"I've seen a tiger up here before with another group," says our guide Mike Mclean as calmly as if he were talking about a trip to the launderette. I look around uncertainly: this bamboo forest is so dense, anything could be hiding in it. A cow, a tiger, even a unicorn - you wouldn't even realise if an animal was staring hungrily down your neck at close range. And I thought our biggest problem on this trip would be whether we could fit our bikes into this narrow, 141-year-old Indian railway. But well, unplanned changes of direction are what make a real adventure. So in we go, into this narrow gap that the vegetation has left us: The trail tilts vertically and plunges straight into a tunnel of bamboo trunks. All you have to do is tap the brakes and the tyres slip away on the wet, moss-covered surface. A few bends now would help to slow down the speed or grippier tyres - but at least the fear of the tiger is now blown away. Twenty minutes later, the forest suddenly spits us out on a treeless plain and we roll under prayer flags. Thick fog obscures the view of the valley below us, but we can hear the nearby civilisation: The hum of cars, music, a grinding machine at work - and then: the shrill horn of a train. It doesn't sound like a warning, but more like triumph. The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, or DHR for short, has been in service here since 1881 and is still used as a means of transport today.
Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it was precisely this historic narrow-gauge railway that lured us to this remote north-east of India. Over a length of 86 kilometres, the DHR climbs 2000 metres in altitude in its track bed from New Jalpaiguri in the West Bengal plains to the tea plantations of Darjeeling. Our plan is to use this railway as a shuttle and get off for a few days in between to explore trails. At our destination station in Ghoom, we will finally venture further into the Singalila National Park on ridge paths. Right up to the border with Nepal, where we will be able to admire Mount Everest in fine weather - at least that's what we were told in advance during the planning stage. At the time, however, there was no talk of tigers or such an adventurous train journey.
From the chaos of the city up into the clear air of the mountains
Flashback: "What a mess!", Steffi shouts in the ear of her Indian freeride colleague Vinay Menon as we make our way to the railway station on our first day in Jalpaiguri. The warm, humid air of the lowlands is hard to breathe, it's loud, it's teeming with mopeds, cars and people, mosquitoes are driving us crazy. But in the midst of this hustle and bustle stands a world heritage site: a diesel locomotive and two short wagons on a narrow track with a gauge of just 610 millimetres. The locomotive, not much bigger than a VW transporter, already looks pretty battered. Rust and dirt are gnawing away at its hull, tar is oozing out of every screw hole. We realise that we are boarding a train that regularly derails and whose track bed has already been buried by landslides. What we didn't realise, however, is that it's not so easy to fit all our luggage, including bikes, into the two short, narrow carriages. But eventually everything is stowed away and we can squeeze into our reserved plastic seats.
The journey to Kurseong takes five hours for the first 46 kilometres alone. The railway has to zigzag its way up particularly steep mountain slopes. The points at these points are changed by hand, so the train driver announces our arrival each time with a five-minute whistle to the railway keeper. We're even lucky, says our guide Mike, because on rainy days there's an employee at the front of the locomotive who has to spread sand on the rails to improve the traction of the wheels. So you shouldn't be in a hurry if you use this mode of transport. But the view is very entertaining: shortly after Jalpaiguri, we can already see far over the valley, then we plunge into a jungle canopy where you can see the monkey families doing gymnastics. Sometimes we also look directly into the eyes of shopkeepers when the village streets are only a few centimetres wider than the train itself. Kurseong is already 1300 metres above our starting point. The air is clear, nothing sticks. We spend the night in a hotel that once housed the British colonial magistrate. A labyrinthine house with creaky wooden floors but no running water. We spend two days exploring the area on our bikes. It quickly becomes clear that there are countless trails in these mountains, but they are designed for tea pickers. Not for mountain bikers. So there's plenty to do for the suspension and forearms.
On the fourth day, we heave our luggage back to the railway station. We have to take the wheels off the bikes so that they can fit into the DHR carriage. Now it's another four-hour journey until the first crumbling colonial facades of Darjeeling appear and we finally come to a halt in the station next to another wheezing steam locomotive. We can see the fire blazing from the boiler of the neighbouring locomotive. Employees are hauling in baskets of coal, steam is pouring out of valves and sparks are flying from a welding machine. "We'll continue on to Ghoom tomorrow, but for now I'll show you the trails through the bamboo jungle," explains Mike, handing our first bags off the train to the Sherpas at the station. Not only will we experience the aforementioned smooth tiger descent here, we will also meet local bikers. We surf with them on a marvellous flow trail through pine forest. Only once do we stop for a moment at a viewpoint: As the 8586 metre high Kangchenjunga flexes its muscles in the evening light on the horizon. We will get even closer to this mountain over the next few days.
The Land Rovers are no faster on the only way into the national park
At the railway station in Ghoom, we are greeted by the freezing cold and a couple of Land Rovers from the 1950s. They are now supposed to take us further into Singalila National Park. It's no quicker, but the journey on the smooth tracks was definitely more comfortable. The only road up into the national park turns out to be steep, bumpy and exposed. "You must know every stone," I say to our driver Tenzing Sherpa, as he is just avoiding another medicine ball-sized stone without hitting it. He laughs: "The other way round! The stones know me!" Our destination is Tenzing's home village of Sandakphu: a tiny frontier settlement at an altitude of 3,600 metres, where we only arrive at our guesthouse in the dark. There is no heating up here, so everyone throws two blankets over their sleeping bags to combat the frosty temperatures. Outside the windows, yaks stalk around in the full moonlight, their snorting condensing in the icy air like the billows of smoke from the steam locomotive. There is no doubt that we have left the sweaty heat of the lowlands far behind us.
The next morning, we pedal the remaining metres up to the Singalila ridge on large, frozen stone slabs. The air is noticeably thinner up here. Rhododendrons and golden autumn grass sprout from the high mountain soil to the right and left, as do the occasional birch trees. Of course, at 3636 metres above sea level, our ridge belongs to the low mountain regions. It shouldn't be far to the border with Nepal now. But not even our guides can say for sure. Although there are regular patrols along this politically sensitive border between India and Nepal, there is little or nothing to characterise it. It is the land of the Gorkha. A region where cultural and ethnic ties are stronger than officially drawn national borders. At least that's how our park guide, Phupu Tshering Vhutia, explains it to us as he serves us chickpea and potato curry from the hotpot during a break.
And then the seam between heaven and earth bursts
The further north we crank along the ridge, the more imposing the backdrop of the Himalayan peaks shines in the distance. Until our park guide finally stops and proudly points his arm towards the horizon. Towards the north, the dead-straight seam between heaven and earth bursts open: a ragged crack - clearly the skyline of Makalu, Lhotse and Everest. A sight that makes you sink to your knees in awe. But not for long, because Mike is pushing for the descent. After all, 2000 metres of descent to Darjeeling await. Very varied terrain with tight bends, steps, roots and stream crossings. We would need quite a bit of time for this, and we'd better not run out of daylight on this trail. That would have been a great pity: On our flight from frosty heights, we start to sweat again halfway up, the rhododendrons give way to bamboo, the bamboo to spruce and at the end we wind our way through tea plantations, vines and banana trees again. A 90-minute fast-forward of our last eight days - without any tiger encounters.
