The walk from Chaucer Lake to Barra Panni had been a long one, and it
was with a great sense relief that I strolled across the rickety suspension
bridge to our camp on the far side of the river. Faiza and a group of
five others had reached Barra Panni the day before, and on seeing our
group of six descend from a high ridge on our way from Chaucer Lake, walked
out to meet us. On reaching the campsite I was thrilled to see the tents
had been set up and preparations were underway for dinner. A warm cup
of tea was thrust into my hands. I could relax.
I looked at the last members of our party coming across that grand old
suspension bridge and couldn't help smiling. The Ministry of Tourism forbids
tourists from photographing bridges but itself sells huge posters of this
very bridge at every one of their offices. I could picture Indian and
Chinese spies buying armfuls of these and sending them back to Beijing
and New Delhi for analysis.
Barra Panni is an idyllic place to spend a day contemplating the Plateau.
At about thirteen thousand feet or so, my guess is that Barra Panni marks
the lowest point on the Plateau. The river widens out considerably and
is deep, fast, and freezing cold. Unfortunately we had reached the river
a lot later than anticipated so there was no chance to laze in the sun
and listen to the river. Still, it was a sort of homecoming. We had had
a grand time here last summer. Khurram, Atif, and I had gone for a swim
in the river. I had been in the water for perhaps fifteen seconds before
I started turning blue with cold, but Khurram and Atif had actually made
an effort to swim against the current for a few minutes. The fact that
they covered maybe a yard or two at best, doesn't take away from the fact
that it was the most heroic bit of swimming I had seen - nothing in the
Olympics comes even remotely close. Ahmed Shamim had climbed a large hill
to the east and spotted the unmistakable massif of Nanga Parbat, now perhaps
a hundred and fifty kilometers away. Faiza Mushtaq had learned how to
smoke, and Faiza Zafar and Yasser had sung every ghazzal known to humanity.
It had been the perfect trip, and strolling by the river that evening
I was able to recall all the pleasant details from last summer, which
had subsequently been buried by the pointless chaos of city life.
Of the seven of us who had been on the Plateau last year, only Faiza Zafar
and myself had been able to return. Unlike last year when Barra Panni
had marked the furthest we had reached, this time we had traversed the
entire Plateau, and this was to be the second to last camp before we descended
into Skardu.
A little had indeed changed over the year. The Himalayan Wildlife Foundation,
which had had a large camp set up for the conservation of the 28 Himalayan
bears remaining in the region, did not have a large presence at Barra
Panni this year. Only a token representative was there and from time to
time members of the HWF were said to visit. Until recently, the Himalayan
Brown Bear had been plentiful on the Plateau but their numbers have shrunk
alarmingly due to lack of conservation attempts by the government. Sadly,
the military has been a prime culprit. The Northern Areas, once abundant
in all sorts if wildlife ranging from Snow Leopards to Ibex to Marco Polo
Sheep are now sadly barren, as all animals were considered fair game by
the defenders of this country who shot them for sport. The army is currently
constructing a road from Barra Panni south towards the border regions
with India for purposes of defence. This area is the last refuge of the
Himalayan Bears and by the time this road is constructed, there is every
possibility that the bears will be extinct - yet another casualty of this
senseless war that India and Pakistan insist on fighting.
Unlike last year, there was a small camp of army engineers a few hundred
yards away complete with heavy machinery rusting away. Half a dozen bored
looking soldiers lazed around playing cards, unable to comprehend why
anyone would want to come up here on their own free will.
The next morning we split into two groups yet again. Half of the group
was going to walk out of the Satpara Gorge, while the rest of us were
planning on crossing over the 16,000 feet Burji La and come down directly
in Skardu a day after the others. As this decision was being formulated,
I was in no mood to break camp and was feeling exceptionally lazy. Feeling
bad for not having done my share around the camp lately, I collected all
our used cans and took them down to the river to wash and crush. It took
an incredibly effort and I absentmindedly cut my hands a few times. The
allo-keema cans in particular seemed to be made of titanium and I had
to jump on them to crush them.
The bright sunshine was making me feel lethargic and even after my gear
was packed I just lazed in the sun, smoking cigarettes and making excuses
to delay the departure. People started leaving in ones and twos and I
reluctantly got up. I strolled along the path, falling behind the others,
as we headed north to Choota Panni. I had covered this distance rather
quickly on the return trip last year, but this time I didn't see the need
to rush. My only concern was that I was carrying the rope and the others
would not be able to cross Choota Panni without me. Unlike Kaala Panni,
which is a minor crossing, and Barra Panni with its bridge, the Choota
Panni crossing requires either a rope, or prior experience in its deceptively
rough waters. We almost had someone drown here last year and to avoid
another such incident this year, we brought a rope along.
I reached Choota Panni to find everyone waiting patiently. I smoked a
cigarette and proceeded to sort out the rope, harnesses, carabiners, and
slings needed to rig up a safe system. All of a sudden I felt alert and
excited at the prospect of rigging a technical system for the crossing.
I led across the river first, trailing the rope. Once on the other side,
I set the rope in place, Mamo and I acting as the two be layers across
the stream.
At its narrowest Choota Panni is about sixty feet wide. First timers have
a tendency to be dismissive about the crossing. We had many of these types
in our group. I think it's only when Rizwan Bajwa started across, fell
a few times only to be held by the system, that the scorn for Choota Panni
turned to awe. In the meantime a jeep stopped on the far side of the river.
All the people who had previously been dismissive of the crossing quickly
jumped aboard it. All except Maheen, who wanted to have a shot at the
crossing.
Halfway across Maheen started having some difficulty. The only person
who could have gone to her aid was Rizwan who was standing besides me,
hands thrust in his pocket, whistling, lost in his own world.
"Huh?"
"Rizwan, give Maheen a hand," I said slightly irritated that
he hadn't already done so.
Finally on the other side, we discovered that the only casualty of the
crossing had been Maheen's toenail, which must have been a source of pain,
though she never complained. The others used the jeep to come across and
were going down to Skardu in the same vehicle. We quickly emptied our
packs of gear we wouldn't need for Burji La. Yasir handed over his beloved
speaker, which Bajwa managed to salvage just in time.
It was a while before our group, now reduced to six, got ready to move
again. As we entered the Burji gorge in the late afternoon it was clear
that we were way behind schedule. Reluctantly we decided to head up towards
Ali Malik Pass and possibly attempt Burji from there the next day. It
grew dark on the way and we lost the trail. I knew exactly where we were
but there was no point in stumbling around the Plateau in the dark. We
were tired enough as it was. We set up camp in the dark on the side of
a mountain - it was a rocky and desolate campsite. While we had a few
liters of water between us, there was no stream nearby. Our stove also
decided to die on us at the moment and dinner consisted of cold food.
We later crowded into a tent and sang kuch kuch hoota hai, and that cheered
us up considerably. Though we didn't talk about it, we were all rethinking
the Burji option.
In the end it was the faulty stove that made the decision for us. In the
evening we had been fairly certain that we could fix it in the morning.
But even Kamran and Yasir's technical abilities combined with generous
amounts of glue and duct tape weren't going to do the job. I was still
keen on given Burji a shot though; something similar had happened last
year and to miss out on the Pass two years in a row was disappointing.
But the others were keen to conserve their energy for the next trek and
without a stove it didn't make too much sense. Secretly I knew they were
right and in a way I was glad the majority had decided - Burji La would
have to wait yet again. We skirted around the mountain the next morning
to reach Ali Malik Pass from where the Satpara Gorge led down to Skardu.
The traverse was over.
There's a small shack at Ali Malik Pass and last year we had bought parathas
from there. We aimed for the shack. I was quite surprised to find that
the owner, Ali Maddad, actually remembered my name. We threw off our packs
for the last time and made ourselves comfortable as he prepared breakfast.
Since we didn't have a vehicle waiting for us, we had to resort to hitching
rides in ones and twos from vehicles that would come up from Skardu for
the day. Yasir and Kami were the first to go, followed by Maheen. Faiza,
Rizwan and myself were there till later in the afternoon. Now that the
trek was over I wanted to head down to Skardu, have a shower, eat decent
food and start preparations for the Biafo-Hispar traverse that was to
follow. But another part of me wanted to stay on the Plateau for as long
as I could. Looking across the wind-swept Plateau from Ali Malik Pass
I had a sense this was the perfect personification of eternity. Ali Maddad
brought us more tea later in the afternoon and the four of us sat there
smoking and chatting. I felt at home.
We eventually got a ride from a seemingly psychotic family from the Punjab
who were curious to know why, if we were trekkers, we weren't walking
down? I tried to be as polite as possible in my answers, but Rizwan kept
making faces and I kept kicking him. Somewhere in the back of mind was
the paranoia that these people might chop us up into little bits and store
us in a deep freezer. We were returning to civilization.
Over the years we have been venturing further into more and more desolate
regions of the Karakoram. Our 140-kilometer Biafo-Hispar traverse that
followed the Deosai traverse, has set the standard for even more technical
and committing trekking in the summers ahead. Unlike these treks, on Deosai
there are no physical challenges to face, no obstacles to overcome, or
any adversity greater than the vicious mosquitoes. With the exception
of the Choota Panni crossing, the entire trek is an easy walk over a very
well beaten track. Unlike the desolate Karakoram, there are no distinctive
features on Deosai: no glaciers, no granite spires shooting up vertically
into the sky, no 8,000 meter mountains - in fact no mountains at all.
Even the rivers are arbitrarily called Barra and Choota Panni, the names
derived from their relative size. To the best of my knowledge none of
the hills have names either, nor are they particularly high, impressive,
or distinct in any other way. What there is instead is a vast emptiness,
a never ending horizon, and feeling of being witness to true desolation
and wilderness. As I head out deeper and deeper into the Karakoram in
search of increasingly remote valleys, endless glaciers, and unclimbed
passes, a part of me knows that everything I'm looking for I've already
found in Deosai.