Rain, Boats, and the Ghosts of the Trail: Last Day, Vietnam Motorcycle Tour Expert
Tuesday, November 18, 2025, Like every other morning, Joe and I woke to the iPhones 6:30 alarm. Same drill: hunt for coffee, find something breakfast-shaped, pull on hopefully dry ride gear, drop bags at the van, and hope to be rolling by 8:30 AM.
Today we left a sizable Vietnamese city beside the Sông Bằng River (the sign really was spelled that way—no transliteration crimes here) we pointed the bikes south on our last days riding adventure.
It immediately started raining and never stopped. Not cinematic torrents, just a cold, patient, endless drizzle that found every vent and zipper. Some were more prepared than others. Even the usual mud addicts—RockStar Chris, Cheech José, and Matt—kept their mouths shut. Nobody felt like wrestling a Honda through red clay mud grease when Hanoi was only a day away.
Broken bones this close to the finish line would have been unforgivable and besides Kim promised a day that we’d long remember.
Kim, our professional guide, earlier on took mercy on all of us and herded us into an open roadside café. We sat on tiny chairs clutching even tinier glasses of cà phê sữa đá like they were the last warmth on earth. Caffeine plus sugar equals temporary happiness.
The place resembles Appalaachia minus the couches on the front porch but with all of the other junk. No more terraced rice or tea fields or even cinnamon trees growing in orderly fashion.
Back on the bikes, same program: wet brakes and fingers going numb and I gotta pee again. Lunch appeared just in time. We rolled into a village whose name I never caught and were led into a family restaurant with knee-high tables and an assembly line of food that just kept coming. We no longer asked the name of the dish. The new normal for lunch is communal bowls of soup you ladle into your own doll-sized bowl. Pork in dark sauce, pork in light sauce, chicken, morning glory, rice, various mystery bits. Dessert today was not watermelon but, bananas, because of course this is Vietnam, where bananas are everywhere.
Bellies full, we rode back into the rain. The road began to climb and twist. All roads so far always twist. You would be hard pressed to find one straight road. These roads remind you who’s boss. We had made our wishes clear to Kim: no heroics today and no mud please.
Then came the detour nobody saw coming. We rattled over a narrow suspension bridge held together by rust and a prayer—one careless car would have finished it—then Kim suddenly cranked a hard right onto what looked like a footpath, it dropped down to a muddy bank, and there they were: four long aluminum sampans lined up like they’d been waiting for us since 1972.
Front ramps welded on permanently. You just ride straight aboard. Kim backed down first, slid onto the lead boat; two guys on the bow caught him like it was a dance they’d rehearsed forever. One by one we followed. Four bikes per boat, the rest of us piled into the empties. Engines off, feet up, rain still falling but suddenly irrelevant.
Bill, our ex-Navy was now grinning ear to ear, as he took the tiller on one boat. Missy, who drives fire department sized ladder trucks for a living, grabbed another tiller and held on. We puttered downstream between karst towers rising straight out of the water, jungle dripping overhead and I shit you not; the famous UNESCO cave that everyone posts pictures of, name still escaping me.
Puong Cave (Vietnamese: Động Puồng) is a large limestone cave located in Ba Bể National Park, Bắc Kạn Province, northern Vietnam, approximately 50 km northwest of Bắc Kạn city and about 200 km north of Hanoi.
We suddenly emerged into a valley that looked computer-generated: stilt houses, vegetable patches on every flat spot, sheer limestone walls vanishing into cloud. The rain had softened to mist you could watch rising off the trees and drifting uphill like slow-motion smoke.
Fifty years ago this same river, these same cliffs, were part of the main vein of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Ask me how I know. Or better yet, don’t. Teenagers on bicycles pushed 400-pound loads through here while the sky fell on them—more bombs dropped than on all of Germany in WWII. The trail won. The ghosts don’t seem to mind.
We nosed up to the bank, and one by one rode the bikes off the ramps, and slid our way up a hill to tonight’s homestay. New concrete guesthouses are sprouting up like mushrooms—tourism is coming fast—but the locals still farm every scrap of dirt the way their grandparents did.
Tomorrow, weather willing, we finish the ride. One last day of slick roads and rocket-strength coffee.
But the final chapter got written tonight. Kim threw a closing party none of us will forget (his words, not mine).
Six beautiful women in traditional dress kicked things off with an elegant fan dance. Gorgeous. Graceful. Civilized.
Then the “rocket potion” showed up—an after-dinner firewater used to toast anything that moves and a few things that don’t. The toasts turned into a drinking game. Standards collapsed faster than the dancers’ fans.
Most of us hung on. Barely.
I can live with that.
—Ralph
Trawlercat Chronicles 