The great north
Although it was long ago, in May 1996, the memory of the trip to the mountains and all that happened remains fresh in the mind
By Masood Hasan
People often wonder what is so great about getting ‘out there’, beyond the beaten track, way past the last posts of civilisation. After all what are rivers, mountains and jungles… The great thing about getting away from it all forces introspection, a pilgrimage of the soul and understand what life is all about.
On a hot summer afternoon in 1996, my intrepid colleague and buddy, Lubna flew to Islamabad with our other two friends, Haynes from the US Consulate and the leader of this faithless tribe, King, Commander and Guide all rolled into one, Maj. Shahid Ata Ullah.
Now the excitement of the unknown was gaining hold as we set off north bound, passing through Hasan Abdal where I had spent five years in boarding school and then the gentle climb to Abbotabad. By evening we were there. It was a cool summer evening and the town was what it was rumoured to be. Sleepy.
7.00am and we were on the road again climbing through the lush and gentle hills of Hazara and stopping for breakfast at a roadside dhaba by the unlikely name of ‘Jungle Mangal.’ Here we sat under a thatched roof as parathas and eggs, fried and omelettes came and went – all washed down with strongly brewed milk-tea.
Up through Shangla Pass and down to our first encounter with the mighty Indus at Thakot – the back end of the great Tarbela Dam Lake, its expanse humbling as it stretched into the haze.
In the north the River Indus is always with you. You cross it and then return, so sometimes it is roaring on your right and sometimes on your left. You are at once literally within hand shaking distance of its tumbling waters and next it is way down below like a ribbon cutting through mountains, its roar no more than a distant rumble. This is the eternal cycle of time and the rise and fall of a great river as it shapes and changes the landscape.
As we continued towards Gilgit, the evening shadows began to lengthen. Because of the high surrounding peaks, the sun had descended much earlier. Before long, we were plunged into a valley of frightening darkness where shapes appeared and disappeared like giant ghosts stalking the night. Trees looked like huge buildings that swayed, a mass of black blur and rocks became more and more sinister as the darkness spread.
At one point, on a road as straight as if it had been drawn with a foot ruler, we stopped and killed the engine. In just a few seconds the silence simply descended like a huge curtain and standing in the dark you could actually ‘hear’ the silence. It was easy to imagine that with the Jeep’s humming engines silent this valley could so easily be relocated to another century – perhaps many centuries because time had come to a standstill right then and there. When Haynes struck a match, it sounded like a rifle shot and when we shouted the silence shouted back, the answer dying in waves slowly. We could have stood there for hours and it would not have been enough but the lure of creature comforts, the hot shower in Serena and a nice meal was far too tempting.
Gilgit was dry and rocky with large tracts of greenery and colour to lift up the place. I was particularly keen to see Gilgit because my paternal uncle, Maulvi Mohammad Hasan was one of the first to come and teach here at the turn of the last century. In fact my late brother-in-law and Uncle Hasan’s son, K. H. Khurshid was born in Gilgit in 1928. I didn’t try and locate the school but was later told that it carried a plaque or board mentioning Uncle Hasan’s name and association with this place of learning.
The river at Gilgit was huge and generously spread out but there was no mistaking the power of the current. Bridge after bridge spanned it connecting the main city with distant valleys and towns. A day later we crossed one of Gilgit’s bridges and began our climb to the fabled land of Hunza. Before the forbidding crags and huge boulders fashioned the landscape and our minds, there were miles and miles of beautiful orchards, farms and the ever-present gurgling streams that had a life of their own. A splash of the frigid water on your face would sweep away the tiredness in seconds and wherever you looked there were large and small water falls, the waters rushing down into dozens of pools before merging with the streams below.
On and on we climbed, and at every turn, the landscape opened out with yet another variation on a theme, the views simply changing again and again. Since ours was largely a photographic mission though I was a rank amateur unlike Lubna who had studied photography, we were constantly stopping because the views would immediately elicit shouts of “Stop, stop. Look at that mountain!” This was a phrase that became as common as “please,” and there was no escaping the magic of the landscape. The road cut through valleys at once broad and then narrowing down with the Hunza River thundering down on our left as we ascended.
Rakaposhi or ‘The Hidden Veil,’ as this perfect 7,788m peak is called, is the valley’s undoubted princess. Perfectly symmetrical, it rises like the perfect triangle, its peak perpetually snow bound, the high winds and snow flurries creating a magical moment.
The first sighting of Karimabad is stunning. Before you know it, you are in thick orchards of apples, apricots and plums. If you are lucky to be here in late summer you can see the fruit laden trees almost about to fall and in late autumn the whole valley is on fire with shades of orange, rust, yellow, white, green and a million hues in between.
Karimabad is quaint and small with winding bazaars and dotted with houses, shops and resthouses. Over it all looms the forbidding and stunning Ultar Sar (7,338m). It stands guard over the Hunza Valley like a giant out of a fairy story.
From Karimabad we went up as far as the Khunjerab Pass (4,693m) the world’s highest paved border crossing in the world, which divides Pakistan and China. Snowbound and inhospitable all year round, it is a rarefied world forcing you to leave it quickly. All around it are half mountains or hills and these look low enough to saunter over casually. Conditioned to look ‘up’ at mountains all our lives, we think the ones at the Pass are no mountains since they are virtually at the same level. They are all between 5,000 and 6,000 metres in reality – it is the proximity and the height that makes you see them as low peaks.
Hunza was a dream and over far too soon but we still had another valley to encounter. Astore and Lake Rama (3,300m), the other side of Nanga Parbat (8,126m). The journey to Astore was one great adventure because half way through an entire area had simply swept down into the raging Hunza River. There was no road! There was a 45 degree slope without any barriers leading right into the river. In such cases one listens to the locals who were gathered in large numbers. Normally they are encouraging but when locals tell you it is not safe, you high tail it because they know.
With shouts of dismay from them, Shahid put the Cruiser into 4-wheel drive and started what was by all accounts a precarious and foolish attempt. Haynes and I chickened out and abandoned the Jeep, both of us saying that we had to film the moment. Poor Lubna was ordered to stay inside to ‘maintain balance’ as Shahid the intrepid leader put it. So she swayed and slithered at the rear of the jeep as it rose and tilted ready to tumble into the frothy, angry river waiting hundreds of feet below. She later said that she wanted to scream but no sound came forth and pale faced she fell this way or that.
It took the jeep more than 20 minutes to negotiate inch by inch the ever-crumbling terrain. Even the locals had stopped speaking and stood huddled together in frightened and anxious groups. By some miracle and simply stunning negotiation between man and machine, the Cruiser made it across. It was then that Lubna realised that she had been taken for a ride literally. I can tell you that Shahid was lucky to escape her wrath because she was too relieved to be alive to hit him with large stones.
Astore is where the aromatic cumin seed ‘zeera’ grows in field after field. Your first memory of that little village is not of sight but scent. It is unlike any scent I have experienced. We were briefly in the village and then began the jeep trek up the mountain to Lake Rama but less than half way through, the jeep gave up and we walked in fresh snow sinking every now and then to our thighs. The resthouse was specially opened for us because although this was May, there was deep snow.
We never made it to the lake – the path had disappeared under tonnes of snow and so at 3:45am on a very cold night, we sat in the veranda, our teeth chattering, our cameras ready for the first sign of pink that would kiss the topmost edge of Nanga Parbat. The peak was crystal clear at that hour and as the first rays hit it and we snapped furiously, God decided the show was over. Down came the clouds and Nanga Parbat, the naked mountain, disappeared from view.
It was in some way the perfect end to a great trip. It had given us all a chance to look inward and marvel at the work of the Creator and although it was long ago, the memory of that trip and all that happened, remains fresh and secure in my mind. What a pity the great northern areas remain isolated and out of reach! Or perhaps it is just as well because the pristine beauty of this land remains intact.
Re: The Great North
Beautiful description:)