As soon as I turned from the main road, I couldn’t help but stop and look around — what a spectacular sight! A deep breath escaped me, filled with awe and gratitude. for letting me witness such grandeur. The wind carried the scent of sand and pine, the landscape stretched wide and raw before my eyes, and somewhere in the distance, the Indus shimmered under the golden sun of Skardu.
“Where are you going?” someone asked from a passing jeep.
“To Basho!” I replied proudly.
The man shook his head. “This is not the road to Basho!”
And just like that, our journey — planned with enthusiasm and mapped with care — began with confusion.
Day One: Waking Up to Katpana
We had reached Skardu the previous evening and stayed near the Katpana Desert — one of the world’s highest cold deserts. From the balcony of our resort by Lokal, I could see waves of pale golden sand, rippling like silk in the morning light. The desert seemed to breathe with the mountains, alive yet timeless. The locals said that in winter, this place turns surreal — snow blanketing sand dunes. Snow on sand — what an extraordinary sight that must be!
We had breakfast under the pale sun. Ali and Yasir were still sitting back, chatting lazily, while I began packing our gear. The plan for the day was set — to explore Basho Valley, one of the lesser-known but much-talked-about jewels of Gilgit-Baltistan. Rumor had it that Basho was a hidden paradise, surrounded by emerald forests, blue rivers, and meadows so green that they looked painted.
We would camp by the riverside, under the stars. That was the dream.
And so, after a short prayer we set out on what we thought would be a memorable, peaceful ride.
The Road to Basho
The first part of the ride was smooth. The newly constructed Skardu Road was a blessing — wide, clean, and carved elegantly along the mighty Indus River. I remembered riding this route three years ago when it was a nightmare of potholes and dust. Today, the road gleamed under the morning sun, and I couldn’t help but smile. “May this road remain like this for years,” I whispered, knowing how earthquakes and landslides often undo man’s finest efforts in these rugged lands.
We stopped briefly at a mechanic’s shop to fix minor clutch issues on our motorcycles.
“Assalam Alekum, how are you?”
“All good, Sir. Alhamdulillah,” the mechanic replied with his kind smile.
In no time, our bikes were ready. Wali, the mechanic, waved us off with a cheerful “Safe journey, brothers!”
As we crossed Kachura, the road took us past the famous Upper Kachura Lake and Shangrila Lake — also known as Lower Kachura. I had been to both before, so we didn’t stop. Today’s goal was clear — Basho.
The Indus glided beside us like liquid silver. The breeze was cool, and the sound of the river was soothing. This was the kind of ride that reminded me why I loved traveling on two wheels. The road and the river — my two constant companions.
The Turn Off
After about an hour, the asphalt ended. The road forked, and we turned toward Basho. Instantly, everything changed — the wide road shrank into a narrow, dusty trail hugging the cliffs. The scenery became wild and raw, every bend revealing a new slice of untamed beauty.
“These are the famous old bridges of Baltistan,” I said as we crossed a wooden bridge that creaked beneath our motorcycles. “Even though new bridges have replaced many of these, I still love the old ones. They’re part of this land’s soul.”
Dust rose in clouds behind our bikes, coating us in shades of earth. “This is going to be a rough one,” Ali said, half-smiling. He didn’t know how right he was.
Lost on the Mountain
As we climbed, we came across an old man waving at us from a distance. We thought he was greeting us, so we waved back cheerfully and rode past. But minutes later, we found ourselves on a dead-end path.
A young boy from a nearby house shouted, “Where are you going?”
“To Basho,” I replied.
He laughed, “This is not the road to Basho! You took the wrong turn!”
We laughed at our foolishness. The old man had been trying to stop us earlier, but we hadn’t understood him. So, we turned back, retraced our steps, and found the correct route — a thin track disappearing into the hills.
That mistake, though small, was the first sign that this journey would test us in more ways than one.
The Dust Road to Heaven
The real off-road started soon after. Loose rocks rolled under our tires. The air filled with dust so thick that I could hardly see Ali’s taillight ahead. My rear wheel began slipping; I quickly turned off the ABS.
“This track is horrible,” I muttered. Every turn felt like a gamble — one wrong move and we’d be down in the ravine.
“If it were 2020’s motorcycles,” Ali joked, “we’d have fallen a dozen times already!”
We crossed tiny villages where locals watched us with amused smiles. Their children waved enthusiastically, shouting “Hello! Hello!” Every few minutes, a jeep rumbled past, packed with tourists. The Basho track, once unknown, was now famous — maybe too famous.
We stopped briefly at a small spring to refill our bottles. The water was icy cold and sweet. A young man named Saqib brought us apricots from his orchard. “You must be tired,” he said, handing us the fruit.
“JazakAllah, brother,” I said, touched by his kindness. The apricots were sour, but in that heat and dust, they tasted divine.
When the Mountain Fights Back
The higher we climbed, the rougher it got. The rocks were big enough to throw us off balance. The water from nearby streams made the stones slippery. My hands ached from gripping the handlebars.
“Ali, I don’t see a way to get through,” I said, staring at a steep turn littered with boulders.
“You can go from the middle path,” a jeep driver advised.
“Alright. Slowly,” I said, my heart racing.
The bike lurched and bounced violently, but I made it across. Yasir followed behind, shouting, “That was insane!”
Moments later, Ali’s voice crackled through the intercom, “I crashed!”
We stopped immediately. My heart pounded as I ran toward him. His motorcycle lay on its side near the edge, the front shock bent, silencer broken. But Alhamdulillah — he was fine. A few bruises, nothing more.
“Thank Allah you didn’t fall in the stream,” I said, my voice shaking. The rocks below were sharp as knives; a fall there could have been fatal.
That moment changed the tone of our trip. The road was no longer an adventure — it was a battle.
Every corner became a test of patience, skill, and courage.
Through Dust and Faith
We pressed on. The track wound through tiny hamlets — each with terraced fields, small wooden homes, and children laughing in the sunlight. The villagers looked at us curiously; some waved, others warned us about the road ahead.
At one turn, my front tire hit a stone, and the bike nearly threw me off. Somehow, I stayed upright. “Allah saved me again,” I whispered. My legs trembled, but I didn’t stop. Not yet.
We were exhausted, covered in dust, and running on sheer willpower.
“I don’t think I’m ever coming back on this track again,” I said aloud. “I’ve had enough.”
Ali chuckled weakly, “You always say that… until the next trip.”
Arrival: The Valley of Peace
Then, almost suddenly, the path opened into a wide, green meadow surrounded by towering mountains. The air felt lighter, cooler. A signboard read:
“Welcome to Basho.”
We had made it.
Villagers smiled and waved as we entered, perhaps amused that we had arrived on motorcycles. The whole valley looked like a dream — vast open grasslands, a river gliding gently through, pine forests standing guard on the slopes. It was as if the mountains themselves were welcoming us.
We decided to look for a campsite. Locals suggested we go toward the far end, where the views were better. As we rode deeper, the beauty intensified — the meadow widened, and snow-capped peaks framed the horizon.
“This is unreal,” Yasir murmured. And it was.
Camping Under the Stars
We finally found a perfect spot — flat, green, and facing the river. The locals were incredibly helpful. One man said, “If you camp here, you’ll see the whole view. But near the forest, you won’t get electricity or washrooms.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “We’ll camp here.”
“How much for a tent?”
“PKR 1000 per night,” he replied. “Half for the hotel, half for the Municipal Committee.”
“No problem,” I smiled. “We don’t need any discount. Just your love and a peaceful night.”
He laughed, “If we don’t treat you with love, how will you come again?”
Our tents went up quickly. The sun dipped behind the peaks, turning the sky orange and pink. The river glowed like molten gold. The air turned crisp; silence wrapped around us like a blanket.
Ali was slightly hurt, but fine. Yasir had fallen twice. I had one fall myself. But all that seemed distant now. The hardship had brought us here — to this heavenly valley, where time seemed to pause.
Dinner was served at a small wooden hut nearby — Chicken Malai Handi. After a day of dust, sweat, and adrenaline, the hot meal felt like a feast.
“Bismillah,” I said as we began eating.
“This is the first proper meal since breakfast,” Yasir laughed.
Many people say we eat too much on our trips, but the truth is, we hardly do — two meals a day and maybe a snack in between. Today, even that had been a luxury.
As darkness fell, the stars began to appear — one by one, until the sky was overflowing with light. The river murmured softly nearby. The cold wind brushed against our faces. The smell of pine filled the air.
Reflections: The Mountain Teaches
Sitting by the campfire that night, I looked back at the day — the wrong turns, the falls, the fear, the exhaustion, and the relief. Every trip teaches something. Basho taught me patience, humility, and gratitude.
In these mountains, you are small — your strength, your plans, your pride — everything shrinks before nature’s immensity. Yet, it’s in that smallness that you find peace. You realize that you’re not here to conquer the mountain — you’re here to surrender to its beauty.
Ali, Yasir, and I sat in silence for a long time, listening to the river and watching the stars.
Finally, Ali said, “You think we’ll ever come back?”
I smiled, “After all this? Probably not.”
We all laughed. Because deep down, we knew — we would.
Epilogue: The Road Home
Morning came quietly. The first rays of sun touched the peaks, painting them in pink and gold. The valley looked even more magical than before. We packed our tents slowly, reluctant to leave.
Before starting our bikes, I looked back at Basho one last time.
“SubhanAllah,” I whispered. “What a place. What a journey.”
As we rode back down the same treacherous road, it didn’t feel dangerous anymore. It felt familiar — like a friend testing you one last time before letting you go.
The dust, the rocks, the bruises — they were all part of the story now.
A story of struggle, faith, and discovery.
A story of how we rode into Basho — and found a piece of heaven hidden in the heart of the mountains.
