Stirring Point

I’ve dreamed of this land for over half my life. The Karakoram Highway found root in my mind through a collection of mountaineering memoirs I’d read in my early 20s and flourished like bindweed in a forgotten garden. Climbers en route to K2 and Nanga Parbat pulled aside the curtain with their descriptions, promising an unmatched beauty tucked deep within the mountain folds. And now, at 41 years old, my eyes have finally seen the Hunza Valley, and my ears have finally heard the thundercrack of boulders as they crashed violently toward the valley floor. The most vividly written and lucid descriptions of the region shortchange every reader, and I’m certain my efforts will shortchange you too. This is a place that one’s eyes must see and their bones must feel. Its grandeur stirs the viscera, reminding every traveler visiting the region that this type of nature cannot be tamed.

My first weeks in Pakistan were spent training jiu-jitsu in Islamabad, Lahore, and Karachi. Our sessions were excellent, and the post-training hours were filled with superb hospitality from countless new friends. They helped me start the process of digging in my fingers and attempting to split open the culture of Pakistan through many shared meals and intimate discussions. But my decades of flirtation with the country came from some magnetic pull toward Gilgit-Baltistan. I’d allocated the last five days of my journey to be spent in the Hunza Valley, a region known for its exceptional beauty, remote location, and hospitable people. The Karakoram Highway splits the valley in a feat of remarkable civil engineering, connecting Pakistan and China by road from Rawalpindi to Kashgar. “The Friendship Highway,” as it’s known, carried the high price of over one thousand lives lost during its construction (800 Pakistani and 200 Chinese) due to countless rock falls, landslides, and damning weather.

A friend helped me arrange a car and driver, beginning in Islamabad and driving 16 hours north to the tiny village of Passu. On a cool Monday morning, Nasir (the driver) sat outside my apartment in Islamabad as I stumbled down the steps at 4:00 a.m., trying not to trip over my untied bootlaces. His white Toyota Corolla purred near the sidewalk as I tossed my duffle bag in the trunk and slumped into the passenger seat. God Damn. I hope this car can handle where I plan to go.

Two hours north of Islamabad, the foothills spilled open near Abbottabad, the sleepy hillside city where, in 2011, Navy Seals descended from a helicopter to kill Osama bin Laden. The terraced land and modest homes seemed an impossible location to hide the world’s most wanted man, especially considering it was home to a popular KFC franchise, Comsat (Pakistan’s version of West Point), and a cricket field just a few streets away from bin Laden’s compound. How in the world was he living in this comfortable location and not some pocket of the tribal belt near Waziristan? As we zipped through Abbottabad, it became obvious that this was a case of wisely hiding in plain sight.

The shifting terrain quickly gave way to lurid valleys filled with sheep, goats, and herders tending their flocks. Large pup tents clumped together along the roadside like small refugee camps, housing families in worn clothing and hardened expressions. Thin waterfalls trickled through gullies, while impoverished children begged for ten rupees or more from any car that slowed. The Kunhar River cut a path along the Kaghan Valley floor, delivering life to small villages and mini-bazaars. Fruit vendors sold dried apricots, apples, walnuts, and pomegranates. Police checkpoints notched each district along the highway, checking faces and collecting passports while scribbling details into ancient ledgers. My three months of traveling, training, and pushing my aching body to its limits settled in, and rather than fighting the urge to keep my eyes open, I leaned back and sank into a world of dreaming.

I woke up around 30 minutes later as our vehicle labored up a set of winding switchbacks, speeding, then slowing before rounding each hairpin turn. As we climbed, the temperature plummeted from 21 degrees Celsius to 18, then 12, then 5, then 1. Wide snowflakes hit the windshield one by one before gusts of wind nudged us left and right. Our aim was Babusar Top, a mountain pass situated at 13700 ft., and our hope was to make it before full-on white-out conditions enveloped the area. Snow sprayed sideways against the car as we eventually crested the gate to the pass. A guard manning a checkpoint raced to my window and told us not to linger. The weather was shifting and might pose a threat on the way down. “You can check in at the next post,” he yelled. “Just go!” Nasir shifted to a lower gear and we lurched forward, cautiously descending the far side of the pass. Vehicles blocked portions of the road while frozen Pakistanis shuffled around, taking video of the whiteout on their phones.

“They’re not from here,” said Nasir. “Let’s get ahead of them. Most people are coming from the city and they don’t know how to drive in the mountains.”

The steep grade kept us in low gear, putting the bulk of the strain on the transmission rather than the brakes. As we moved along, we slowed near a group of men outside of their van dancing in the falling snow. They twirled and sang along to music blaring from the radio, taking videos of each other and smiling with joy. They waved and gestured for us to stop, taking up most of the road.

“Snow! Get out and dance with us!” a man yelled. I reached out and gave him a high-five, but signaled to Nasir to keep driving, knowing conditions can shift at this altitude within minutes.

After a half hour, the steep switchbacks funneled us into the valley floor, where the sun cut through the windshield and warmed my body. It was autumn again and the contrast of winter and fall wrapped in a 30-minute swing had been exhilarating. A police officer waved for us to pull over as we approached his roadside booth. He walked to the window, leaned in, and smiled. He pushed against the rubber of our tires, noting their firmness, and suggested it was best to rest for 5 minutes to allow the tires to warm up after the snowstorm. I stepped out to stretch, my hips tight from the many flights, the endless car rides, and the ailments of training. The air was warm and smelled sweet. I did a few frog squats, touched my toes, and leaned into my tight calves while Nasir chatted with the officer in Urdu. His expression switched from calm to sullen, gesturing for us to climb back into the car.

“An accident happened a few moments ago. A van lost its brakes coming down the pass and went over the edge of the road. 8 people. The police think they all died.”

My heart sank. “How long ago?” I asked.

“5 or 10 minutes behind us,” he said.

“How do they know they all died?”

“They can’t be sure, but it was a long drop,” he said.

I stared out the window and took in the scenery. One minute, the joy of nature dances before your eyes, and the next, its indifference is wrapped around your neck. Who they were and what vehicle they were in, I can’t say. But we’d share the same road, the same storm, and the same air for a few moments. I felt sad for their families.

Near the intersection of the Karakoram Highway, the surrounding peaks shifted into shearing angles, jagged and gnashing at the calm of the sky. Along the valley floor, the gray slush of the Indus River churned and swirled. Poplar and apricot trees flourished along its banks, injecting a touch of green into an otherwise arid moonscape.

I’d finally made it—to the Karakoram Highway—and the tales of its famed beauty and ruggedness were true. Landslides littered sections of the road, forcing traffic down to single-lane sections bound on one side by precipitous drop-offs. The farther we pushed, the more dramatic every detail became. The rockfalls across the river were frequent, kicking out plumes of dust like small explosions. The peaks seemed to thrust themselves higher and higher, like monstrous stalagmites reaching towards the heavens. The grays were deep and matted, and the blue of the sky was electrified. It felt like I’d ingested a psychedelic; it felt like my mind had been kicked into some enhancement mode.

It was dark when we reached Passu, and the curtain of black allowed only a silhouette of the nearby peaks to poke through. I went to my hotel room, dropped my bag, and fell into a deep sleep.

The first step from my room into the cool morning air was a revelation. A towering mass of incisor-like peaks skewered the clouds, attempting to puncture the sky. The Passu Cones, in their 24,000 ft. of pure glory, stood in front of me, lording over all of Upper Hunza. Any sense of scale evaporated. I’d trekked portions of the Himalayas in Nepal and northern India, but this was very different. There was violence within these peaks—beautiful, awe-inspiring violence.

I spent the next few days hiking empty village paths across flimsy suspension bridges that zig-zagged above the Indus River. I trekked along thin ridgelines to nearby glaciers and felt the cool air brush against my skin as it skipped across the moraine. I climbed through terraced hillsides and stumbled along crumbling scree fields, searching for the highest possible locations from which to see the valley below. Every view, every gaze, and every angle was enough beauty to satisfy me for a lifetime, yet I had to take in more. I felt greedy with pleasure, as if I’d consumed a mound of joy fit for three grown men. I smiled at no one as I walked through empty orchards and past small family cemeteries. I smiled because I’d made it to Hunza, and its beauty reached well beyond my 20 years of dreaming.

In the evenings, I’d sit with chai and dried apricots, staring at the horizon, watching the moon slip into place like a mobile above a baby’s crib. I’d dream about extending my time, staying for a month or two more, borrowing gear from local friends I’d made, and heading east to hike the K2 base camp trek. Or maybe a jaunt down to Fairy Meadows and the base of Nanga Parbat. I thought about the crisp air and how it filled my lungs with purity. I thought about my life on the road and how it brings me peace, even in the midst of turbulent regions. What kind of peace? I’m not quite sure. But when I’m seeking, searching, and striving to see beyond the world I know, I feel at home. I feel content, knowing I’m doing my best to try and understand.