Every July, as the monsoon clouds drift over my city, Moro and the winds carry the scent of distant mountains, a vivid memory returns to me like an old friend. It was July of the year 2000 — a full 25 years ago — when I embarked on an unforgettable journey to the northern areas of Pakistan. A journey that wasn’t just about reaching a destination, but discovering the soul of my country — rugged, breathtaking, unpredictable, and utterly majestic.

We began an adventurous journey from Pir Wadhai bus terminal in Rawalpindi, boarding a NACTO bus, buzzing with anticipation. I was accompanied by my brother Farooq and a band of dear friends — Feroze, Azfar, Mansoor, Irfan, Muhammad Ali, and Waheed — all of us young, wide-eyed, and ready for adventure. Unlike most who were headed for Murree or Nathiagali, we were driven by a thirst to venture deeper into the heart of the north.

In the coaster with us were locals, fellow domestic travelers, and international tourists—including an elderly French couple who had fallen in love with the northern regions of Pakistan.

Our destination: Fairy Meadows and the base camp of Nanga Parbat — the Killer Mountain.

We had pre-booked seats in a coaster heading toward Gilgit, planning to disembark at Chilas for an overnight stay. The plan was simple on paper, but nothing in those terrains is ever predictable. From Chilas, we would find local transport to the Raikot Bridge, hire a rugged 4×4 jeep to Tatu village, and then begin a steep, tiring trek to the legendary Fairy Meadows, followed by another hike to the base of Nanga Parbat.

Back then, there was no Babusar Top shortcut. So, we traveled via the Karakoram Highway (KKH) — a road that is not just a route but a world of its own. A road carved into the sides of colossal mountains, skirting the wild and thunderous Indus River, occasionally blocked by landslides, yet always moving — like time, like life. KKH is not just a highway; it is a test of patience, a romance of resilience, a theater of danger, and a gallery of awe.

I still remember the feeling as we passed through Haripur, Abbottabad, Mansehra, Battagram, Thakot, Besham, Pattan, Dasu, and Sazin, finally reaching Chilas the next day. It felt like we had crossed centuries and civilizations.

Chilas, back then, was a modest, dusty town, not as developed as today. We found a small hotel without much effort. The owner, upon hearing that we were from Moro, Sindh, recalled a tragic recent incident — a Memon family from Moro had been staying there because their relatives’ vehicle had plunged into the Indus River. The victim, as we sadly learned, was the son of Brigadier Ghulam Rasool Memon, a respected army officer from Moro.

The memory of that evening remains vivid. We dropped our tents and luggage and wandered out in search of food. The black mountains loomed over us, the sky prematurely dark as if the night had crept in early. The place was stark, silent, and mysterious — only the occasional sound of a passing truck heading to Gilgit or coming down echoed in the background.

The following morning, we boarded a van towards Raikot Bridge, and with every kilometer, the terrain grew more intimidating. Dry mountains dotted with giant boulders lined the way, the KKH clinging like a tightrope along dangerous cliffs. There, one understands the true meaning of vulnerability — one slip of the road, one sudden downpour, and you’re at nature’s mercy.

Arriving at Raikot Bridge brought relief — we had made it this far safely. From there, we transferred to a 4×4 jeep to Tatu village, and this was no ordinary ride. The track was more of a cruel joke — bumpy, narrow, carved out of sheer rock, where the driver kept the jeep in second gear, inching forward with prayer and precision.

Once we reached Tatu, the real challenge began. With no turning back, we shouldered our bags and began the steep ascent on foot. It was hot at Raikot, but the temperature shifted dramatically as we climbed. Sweat and cold air mingled on our faces. Midway, the skies opened, and it rained heavily. Luckily, a local shepherd appeared — a young man with a wooden hut perched on the hillside. He welcomed us with a warm cup of tea and a smile, and for that brief moment, his hut became our shelter, our world.

After nearly six to seven hours of grueling hiking, we arrived — and what a reward it was. Fairy Meadows spread out before us like a dream: lush green pastures, the icy majesty of Raikot Glacier, and above all, the towering white presence of Nanga Parbat, serene yet deadly. We pitched our tents on the soft green earth. At that time, there were only a few wooden huts — no resorts, no crowds, just wilderness and wonder.

“It was raw, real, and untouched. We met several international travelers — a German couple, an English family of three (a man, a woman, and a young girl), Mark Aelen from Belgium, who remains a dear friend, a Canadian named Stephen Neiman, and Tim Tucker, an Englishman from Coventry. Each of them, in their own way, left a mark on me — their stories, presence, and spirit of adventure continue to inspire me.

I still remember how surprised we were when we found out that a simple plate of daal cost 250 rupees—back then, it felt like a small luxury in the middle of the wilderness. But nothing else around felt expensive. The air was pure, crisp, and untouched—every breath felt like it belonged to a different world. Our tent and sleeping bags offered a cocoon of warmth against the mountain chill, and every evening, we’d gather around a wooden fireplace, our hands stretched toward the flames, swapping stories with fellow trekkers. There was a group of students from South Punjab nearby, full of laughter and life, adding a youthful rhythm to the quiet.

Silence reigned for most of the day—except for the sudden, thunderous roars of avalanches echoing from the distant slopes of Nanga Parbat. We’d pause and look up every time snow crashed down in the distance, a reminder of the sheer, wild power surrounding us. At night, when the sky turned velvet black, stars appeared in numbers we had never imagined—countless and bright, as if someone had spilled diamonds across the sky. No city sky could ever compare.

In the daylight, we watched the local people playing polo on rugged natural fields, their horses galloping freely, hooves thudding against the earth, with the snow peaks watching silently in the distance. That journey to Fairy Meadows—raw, humbling, and unforgettable—remains one of the most cherished trips we ever took in those youthful years. It wasn’t just the place; it was the feeling of being truly alive.

Now, years later, I hear of monsoon floods, landslides, and climate-related disasters striking the region with increasing frequency. Back then, we worried only about roadblocks or fallen vehicles, but now, climate change has intensified the stakes.

Still, despite the risks, we go. Because the north of Pakistan is more than a destination — it is a reminder of how small we are and how grand the world is. It humbles us. It challenges us. And it stays with us.

May Allah protect all travelers who journey into His beautiful creations.

No matter how much time passes, the Karakoram Highway and those mystical valleys will always call to us. The mountains change, yet somehow, they remain the same — as do our memories.

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"