Northern Vietnam

Rain Roads, Jungle Ghosts, and the Long Way Around

Date: Spring 2023

Location: Border Region, Northern Vietnam

Miles Traveled: 1,500+

Trip Details: Deep Water Soloing, Motorcycle Trip

I locked the hide-a-key into its box on the west side of the house. A friend would be checking in while I was away. One-way ticket. Northern Vietnam. No return date on the calendar.

The plan was loose. Ride motorcycles along the far northern loop near the Chinese border. Nothing booked past the first few nights. I’d heard whispers of this ride. A friend had just returned, sunburned and grinning, still talking about the food, the foggy mornings, the wind in your shirt as you dropped out of the mountains. That was enough.

Vietnam wasn’t a place I knew well. I’d seen the “Made in Vietnam” tags on gear and grown up on war stories that reshaped a generation’s view of conflict. But I wasn’t going for war. I was going for something slower. I wanted to see the place that could hold so much history and still hum with life. 

We landed in Hanoi sometime between midnight and morning. The kind of arrival where the city is asleep but restless. The Airbnb was smaller than expected—a closet with two mats—but it might as well have been a palace.  We slept hard and woke to the chaos of Hanoi unfolding outside our window.

The city sounds different than most. No roar of freeways, no subway brakes screeching underground. Instead, a tide of scooters and conversation, the scent of grilled meat and gasoline floating above it all. Footsteps filled the alleyways, voices traded from balconies, and whole families cooked breakfast out of pots balanced on makeshift stoves. It felt alive in a way that most cities forget how to be.

We stayed on the quiet northeast side, seventh floor, looking down on the morning markets. The vendors showed up early and left only for the hottest hour of the day to sit with each other, drink coffee, and laugh. When they came back, they brought fresh stories and more food.

We visited the Hanoi Hilton, that infamous prison now turned museum. Americans, Australians, and curious travelers walked the halls in silence. Everyone had heard the name. Few knew what actually happened inside. The weight of it lingered in the corners.

Later, we met a local guide who led us through the alleyways for food. Gelatinous mung bean sweets, salted fish head salads, flavors that shocked the tongue then settled in. There’s a courage to eating like that. No filters, no sanitizing. Just food and people, proud of what they make.

The next morning, we crossed the Red River to rent motorcycles. Scooters are common here, but we needed something with backbone. The roads out near the Chinese border are rough, steep, and often more mud than pavement. Mr. Phung handed over a battered bobber and a well-worn Honda 250. We strapped our bags to the frames, fired the engines, and rode out of the city.

The first stop was a small organic farm, four hours northwest of Hanoi. We arrived just as the clouds rolled in. What started as a place to sleep turned quickly into a storm shelter. The rain didn’t let up for two days. Neither did the bugs. Spiders, ticks, beetles, everything that called the jungle home decided our room was the new safe zone. We slept inside a mosquito net, our sanctuary inside a sanctuary.

When the rain eased, we helped the farm crew plant trees and fix some fencing. The air was thick and fragrant, like the jungle was breathing on your neck. We knew we had to move on. The road was calling.

We rode into the storm anyway. Slick roads. Fog in the valleys. And then, just as suddenly, sun. Emerald rice paddies opened up around us. The green was almost unnatural. We stayed at a roadside guesthouse, soaked to the bone, but full.

Sapa came next. We decided to climb Fansipan, the tallest mountain in Indochina. The ascent was muddy, veiled in clouds. As we neared the summit, we heard voices—dozens of them. Tourists had taken the tram to the top. There was a temple, a café, and a ticket booth. We laughed at the absurdity, collected our summit certificates like kids at summer camp, and rode the tram back down.

The next few weeks blurred into each other. Days on the road. Towns without names. Jungle cliffs. Swimming holes. Police checkpoints we blew through on instinct and bad brakes. We rode on Vietnam’s hottest recorded day. The only way to stay sane was to soak our shirts in rivers and let the wind cool us as we rode. It worked, barely.

People stared at us in the smaller towns. Not with suspicion, but curiosity. Foreigners usually follow the coast. Not many head north and ride the border. We were something different. Kids would come up to practice their English. “Hello! What’s your name?” Always smiling.

Always kind. Near the end, we pushed out to Cát Bà Island, a place I'd only heard about from climbers. Towering limestone karsts shot out of the jungle, surrounded by turquoise water. We climbed sea cliffs with only water below to catch us. Every handhold held a question. Spiders. Rats. Bats. You didn’t know until your fingers were already there.

No injuries. No breakdowns.

The jungle sometimes felt haunted. Maybe it’s the weight of history. Maybe it’s just what the jungle does, hold memory in silence. But even in that silence, there was warmth. People welcomed us everywhere. We were outsiders, yes, but never strangers.

There’s something hard to explain about riding a motorcycle through a place like that. The way the road unfolds in front of you, the way the wind carries the scent of earth and fire and rain. A moving meditation. A way to make sense of the noise we carry around.

Vietnam wasn’t a destination. It was a mirror. And what I found in that reflection, exhausted, soaked, hungry, and free, was something I didn’t know I’d come looking for.

Northern Vietnam

The jungle sometimes felt haunted. Maybe it’s the weight of history. Maybe it’s just what the jungle does, hold memory in silence. But even in that silence, there was warmth. People welcomed us everywhere. We were outsiders, yes, but never strangers.

There’s something hard to explain about riding a motorcycle through a place like that. The way the road unfolds in front of you, the way the wind carries the scent of earth and fire and rain. A moving meditation. A way to make sense of the noise we carry around.

Vietnam wasn’t a destination. It was a mirror. And what I found in that reflection, exhausted, soaked, hungry, and free, was something I didn’t know I’d come looking for.

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