Awakened by the alarm at 5:30 I’m surprised to find that it is morning. I have spent a fitful night and expect it to be only around midnight. Outside though, it is getting light, so I dress and get out of the tent into the cold. The mountains are cold and silent, but as I watch, a huge avalanche roars down off Ultar into the valley occupied by the glaciers. As the debris crash down and a cloud of powdered ice blows outwards, I wait for the sound of the impact. But there is none. The avalanche was as silent as a lamb.
We have the camp down by the time the peaks are lit by the sun. The descent is far easier than the ascent, although the moraine debris are loose underfoot, and we make good progress. We are down in the narrowest part of the gorge within 1 1/2 hours. We meet a party of Barvarians, most of them middle-aged, toiling up the valley, and a handful of backpackers as well. Back in Karimabad by 8:30, we sip cold drinks at a restaurant, then repair to the New Mountain Refuge for the remains of the day.
New Mountain Refuge, September 30th Friday 5:00 PM
Another day in the Hunza Valley is drawing to its inevitable close. With the departure of the sun, now resident on the summits of Diram and Golden Peak, a chill comes into the air. Beyond the bare gravel hill which separates the Hunza and Nagar rivers, the sheer rock wall of Golden Peak and its neighbour catch the evening sun. The top of Golden Peak is swathed in cloud, which looks like the steam which hangs over the thermal areas of Rotorua. The sky is pale blue and streaked with high, ethereal cirrus cloud. The ice-domed peak of Diram, resembling a volcano with a tuft of cloud coursing from it, is half in shadow, half in sunshine. Its attendant peaks are in deep shadow. Rakaposhi stands cold and aloof over the entire scene, its northern face almost all in shadow apart from a few ribs which catch the last angular rays.
Below the hotel, which is more like a camp than a hotel, on a small field the daily round-up of stock proceeds. The cattle, goats and sheep, which have grazed community during the day, are split up and taken to each family’s house. The stock are beaten, kicked and hounded around until they flee in the direction of the stone-walled lanes which lead down through the maze of fields and terraces below.
On the roof of the nearby Hunza Inn, three men squat, drinking tea. The plaintive bleating of the two goats owned by the old man who apparently owns the land upon which the New Mountain Refuge is built, sounds up from the steep, grassy bank below the hotel. Each evening, the old man takes scraps to the goats, who make a great show of welcoming him. One of them sits on a rock, pensively chewing its cud, watching the scene below.
Beyond Rakaposhi, the sun has turned the clouds to the colour of smoke. A procession of cars, tractors and jeeps, laden with men and flying flags, passes down the road to the village of Altit. The sun lingers on the very top of Diran Peak, on the top of a spur running down off Rakaposhi, and on the flat, sloping summit of Golden Peak. Across the valley, among the terraces coloured yellow and green and gold, lights appear as households repair for their evening meals.
The sun disappears from all of the surrounding peaks. The head of PTDC arrives with some attendant flunkies, He says: “How are you? Good. Are you having nice time?” When answered in the affirmative, he responds: “I think nice people should have nice time.” He smells strongly of aftershave and has the air of a vote-seeking politician. Most of the attendant tourists ignore him.
Despite the gathering cold, the mosquitoes are active and in numerous so I move inside to apply some repellent. The goats, impatient for the evening meal of scraps, become quite vocal. As darkness falls, andJupiter, appears in the western sky, the muzzim’s call echoes across the valley.
CurseOfTheTraveller 