Pakistan: The North [part 1]

(Disclaimer: dear readers, I have bored you already with my perennial inability to procure a camera. You will not be surprised then to know that my incompetence in unfailing. The following pictures are not of mine but have been taken from the internet. However, I picked the photos because they're not particularly creative and, therefore, do not inflate reality. As you can see, however, there is really no need for inflation.)

Our hotel, aptly named Eagle’s nest, was at 8000 feet. From our window we could see the clouds that hid Rakaposhi’s snowy peak at 25000 feet. The Passu cone hills were twenty kilometers up the Karakurum highway, jaggedly standing at 18000 feet. I’m about 5”10.
The Karakurum mountain range is an offshoot of the Himalayas and, along with the Hindu Kush to the West, forms the roof of the world. Eight of the ten highest peaks on Earth reside in these mountains, stretching out a further 5mm each year as the Indian sub-continent continues to plough its way into Asia. Too cold most of the year for anything to grow, the area is distinct in its abundance of water and lack of vegetation. However, shrubs and small trees have braved the hostile climate and provide food for the astonishingly diverse fauna, including ibex, yak and snow leopard, that form the region’s vibrant ecosystem. The mountains themselves rest on an equally varied array of geology, yellow sandstone and black volcanic rock jutting from every crevice, crater and canyon.
Welcome, dear readers, to the officially titled Northern Areas of Pakistan. I had only been in the country for a few days and already I found myself gallivanting around the plains of the Punjab and the rivers of the Indus, making my way north via the capital Islamabad, and eventually settling in the greater Kashmiri province of Gilgit. From here, I went up to Karimabad, a picture post card of a village built on the fertile soils of an extinct glacier, and nestled cozily between the Rakaposhi heights. From there, on a clear day, you can see the limestone peaks of Sost, beyond which lies the Khunjrab Pass, the ancient Silk Route passage through the bowels of the mountain leading onwards to Xingjian and the Chinese mainland. It was all a bit much, really, for kid coming from 43015 Delaware, OH, but I managed, water in bottle, pack on back, to sever ties from the world down below, and, for a brief moment, be close to heaven.
Our entourage was colorful, if not engaging. The Spanish, Argentinean and, the odd one out, Canadian ambassadors to Pakistan, accompanied by wives, children and miscellaneous. Among the locals were Naeem Sarfaraz of New York, and, later, Gujrawalan fame; Zubair (last name unknown), former cabinet member under the caretaker government of the late 90s; Mohammed Jaan, SP of Gilgit (the acronym SP still under investigation), lone law enforcement crusader against sectarian tensions in the region, which, in their zenith, claimed the life of the Inspector General of Police for the Northern Areas. Last, but certainly not least, were the Naqvis, complete with mother, father and (yours truly) third and final son. Along the way were guides, drivers, locals and that one guy from the hotel who said he was the first person to scale K2.
We finally flew into Gilgit airport after an anxious weather delay and two hours of sleep. I’m told the flight in was breathtaking, but, being barely conscious, I couldn’t tell you much more. However, once on the tarmac, the cool mountain air smelling distinctly of cherry roused me to the sight of the River Gilgit flowing out of summits Hunza.
The plane dumped passengers and luggage alike on the tarmac for the two to try to find each other. No sooner had it landed that it took off again, the last of any sort of technological luxury we were to have in the north. We immediately felt isolated, the vagaries and viscidities of civilization silenced by sheer altitude. The town of Gilgit is a rudimentary affair, with goat and chicken treated with as much curtsey and security as their evolutionary superiors. Phones don’t work, and electricity is fleeting. The roads, I was told, were better than most, but the markets were, to put it lightly, dead. It wasn’t much cooler than Islamabad, but there was a perceptible purity in the air.
We met up with Jaan Sahib at a non-descript guesthouse where we were served omelets and paratha. He's a portly young man with a Cambridge accent and unnecessarily boisterous laugh. Jaan Sahib had organized the rest of our trip, and, resultantly, it was difficult to be an ass to him despite his inflated sense of self-worth and annoying pessimism.