Riding the KarakoramBy Mark Mauchline

This ancient route, A trade route and conduit into the heart of central Asia long before China and Pakistan consummated their political marriage of convenience, the Karokoram once a branch of the Highway had always kept a separate identity from the coun- tries that laid claim to its path. I began my 1200-kilometer journey along the Silk Road, offers Karakoram in Islamabad, Pakistan, which of course has been in the news for other, terrible, reasons of late. The fertile and congested plains of the Punjab soon gave way to upland stunning mountain- plateaus with rice paddies, distant 4000-meter peaks and beautiful cascading streams traversed by makeshift cable cars. Eventually, I entered the searing moonscape of Indus- scapes and a world Kohistan. At a time when imperialist Russia and Britain jockeyed for position in a contest known as the Great Game, British stopped in time red-coats were quite happy to leave the cunning and ruthless Kohistani tribesmen alone. They knew full well that the locals provided as good a barrier to Czarist Russia’s expansionist intentions as the stiletto spires of the Karakoram Range. As I pedaled down the road, towns like Besham, Pattan and Dasu seemed more like roadside bazaars. Hustle and bus- tle were the norm. But these towns were few and relatively far between. Overall, the surrounding landscape was harsh and somewhat depressing. The highway hugged the sides of the steep Indus River gorge. The region was arid and rock-laden except for some ter- raced agriculture. It was spring and the Indus River raged. Its grey-brown, silt-laden water became my companion and guide in much the same way it helped escort Buddhism into China and Tibet, and Islam into Central Asia centuries before. Other than the river, police check posts provided the only continuity in my day. Stationed at regular intervals along the highway and manned by members of the Frontier Constabulary, these posts represented the extent of law and government influence in the Northern Areas. “Motorcycle tube, uh, tire? Pump? Do you have? No, not like your bicycle. My bicycle tire is like motorcycle tire. Do you have pump?” I asked. Gilgit was the largest town in the our communal dinner usually ended with a their Shia Muslim neighbours in Nagar. ions as I drank flat Coca- nance and cleaning supplies and one badly Northern Areas and home to the region’s hike into the hills north of town. There, With more than its share of accommoda- Cola and monitored my damaged mountain bike. Apparently, it administration as well as a large Pakistani we sat mesmerized by the lights, the moon tion, stalls, souvenirs and smiles, the area temperature. belonged to a Japanese cyclist who suffered Army base. At the time, I was trying to and the sound of barking dogs in the dis- definitely welcomed travellers. Eventually, I was an accident. replace some “lost” tent poles, a tripod and tance. The road continued to gain altitude forced to seek out the Back in Gilgit, I returned to the friend- most importantly, a bicycle pump. It took a Shortly after Gilgit, the Karakoram through the area known as Gojal. At a time local pharmacist. ly confines of the Madina Hotel. I did visit couple of days of searching the almost iden- began to follow a tributary of the Indus when I thought I had seen all the amazing Opening a simple ply- the ear, nose and throat specialist at the tical storefronts in town before I found River, the Hunza. It headed north toward scenery possible, I crested a hill, rounded a wood shack secured by a army hospital. Ironically, he prescribed anything close to suitable as replacements. China as the Indus turned sharply east sharp downhill bend and stopped dead in padlock, he gave me three very familiar looking pills. They also The often frustrating search did allow toward Skardu, the staging ground for the my tracks. Few words could have described three pills: b-complex turned out to be b-complex vitamins, me time to explore and get to know a few world’s second highest peak, K2. I was off what lay before me. Framing the town of vitamins, a broad spec- broad-spectrum antibiotics and anti- of my fellow travellers at the simple but to the Hunza Valley, home to notorious Passu was a ridge of dagger-like spires on trum antibiotic and an inflammatories. Feeling healthy enough to friendly Madina Guesthouse. There was bandits and caravan raiders of the past. one side of the river, offset by some of the anti-inflammatory. Still return to Sust and my bicycle after about an Englishman on a two-year motorcycle As I made my way up a secluded back largest non-polar ice fields on earth. suffering from a plugged one week, I would still spend the next journey from Australia to London; a road to Baltit Fort, the former palace of the Called Tupopdan, or “hot rock,” by Street mechanic Mauchline stopped to check out the repair ear and heavy conges- month with a plugged right ear, learning to German couple who commuted between ruling Mir of Hunza, Ultar Peak and the Wakhi people because of their ability techniques in this roadside, outdoor bike shop. tion, I decided to store listen out of my good left ear, and dealing home and the Indian subcontinent annual- Rakaposhi stood like 7000-meter sentinels to shed snow, the Cathedral Peaks, along my bicycle and return to with the resulting feeling of imbalance for ly; and another German who had bought a on either side of the valley. Centuries-old with the Batura and Passu glaciers, repre- that, following an evening of playing the lower altitude of Gilgit. the remainder of my trip. Not until I donkey in the Chitral Valley, ridden some channels brought water down from upper sented the yin and yang of physical geogra- Yahtzee with the Kiwi couple from Gilgit, I “Oh yes, this belongs to our good returned to England was I diagnosed with 400 kilometers to Gilgit via the Shandur canyons to terraces cut into the vertical phy. As it rammed into Asia, the Indian would be unable to get out of bed. friend from Japan. He had to return home. an ear infection. Pass, and was now depressed at the rock faces. Fruit orchards, plots of wheat subcontinent thrust these peaks skyward. The next morning, I bid good-bye to But, he will come back to Sust,” the young, Clearing Pakistani customs at Sust thought of having to sell the animal. and corn, and stands of swaying poplars all Meanwhile, the glaciers continued their my friends as they boarded a jeep for the well-spoken innkeeper assured me. took much longer than arriving in the Rounding out the group were a Kiwi benefitted. From a distance, this seemingly bulldozer-like advance, coming down crossing of the Khunjerab Pass, and then I ended up leaving my bicycle in stor- country. Detained for an hour, officials couple, two Americans and three more out-of-place vegetation resembled green almost to the roadside. spent the next two days confined to bed. age at the small Mountain Refuge Hotel in inspected and nodded approval at my video adventurous British lads who hoped to buy horizontal veins across the mountainsides. Travelling by bicycle burdened me Nausea and dizziness were my compan- Sust. The room was filled with mainte- camera, water purifier and other gear. It a camel in Tajikistan and travel overland to The scenery was not the only para- with a tighter schedule than my fellow bus Tashkent in Uzbekistan, avoiding the disiacal quality of the valley. Although I travellers. So we ended up playing a game notoriously unreliable border crossing had been met with the most amazing hos- of leapfrog in which it wasn’t uncommon from China into Kirghizstan. pitality thus far, the Ismaili people of to catch up to people you had met earlier. After a busy day of organizing, search- Hunza proved to be more outwardly In Passu, I caught up with a few of the gang ing and checking the latest information, friendly and less suspicious than some of from Gilgit and used the opportunity to experience some of the amazing hiking the area had to offer. Long parched days took us on shep- herds’ trails to upland pastures and magnif- icent views of the glaciers. Another route provided us with a harrowing double cross- ing of the Hunza River on two rickety sus- pension bridges, each in excess of 200 meters in length. In the evening, the two Brits would position themselves out on the flat flood plain of the river with their short-wave radio and wire, makeshift antenna. Struggling to find the perfect position for reception, they listened for the latest results from the World Cup of Football on the BBC’s World Service. I bid farewell to Passu and made my way to the official Pakistani border post at Sust. It was here that three French cyclists headed in the opposite direction gave me a Kashgar street scene This ancient stop on the Silk Road still bustles during the work day. proper bicycle pump. But it was also here

20 ADVENTURE CYCLIST JUNE 2002 ADVENTURECYCLING.ORG ADVENTURE CYCLIST JUNE 2002 ADVENTURECYCLING.ORG 21 was one of only two delays I would blew me to a complete city walls in a few places, and see the age- encounter on my entire journey. The other standstill a number of times. old spirit of its Uyghur majority around the came when I encoutered a convoy of vehi- The vast landscape was so Id Kah mosque during the call to prayer. cles waiting out an imminent landslide a open that I could see wind- Nowhere was the past more apparent short time later. storms approaching from than on market day. The roads leading to Hoisting my loaded bicycle as best I the horizon, and within the main market area became a sea of don- could, I crossed the partially buried section minutes they would be upon keys, sheep, horses, camels, motorcycles, of highway and left the idling bulldozer, me. bicycles, carts, pushcarts, trucks and peo- jeeps and trucks to await the main event. I rode past the deserted ple. Bouquets of squawking chickens hung Leaving Sust at 3100 meters, the border post at Pirali without off the backs of bicycles and live fish gasped Karakoram began a long climb through the fanfare and looked for a place at the air in shallow tubs of water. canyons of the Khunjerab River. to camp. Searching for a Perched on top of a small table on an The ride was exhausting and I found patch of green to pitch my edge of the stockyard, I watched a sea of myself questioning why I had packed some tent, I found most of the pas- humanity flow by with their sheep, goats, of the tools and camera equipment that tures too marshy because of horses and even camels. All were going made up the bulk of my 100-pound steed. the spring melt at higher ele- about their business, much as they have On more than one occasion, the edge of vations. Over my shoulder, How do you like it? A Pakistani driver proudly poses done, once per week, for countless genera- the pavement became a lounge as I the Mintaka Pass led to a with his elaborately painted rig near Passu. tions. Then, as quickly as it began, the stopped, lay down and drank enormous small sliver of war-torn Sunday Market ended. quantities of water, ready to fall asleep. Afghanistan known as the Wakhan was shown leaving Pakistan. Looking back on my journey along the Spending the night in the final army Corridor. This finger of harsh, arid land Hearing conflicting reports all Karakoram Highway, I was able to draw checkpost at the base of the switchbacks, I was yet another example of the collision through Pakistan about whether the road some comparisons between it and what awoke the next morning in what was zone of international boundaries in one of to Kashgar was indeed open to foreigners, was arguably Asia’s most intriguing bazaar. Pakistan’s Karakoram National Park. Both the most disputed areas on earth. Here, the I was relieved to hear that it was in fact Like the many different tribal faces seen on China and Pakistan had established wildlife borders of China, Tajikistan, Kirghizstan, open. Even so, I obtained a travel permit market day, the KKH passes through dif- reserves here because this was the only Afghanistan, Pakistan and India came from the Public Security Bureau, knowing fering regions, composed of many different remaining home for the Marco Polo sheep. within only a few hundred kilometers of it would allow me to camp en route. landscapes and people. The day dawned cold, with a biting each other. Pushing northward once again, the Saturated with a dense history and wind and alternating sleet and snow flur- Happening upon the small Tajik set- wind had abated. But, there was still anoth- sprinkled liberally with conquest and con- ries. As I ascended the switchbacks, my tlement of Dabdar, a hospitable man invit- er 4000-meter rise to climb in the form of flict, the KKH’s route proved to be as sightings were not of sheep or snow leop- ed me to spend the night in his family’s the Subash Plateau. The surrounding unpredictable for travel today as it was in ards, but of whistling, rust-colored home. Entirely spent, I fell asleep on the views resembled an impressionist style the age of the camel caravans. But, even Himalayan marmots, the decomposing beautiful woven rugs that covered the painting. The round, mottled slopes of the more importantly, like Kashgar’s famed body of a yak, and the odd empty oil drum. raised sitting and sleeping areas of his sim- Pamir Range seemed to blend into the sky Sunday Market, the Karakoram Highway At 4,730 meters, the landscape on top ple adobe-style home. He woke me for a with its flotilla of gargantuan cumulus had an identity unto itself. of the Khunjerab Pass opened up. Taking dinner of yak butter filled dumplings and clouds. Farther below, rivers meandered the obligatory photos at the boundary deliciously sweet tea. Thanking him as across the cinder-like earth, seemingly Mark Mauchline is a Canadian writer who has marker, I switched from riding on the left best I could, I drifted off into a deep sleep. directionless as they pooled into shallow, hiked, bicycled and paddled in over 30 countries. to the right hand side of the road and began In the morning, following a hearty marshy lakes. This is his first article for Adventure Cyclist. to coast downhill. To my frustration, a meal of flat bread and decidedly salty tea, I The deep blue waters of Kara Kul fierce headwind prevented me from gaining met the man’s family and a couple of neigh- Lake preceded cycling by the hypnotic any noticeable speed, and even had me ped- bours. After numerous attempts at conver- flank of Mount Kongur, one of the 7000- alling on a downward grade. sation, they understood that I was going to meter giants of the Chinese Pamir. Farther The new landscape was now a stark Kashgar, and I was back on my bicycle. along, the asphalt catapulted me down the contrast to the steep angular gorges of the A relatively short distance later I Ghez River Canyon and, a day later, onto Karakoram. I was in the midst of the wide entered Tashkurghan, the first Chinese the plain leading up to Kashgar. Pamir valleys, where Marco Polo’s hungry town of any size, and at a distance of 130 The Chinese government seemed to pack animals staved off starvation and kilometers from the Khunjerab Pass, the be trying its best to “modernize” Kashgar. replenished themselves. To the west were official border post. Truly, the romanticized vision of Kashgar the former Soviet republics, and to the east The Chinese bureaucracy I expected as a big market town was well on its way to lay one of the world’s great deserts, the never did materialize. Inside the cavernous being demolished. There were high rises, Takla Makan. monstrosity of a concrete hall that housed hospitals, a university and an airport. The wind was unrelenting and almost customs, I found less interest in me than But one could still make out the old

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