On the far side of the Himalayas

On the outskirts of an apricot orchard ringed by a low, dry-stone wall, the smell of lavender hangs heavy in the air, released as we press through the flares of purple flowers. A lady is busy harvesting and, spotting us, steps forward, her hands cupped around a generous bundle of fruit. It’s a sort of hospitality that characterises our entire trip, people we pass offering up sweet, wine-red cherries, as well as apricots.

It's July and I’m visiting Hunza in Pakistan’s far north with my husband and two children on a six-week trip through the Gilgit-Baltistan region, following a long drive along the legendary Karakoram Highway, which twists and turns in the shadow of some of Earth’s highest mountains. The highway was once part of the Silk Road — it's been tarmacked since the 1980s, with support from the Chinese — and the valley itself is believed to have inspired Shangri-La, the hidden paradise immortalised in James Hilton’s 1933 novel Lost Horizon. Although still an Arcadia, with its cornucopia of orchards, the new road has changed the area by opening it up to tourism — and, unfortunately, to litter. The locals still believe the apricots (they have more than 48 varieties) give longevity.

On our first day, we climb cobbled streets to the 700-year-old Baltit Fort in Karimabad, Hunza’s district capital. Previously known as Baltit, the historic town was renamed in honour of its spiritual leader, the Aga Khan, Prince Shah Karim al-Hussaini. Hunza’s predominant religion is Ismaili, a liberal sect of Shia Islam, which means that the majority of women choose not to wear headscarves. The Aga Khan has contributed hugely to this region, providing education and healthcare and restoring many cultural monuments, including this fort, under the Aga Khan Trust for Culture (AKTC).

Inside the stronghold, walnut wood pillars and door frames are carved with swastikas, swirls and lotus flowers — reminiscent of Tibetan temples. ‘Our forefathers came from Ladakh and Tibet,’ says Arman, our guide. ‘And before Islam was brought to us by Sufi saints, we had years of Buddhism.’

It’s a five-hour walk along shepherd trails to the even older Altit Fort and its candy-striped watchtower. The paths look out over a helter-skelter-like arrangement of jungle-green terraces that almost glow in the otherwise arid landscape. Further east, in India, the Himalayas are rainforest-cloaked, but here, where they meet the Karakoram Range, the towering summits block the monsoon, so the mountains are beautifully bare and rocky. The green we see is all manmade, fed by a labyrinth of stone irrigation channels, watering the orchards with glacial meltwaters.

Before independence, Pakistan (then British India) was a patchwork of princely realms: Hunza was one, ruled by a succession of mirs, whose autonomy was tolerated, so long as they didn’t step out of line. During the Great Game (a rivalry between the 19th-century British and Russian empires), Britain took control of unmapped Hunza, as a counter to Russian expansion into Central Asia. Today, Hunza is integrated into Pakistan, but its people, like the rest of Gilgit-Baltistan, lack constitutional rights. ‘This is because Pre-Partition Gilgit-Baltistan was part of Jammu and Kashmir, so has been dragged into the Kashmir dispute,’ Arman explains.

Pakistan is diverse, with deserts and plains that thrust up suddenly into peaks, as well as the Indus River, its swollen, icy currents raging across lands before emptying into the Arabian Sea. The south is blistering hot in the summer, which is why many are here on holiday from Lahore and Karachi, escaping the heat. The mountains are also safe. Look at our Foreign Office’s map of the country and you’ll see the entire left is red, but the right and the northern tip (where we are) is green.

One day in Hunza — a name shared by both the valley and the larger district — we dropped down to visit the Hoper Glacier, a stately, frozen carpet. Outside of the polar regions, Pakistan has the planet’s most glaciers, but they are fast retreating. Next, we head to Nagar valley, Hunza’s more conservative neighbour, and settle into a cosy guesthouse called Osho Thang, which is known for its delicious, home-cooked food. On arrival, we’re greeted with cups of rose tea and, in the garden, we eat chap shuro meat pies and stews cooked in traditional stone pots. Rural Nagar is a place of wonder: poplar trees glisten like splintered glass; Lady Finger’s peak looks like a dagger; men gather on street corners wearing traditional wool caps and others wander via unpaved roads shepherding their animals.

From here, we hike up to Rakaposhi base camp (11,483ft) and camp out overnight. The trail weaves its way through forests of juniper and Himalayan pine and out onto a vast, open area near the top, where windswept plants crouch low and the evening light feathers gold in light strokes through swathes of Himalayan fleece flower (Bistorta affinis).

One of my favourite stops is Chapursan Valley in Upper Hunza, which was, until recently, off-limits to tourists. To reach it, we pass through Sost, the last marked village before China. In the early afternoon, we saunter through alpine meadows where shaggy yaks graze and plunge into freezing water to see who can last the longest. Later, we meet a shepherdess and her husband, living all alone, tending to their sheep and goats. ‘Wolves and snow leopards are a problem,’ she says in her peacock-blue shalwar kameez and embroidered cap.

And so east, to the Skardu district. Along the way, the vertical-faced cliffs are scarred with hundreds of black holes — each one a portal into open-cast mines. Underneath our feet is a glittering treasure trove of garnet, tourmaline, amethyst, emerald and ruby stones, forged an epoch ago when the Eurasian and Indian tectonic plates met each one another, throwing up the world’s tallest mountain ranges (Pakistan is where the Karakoram, Hindu Kush and Himalayas collide). We stay at Serena Shigar Fort, built in the 17th century for the Raja, and restored in 1999 by the AKTC. The building has latticed mashrabiya windows, decorative doors and time-worn stairs and, outside, we rest on charpai beds, beneath the shade of cherry trees, eating cake. Close by is the 14th-century Amburiq Mosque, one of the oldest in the region, and the Sarfaranga Cold Desert, which you can traverse by dune buggy or float atop of, by paramotor.

For the next two weeks, I try hard to remember why on earth I signed up for this adventure, as we traverse a stony wilderness bound for K2 Base Camp. There are Himalayan snowcocks and ibex to think about and rickety bridges crossing thundering rivers, along which we hurry lest they are suddenly washed away. We travel with a small team of porters — although I use the word ‘with’ loosely because they move so fast, like roadrunners disappearing into the distance. The power of Nature is all consuming; the dramatic landscape in a state of perpetual motion. There are several nights spent camping on a glacier before we finally make it to Concordia, one of the few places where four 8,000m (26,246ft) peaks hold space together. During the last push to base camp, I remember how Italian climber Fosco Maraini once remarked how apt the clipped, impersonal name of K2 was for such a challenging mountain: ‘Just the bare bones of a name, all rock and ice and storm and abyss.’

After recuperating back at Shigar Fort, we journey on to Deosai, the Land of the Giants and earth’s second-highest plateau, surpassed only by the Tibetan Plateau. Now a National Park, it’s green and expansive and bears no signs of man — only wildflowers and marmots the colour of golden syrup and rare Himalayan brown bears (fewer than 600 are left in the wild). Our final destination is Fairy Meadows grassland, named by German climbers, and a 90-minute Jeep ride up a narrow, gravel corkscrew road.

When the road, mercifully, ends, we walk a further three hours towards something that resembles the more magical scene I had in my head. The upturned eaves of a lodge appear among the trees, looking something like a Buddhist paradise. It’s a magnificent spot, but I fear it will quickly be destroyed as enterprising locals move to capitalise on the grassland’s popularity by building wooden hotels, causing deforestation and overcrowding along the way. Arman tells us that the fairies dwell in the untouched pastures and on top of summits. ‘Pure places, where no people go,’ he explains. ‘Only shamans see them, after entering a trance by burning juniper branches.’ In Gilgit-Baltistan, shamanism quietly coexists alongside Islam, a once isolated area with historical ties to pre-Islamic traditions. It’s a place of contrasts and surprises; challenging, unrelenting and completely unforgettable — a mythical land that anchors firmly to your psyche.

Kate Eshelby travelled with Waljis, Pakistan’s first and longest serving travel company.