Nestled under a pile of blankets, the chill of a Sapa winter morning is fended off, save the faint traces of frosty breath. I lay in my resting position; arms flung haphazardly, body in repose.

The intoxicating out-ness of Christmas and New years had taken a heavy toll, and I was glad of this seldom-found opportunity just to rest. It was the perfect excuse for hibernation.

I lay and listened to the cogs of the tourism machine meshing in the crisp morning beyond my hotel door. The tromping of sensible footwear on the stairs, doors opening, closing, locked for the days trekking ahead. Eventually these outbound sounds were replaced by the internal hum of room service, hotel workers singing as they set about straightening the place up prior to another bus disgorging its passengers into reception.

This was my fifth visit to the mountain resort, so long gone was any urge to get out there and see all there was to see, except possibly, the other side of the mountain, but we’ll get to that. I had to be honest with myself in recognising that I had developed a few traditions that needed to be lived up to during my stay. Yet these were few, and they could wait.

I’d had the foresight to bring an abundance of Parma ham, salami and Gouda, which I was looking forward to introducing to a box of crackers I had also acquired. A cheeky bottle of California red was also lurking in kit, included for its warming properties.

Of course, the challenge then was to find a suitably lofty picnic site at which, if not to polish off, but to at least put a dent in this fabulous fare. This I hoped to discover by wandering like Kane from Kung Fu around the craggy hilltops, the lesser touristed pockets of Sapa.

My initial plan was to relive my previous Tet trip in the region, curious adventure that it was. A friend and I decided it would be neat to ride to Sapa from Hanoi, a trip of 300 odd kilometres. Average projections from road wary gurus foresaw the trip at around eight hours, but it took us 14, after one of us foolishly relied on a tourist map sourced from the shores of Hoan Kiem Lake. The road was there sure, but it was the bridge that wouldn’t be finished for another six months minimum, that was the real spanner in the works.

By the by we made it to Sapa, and spent some time hammering around the hills on our bikes. One discovery, which I hoped would hold true, was a remarkable shift in weather patterns over a mountain pass behind town. Last time, shabby weather had given way to glorious sunshine in the valley behind, leading to sunburn difficult to explain upon our return.

I took to the pass, with teeth gritted in the chill mountain mists, the dogs of cold biting even through my gloves, but I was determined to press on to the marker denoting the pass. To my horror, the weather looked worse than I had expected. Big black storm clouds broiled beautifully overhead while the daggers of a cold wind tore through the hilltops.

My plan in tatters, I turned tail and returned to town, to seek refuge on the always-warm Ham Rong Mountain.

Its funny how Ham Rong goes largely unnoticed, given that Sapa I built in a crescent around it, its foot falling at the market that is the very centre of the town. All you have to do is look up.

Its become a tradition for me to climb it, to voyage to the cave at its top, light some incense for those no longer with us, and those I’ve not seen for some time, out of sight they are, but definitely not out of mind.

Ham Rong features amazing rock formations, through which paths wiggle, enshrouding you in mist and stone. From somewhere in the distance, the notes of an indigenous instrument draws through the mists, like melancholy ethnic incidental music.

 

I remember how much I love mooching around on this hill. The first time I came, I was sure that if there was one place a dragon would live, it was atop Ham Rong. I have spent some time searching, but they are elusive beasts, and the only truly odd animals I discovered up there were a bunch of chilly looking ostriches.

 

At the turn of the year of the horse, oh a couple back now, on that 14 hour exodus, my friend and I were terrified in the mists, like a couple of huddling hobbits, as a truly disturbing sound echoed through the mists of the mount.

 

Heavy breathing, snorting and munching caught up in fog in that strange way that sounds are, we thought we were going to be gobbled by a dragon for sure.

 

Uncertain of our destiny, we quaked in our boots, staring hard into the four foot of vision afforded us by the swirling clouds… until out of it all pranced a majestic white horse, which we deemed to be highly lucky, given that it was the year of the horse.

 

Also because it wasn’t a dragon, which would have rendered our year more of a Shetland pony; pretty darned short. 

 

Anyway, by the by I came to settle at a spot dubbed the cloud yard, wondrous as it is with sheer stone walls erupting from the earth, under which one may shelter from dragons should the need arise, while affording a glorious view of the valley below Sapa itself, in between swirls of mists.

 

So here I feasted on my sumptuous fare, and never such a wonderful picnic have I had. Necking a bottle of fine vino atop a mountain, definitely a fine getaway from working life in the big smoke. 

Dan Kirk