Through the North – The Hà Giang Loop and Beyond

Reese Highbloom
Oct 6
4 min read

When I last wrote, I was on a sleeper bus winding through the night toward the mountains of Hà Giang. By dawn, the city stirred under a silver mist. Chris and I checked into Mama’s 3 Hostel, turned in some laundry, and wandered out for food. On the walk we passed a roadside spit — dog, unfortunately — a sharp reminder that customs shift quickly once you leave the familiar. We found refuge in a small Mexican café, a strange comfort before the road ahead.

The Loop Begins

By sunrise the next morning, we were at Mama’s main Hostel for orientation. Breakfast, bag check, helmets — then the hum of engines. I was back on two wheels, this time a rugged 110 cc semi-automatic Honda built for the mountains.

Our group came together fast:

Hector and Alex, two friends from Spain working in Bondi, whose banter carried the rhythm of surf and sunshine.
Paris, from Melbourne, was quick-witted and unshakably positive. She also became my unofficial karaoke partner.
Henry, Kai, and Max, three Aussies from Sydney, brought constant laughter, cards, and a running soundtrack of karaoke tunes.
Kiki, from Orange County, the calm center of the chaos, who somehow kept everyone organized.
And later, Val, our Irish friend from Sapa, who joined on Day Two and fit right in.

Our guide, Tuan, had the calm patience of someone who’d ridden these roads a thousand times.

The first day carried us through clouds and steady rain. Typhoon weather was pushing in from the coast, and the mountains felt alive — breathing mist, wind, and mud. We stopped for tea, huddled at roadside shacks, and watched the valley disappear into fog. Even soaked to the bone, everyone smiled. That’s the magic of the Loop — it humbles and fills you at the same time.

That night we reached our first guesthouse — rows of bunks, damp clothes strung across beams, a chorus of boots squeaking on the wood floors. Dinner was a feast: rice, chicken, vegetables, rolls, and the never-ending flow of happy water, the local rice liquor that tastes like gasoline and camaraderie. Our chant grew louder with each toast: “Môt, hai, ba — dô!” Then karaoke, laughter, and the kind of tired that only mountain rain can give you.

Riding the Storm

Day Two brought heavier rain and news that the typhoon had worsened. Breakfast included a local soup and rice rolls to warm our souls before the wet day ahead. We rode north toward the Chinese border, carving through switchbacks that vanished into clouds. Honks echoed around each blind corner — a warning from unseen trucks.

We stopped at a tall monument near the border where the red flag of Vietnam whipped wildly in the wind, then climbed a tower overlooking the valley, invisible in the whiteout mist. It felt like standing at the edge of the world.

That night’s stay in Đồng Văn was quieter, tucked between limestone peaks and rice terraces. The air was cooler, the rooms cleaner, and spirits high. Our group, now joined by Caroline, an art student studying abroad in Singapore, gathered around long tables for dinner. She blended in easily, another bright spark in a crew already bonded by rain and road. We sang karaoke, played cards, and shared stories over too many rounds of happy water.

Plans Washed Away

By morning, we got bad news — the storm had blocked major passes with landslides. Days Three and Four, which were supposed to include boat rides, mountain passes, and waterfalls, were canceled. For safety’s sake, the tour would turn back early.

The delay gave us an unexpected rest day in Đồng Văn. We wandered the quiet streets, watched kids play in puddles, discovered cozy cafes, and took in the rare patches of sun that broke through the mist. It wasn’t what we’d planned, but it was peaceful — a pause that reminded us how often travel forces you to surrender control.

When the all-clear came late the next morning, we packed in a rush. The return ride to Hà Giang was long but glorious — a final, cinematic sweep of emerald peaks and valleys shrouded in steam. The sun finally showed itself, drying our soaked clothes as if to say you’ve earned this.

But as we descended toward the city, the damage from the storm became clear: muddy roads, collapsed banks, and streets slick with clay. Riding through it felt surreal — a mix of awe and ache for the communities hit hardest. By the time we reached the main hostel, we were covered in mud, tired, and grateful to be safe. The tour had been cut short, but it left a deep mark on everyone who rode it.

Back to Hanoi and Out to the Bay

Hanoi, in contrast, felt electric. After the quiet of the north, the chaos of scooters and street vendors somehow felt like home. I reunited with friends from the trip, explored cafés with Caroline, and finally tried bún chả at the same spot where Anthony Bourdain once ate with Obama — a reminder of how food tells a country’s story better than any guidebook.

When the rain finally drifted east, we caught a van to Hạ Long Bay. The contrast was almost jarring: glass towers, empty beaches, and a sky heavy with the next typhoon. With cruises canceled, the town felt paused in time. Chris and I walked the quiet waterfront, the limestone cliffs fading into fog, the air thick with salt.

By Monday, the storm arrived. We stayed inside — a rare break to rest, write, and reflect. Outside, the rain came in steady waves against the window. Inside, there was peace.

When the skies clear, we’ll head to Cát Bà Island and finally see the bay from the water. Until then, I’ll let the stillness do what travel so often demands — slow you down long enough to feel grateful for where you’ve been and curious for what comes next.