Some journeys don’t begin with alarms and packed schedules — they begin with a message and a little curiosity.
A friend I’ve known since 2014, now living in Chandigarh, once told me about a mysterious Shiv temple somewhere near Solan, where striking the rocks is said to echo the sound of a damru. That was enough reason to ride. No confirmations, no guarantees — just a plan shaped by Instagram and instinct.
Winter mornings had other ideas. Fog delayed our early start, but by late morning the sun showed promise. By 10:30 AM, we were packing lunch, dodging curious questions at home, and fueling our bikes — my Himalayan and his month-old Apache — for a long day in the hills.
The highway from Chandigarh to Solan was smooth and fast, with mountain curves arriving soon after Pinjore. Two hours later, reality hit. The location led nowhere. Locals were puzzled, directions conflicted, and eventually it became clear — the temple might exist, but not here. Instead of frustration, we chose flexibility and headed to the nearby Jatoli Shiv Mandir. A rough, under-construction road tested our patience, but the calm of the temple made it worthwhile.
By afternoon, the original plan no longer mattered. With daylight still on our side, we decided to ride on to Shimla — a place I had never seen before.
Evening brought crowds, traffic, and a sudden bite of cold we weren’t dressed for. Hotels in Shimla were expensive and full, so we rode further toward Kufri. Just after the Dhalli tunnel, the chaos faded. A quiet mountainside hotel appeared, and after some off-season bargaining, we had a room with a view.
That night was for walking, not resting. We parked near the bus stand and trekked up to Mall Road, wandering past the church, street food stalls, and softly lit shops. With fewer tourists and winter settling in, Shimla felt calm. We ate local food, walked without purpose, and returned late, tired, content, and warm in ways jackets can’t provide.
The next morning, we rode toward Kufri through dense pine forests — the kind that makes you slow down without realizing it. At a small tea shop, a local suggested visiting the Kufri zoo, known for housing a rare snow leopard. The thought alone excited us. We eagerly followed the map, only to be stopped by a locked gate and a sign that read: Closed on Wednesdays. Another plan paused, another smile exchanged.
Hunger took over. Without stopping, we kept riding uphill, unknowingly crossing past Theog. Somewhere along the way, we found a small roadside restaurant with a stunning view, run by a retired army man from Haryana. We ordered aloo parathas and tea, severely underestimating army-style portions. Half the food was packed, but the warmth of his words, his stories, and his hospitality stayed with us far longer.
Before leaving, he pointed us toward a nearby peak. A short off-road climb followed — effortless for the Himalayan, adventurous for the Apache. From the top, Shimla stretched out quietly in the distance. We stood there for a while, taking photos, letting the silence speak.
The ride back home was unhurried. No rush to reach, no disappointment about missed plans. Just the quiet certainty that someday we’d return — maybe not for the temple, maybe not even for Shimla — but to that road, that view, and that small restaurant run by a man whose warmth made the journey feel complete.
