The feeling of this particular trek never really sank in. I drifted into and out of it as if I was outside myself, its hard to explain and even harder to believe now, though I remember very clearly when we were in the thickest of those ice walls, boulders and ice rain - it felt very real. Little things remind me of Snowlake. Sometimes I'm awake at night trying to sleep when a memory flickers, of lying in a tent half expecting Muhammad Hussein to open up the zip and shove our food inside; half expecting him to say "Itnee dair kar dee, adha din to yahan he guzar gaya". Just today they served noodles and chicken on the flight back home. We had noodles minus chicken for twenty-four days. If I sound ungrateful blame it on my writing skills.
Trekking across Snowlake had been Hasan's dream ever since I got to know him in the trekking sense. He showed me pictures and told me tales of this wilderness. Like all, after seeing the pictures, my impression was to go there. Foolhardy and naﶥ that I was, the realization of what this entailed I could only compare to what I had achieved in trekking back then. Fairy Meadows. Then came Rakaposhi and I thought maybe Snowlake would be a day in the Rakaposhi trek extended over two weeks. Then there was Deosai, and I thought maybe its six days in Deosai doubled and terrain made worse. Nothing, nothing I thought, hypothesized or imagined could have prepared me for this odyssey.
To say that I was unsure of myself would be wrong. I had the single-mindedness
of a bachelor but the anticipation of a child. I knew I would make it
across come what may, come what may I did not know about. Perhaps none
of us did. Those who have trekked before ask me if it was difficult, if
it compared to anything that they have done before - my answer is in shades
of gray for I know they are going through the same that I was. My answer
is usually "it was very tough", having said that I would add
to it what Hasan had said, "At the end of the day, there was no place
I would rather be".
Even today when I see pictures from the trek I have a longing to return
to the wilderness of Snowlake. Its magic and pull is so strong that I
feel it in my bones. I feel my insignificance standing on the lip of that
glacial basin looking across to the giants that stand at guard around
it. I see the frost and I feel the sun burn. I see those porters far in
the horizon; I feel the euphoria of that day we climbed to the top of
Hisper pass and the exhilaration of a clear day. It is then I realize
I have been there. Sliding doors.
Skardu, the place of a thousand treks. Or so I'll call it. The whole city
rejoices with the humdrum of trekkers, guides porters and everything related
to mountaineering and trekking. There were three expeditions going to
Biafo, K2 and Trango towers right in the very hotel that we were staying
in. At times it was exciting to be among them and at times it was funny.
Our rag tag group was perhaps the most determined yet humble group leaving
for Biafo-Hisper. The Trango towers group had a bus full of equipment,
they had barrels of cooking oil and food and just while they were unloading
that, Muhammad Hussein as if in queue walked in with a kilo bottle of
cooking oil. Our food for 14 days. It was enough for us, but provided
good entertainment when compared to the other group's gear.
These memories are so clear; I believe I'm actually living them as I write. The day before we were leaving for the trek I was not even sure if I was going. Deosai had left me rather weak and an overdose of oxygen and food had given me indigestion. Rather then put the entire trek in jeopardy I was contemplating a graceful retreat. I postponed the decision till the next morning. I woke up feeling like a different man. My pulse was racing, yet I felt my mind was razor sharp. My gear was packed and I was ready to go. I looked at every face I found and studied their expression. Our Snowlake team was perhaps identical in their expressions. Determined, calm with a sureness of purpose that one rarely sees. The farewell party, concerned; the jeep loaded with our entire gear, porters and us; a total of 12 people including extras were to make an eight-hour journey to Askole village. The ride was supposed to be difficult and had two roadblocks to be climbed on foot. I hardly noticed the eight hours go by, standing in the back of the jeep, eating peaches along the way and taking the view through Shigar valley was enough, more then enough, to entertain me. The roadblocks were not what I had expected. The first one spooked me. I was not prepared for the rock climb and upon reaching the top had to convince myself that this was just a test run for what was to come. Ten minutes of talking to myself had enough punch to convince me to descend. The second roadblock was again not what I had expected. It was easier. The river below the "bridge" was roaring, but the logs that formed the bridge held and as they say, "the trick is not to think about it", I happily bounced over the log-bridge to the other side. We kidded each other about the two roadblocks and the locals' nonchalance about them. For the locals, this was a walk in the park. Secretly perhaps we all wondered about the days to come.
Askole is beautiful. Lush green fields of crop in the middle of granite
mountains. It's a small village when you think about the fact that it
leads to some of the most challenging treks in the Karakoram: K2, Trango,
and Biafo among others. We camped that night at a local campground. That
night was incredible. Tired though we were, MH's warm chapatis and hot
food with good music in the background made for a magical moment. We stayed
up for a while, writing, chatting and gazing at the moon. This moon was
our companion for we hoped to see the full moon on the night of the Snowlake
crossing. I slept well that night, lulled by the distant sound of someone
playing the flute and singing a Balti song.
I woke up a bit drunk. Drunk on the idea of starting on a trek that we
had dreamed of. Everything was perfect. The people, the weather, the timing
and our spirits. Bajwa got stuck in the gate with his obnoxiously wide
backpack and our peels of laughter could be heard down to the river. Our
ten-strong group trekked through the village being greeted along they
way by locals. As per our city regulations we had started late, around
9 am. Porters like to start at the crack of dawn. A three-hour trek landed
us at Kaisers polo ground, right at the mouth of the Biafo glacier - a
flat, dusty piece of land with a superb view of Bakhor Das and a few mountains
in the background. Take a right from here and you'll end up at Concordia
(K2 base camp) in 6 days. Take a left and you'll begin the odyssey to
Lukpe Lawo (Snowlake)
That day we baked ourselves in the sun. Stared idly at Bakhor Das rising
above us, perhaps to remember its face in our dreams. Every time I would
look at the river flowing near us, a feeling of grandeur would over come
me. This very river carried the water from the Baltoro and the Biafo.
One was part of the longest glacial system, the other carried from K2.
This was a proud river.
Not knowing what to do that day, Hasan, Rizwan and I decided to take
a look at what the Biafo was all about. We walked for half an hour
and then went up a rock fall, beauty and the beast was perhaps named
after the Biafo. Contorted, rocky, mangled and icy, what lay before
us was the wrath of Gods. We stood in silence gazing at this beast
we were to walk. It was windy and it began to rain a little, we headed
back for tea.