Karakoram Highway

Breathtaking white mountains were touching the sky along scenic KKH – Karakoram Highway. This is the main road connecting Islamabad with Kashgar in China over Khunjerab pass, the highest border crossing in the world. In late March fruit trees, mostly appricots, were blossoming on the terraces built into the steep slopes. Villages felt like oases in the dry mountain landscape. Children were kindly greeting, smiling and waving beside the road. After my struggles in Punjab I felt free and welcomed again, warmth of the people in Gilgit-Baltistan put my smile back on.

After a night bus ride from Islamabad I knocked on the door of the guesthouse in Gilgit. To my surprise Tom opened the door. We didn’t know eachother but realised we had been in contact in Sindh, sharing information about cycling through countryside there. Tom and Ben are British cyclists and we spent a lovely day together visiting bazaars and small cemetery, where first explorers of surrounding mountain area found their final rest.

Next day I started to pedal towards Minapin, village under incredible Rakaposhi mountain (7788 m). I felt like in a fairy-tale. Road was quietly following blue river and behind every corner a new world revealed itself. Narrow suspension bridges hanged like a spider web over the water. Road was often carved into the rock cliffs and punctured with fallen rocks or remainings of landslides. In the valleys all flat area was turned into beautiful villlages, orchards and gardens.

In the evening, just when the prayer call was announcing the end of daily fasting in the holy month of Ramadan, I entered Osho Thang hotel, full of local guests. In Pakistan ‘hotel’ primarily refers to the place, where you can eat. I was directed into the kitchen as dinning room was packed. Cooks and waiters were busy running around big pots in the dark room. I got served soup with local pasta and later biryani (spicy rice with chicken).

I talked to my neighbour at the table and realised Diego from Switzerland had kept on returning to Pakistan for 6 years! Both of us were here to catch the sunny day in attempt to reach Rakaposhi basecamp. At the end we shared the room and in the early morning Diego took me on his rented motorbike higher through the village to the starting point of our walk. We were damn fast! He knew the shortcuts as he had been here before and directed us from the established route to the ridge of the moraine.

Early in the season there were still plenties of snow on the way but moraine gets more sun and the sharp stone ridge was partly dry. Weeks later I was meeting travelers turning back on this hike because of too much snow, even if they hired guides. They didn’t walk on the moraine! Reaching it was truly rewarding.

Minapin Glacier in all its mightyness and shine, with countless cracks and ice shapes, made us walk admirably in silence.

A long glacier valley opened as we were reaching higher, with pyramide shaped Diran peak (7266 m) crowning the scenery. Snow got deeper. My vintage Italian boots, bought second-hand in Islamabad and walked a bit in Margalla Hills, did very well. A dog followed us and a young and stubborn Korean we passed earlier lagged behind in our footsteps.

We made it to the basecamp at 3300 m. Untouched snow was covering the slopes and ice curtains lead up to the enormous walls of Rakaposhi, one of the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen. But most precious, we became friends with Diego, making plans for the future, dreaming about climbing Golden peak (Spantik, 7027 m), glorious mountain we could see from our guesthouse terrace in Karimabad. Hungry after a long hike I spoiled myself with delicious mutton karahi cooked in the traditional stone pot for dinner.

Ancient Baltit Fort tops over the town of Karimabad. Mirs of Hunza once lived in but moved to another palace a century ago. Through the colorfully decorated windows and balconies Mir (the king) could watch polo games. Polo ground serves as a parking lot now. The steep main street in Karimabad, with souvenir shops, cafes, restaurants and hotels, was the only touristy street I encountered in whole Pakistan! But it was still very quiet as the main season happens in summer.

Until then we could enjoy some tipical Hunza delicacies, as chapshuro, shapik, berikutz, chai. Appricot seeds and oil were the magic ingridients. Hunza Pavillion, a cozy small place covered in carpets and led by local women, happened to be the best place to try local food, besides homes.

We were happy to see and hug eachother again after a month! I put on my shalwar kameez, festive clothes for meeting friends. Salome and Armin spent their last month in freezing Hunza. They knew Diego too. While we were sharing our thoughts and stories on the terrace Tom and Ben passed by unexpectedly. Suddenly I was accompanied with bunch of friends! All roads lead to Karimabad …

I was fascinated by water channels, built into the rock slopes to direct water from the glaciers down to the villages and fields. I cannot imagine the effort building this amazing spider web. Gray ice-cold water pours over the stones into orchards. Along the channels walking paths steer up to the high summer pastures. Yaks walk one by one crossing the vertical walls towards black Ultar Glacier and patches of grass above it.

We reached a giant icefall above Ultar Meadows with a colorful group of friends.

Next days we spent with Salome and Armin. They found their home uphill at the Eagle’s Nest – in the abandoned summer house of Javad Ali, local guide trained in Chamonix. They cleaned it up and helped him with sheep in exchange for a stay.

We made delicious dinner on the fire stove in their black kitchen. Cooking together on the road while cycling from Iran to Karachi turned into our precious ritual! Javad showed us his storage room with mountaneering equipment. I was amazed to see ski-touring sets, crampons, ropes, everything for climbing … Only we were out of season at the moment. He was expecting guests for ski-expeditions in late April. In the night he took me back to Karimabad on his motorbike. The road was extremely steep (my friends stored their bicycles in the town) and we drove down without lights!

After few cloudy and rainy days I decided to continue cycling up the KKH towards Passu. I admired a Sacred Rock of Hunza on the way, just across the canyon from Altit Fort, another Mirs‘ palace with beautiful wooden towers.

On the ancient silk route travelers and pilgrims carved images into the rocks. The oldest sceneries present ibex hunting and ritual ibex dances. Later Buddhist carvings were added, with numerous stupas and chortens.

In 2010 an enormous landslide blocked blue Hunza river and created picturesque Attabad Lake. Old KKH was destroyed and under water. For years passing this area was possible only by ferries.

Meanwhile tunnels were being built with Chinese support. I cycled through kilometres of complete darkness although they are equipped with ventilation and lights. But there is no electricity to make them run. Welcome to Pakistan!

I enjoyed eating biryani in local places where men in traditional woolen hats were passing their free time playing board games. A sandstorm was blowing outside through the valley.

Passu village lies under majestic sharp massif of Passu Cones (6106 m) on one side and white Passu Glacier on the other. I found home in a nice traditionally arranged Cathedral View Guesthouse with friendly owner, who could inform me about hikes I planned to do. I was happy to hear that remote walk between Passu and Batura glaciers was doable. He reserved a seat in public jeep for me to reach Shimshal valley too. Dinner? Yak burger in famous Yak Grill. I met a lovely couple from Lahore there and they invited me for appricot cake and tea.

In the evening I admired a woman carrying heavy basket with firewood over the long suspension bridge. Wind was blowing hard and it took her ages to reach over, moving step by step, stopping and holding the wires.

In the early morning I found the small unmarked track leading up towards the glacial moraine. In the huge yellow wall I recognised herd of ibex running away.

From the ridge the view over Passu Glacier opened widely. Constant moving of ice masses and water made crackling sounds. I saw vultures and eagles while reaching from Yunz pass towards Patundas on the alternative way. At 3700 m I decided to turn back towards Batura Glacier as snow was over knee-deep.

Yaks were grazing on the pastures above 57 km long Batura Glacier, one of the longest glaciers outside the polar regions. Stones and other debris were covering it, and green lakes were formed at its edges. The circular path leading me back to Passu was narrow and partly destroyed, demanding constant focus. A thought came through my mind: this is the home of snow leopard! Locals confirmed they see them regularly.

Old shepherd in dusty cantine told me he worked as a guide on the expeditions before the conflicts with Talibans and decline of tourism. He was born on summer pastures, 3900 m high! Later I learned people from Gilgit-Baltistan region have no right to vote, paradoxally they are very educated as Aga Khan school iniciative works well. How is this possible?

There is only one public jeep daily going to Shimshal valley, in the afternoon when villagers are coming back from bazaars in Aliabad town. The road through 53 km long valley was built only lately, one of the last valleys in Pakistan that opened to the world. I was excited! In the morning I ran to Borith Lake and hitchhiked back, one hour waiting beside empty KKH to get a ride by lonely motorbiker.

Again waiting. Road was empty. It was almost an hour after the usual arrival of the jeep. I already went back to re-pack and visit Armin and Salome’s farawell party, when I heard shouts from the road. Jeep finally reached! I ran back there to realise it was full. Luckily, they told me another jeep was coming behind. I got a seat among cardboards of eggs and other food suplies. My bicycle stayed in guesthouse.

Public jeeps start to move only when they are full. On 12 seats more than 20 people can squeeze, with all the luggage on the rooftop. I experienced some crazy rides before in my life, in Nepali Himalaya and on red muddy roads of Madagascar, but this 3-hours ride hits among most memorable. After the police checkpost jeep started to creep over the stones, rocks, holes and streams, high above the steep canyon with gray waters. Road was carved into the cliff with fragile rock sculptures built on the very edge – if you break one you’re too close … Meditative Sufi music was playing from the speakers. Road turned around huge boulders, passed the forehead of the glacier and crossed wooden suspension bridges just wide enough for the car. Women in front row were vomiting. An ibex with big horns stood on the opposite side of the river as if petrified in the dusk.

Shimshal village, located at 3000 m, was freezing. Children were coming with plastic pots to collect water from the spring amidst the fields. There was no running water in the houses in wintertime, it was too cold.

Niamat, my host and guide, invited me to help his family with loading the wood on the tractor. They had cut the trees on the steep slope across the river and wanted to move them to the sawmill. Building material in the valley is scarce, they have to grow poplar trees for their houses by themselves. Rolling big slippery trunks with Niamat’s brothers and friends was fun but also dangerous. All work was done by hands, like playing giant mikado. It was good way to keep warm while it started to snow.

After the work was done we gathered around the fireplace in their cozy home. We shared a dish made on bread basis with soft cottage cheese and richly poured with butter. Everybody was eating with hands from the same big plate. Plenties of hot milk-tea were followed by rice and lentils. Women in the room, wives of two brothers, were not covered. One was cooking, serving and talking to men. Meanwhile the other breast-feeded her baby casually.

In a week Taghm, a Spring celebration, was going to happen. I was amused to see on Niamat’s computer portraits of mountaineers from Shimshal valley – he was arranging a poster presenting the ‘all-star’ cricket teams. One team was made of climbers who reached 8000 m peak, next by those reaching over 7000 m, and 6000 m … In this Shimshali women took part too. The valley is famous for extreme local climbers and experienced high-altitude guides. Late in the night we knocked with Niamat on the minimarket’s door. They opened the shop for us to get food supplies for a 2-days hike.

In the morning the sky was clear! In few hours walk through the valley we reached Yazghil Glacier, a white flow of ice. And we had to cross it.

Nobody had done it in this season yet. My guide was walking up and down along the moraine to find the passage as glacier’s movement is constantly changing landscape. We climbed down the steep stones, from yellow to gray sandslopes. There was crackling and watery noise we were entering into.

Among white icebergs green streams of water found their way. Shapes of snow and ice made me stare in awe.

We had one wooden stick to check the ground in front of us – is it stable enough? I followed footprints of my guide who was carefully choosing the way through the labyrinth of snow and water. Suddenly the ice broke under my feet and I stood in the crystal clear stream knee-deep! I had to wring out my socks and roll up wet trousers.

In 2 hours we reached the other side, filled our water bottles and collected a bit of juniperus firewood. We continued to the high pastures, where yaks were grazing on the snowcovered slopes around the empty shepherd hut.

Little dark stone house at 4070 m was covered with dusty fox skins over the ground and equipped by cooking utensils. We collected dry yak dung to make essential fire. Niamat turned out to be an excellent cook! He prepared biryani out of fresh chicken meat and baked chapatis with cheese cream.

In the evening all yaks came back to their fenced yard next to the hut. We counted and checked them to report news to the villagers. Yaks belong to different families. Sometimes they’re attacked by wolves and snow leopards, especially in the winter. Under Shimshal Pass, 5 days walk further, herds of 400 yaks stay above 4000 m all year round with a bunch of shepherds.

I thought I’ll be freezing in the night but my old four-seasons sleeping bag worked perfectly and without alarm we kept sleeping for 11 hours. We hiked to the viewpoint 500 m higher, at the base of snowcaped Yazghil Sar (5964 m). Niamat showed me the collision of two glaciers in the distance. The lake forms there regularly, but if the water breaks out suddenly the whole valley can get flooded!

On the opposite slope huge landslide rolled down in front of our eyes, leaving brown dusty trace in the air for a long time.

We decided to cross over the glacier again instead of going back by the circular route beside the moraine, as ice landscape is much more beautiful and challenging. Truly, I could walk there again and again.

Next day in the early morning I returned to Passu by fully packed public jeep. I felt strong enough to cycle back to Karimabad in the same day.

Just before Karimabad I stopped in a small village of Ganish. It was built as a fortress thousand years ago, with four wooden mosques, watchtowers and picturesque passages. But what made the walled village special for me were the people who still live inside.

Friendly children became my guides, opening the low door to peek into mosques, taking me over the stone yards with goats and cows, gathering around my bicycle.

I ran out of money, so I had to make detour to Aliabad first. I cooked lunch on my camping stove in the yard of closed restaurant (yes, still Ramadan). It was wonderful how you could manage days sometimes in Pakistan with 200 rupees only in your pocket (less than 1 $). After the night in Karimabad, all my friends had left meanwhile, I cycled back to Gilgit.

I returned to Qayum’s guesthouse. He is an old man with an interesting life story he is very eager to share. He spent 9 years in Europe, mostly Spain, in the times of hippies, creating handmade jewelry and falling in love with numerous girls. Now he is married to conservative Pakistani wife and surrounded by grown-up sons and grandchildren. He entered his spiritual phase of life, he explained. He renovated an old and forgotten local shrine, cares for disabled people and feeds straw dogs. I joined him on his duties during the Eid al-Fitr, the days of celebration at the end of holy Ramadan.

‘Eid Mubarak!’ everybody was wishing. People wore their best dresses and visited eachother. And it seemed they were eating all days long, after a month of fasting.

I was curious to see fully packed cars on the road driving with trunks open – children were sitting inside. Whole families could fit on a motorbike. But the tin doors of shops and workshops were mostly pulled down, busy bazaars turned into streets of ghosts suddenly.

In this circumstances I decided to do an experiment – a hitchhiking side trip to Nanga Parbat mountain. Will I get a seat?

My bicycle was broken again – it needed welding for the second time on the trip. During the days of Eid finding a welder seemed mission impossible. My first day back in Gilgit we spent with Armin and Salome, cycling to big Buddha rock-carving just out of the town. On the steep downhill my front brakes collapsed. My friends left cycling towards Shandur pass later, not knowing a big snowfall was going to challange them seriously. We kept in touch.

Standing on the road I waved my hand to stop a car. A bunch of young men approached me. After a short curious talk I had to walk away as standing around me they didn’t help me with catching a ride at all.

Two cars, one truck, one motorbike and one ambulance later I found myself in Astore. During Eid holidays ambulance vehicle turned into family taxi. Friendly shopkeeper in the small mountain village on the way organised a lunch for me. His wife served me lentils and chapati. And I had to run away from the kids at the goldwashers’ camp next to Indus river …

Next day I stretched my legs walking up to Rama Lake, with Chongra (6830 m) dominating the view and Nanga Parbat (8126 m) looking from behind. Welcome to Himalaya! Nobody had walked here this season yet, locals told me, be aware of avalanches and wolves.

There was still a lot of snow. Too much, actually. Luckily, as I reached it very early in the morning, surface was still frozen and holding my weight. I avoided the route crossing dangerous snow slopes and found a dry but steep passage through deodar and pine forest leading me up to moraine. I couldn’t see the lake, it was sleeping somewhere under the snow. I cooked lunch while drying my socks on the sun.

On the way back two policemen awaited me at the end of the road. They filmed a short interview with me and invited me to ride down to the village with them on their motorbike. No, thank you, I prefer to walk. They showed me a shortcut. I realised they had missed me in the morning as I left my room too early. Would I be able to do the hike if they had escorted me from the start? They followed me in the distance, from the road, until I reached my hotel. It felt a bit annoying, but still I could speak with villagers undisturbed. An old bearded policeman followed me around Astore in the afternoon and next morning too.

A shoe repairman impregnated my boots for the next trek while I was waiting for the public jeep to Tarishing, a village and starting point towards the great Rupal Wall of Nanga Parbat. 35 km ride took us 5 hours, I would be faster by bicycle!

It was first working day after Eid holidays, many goods needed to be packed. There were sacks of rice, big gas canisters, tin chimneys and wooden cradle on the rooftop, but a goat over the top. We were constantly stopping, also for prayer and lunch, it was a challenge sitting for hours squeezed among more people than seats available. Few passangers were hanging outside from the ladder at the back of the jeep too.

Gray clouds covered the sky and for few days in a row it was raining over colorful roofs of Tarishing village. In 2005 dreadful weather, snowing with avalanches, caused famous Slovenian alpinist Tomaž Humar to stop climbing untouched central part of Rupal Face of Nanga Parbat after he reached 6350 m. The most difficult and spectacular helicopter rescue operation in history followed. After intervention at high political levels between Pakistan and Slovenia, when Swiss professional rescue team was still on the way, two Pakistani pilots succeeded impossible. They broke the rules and flew higher than rescue was allowed and ever done before. Almost touching the steep wall in difficult weather conditions they managed to pass the rope and pick up Humar, exhausted after 6 days of freezing without food in his snow cave. Villagers were praying for him, Safi, a local friend told me, while we were drinking chai at his warm home. He was only a kid then, but images are still vivid in his mind. Tomaž was crying, he said, we were all very happy he returned alive. Rashid, one of the army pilots, said later: ‘We Muslims are unfortunately famous for terrorism, but sometimes we do suicide actions to safe human life.’

Safi told me his family’s old house was going to turn into school for the youngest children. They are not able to walk half an hour by themselves over landslide and rockfall area to government school. We sat on the carpets and I asked his children to show me their toys. Boys brought bicycle and a plastic horse, while girls only fistfuls of little stones. We walked through the rain and mud to the new school. The very first school day was going to happen on following day! I was invited.

Children aged 4-6 years were sitting on the floor in their brand new uniforms with notebooks in their laps. Bearded men were still putting a white board on the wall. New teacher couldn’t arrive, they told me. But teacher’s father came instead, he teaches in neigbour village’s school. Soon he asked me to take over a group of students. There was a language barrier but I felt honoured and took the challange, having improvised Math and English lesson in playful way while we were calculating with stones. I asked children to write their names on the board and sing too. Who doesn’t remember their first school day?

After students left in the rain, Safi took me to another school, established by German alpine club years ago. Funding stopped and the school closed. Only the teacher still lives there, with books in the wooden closet, blackboard on the wall and benches piled in the corner. ‘Why don’t you take the furniture to the new school?’ I asked. ‘We can’t, it was bought with funds for this school …’

In the evening I opened the door and hugged my widely smiling friend Amir from Germany, soaking wet after driving on the jeep’s rooftop. We didn’t see eachother for 3 months, since he had to unexpectedly leave Iran, where we had cycled together for a month, to accompany his seriously ill father. Jonny, Irish cyclist was standing next to him, totally wet too. Luckily I had a stove in my room, we spent wonderful evening talking and drying their stuff around the fire.

Early in the morning we jumped out of our sleeping bags! Sky was finally clear and for the first time we could truly see mighty Nanga Parbat, the 9th highest mountain of the world. It’s nickname is Killer mountain, as 31 climbers died before first successfull attempt to reach the peak by legendary alpinist Hermann Buhl in 1953. First sunrays touched the white mountain.

Through the fresh snow we crossed the glacier to Rupal village. Children were walking and jumping from stone to stone in the opposite way – to school. The gravel road to Rupal village, following the river around the glacier, was blocked by avalanche. At the Upper Rupal pastures Jonny decided to head back as he felt pain in his previously injured knee. With Amir we continued into untouched snow.

We were approaching Herrligkoffer’s basecamp at 3100 m, under huge Rupal Wall.

I felt deeply touched reaching the base and stared up the unbeliavable wall with tears in my eyes. A thin strip of cloud was forming just in the middle. Snakes of icefalls were coming down among steep rocks and occasionally we could hear avalanche. Boulders in the valley behind the moraine were covered in snow and we couldn’t find names carved in the memory of killed climbers.

On the way back landscape was completely different after tiny layer of new snow had melted. Villagers were working in the fields and around colorful houses. We filled few bags with plastic waste lying next to the water spring in the valley, sad remainings of summer tourists.

Back in Gilgit Qayum was happy to show his past hippie-life on the photos again and tell interesting stories while rolling his cigarette. Meanwhile we visited welding workshop with his son to repair my bicycle.

We left the town cycling together with Amir and Jonny, but soon followed separate ways. They were going up the KKH towards China, while I was going back to Islamabad and to India. Good luck, my friends!

Young villagers invited me for chai beside the road. Later we had lunch together at their home, children were running uphill along my bicycle and helpfully pushing me.

For the night I stopped next to Indus river, in the Nanga Parbat View guesthouse close to the camp of goldwashers I had passed recently while hitchhiking. I had incident with children there as they grabbed biscuits from my sidepocket on the backpack and acted unpolitely. Accidentally I slightly broke one of their homemade toys too. I wanted to visit them again, last time I left with bitter feelings.

I decided to bring few packages of biscuits. When I told the young shopkeeper about my idea, he wanted to come along. He was curious. This was a decisive moment, as he could later help me with a necessary translation. We walked down the stone bank towards the river with Nanga Parbat glowing on the horizon.

My fellow asked the men if we can enter the camp. They allowed. He explained my story and I could recognise some children. They were respectful and friendly. They remembered me and told their part of the truth, while I tried to explain how I felt. They were very happy to receive my gift, the biscuits disappeared fast. They are amazing swimmers as they grow up next to the river. Goldwashing is a hard work passed from generation to generation. In eleven big white tents only one extended family was living. There were other families along the river too.

Suddenly a young man approached us angrily. He was afraid of me taking photos. After my friend explained him why we were there, he invited us kindly for chai in their open-sky mosque. Recently a car with foreigners stopped on the road above the camp. They were taking photos. Later foreigner realised his 20 $ note was missing and reported it to police. Few young men from the camp were arrested and police beat them badly. But they were innocent! A foreigner found his money between the seats of the car.

Over the dusty road I was heading towards Chilas. Partly I rode with mask. Policeman on motorbike followed me from the distance past Fairy Meadows, later a pick-up joined me. Recently a bus with Chinese workers building a dam was bombed in terrorist attack in the area and safety precautions were at high level. Foreigners were not even allowed to take bus. Spanish traveler told me later he had to bribe the bus driver to reach Gilgit.

After short quarrel with my escort team beside the road I convinced them to visit ancient petroglyphs with me. This outdoor archeological attraction is in great danger of disappearing under water, when the dam will be finished one day. I felt like a guide revealing cultural treasures of their own country to local police. Only 500 m away from the KKH, they tried to convince me it was too dangerous to visit. Terrorists? No, just their rigid rules and bureaucracy.

In Chilas they asked me not to leave the hotel without an escort. I went for lunch at the bazaar and met an openminded hotel manager of another hotel there. We had a great conversation, he payed for my lunch and introduced me his bearded employee, who took me to one of the most beautiful petroglyph sites. We walked next to the gray Indus and admired ancient images hidden in the rocky cliffs. We climbed the slippery rocks, my guide gave me suport with his strong body. He couldn’t speak English, our silence felt peaceful and rewarding.

Next morning I escaped again and blended into crowded bazaar with my shalwar kameez dress. In the post office I drank chai while officers tried to find out how many stamps were needed to send a postcard to Europe. 16 stamps on each postcard! Hotel manager didn’t oppose me to leave alone by bicycle to the same archeological site where I’d already been with police. In the hurry we missed the most beautiful part, carvings of Buddha and his disciples, hunting scenes, horses, snow leopard … Some of the images in the area were vandalised and painted over by graffitti. Is this the future art? Neolithic carvings were once covered by Buddhist’s descendants too.

In the evening, after a month in Gilgit-Baltistan, I took a night bus back to Islamabad, where half of my luggage was stored. I knew, while waiting for my Indian visa, I was coming back to amazing North of Pakistan very soon.