The Road To Sapa, Vietnam

Our Asia trip took Annie and I to a number of incredible places, but there was one destination we’d been buzzing about more than any other: Sapa. The plan? An overnight train ride arriving at Lao Cai the following morning enabling us to pick a bike up and ride up into the mountains of Sapa. After a few sessions of drinking beer on Hanoi’s famous Train Street, making friends, and watching the trains thunder by just inches from us, it was surreal to finally be on one ourselves. The evening departure felt cinematic - the bright lights of the city fading behind us as bridges flashed past, and the train carried us deeper into rural Vietnam. There was a thrill in the motion, a quiet anticipation for the adventure ahead.

We splurged on an upgrade to a double bed. Sounds dreamy, right? In reality… I spent nine hours with my eyes closed, but not a wink of sleep. The carriage wheels bounced and clanged in a relentless rhythm - sometimes slow, sometimes fast - as if the train itself was improvising a percussion solo. I can only blame it on the aftermath of the recent storms and landslides that had battered the railway.

The last 45 minutes crawled by at a snail’s pace. The train hugged the riverside, and the driver, wisely cautious of the rain-weakened embankment, slowed to a crawl. When we finally arrived at Lao Cai station, we were met by a kind local who had come to deliver our motorbike rental. After handing over my passport as a deposit (praying silently I’d see it again in a few days), we geared up in ponchos, hoisted our bags, and joined the locals in the art of transporting your entire life on two wheels. Our ride into the mountains of Sapa had begun.

The journey was eye-opening. Landslides dotted the road like nature’s own obstacle course, the rain turned everything into a slick challenge, and yet, there was an undeniable rhythm to it: make do, push on, and hope gravity stays on your side. Riding into Sapa itself felt surreal - mountainous, calm, and vividly colorful. But the track down to our accommodation soon turned to rocks and gravel. Keeping the bike upright with two people and all our luggage was… let’s say, an adventure. And we knew, in the back of our minds, that every journey would mean repeating this up and down hill battle. Somehow, we made it, and were rewarded with a stunning little hideaway that made the effort totally worth it.

The following morning, Annie nudged me awake. I was allowed a little extra lie-in, but nature had other plans. The sun was rising across the tiered rice terraces, dramatic clouds rolling in like an old master painter staging a show. Every now and then, the clouds would part, teasing glimpses of the landscape hidden behind. It was one of those rare moments where the world seems to pause, whispering, “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

The shot? Well, it was a bit of a mad dash. There I was, camera in hand, chasing light and trying to capture a scene that seemed almost impossible to capture in full - the kind of moment that reminds you why you travel in the first place. I jumped out of bed, slapped a fresh battery into my camera, and practically launched myself onto the balcony. There we were - Annie and I side by side, staring at a view that felt almost unreal. The rice terraces stretched and curved beneath us, clouds swirling in dramatic patterns, and the sun teasing us with golden glimpses.

We clicked away like maniacs, each trying to capture the scene in all its glory, knowing full well it was impossible. No camera could ever truly capture the scale, the light, the feeling of being there, right in that moment. It was one of those times where the photo is just a souvenir - the real story is in the memory of standing there, breathing it in, and realizing that sometimes, being present is the best shot of all.