FROM MINAPIN TO THE EDGE OF FEAR

travelogue

Some adventures begin with months of planning. Others begin over a cup of chai. Ours began in Nathia Gali when Salim and Reshma came to visit. Somewhere between stories, laughter and easy conversation, they mentioned an upcoming trek with Kolachi Trekkers, led by Tariq Khan. The destination was Rakaposhi Base Camp and the Diran Glacier. The names sounded exotic, distant and beautiful. What none of us fully appreciated at that moment was that they would also become synonymous with fear, grit, resilience and some of the most spectacular scenery I would ever experience.

Before long, what started as a conversation became a commitment. We were actually going.

The adventure truly began the moment we landed in Skardu. There is something magical about arriving in northern Pakistan by air. The mountains seem impossibly close, rising dramatically from the earth as though they are welcoming you while simultaneously reminding you who is in charge. The air felt cleaner, the sky seemed larger and there was an unmistakable sense that we were about to leave behind the comforts and predictability of everyday life.

The drive from Skardu to Minapin was long, but nobody seemed to mind. The landscape outside the windows was a constantly changing masterpiece. The mighty Indus River accompanied us for much of the journey, carving its way through valleys that seemed ancient beyond comprehension. Towering cliffs rose above us, while distant snow-covered peaks appeared and disappeared around bends in the road. At times the terrain was harsh and unforgiving with barren rock faces and evidence of landslides reminding us of nature’s immense power. At other moments, patches of greenery emerged unexpectedly, with small settlements somehow thriving in places that seemed entirely

inhospitable.

Inside the bus, however, we had created our own little world. Songs flowed freely, jokes became increasingly terrible as the hours passed and laughter was constant. There was also an enthusiastic effort by several trekkers to photograph anyone who happened to fall asleep. Nobody escaped this fate. Every awkward sleeping position was carefully documented for future entertainment. At our various stops along the way, we would spill out of the bus and stretch our legs. Somehow, these breaks evolved into spontaneous fitness sessions involving squats, lunges and push-ups. Looking back now, it is amusing to remember how fit and prepared we all believed ourselves to be.

By the time we reached Minapin, excitement and exhaustion were evenly matched. Dinner that evening was delicious and comforting and there was a quiet energy among the group. We all knew that the following morning would mark the true beginning of the adventure.

That evening, we met our guide, Amir. He possessed the calm confidence that comes from years spent navigating terrain that most of us could scarcely imagine. One by one, he sat down with each trekker to discuss fitness levels and previous trekking experience. When my turn came, I confidently explained that I regularly hiked Miranjani and Mukshpuri. His reaction was polite but distinctly unimpressed. I remember feeling slightly offended. Had he not heard of Miranjani? Did he not appreciate the effort involved? Several days later, while negotiating terrain that made those beloved hills seem like leisurely afternoon walks, I finally understood his response.

Morning arrived cold, clear and beautiful. The trek began almost deceptively. The early sections were lush and inviting, with flowing streams, green slopes and fresh mountain air. It felt more like a pleasant hike than the formidable challenge we had anticipated. Gradually, however, the landscape began to change. The incline steepened, the greenery became less abundant and the trail narrowed. Loose rocks shifted beneath our feet and the mountain slowly began revealing its true character.

By the time we reached Happakun, we felt that we had accomplished something significant. We rested, shared snacks, took photographs and admired the views. Yet, there was also an awareness that the most challenging sections still lay ahead.

After leaving Happakun, we encountered the part of the trail that everyone had spoken about in hushed tones: Pul e Sirat, the Bridge of Judgment. The name sounded dramatic enough, but the reality exceeded anything I had imagined. The path narrowed to little more than eighteen inches wide, with a rock wall pressing in on one side and a dizzying vertical drop disappearing into the valley below on the other. There was nothing to hold onto - no reassuring rope or railing -only the path ahead and the battle taking place inside my own head.

Fear has a remarkable way of magnifying everything. The drop appeared endless. The path seemed impossibly narrow. Every instinct urged caution, retreat or perhaps even a dramatic declaration that I had reached my personal limit. Yet, step by step, breath by breath, I moved forward. Somewhere along that crossing, I realised that the greatest obstacle was not the mountain but my perception of it. The path had not changed. The drop remained exactly as terrifying as before. What changed was my willingness to keep moving despite the fear.

Eventually, we crossed and continued towards our campsite. The reward awaiting us was extraordinary. Rakaposhi stood before us in all its glory - majestic, powerful and breathtakingly beautiful. Our tents seemed tiny beneath its immense presence. As darkness fell and the stars emerged overhead, the entire landscape took on an almost magical quality. Sitting there beneath that sky, surrounded by mountains that had stood for millennia, every hardship of the day felt worthwhile.

The following morning felt as though we had awakened in a fairy tale. Baby goats wandered through the campsite, entirely unconcerned by the excitement they generated among the trekkers. Everyone seemed determined to pet them, photograph them and generally behave as though we had discovered a previously unknown species. Combined with the spectacular surroundings, it felt as though we had stumbled into our own version of Never Never Land. That sense of tranquility did not last long.

Our trek to the Diran Glacier introduced us to a completely different world. The glacier felt alive in a way I had never experienced before. Ice shifted beneath our feet, deep crevices appeared unexpectedly and every step demanded complete concentration. The terrain was slippery, unstable and unforgiving. More than once, we lost our footing, sliding awkwardly across the ice before scrambling back up and continuing. Nobody crossed that glacier looking graceful; it had a way of humbling everyone equally.

As challenging as the glacier proved to be, an even greater test awaited us at its far end. Rising before us was a near-vertical ascent that seemed almost absurd. This was where I truly came to appreciate the power of teamwork. Nobody climbed alone; hands reached down to help those behind them and encouragement flowed constantly. Every person contributed something different, whether strength, patience, reassurance or humour. Together we climbed, one difficult step at a time and eventually reached the top, feeling triumphant. Our sense of accomplishment, however, proved premature.

Ahead lay what would become one of the most mentally exhausting sections of the entire journey. For nearly two hours we traversed an exposed trail carved into the mountainside. On one side stood rock; on the other, a sheer vertical drop. The path appeared endless. Every step required concentration and every moment demanded respect.

Adding to the tension was concern for one of our fellow trekkers, who had become severely fatigued and was struggling physically. Watching the group rally around them was inspiring. Nobody was left behind.

Those hours on the mountain left a deep impression on me. They reminded me how fortunate most of us are in our daily lives. We spend so much time surrounded by comfort and convenience that we forget how demanding survival can be. Out there, among glaciers, cliffs and endless rock, life was stripped down to its essentials.

Eventually, we reached base camp, and suddenly every challenge felt worthwhile. The beauty surrounding us was extraordinary. The mountains stood like silent guardians as we celebrated together. We laughed, sang, shared food and absorbed the wonder of being in such a remarkable place.

The following day, we began our return journey via an alternate route. If we had imagined that descending would be easier, the mountain quickly corrected that assumption. The vast white landscape often seemed featureless, making navigation surprisingly difficult. Without our guides, it would have been dangerously easy to lose our way. Watching them move confidently across the terrain was remarkable.

Eventually, we returned to Rakaposhi Base Camp, looking forward to rest. Instead, Amir suggested that we continue all the way down to Minapin. What followed was one of the most physically demanding descents I have ever experienced. The steep slopes that had challenged us on the ascent now seemed even steeper on the way down. Every step became an exercise in determination.

Then came the suggestion that seemed like salvation: a horseback ride for the final section. I was delighted, but it was short-lived.

What nobody had explained was that mountain horses appear to have a deeply unsettling preference for walking as close to the edge as possible. There I sat, convinced I was moments away from tumbling into the valley below, while the horse remained completely calm and unconcerned. Time seemed to slow and every step felt eternal.

When we finally reached the bottom and I saw the van waiting for us, I experienced a level of joy that is difficult to describe. Back at the hotel we celebrated. We laughed about moments that had felt terrifying at the time, shared stories and reflected on everything we had experienced together.

Rakaposhi and Diran gave me far more than beautiful photographs and unforgettable memories. They reinforced my appreciation for the extraordinary beauty of Pakistan and reminded me that the most remarkable experiences often lie far beyond our comfort zones.

Most importantly, they taught me something about resilience. The human body and mind are capable of far more than we imagine. To witness beauty that takes your breath away, you often have to endure fear, discomfort, exhaustion and self-doubt. The mountains themselves do not change; the challenges remain exactly where they are. What changes is us.

And somewhere between Pul e Sirat, the shifting ice of the Diran Glacier, the endless cliffside trails and one truly terrifying horse ride, I discovered a strength I did not know I possessed.

Ainee Shehzad is an educationist, scholar, Cambridge-certified trainer and an avid trekker with the Kolachi Trekkers. She can be reached at [email protected]