Shimshal
is endless, entwined in its labyrinthine ravines we headed north towards
the Pakistan-China border. Along the way, we were to cross Chapchingol
pass, ford the Chapchingol river and cross a few assorted health hazards.
Some had been described to us by Mahdi and Zafar, others we extrapolated
from past experiences. En route to Warbeen, the last human settlement
before the Chapchingol pass, my knee began to complain rather loudly.
Hobbling behind Hasan and Zafar, I ended up a good hour in the wrong direction
of our camp site. A frustrating moment it was for me when I saw Zafar
far in the distance beckoning me to turn back, I remember loosing my cool,
stomping on my bag, cursing the earth, moon, stars and everything in-between--
eventually gathering all that I had thrown about and started marching
back, probably leaving black trails of smoke behind me.
At camp I found an unusually tense Hasan staring at the river raging a
few feet away from us. Not exchanging many words, we rummaged through
Zafar's load and munched on a few cookies. Shimshal was beginning to take
its toll on us mentally. This had become a very hardening experience and
the grand finale was flowing right in front of us. Hoping against hope
that my moody walkman would work, I put in new batteries and hooked up
the various wires and toothpicks that made it work - it did. The sound
of music at that time was soothing. Listening to 'Sar Kiyae yeh pahar'
and 'You and Me baby ain't nothin' but mammals' with our heads stuck outside
the tent, looking up at the stars was a spiritual experience.
Chapchingol
was indeed a river, previously described 'naalas' had been swift but not
really what we city boys called 'rivers'. This one looked like a river
no matter what the definition of a naala was. The day that followed our
camp at Warbeen started with crossing across the river on a steel cable.
Normally skeptical of old rusted metal cables across raging rivers, I
was rather pumped when it came to this particular ride. The crossing was
longer then I had anticipated and the sag of the cable was considerable
in the middle, making my shoulders ache on the latter half of the journey.
Needless to say, the photographs from this moment were going to be prized
possessions. Following the river crossing, we climbed the hill that formed
the anchor for the cable crossing, an hour or so took us a good 500 feet
above the river, and to our great pleasure, it ended up in a scree slope
all the way down. At times like these, you begin to wonder the wisdom
behind climbing a mountain, only to descend it the moment you thought
you'd have time to reflect on the philosophy of your climb. I squatted
on the edge of the ridge looking down at the slope and wondering why,
how and why, again, was I supposed to go all the way down. Anyhow, we
slid down the slope in a way unique to Shimshal creating a small landslide
that we surfed on, only to meet the river again. This time, we walked
along its bank for another hour and encountered a white-water rapid. Mahdi
and Zafar announced that we were out of luck--the water level had risen
to a level that was unacceptable for them to attempt. It was time for
Hasan to do his thing -- somewhat of an expert at river crossings, he
setup a rope anchor for the rest of us to cross safely, and also managed
to get our gear across. The cold, deep and rushing water was no easy exercise.
We crossed the same river, again, twice. But those crossing were much
less dramatic and a cursory mention here would suffice.
It was getting to be a longer day then we had expected. The sun was setting
and we were traversing a rockslide on the slopes of a mountain. Out of
nowhere, a swarm of house flies descended upon us. Large, black and buzzing
with hundreds of years of excitement, these flies followed us as if we
were made of cinnamon. They added to my frustration and would constantly
group around my water bottle in constellations. Hasan was probably quite
tired as well, when I eventually caught up with him I found him muttering
under his breath, naming those flies after politicians and then trying
to swat them -- finding great pleasure in killing them. I joined him,
it was fun.
Chapchingol base camp was a pleasant camp site with a box canyon on one
side and an intimidating view of the pass that was actually the shoulder
of a mountain on the other. I craned my neck up to look up at the pass
and tried looking for places I'll be able to rest on--found none. We had
a good meal that night and slept well.
The
climb up to Chapchingol is fairly steep. The entire climb is on loose
rock and gravel and there is no defined path up the pass. You just make
educated guesses and keep going up however the top is marked with a huge
cairn. At many points on the climb, you'll have to do a little bit of
rock climbing, non technical scramble mostly. The views from the top of
the pass are indeed spectacular, you can see most of the summits in Shimshal
scattered around you as well as the Chapchingol river. We did not linger
for long on the summit of the pass as it was past noon and the snow would
get very soft on the north face.
Our descent from the start was a bit uneasy. The north face of the Chapchingol
is extremely steep and snow covered, at about 60-70 degrees, the pass
is better crossed if you use an anchor to repel down--however Zafar and
Mahdi insisted that we could make it down without the hassle of setting
up all that. We followed them down with the thought they probably have
done this more times then us. The snow was extremely soft, every two steps
I sank up to my waist or in some cases up to my chest. I was convinced
that any one step up ahead and I'll probably sink in. We were roped up
and these sinking and digging episodes were slowing us down. Zafar and
Mahdi then decided they had had enough, I was digging myself out when
I saw Mahdi zoom down the pass sitting on his backpack. I thought he had
fallen and looked at this human bullet with my mouth agape. He landed
hard and started running about, he had burnt his hands while sliding on
the snow. Five minutes later, Zafar did the same--this time he beckoned
us to follow suite--just slide down the pass they were indicating.
It was about 200-300 feet of a slide and didn't seem like a good idea.
I tried looking around us for a ream of snow that was hard enough to walk
on--I did find one and immediately slipped and started sliding down the
pass, head first. I recalling seeing Hasan's yellow backpack get bigger
and bigger as I made a futile attempt to grab on to it--but then I recoiled,
I remembered that if I do that, I'll pull him in too, instead I shouted--falling.
The next thing I remember is hanging upside down on the pass, with Hasan
yelling at me to get my weight off the rope, he had used a self arrest
to break our fall. For a minute his language seemed Greek to me, then
I heard Hasan "there is blood everywhere" which snapped me back
to earth, I thought he had stabbed himself with an ice axe. By the time
I was standing he was shaking his hands-- snow abrasion. He had lost a
good deal of meat off his knuckles. I was in a state of shock at this
point in time but the better half of the deal was that we had both slid
down a considerable distance and from here we could easily walk down.
Walking down, I felt like an amateur, "out of my depth" I thought
to myself and that climbing was not for me, I could have killed us both
there. It was a disappointing feeling that stayed with me for the rest
of that summer, including the hike to K2.
After
crossing the pass and a cursory lunch, we headed off to Kuksil check post.
The check post is the last point of Pakistani presence apart from the
border guard about 20 minutes of drive time from this place. The 4 individuals
at this check post gave us shelter and lodging for a night and were excellent
hosts. We feasted like kings on the beans and roti they provided us and
slept fitfully. After waiting for 24 hours or so, we found a ride heading
down to Gilgit--and then onwards to Hunza in time for the celebrations
on the 11th of July. As Hasan and I stood on the balcony of Hill Top Hotel,
I couldn't help think about Shimshal and the memories it had given me.
But what I was really thinking about was the food waiting for us at Punjab
Sindh. We feasted on boneless chicken and freshly cooked vegetables, smoothing
it down with tall, cool mugs of Mango Shake. I felt I was soaring above
the Earth by the time I was done. How we made it back to the hotel is
perhaps a story told separately.
The next day we woke late and began to think about the days ahead. It
was time to head off to Skardu and pay K2 a visit. Our friends had probably
reached Skardu by now and we were looking forward to meeting up with them.
The adventure was only half over.
The summer of 2001, I will always remember as the year of Shimshal. Even
though it was the first time I spent more then a month in the mountains
including a visit to K2 and the formidable Gondogoro La pass, quite literally
'bumming' around the north, I realized I felt most at peace during those
days in Shimshal. There seemed to be no end to the labyrinthine routes
and passes, there are so many places to go, so many experiences to be
had in that wilderness. It's a land that inspires a magical feeling, much
like something out of the Arabian Nights--only this is real.