The day is breezy and mildly overcast, but it won't rain too much. Fifteen kilometres from town and I'm completely flummoxed by rutty sand and mixed-up tracks over the dunes. It doesn't matter, I'm not in a hurry - I love it, alone in the huge freedom of nature! Only out here, human feeling is unconstrained, at its most natural, and is our easiest attribute.

Moving south towards the invisible Tsangpo River, a range of hills blots out the river right ahead, but I can see icy mountains lining the banks beyond the low hills. Mushy sand. I stop for wieners, chocolate, some crackers and orange juice. As I ride, a dusty twister pops up right in front of me. It creeps at me directly. I snap a picture. Before it can toss me, the little spinner eats itself up and disappears.

I cross a ridge and come upon open sand flats amid the lovely Gar Tsangpo River valley. It's a head-scratcher for a cowpoke like me... The Chinese should have put their town here by the bridge over the hill. But maybe they didn't, out of simple deference to the sparse populace of Tibetan folk living in hamlets by the water. The pointy ice-capped mountains on the southern valley are very pretty. Ice melts down and the drinking water flows among a tumble of water-smoothed boulders. The elderly people living in the old sturdy houses by the river are taciturn. So, I go up the rocky road to look for a grassy camp.

Not a beer even. But the spot I choose turns out to be significant, a long remembered holy place. Behind my tent I find a tussle of thistles and brambles. Hidden on the other side of the brambles, invisible from the road, is a heap of very old rocks. Tibetan prayers are carved all over. The letters and invocations are eroded; the frozen rain has held them for a long time with her chill fingers. I feel funny. How did I happen to pitch my tent near such holy carvings, without knowing they've been here fifty years, a hundred years or more?

Next morning comes through clouds. The day's mood is uncertain: it's almost warm as the sun rises. But thunderclouds renew themselves above the northern peaks. The river flows over a vast gravel floor upheld by the backs of two east-west ranges on both sides of the valley stream... The day brightens considerably as I travel, for the first time, due east.

In the north, sunlight finally breaks down the heavy wall of clouds. The new light reveals how clean the Tsangpo River valley is. Beyond, I see rain fall in great sheets below clouds upon the mountainous faces, giants standing under a shower. The terrain changes from barley near the village to a large, fan-shaped moraine made of bone-colored boulders and gravel. The white stones of the old moraine flow through the road and with them, gushing stream after stream - comes plenty of glacial mountain water. I ford several streams before noon. Most all of them are easy to cross. But these rivulets are only the beginning of a hard day.

Two land-cruisers come by about 11:00 A.M. One stops to say hello. They are Taiwanese. One of the girls hands me some raisins. In an hour, I catch up to them. Three land-cruisers are parked on the other side of some rushing water. I brace my legs widely apart and force the bike hard through the stream. I cling to the frame so I can't be swept away. The Taiwanese travellers wait for their supply truck to catch-up. They offer me some meaty buns. One of them asks if I'm afraid of anything, since I'm travelling alone like this. All I can say is, "The weather." When the supply truck arrives, it promptly gets stuck in the rapid, rising stream. I say goodbye.

The road continues and the streams are overflowing. Somehow I drag myself through each rivulet. It's tiring and the water becomes quite deep and difficult to cross. Once, I nearly lose my footing and get splashed. But I keep my balance and make it. The rivers flow quickly because the mountains are beside the road, only a kilometre away. The sheer sides are steep and the water has the full force of gravity under it. After fording thirty little ones, and five big streams, my toes are numb: the water is icy cold.

Later, after a brief stop at a village outpost manned by Tibetans, I press on. Another big river washes out a wide swath across the route. I choose my way carefully, finding the shallows, bracing myself against the current. Then, I reach a meadow to park my tent. Tired isn't the word. I wake up wondering if the road will be easy or hard. I pass one village: the people are busy carrying stones to patch a gaping hole in the irrigation channel over their fields. The whole populace hands the rocks, stone by stone, one to the next, until the earthwork is repaired. It's a pretty place. Rows of yellow and orange flowers spring up along the low walls.

The rivers abate, but then the grade sharpens as I pass Gar Gunsa, the old winter capital of Ngari, or Western Tibet. I think this is the place where the old Austrian Harrer waited for permission to continue travelling towards Lhasa in the late thirties. Some evidence of old Gartok, as the village was once known, are still visible below the mountain ridge over the river: the crumbling stupas look like pebbly haystacks flattened into the sandy soil. Some beautiful geese, resembling the large Canadian variety, maybe a little bit smaller; yet with the same long neck and grey plumage, make their home in the marshes between Gar Gunsa and me. The geese honk loudly at my approach. They fly round, trying to warn me away from their brood. Another ruinous Stupa pops up on the right and seems ancient indeed. The road climbs a ridge and finally the Tsangpo River comes up on the left and I spot a work camp. They're building a bridge to shortcut the mountains to Ali.

I break beside a creek for lunch. Water sluices downhill. Wind comes straight ahead. Over the ridge. It's even stronger than the Karakax valley gusting that knocked me down. This wind is coming at me directly. I'm high on top of a hill, completely exposed. I crouch and push my bike and feel like I'm punching Satan's face. I grimace but crush fear with steady steps. I know Namru town is near, the map says it is. As I crest the ridge, I glimpse a phenomenal vista. A line of vertical mountains walls in a flat washed-out valley. The hill I'm on falls rapidly to a wide basin nestled among the steep, sandy-hued peaks.

Namru is the tiniest, most lonely village. It seems so deserted: everybody is hiding inside earthen cottages, or gone for a long walk somewhere... It has fewer than 10 houses and no shops. One very old lady clings to her curiosity and stands unmoving near the road as I approach. She waves her arms wildly overhead. She doesn't have the slightest idea what I'm asking for. When little old Tibetan ladies wave their arms, and suppress grins with scowls, it usually means they want you to leave. "Is this Namru?" I ask again. She waves her hands again: apparently not. Two others, a boy and his mother stand still nearby. The boy approaches, curious yet silent, as if afraid of something - maybe his granny's madness. A ruined fortress stands high above on the southern ridge.

I show the boy my camera and ride into the village. Maybe this is Namru, since a road proceeds way up into the gorge, as is indicated on the map. But the bottom of this supposed route to Tsamda is flooded: water and rocks everywhere. Maybe it isn't the way. I ride away towards some army-looking buildings two kilometres across the valley. En route I spot a middle-aged Tibetan man lying down in the grass with his knees up. He cradles in his hands a white silken scarf, a kata, of the type one gives to holy men and important folk. Oblivious to me, the fellow fondles the scarf overhead as he lies on his back. But then he hears me bouncing over the rocks and weeds. Drunk, he struggles to his feet and walks towards me, yet not towards me, as if he doesn't want to deal with me. But I manage to intercept him politely, since he's only the fourth person I've seen in Namru - the old lady, her silent grandchild and her haggard daughter having been of no aid.

I ask him if that's the way, along the sodden road behind, up into the sharply split gorge, "To Tsamda - Guge?" He nods absently then looks up and points. He looks at me and nods more vigorously, saying, "Tsamda." Yes, that is the way. I retrace a kilometre back to town, walking with him. He takes me to the home of his family. It's a tiny one room hovel with no windows and made of sandy clay bricks. Inside this place sits a mother, a grandfather, a grandmother and a two smiling, quiet kids. They offer a cup of salty butter tea. I'm grateful for the rest and give a few yuan in exchange for the refreshing drink. Then I say goodbye with a snapshot of the kids and grandparents...

It's up to you. You're not up to me. Nobody else but you controls you. Like a jingle, this temporary feeling. A grip full of fibbing songs, already sold. I'm feisty today and feel like riding uphill. The road sluices into the overflow of monsoon run-off coming out of the gorge's mouth. The road switches right and climbs above the flood. In the flat places beside the rushing water lies space enough for barley. But the barley soon peters out. Meadows and pretty weeds make themselves at home between the ragged rocks.

After awhile I run into a group of travellers: two cruisers and a big truck. They offer me drinks and are gaga about taking my picture, so I have to sit as they snap away. They come from Guangzhou, apparently, but on whose money, I'll never know. They leave me feeling alone, feeling closely akin to the tiny piles of refuse scattered by the creek. I'm in no mood to stay here, nor guilty enough to burn all the paper and tin garbage they've left behind. So, I ride up the gorge and forget how kind and blind they need to be.

At the last creek below the pass, I pause for a good long draught of ice water. I drink a whole bottle and fill up all three bottles. The road above will stop me over night. It's well over 5000 metres up there. The path is solid gravel clay, easy-riding, but slow. It whips back and forth like a hungry serpent. Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm in good shape now; I enjoy the climb. I laugh at the vista. It stretches out forever, thirty or forty kilometres to the northern mountains behind.

The mountains are so still and peaceful. They seem to wait forever. What do they wait for? To be seen? But not by me. They wait to crumble, I suppose. They lie asleep, in a dreaming slumber. Perhaps we people are slumbering, and can't see how the mountains watch us. Never to awaken. Not like my old grand-dad. When he was going, he knew he was already gone. Asked my mom to write something funny on his tombstone: "The end of the road..." It was a an epitaph apparently popular with local immigrants. Never saw it myself. I doubt if they ever did chip that out for him.

I think I'm almost at the top... But no, I'm not. Around the next twist, I gaze up at the huge massive above. Still a long way up. Within another hour, the chill of dusk is upon me. I'm too tired to be nervous and can't hurry. But I'm looking for a spot that won't freeze so deeply. At last I find some tiny flowers on a level spot. The rest of the bald mountain is steep. Not much more than 300 metres up to the top. That puts me over 5000 metres for the night. Damn it. Once again, I hope I don't freeze...

First, I don all my cold weather clothing: long johns, nylon pants, undershirts, down vest, flannel shirt, my toque and wool gloves - everything I've got. The tent goes up in ten minutes. The sun has set. I eat extra food and feel a chill seeping into the night like some fatal whisper, as if bidding me relax and rest easy: death will be as painless as forgetting... Nobody bothers to mention that time will slice you up before it gives you a chance to heal. Who's to blame for your wounds, your mistakes? That's the last question. You won't know today, and probably not any time before you drop dead. I lie down now for the third night with the freezing mistress. I don't care. We all have scars.

It isn't going to happen tonight. My death, I mean. I'm curled up, stealthily fetal, but nobody comes to get me. I sleep through the night. Then I wake up cold - really chilled. I'm like a huge chicken breast wrapped in cellophane, I'm just waiting for some horribly obese person to roast and overeat me - so they can die of cholesterol and pork barrel funds...

Yet, riding a bike at 7:00 A.M. up to 5600 metres makes dying of a heart attack physically impossible. I'm in too good shape. Off the main road a shortcut leads to the top. Pushing up an agonizingly steep track, it takes an hour to pant my way about a kilometre. Permanent ice by the way watches my insect work. Small prayer flags mark the route: it's a traditional caravan trail. For each ten or twenty steps I walk, I pause to gasp for ten seconds, half a minute, then walk again. It really is 5600 metres.

I make it as two Tibetan trucks arrive. Everyone gets to grin and gawk at me. I get a photo of the driver, his pal and their new prayer flag. Then it's a drink from a creek and a ride beyond the snowy rain. I glide at speed into a hidden valley - flying over the sandy ruts.

This valley is Nomad territory. It's ideal for them: high up, with plenty of pure water - a very narrow valley sheltered by immense peaks. I rest by the first clear creek I find. The water tastes good. More wieners and sweet crackers. That's all I have. Onward, I find a group of Nomads encamped on the meadows. Three youngsters, two girls and a boy - run to me. They smile and laugh, but are too shy to get near a camera. The road suddenly turns out of the valley. A second pass lies above. I know it's supposed to be there. Below this last mountain opens the southernmost reach of the Tibetan plateau. It's only 11:00 A.M. - no trouble crossing today.

A Nomad tent is pitched just above the road on a steep embankment. I see an elderly woman and her family. Inviting myself into their tent, the old girl seems pleased to offer me some butter tea. She also tries to give me some tsampa, but I refuse it politely. Instead, I offer her granddaughter a morsel of chocolate. I read somewhere that it's good form not to take food from Tibetans, but to offer them food or a little money instead... She's being courteous: they get few visitors like me. What can I do? I smile and drink her tea. That's all I need to make it across the next mountain. Nothing but a tiny piece of milk chocolate.

The little girl seems bewildered by my offer and I see the old woman smile. What am I supposed to do? Do you know what you are supposed to do? Nobody does. We go along with whatever we think we're supposed to do - all the while wear Wise elders pretend to advise you to think for yourself, yet everyone reminds each other not to think much at all. Because almost everyone "wise" secretly believes you can't think for yourself; and should you actually try, you won't get anywhere, except into trouble...

People are absolutely flattened by their need for hypocrisy - to soothe insecurity. Of course, you really should think for yourself, not listen to some hypocritical old conservatives lie as if they believe they are telling the truth. Now listen to me: you should avoid doing what you're told when you know better! Above all, you shouldn't give the slightest care about what other people think about you! I don't have to say it twice. If you do wrong, you will pay for it somehow: with a heart attack, a bad or a null conscience forever; maybe you can pay for your remorselessness by turning into a solitary cold fish, and other people will wrong you because they know you hurt others. Bad reaps bad, and good, good. You have to pay for what you want... But can you really give anything away for free? Take a shit brother. You still want to "be free," don't you? Ah, but true freedom doesn't cost anything though, does it?

Do you do what you really want, or do you feel fear and resign yourself to other people's expectations? Because that's the funny part... All of those: 100% of the expectations other people make for you - almost all of them are imaginary and misleading. Ask yourself: do those expectations coincide with what you want for yourself? Other people's expectations are social projections, not individual thoughts that belong to you... Who really tells you what to do? Nobody! We imagine we should and could do something else better besides... But we can't hear a true voice. That fear of being yourself: that pain doesn't come from your heart, it comes into your mind, perhaps another imaginary "social" pressure... So your mind squashes your heart and the feelings and ideas you once had are trodden over by yourself alone... In the end, nobody else but you grows or stops you from growing...

I leave by myself everyday. What do you expect from yourself? What else can I offer you? I can't carry around every girl who wanted to die for me. Mom and dad are getting stiffer by the day. I have a pen, a notebook, some food, a flimsy bicycle, a slim handful of hope, a smile, a good view...