I arrived here last night, exhausted from one of the toughest rides of my life — the brutal, rocky trail of Noori Top, where each turn tested my resolve and each water crossing soaked both my clothes and my spirit. When I finally reached Naraan, it felt like civilization after wilderness — warm lights, chatter, and the scent of roasted meat floating through the cool mountain air. I found a tidy little room at Naraan Mountain Chalet. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was clean — and for me, cleanliness is the only luxury that truly matters.
After a long, hot shower, I sank into bed, muscles aching but heart full. When I opened my eyes this morning, soft light filtered through fog that had rolled into the valley like a giant white blanket. The world outside my window was quiet, muted — the river whispering somewhere in the distance, the fog swallowing the tips of pine trees.
I decided to wait until the fog cleared. A traveler shouldn’t hurry through beauty he can barely see. My plan was simple — head toward Hunza, cross Babusar Top, and spend the night wherever the road and daylight allowed.
But as I sipped my tea in the lawn of the chalet, I smiled — because, as usual, I didn’t really have a plan. The road decides for me. I just follow.
Leaving Naraan
By late morning, I strapped my luggage to the motorcycle, checked the chain, tightened the bungees, and whispered the prayer for the journey under my breath.
“Bismillah… may Allah make this a safe day for us.”
Before leaving, I stopped at the petrol station — a habit more of wisdom than necessity in these regions. “Please fill the tank, sir,” I said to the man at the pump. He smiled; tourists like me were his daily story.
The streets of Naraan were already alive — horns honking, tourists shopping for scarves and snacks, children chasing stray dogs. The air smelled of freshly baked parathas and engine oil.
But the traffic… Oh, the traffic! I regretted not taking the bypass road that someone had mentioned. Every few meters, the line of vehicles would freeze — not because of a jam, but because people had decided to stop in the middle of the road to chat or take selfies. A man leaned from a jeep, laughing with a friend, oblivious to the chaos behind him.
I chuckled to myself — this too is Pakistan. Organized chaos, wrapped in hospitality and noise.
Finally, the road opened, and Naraan disappeared in my rearview mirror — swallowed by dust and memory.
Echoes of Old Naraan
As I rode away, nostalgia crept in like a familiar companion. I still remember my first visit here in 2003. Back then, Naraan was a sleepy mountain village — two or three small hotels, a handful of roadside tea stalls, and endless, uninterrupted serenity. The valley was raw and wild, where the only sounds were the river’s rush and the wind’s song.
Today, that Naraan is gone — replaced by a jumble of concrete and neon signs. From two-storey lodges to five-storey hotels, it feels like every inch of the valley has been claimed by construction. I know progress is inevitable — but it breaks my heart to see nature losing its space to chaos.
Of course, tourism brings life and income to these mountains, but without planning, it can destroy the very beauty people come to see. The old Naraan, with its peace and purity, is a story now — one that the younger generation may never truly understand.
Through Batakundi and Beyond
The road snaked upwards, cutting through pine forests and open meadows. I soon reached Batakundi, a small settlement that instantly felt calmer than Naraan. The valley opened up here — green slopes, scattered houses, and the lazy gleam of the Kaghan River.
“Now this is the Naraan I remember,” I thought to myself.
Although construction has found its way here too, Batakundi still breathes. The air feels freer, the view clearer. I passed a few roadside dhabas where travelers were having chai, their laughter echoing against the cliffs.
Accommodation here, I knew, was far cheaper than Naraan. While hotels in Kashmir had cost me barely a thousand rupees a night, here the rates danced like the stock market. During peak season, a basic room in Naraan could cost as much as 7000 rupees, depending on the crowd. In Batakundi, though, peace came cheaper.
A few kilometers later, I came across a glacier — blackened by dust, lying like a giant sleeping creature beside the road. Cars had pulled over, people posing for selfies, touching the ancient ice as if it were magic. I stopped too, not for pictures, but to simply stand there and feel the cold breath of the glacier against my face. The road beyond was dotted with stones, but that’s a minor discomfort for someone who’s spent days conquering the rocks of Noori Top.
The Ascent to Babusar
Soon, the climb began. The valley deepened, the river shrank to a silver thread far below, and snow patches started appearing on the mountainsides.
I passed Besal, the launching point for the Dudipatsar Lake trek, one of Pakistan’s most beautiful alpine lakes. The signboards here tell stories — each pointing to a trail, a waterfall, or a forgotten village. Then, suddenly, the Lulusar Lake came into view — a vast sheet of still water, its surface reflecting clouds like polished glass. It’s the very lake where the Kaghan River is born.
Most tourists stopped at the usual viewing point, clustering like birds around food. I rode a little farther ahead, away from the crowd, and stopped at a quiet spot. The silence was profound. I took off my gloves, felt the cold air on my fingers, and just breathed — this was the kind of moment I traveled for.
From here, it was just a half-hour climb to the Babusar Top — the gateway between Kaghan Valley and Chilas.
At the Roof of the World — Babusar Top
The road twisted and turned, climbing higher and higher. Cars moved slowly, some at barely 30 km/h. I wasn’t in a hurry either. Every bend revealed a new frame — snow-lined slopes, grazing yaks, and clouds so close they felt touchable.
At one turn, I saw a car stopped mid-road — a man leaning out, recording a TikTok video. I laughed under my helmet. “That’s dedication,” I thought, overtaking him smoothly — smooth like a feather, as I told myself proudly.
And then — the plateau opened before me. Babusar Top.
Altitude — 4,180 meters.
A freezing wind cut across the open plain, whistling through prayer flags and signboards. Tiny shops sold tea, snacks, and souvenirs. The sun was bright but the air sharp enough to bite through my gloves. I zipped my jacket tight, parked the motorcycle, and walked to the edge.
From up there, the valleys stretched endlessly — deep folds of green and brown, dotted with white patches of snow. Every direction looked like a painting.
I ordered a cup of hot tea and let the steam rise between my hands. Around me, travelers clicked pictures, laughing through the cold. But I stood quietly, just watching — thinking about how nature gives everything freely, yet asks only that we treat it gently.
I couldn’t help but notice the restaurants and roadside stalls that had mushroomed since my last visit in 2016. In a few more years, this top too might become another crowded bazaar. A little planning could save this paradise, but I wondered if anyone was listening.
The Descent — Into Heat and Dust
After tea, it was time to descend — towards Chilas, then onwards to Gilgit.
As I started down, I realized how the true beauty of Babusar lies not in its summit, but in its curves — the sharp, elegant turns that drop thousands of feet in perfect rhythm. The road twisted like a ribbon of asphalt clinging to the cliffs. Clouds gathered overhead, and tiny raindrops began to fall, tapping on my helmet like fingertips. I whispered a small prayer — that the rain stayed gentle, for these slopes are no place for a storm.
Halfway down, a car drifted slightly into my lane — the driver distracted, maybe by the view or his phone. My heart jumped, but he swerved back just in time. Such moments remind you that no matter how breathtaking a journey is, it’s always just inches away from danger.
By the time I reached the base, the air had changed completely. Gone was the chill — now it was hot, dry, and harsh. The greenery faded into dusty mountains, their faces scarred by landslides. Villages appeared here and there — clusters of mud houses clinging to slopes.
I passed through Chilas, thinking briefly of stopping. But the heat slapped me in the face the moment I slowed down. It was the same kind of heat I had felt years ago in Iran — dry, unforgiving, the kind that burns your skin without making you sweat. I decided to keep going. Gilgit was about 125 kilometers ahead.
On the Karakoram Highway
This was my fourth journey along the Karakoram Highway — the legendary road that connects Pakistan to China, carved through mountains that touch the sky.
The previous trips had all been in cars or coasters, uncomfortable and slow. But this time, on my motorcycle, it felt different — raw, intimate, alive. The wind roared in my ears, the mountains loomed on either side like giants, and every turn felt personal.
The road was in far better condition now — smooth stretches alternating with gravel patches. A group of bikers rode ahead of me, their GoPros mounted, one of them waving for me to join. They filmed me as I passed, and I grinned inside my helmet. Travelers on this highway share a quiet brotherhood — strangers bound by the same dust and danger.
But the landscape here is both beautiful and terrifying. Enormous boulders balance precariously on cliffs, the earth loose beneath them. One slide, and the road could disappear for days. I rode carefully, whispering SubhanAllah every time I passed a freshly fallen rock.
At Rai Kot Bridge, I stopped briefly — the gateway to Fairy Meadows, one of the most stunning places on earth. From here, jeeps rumble up to the trailhead that leads to Nanga Parbat, the killer mountain. I thought about staying, maybe even going up — but the fatigue from Noori Top still lingered in my bones. I decided to press on.
Into Gilgit
The last stretch into Gilgit was quieter — the sun dipping low, painting the mountains gold. Dust swirled behind trucks, and the wind howled through the narrow valleys. By the time I reached the outskirts of the city, I was drained. My visor was crusted with dust, my lips dry, my back sore.
I checked a couple of hotels — none felt right. So I called a friend in Gilgit, who helped me find a decent place. I don’t even remember its name — I just remember the relief of a clean bed and running water.
As I entered my room, the phone rang. It was the same friend — “Bhai, are you okay? The road near Rai Kot just got blocked by a landslide.”
I froze. I had crossed that section barely an hour earlier. One hour later, and I might have been stuck there for days. Alhamdulillah, I thought, thanking Allah for His protection.
Dinner arrived — a steaming chicken karrahi, spicy and rich. I ate like a man who hadn’t seen food in a century. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the window. Inside, I felt peace.
Before switching off the light, I plugged in my GoPro batteries, cleaned my lenses, and smiled. I had recorded a full day’s story — though I realized later that a whole section of footage had no audio because I had forgotten to reconnect the mic. Typical me.
As I lay down, I whispered the same words I always do at the end of every journey:
“If you enjoyed this journey, my friends, don’t forget to remember me — and all my companions — in your prayers.”
Epilogue: Reflections Under the Northern Sky
That night in Gilgit, before sleep took me, I thought about everything — from the chaotic streets of Naraan to the freezing winds of Babusar Top, to the burning valleys of Chilas. Every kilometer had its own mood, its own color, its own lesson.
Traveling through Pakistan’s north isn’t just about landscapes. It’s about contrasts — between chaos and calm, between ice and fire, between past and present. It’s about learning to flow with the road, to accept delays, detours, and difficulties as part of the story.
Tomorrow, I’ll ride towards Hunza, chasing the turquoise rivers and the golden peaks of autumn. But for tonight, I’ll let the sound of Gilgit’s wind lull me to sleep.
