Riding the Wild 1,864 Curves: My Mae Hong Son Loop Motorcycle Odyssey in Thailand

The first time I heard about the Mae Hong Son Loop, I was nursing a cold Chang beer in a tiny Chiang Mai bar when a dust-covered Australian biker stumbled in. His eyes had that wild gleam of someone who’d just cheated death and loved every second of it.

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“1,864 curves, mate,” he announced to no one in particular. “Counted every bloody one of them.”

I laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. He wasn’t. The Mae Hong Son Loop—a roughly 600km motorcycle route through northern Thailand’s mountains—actually has 1,864 documented curves. As a photography enthusiast who’s always chasing that perfect light in impossible places, this sounded like the ultimate playground of shadows and golden hours.

Would my mediocre riding skills match up to the challenge? Probably not. Did that stop me from renting a bike the very next morning? Also no. Some decisions in life bypass logic entirely, and this was definitely one of them.

What followed was four days of white-knuckle riding, breathtaking vistas, questionable roadside noodles, and the kind of light that makes photographers weep with joy. This isn’t just another Thailand travel story—it’s my personal guide to surviving (and photographing) one of Southeast Asia’s most legendary road trips.

Preparing for the Ride: Bikes, Gear, and Reality Checks

Chiang Mai offers no shortage of motorcycle rental shops, ranging from sketchy to surprisingly professional. After comparing a few, I settled on Aya Service because the owner didn’t laugh when I asked embarrassingly basic questions about the bikes. That seemed like a good sign.

For photography buffs planning this trip: your gear choice matters almost as much as your bike choice. I initially planned to bring my entire kit—full-frame camera, three lenses, drone, tripod—until I realized I’d be carrying everything on my back for hours each day. I eventually downsized to a mirrorless camera, two versatile lenses, and a mini tripod. Still too much, honestly.

As for the bike, I had a critical decision to make: go with a larger, more powerful motorcycle that would handle mountain climbs better, or choose something smaller that my 5’9″ frame could confidently control on those hairpin turns?

“Most farangs want big bikes, but big bikes make big accidents,” warned the rental shop owner with alarming candor. “Small bike better for learning the curves.”

I heeded his advice and chose a Honda CB300R—enough power for the mountains but not enough to launch me off a cliff. At 800 baht per day (about $25), it wasn’t the cheapest option, but after inspecting some truly terrifying alternatives at budget shops, I decided my life was worth the extra 200 baht.

Gear check before departure:
– Helmet with visor (essential for insects and unexpected rain)
– Riding gloves (saved my palms during a minor slide on gravel)
– Rain jacket (which I forgot in my hostel and deeply regretted)
– Camera backpack with padded straps
– Downloaded offline Google Maps (lifesaver when signal disappeared)
– Photocopies of passport and license (required at police checkpoints)

The night before departure, I barely slept. My mind kept conjuring images of spectacular crashes on mountain roads, my camera gear smashing against rocks, and me trying to explain the situation to my insurance company. “Yes, I chose to ride a motorcycle on 1,864 curves despite having ridden exactly twice before in my life.” Not my smartest decision, looking back.

Day 1: Chiang Mai to Pai — Where the Learning Curve Gets Vertical

The morning light was soft and forgiving as I pulled away from Chiang Mai, camera strapped securely to my back. The first hour was deceptively easy—straight roads, light traffic, and the growing excitement of adventure. I stopped at a roadside coffee stand to capture the morning mist hanging over rice fields, my first keeper shot of the trip.

Then came Route 1095, and with it, the infamous curves began.

The road to Pai features 762 curves packed into just 130km of mountain road. That’s roughly six curves per kilometer, many of them blind hairpins with sheer drops on one side. About 20 curves in, my confidence evaporated faster than morning dew.

“Just lean into it,” a passing Thai motorcyclist advised at a viewpoint where I’d stopped to question my life choices. “Bike wants to turn. Let it.”

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Easier said than done when your brain is screaming that leaning toward a cliff edge is fundamentally wrong. But slowly, awkwardly, I began to find a rhythm. The key photography challenge became obvious: how do you capture these gorgeous curves when you’re fully focused on not dying while navigating them?

The answer came at a spectacular overlook about halfway to Pai. A small roadside stand selling coconuts had the perfect elevation for shooting the serpentine road below. I spent nearly an hour there, waiting for motorcycles and the occasional red songthaew to round the bends, creating scale in my compositions. The light was harsh by this time (around noon), but the patterns of the road created interesting shadows that actually worked in the images.

The journey that should have taken 3-4 hours stretched into nearly 6 with all my photo stops. By the time I rolled into Pai, my shoulders burned with tension, and my right hand had a semi-permanent grip shape from the throttle.

Pai itself was not what I expected. I’d heard it described as a “hippie paradise,” but it felt more like a backpacker theme park. Cute, certainly, with its walking street market and riverside bars, but lacking the authenticity I’d hoped for. I checked into Pai Village Boutique Resort (splurging after my harrowing ride) and immediately headed for their pool to soothe my aching muscles.

That evening, after wandering through the night market and capturing some lovely blue hour shots of the bamboo bridge, I met a German couple who’d completed the loop twice.

“Pai to Mae Hong Son is the real test,” the woman told me over mango sticky rice. “If you struggled today…” she trailed off, exchanging a knowing look with her partner.

Well, that was reassuring.

Finding My Rhythm: Pai to Mae Hong Son (and Those Insane Curves)

I left Pai early the next morning, partly to catch the soft morning light but mostly because I was anxious about the reportedly more challenging road ahead. My first photo stop was the Pai Canyon, where the morning rays cut dramatically through the mist. I spent too long trying different compositions, scrambling precariously close to edges for the perfect shot.

The road out of Pai starts gently enough, winding through farmland and small villages. I stopped at a Hmong village where women were laying out indigo-dyed fabrics to dry—the deep blue against the red earth made for compelling images, though I felt awkward taking photos until a smiling woman motioned me closer to show her work.

Then came the mountains proper, and with them, a whole new level of curves. These weren’t the relatively predictable switchbacks of the previous day. These were tight, inconsistent turns that demanded total concentration. Some curved gently, others hooked back sharply, and occasionally, two would combine into a disorienting S-shape that had me muttering profanities inside my helmet.

About 40km in, fatigue began to set in. My shoulders ached, and my decision-making felt sluggish. This, I realized, was when accidents happen. I pulled over at a small roadside shack where an old woman was grilling meat on skewers.

“Pai? Mae Hong Son?” she asked, somehow identifying exactly where I’d come from and where I was headed.

“Mae Hong Son,” I confirmed, gratefully accepting a skewer of what I hoped was chicken and definitely wasn’t.

She pointed to my camera. “Picture mountain?” Then she pointed around the back of her shack.

Following her gesture, I discovered a clearing with a panoramic view of the valley below. The light was perfect—late morning with clouds casting dramatic shadows across the ridges. I spent twenty minutes shooting while my legs recovered, then bought three more mystery meat skewers out of gratitude.

This became my rhythm for the day: ride until my concentration wavered, find somewhere beautiful to stop and photograph, rest, repeat. It was slow progress, but it kept me safe and resulted in some of my favorite images from the entire trip.

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The most challenging section came about 30km outside Mae Hong Son—a series of descending switchbacks so tight I had to almost come to a complete stop for each one. A sudden rain shower made the road slick, and I crawled along at embarrassingly slow speeds while Thai teenagers on scooters zipped past me with casual ease.

By the time I reached Mae Hong Son, the rain had stopped, and late afternoon light was bathing the town’s lake temple in golden light. I parked my bike and practically ran to capture it, changing lenses with shaking hands. A monk watching me from the temple steps seemed amused by my urgency. “Light always changing,” he said in English. “Like life.”

Accidental Buddhist wisdom aside, he was right. The light was spectacular for about ten minutes, then faded to a dull evening glow. I checked into a guesthouse overlooking Jong Kham Lake, showered off the day’s grime, and ventured out for dinner.

Mae Hong Son surprised me. While Pai felt like it existed primarily for tourists, Mae Hong Son had a quieter authenticity. The night market was smaller but filled with locals. I found a stall selling khao soi—northern Thailand’s signature curry noodle soup—and it was easily the best I’d had in Thailand, rich with coconut milk and perfectly tender chicken.

As I ate, I scrolled through the day’s photos, deleting the mediocre ones and making mental notes about compositions I wanted to try again in different light. My body ached everywhere, but seeing the images made it worthwhile. I’d captured something of the essence of this journey—the precarious beauty of the mountains, the isolated villages, the way light played across the endless curves.

Unexpected Discoveries: The Road Less Traveled

The standard Mae Hong Son Loop continues south toward Mae Sariang, but a Thai photographer I met at breakfast suggested a detour to Ban Rak Thai, a Chinese village near the Myanmar border.

“Very photogenic,” he promised. “Not many tourists go. Good light in morning.”

It was only about 40km from Mae Hong Son, so I decided to make it a day trip before continuing the loop. The road there was mercifully straighter than previous days, cutting through pine forests that felt more like China than Thailand (a preview of the village to come).

Ban Rak Thai appeared suddenly around a curve—a collection of red-roofed buildings surrounding a reflective lake. The village was founded by Chinese Kuomintang soldiers who fled after the communist revolution, and it retained a distinctly Chinese character. Red lanterns hung from buildings, and the air smelled of jasmine tea.

I arrived just as morning mist was lifting off the lake, creating ethereal conditions for photography. The still water perfectly reflected the buildings and surrounding hills, and I spent an hour just working different compositions of this scene, experimenting with long exposures to smooth the occasional ripples.

An elderly Chinese-Thai man approached as I was shooting, curious about my camera. Through broken English and Thai, I learned he was one of the original settlers, arriving as a child in the 1960s. He invited me into his tea shop, where I spent an unexpected hour photographing the traditional tea processing and sampling more varieties of oolong than I knew existed.

This unplanned detour became one of my favorite memories of the entire trip—a reminder that sometimes the best experiences and photographs come when you venture off the standard route.

On my way back to Mae Hong Son, I took a wrong turn and ended up on a narrow road that wasn’t on my map. Rather than immediately turning back, I decided to see where it led. After about 10km of increasingly rough terrain, I found myself at a small Karen village where women were weaving intricate textiles on traditional looms.

They seemed surprised to see a foreigner but were welcoming, allowing me to photograph their work after I purchased a small woven bracelet. The light inside their open-air workshop was challenging—strong directional beams through bamboo slats—but it created dramatic images that captured both the textiles and the weathered hands creating them.

By the time I found my way back to the main road, it was late afternoon, and I decided to spend another night in Mae Hong Son rather than push on to Mae Sariang. Sometimes getting lost leads to the best discoveries.

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The Final Stretch: Mae Hong Son to Mae Sariang to Chiang Mai

The next morning brought mixed emotions—I was simultaneously dreading more mountain roads and sad that the adventure was nearing its end. The stretch from Mae Hong Son to Mae Sariang was reportedly less technical than previous sections, with fewer curves but longer, sweeping bends.

This proved mostly true, though “less technical” in Mae Hong Son Loop terms still meant hundreds of curves. The more gentle nature of this stretch allowed me to better appreciate the changing landscape. The dense mountain forests began giving way to more open agricultural areas, with terraced fields climbing up hillsides.

I stopped frequently to photograph farmers working in these stepped fields, the geometric patterns creating strong compositional elements. The morning light cast long shadows that emphasized the terracing, and I experimented with different focal lengths to capture both intimate details and wider landscapes.

Mae Sariang itself was a pleasant surprise—a sleepy riverside town with little tourism infrastructure but genuine charm. I found a guesthouse along the river (Riverside Guest House, 600 baht) and spent the afternoon wandering the quiet streets, photographing the old wooden houses and small temples.

The final day of riding—Mae Sariang back to Chiang Mai—was the longest stretch at around 180km. I started at dawn, partly to maximize daylight hours and partly to capture the morning mist that hung over the river. The early start rewarded me with empty roads and spectacular light conditions as the sun crested the eastern mountains.

This section featured fewer dramatic curves but longer, steadier climbs and descents. About halfway back to Chiang Mai, the mountain scenery began to transition back to lowland farms and busier highways. Traffic increased, and with it, my anxiety—somehow navigating multiple lanes of cars and trucks felt more dangerous than the remote mountain roads.

As Chiang Mai’s outskirts appeared, I felt a complex mix of relief and disappointment. My body was certainly ready to be done—my lower back had been complaining for days, and my shoulders felt permanently hunched. But there was also the letdown that comes at the end of any great adventure, the reluctance to return to normal life.

I returned the bike (with a few new scratches that cost me part of my deposit) and checked into a hotel with the longest, hottest shower I could find. Looking through my photos that evening, I realized I’d captured something special—not just pretty landscapes, but the essence of this journey. The images showed both the grandeur of the mountains and the intimate details of life along the route.

Should You Ride the Mae Hong Son Loop?

After 600km, 1,864 curves, and countless memory cards filled with images, would I recommend the Mae Hong Son Loop to others? Yes—with caveats.

This isn’t a journey for beginners. While I completed it with limited motorcycle experience, I can’t honestly say that was wise. There were moments of genuine danger, and my lack of skill made the ride more stressful than it needed to be. If you’re new to motorcycling, consider either gaining more experience first or hiring a driver.

For photographers, this route is a dream. The diversity of landscapes, cultural encounters, and lighting conditions provides endless creative opportunities. Just be realistic about how much gear you can comfortably carry while riding. My shoulders still haven’t forgiven me for that camera backpack.

Some practical advice for those considering the loop:

• Timing is crucial: November to February offers the best weather—cool mornings, clear skies, and minimal rain. I went in late November and had nearly perfect conditions.
• Take it slow: The loop can technically be done in 3 days, but 4-5 allows for exploration and reduces daily riding hours. Your body will thank you.
• Pack light but right: Bring layers (mountains get cold), rain gear (regardless of season), and only essential camera equipment.
• Get proper insurance: Make sure your travel insurance explicitly covers motorcycle riding. Many policies exclude it unless specifically added.
• Best photo spots: Pai Canyon at sunrise, the viewpoint halfway between Pai and Mae Hong Son (look for the coconut stand), and Ban Rak Thai in early morning mist.

The Mae Hong Son Loop tested my riding skills, my physical endurance, and occasionally my courage. It also rewarded me with some of the most beautiful photographs I’ve ever taken and experiences I couldn’t have had any other way.

As for those 1,864 curves? I stopped counting somewhere around curve 37. Some things are better experienced than quantified—and this legendary loop is definitely one of them.

This is based on my personal experience in November 2023. Road conditions and services may change, so always check current information before planning your trip.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.