visitors with the sight of a stuffed snow leopard, hanging rather pitifully outside the main puja room.

The overwhelming sense of devotion to the teachings of Gautam Buddha that is shared by ordinary, simple people, which makes Tibetan Buddhism a living religion throughout the Spiti Valley.

The intense and infectious enthusiasm for riding high, which Ash and Deepesh pass on to their clients. And not forgetting India's Border Roads Organization, which has the enormous task of keeping all these "high" ways open for traffic, and which offers safety reminders every few kilometers, such as:

"Be Mr. Late, Not Late Mr."

"Drive Like Hell, You Will Be There."

"After Whisky, Driving Risky."

"Safety On Road Means Safe Tea At Home."

"This Is Highway, Not Runway."

My favorite sign, though, came at a point close to the top of a high pass, with a thousand meter drop on the left side of a narrow dirt road, which said simply:

"Keep Right."

You bet.