The soft sound of rain tapping against the window marked the beginning of another day of adventure. The valley of Batakundi, still wrapped in a gentle morning mist, looked breathtaking even under gray skies. It was cold — colder than we had expected — and the rhythmic patter of raindrops on the tin roof had been our lullaby all night.
Batakundi sits quietly just half an hour’s drive from Naran, on the way to Babusar Top. We had arrived here the previous evening, exhausted but exhilarated. The mountains around us were draped in clouds, and the rivers hummed their eternal tunes. Our plan had been simple: cross Babusar Top today and ride onwards to Astore or perhaps, if luck favored us, even Tarishing. But as the rain continued through the night, the mountains whispered a different plan.
When I stepped out of the room that morning, a shiver ran through me. The rain hadn’t stopped, and the air was crisp and biting. The clouds hung low, their bellies swollen with moisture, spilling small waterfalls down the cliffs. It was a painter’s dream, a traveler’s test, and a rider’s dilemma all at once.
“Assalam Alekum. Good morning. Namaste. Sat Sri Akal from Batakundi!” I said cheerfully into my camera, though my fingers were numb with cold. My motorcycle, Rangeeli, stood proudly outside, wrapped in raindrops that glistened like diamonds.
We were staying at Roomy Resort, perched at an enviable spot overlooking the river. The view was nothing short of cinematic — a blend of raw wilderness and gentle charm. If only the rain would stop, we could have sent the drone up to capture the grandeur. Still, I had a few clips from yesterday that would do justice to this heavenly place.
Breakfast soon arrived: steaming parathas, potato curry, fried eggs, an omelette, halwa, and a glass of mango shake. I sipped my black coffee, grimacing slightly before deciding to add milk. “It’s going to be a tough ask to drink this black,” I muttered, smiling.
As we ate, I prayed silently for the rain to stop. Our destination — Babusar Top — was already rumored to be closed due to snowfall. If the weather didn’t clear up soon, the journey would be far more challenging than exciting.
Around noon, the skies finally relented. The rain tapered off, leaving behind a world washed clean. The mountains shimmered with fresh snow, and the air carried a scent of pine and wet earth. Despite a dull headache, I popped a painkiller, packed the last of my gear, and began preparing Rangeeli for the long climb ahead.
“This is our touchwood,” I said, patting the little charm hanging from the handlebar — a small keepsake meant to ward off the evil eye. “Bismillah… In the name of Allah. Let’s go.”
The First Water Crossing
The road from Batakundi towards Babusar is like a living story — one that shifts with every turn. The river flowed beside us, and the mountains stood tall like old friends watching us go. A thin layer of fog floated across the road, curling around our wheels.
It wasn’t long before we came across our first water crossing of the day. The melt from the glaciers above had turned into a gushing stream that flowed right across the tarmac. I watched a few riders ahead, bravely wading through — some wearing thick boots, others astonishingly in sandals.
“The fact that these guys are riding while wearing their sandals is remarkable,” I said, laughing into my helmet mic.
The cold water splashed against my waterproof pants as Rangeeli glided across. On the other side, I paused to take in the view. Waterfalls cascaded from all directions — slender silver ribbons tumbling down the emerald slopes. “Amazing,” I whispered. “Just look at how beautiful that stream is.”
Heaven on Two Wheels
The road climbed steadily, hugging the mountainside as it wound through small glaciers and meadows. The weather remained unpredictable — patches of sunshine followed by sudden gusts of icy wind. But the landscape was nothing short of heavenly.
The valleys glowed in shades of green, while above us, snow-capped peaks pierced the clouds. “Heaven,” I said again, unable to find a better word. “Ma Sha Allah… this is really amazing.”
There was little traffic. Perhaps it was the cold, or maybe the news that Babusar had been closed due to snowfall. The silence made the experience even more profound. Every bend revealed a new postcard-perfect view — rivers twisting through valleys, mist wrapping around pine forests, and faraway peaks dusted with white.
Riding through this landscape was like being inside a dream. The drizzle had painted everything in vivid tones, and my camera couldn’t capture even half the beauty my eyes were witnessing.
Through Budwai and Jalkhad
As we rode further, small villages began to appear — Budwai being one of them. New hotels and restaurants were popping up here, though many were still under construction. The same water stream we had crossed earlier reappeared, snaking its way beside the road like a constant companion.
“This is indeed a good road,” I remarked. “It makes up for everything wrong with the Naran road.”
Every few kilometers, I felt an urge to stop, to just stand and soak it all in. The mountains had a magnetic pull — wild and majestic, yet comforting in their enormity.
By the time we reached Jalkhad, we had ascended to nearly ten thousand feet. Small roadside restaurants dotted the landscape, offering steaming cups of tea and fried snacks to weary travelers. We stopped briefly to fix a GoPro issue. The locals greeted us warmly, asking where we were headed.
From Jalkhad, the peaks grew sharper, and one of them — Tiger Peak — stood proudly ahead, visible for miles. The streams by the roadside multiplied, tumbling down the cliffs in dazzling sprays of water. Someone had placed bottles in the icy water to chill them — the desi refrigerator of the mountains.
Lulusar Lake: A Mirror of Heaven
Soon, the blue-green shimmer of Lulusar Lake came into view. Cradled between mountains, it looked like a mirror reflecting the clouds. The surface was still, disturbed only by the gentle wind.
I had seen Lulusar many times before, but today, it felt different — perhaps because of the rain, or perhaps because I hadn’t ridden in mountains for over a year and a half. I captured a few drone shots from the roadside but decided not to stop long. The pull of Babusar was too strong.
The streams were now fuller, the slopes steeper. Small houses dotted the meadows — summer homes of locals who moved up here with their cattle during the warmer months. The area, known as Gittidas, was a sight to behold: endless green fields carpeted with wildflowers, snow glinting on the ridges, and clouds drifting lazily across the sky.
“I didn’t know this name before,” I said, pointing to the signboard. “But I’ll never forget it now.”
The Climb to Babusar Top
The road narrowed as we began the steep climb to Babusar Top, 14,000 feet above sea level. The engines roared as our motorcycles pushed through the thinning air. My friend Ali’s 150cc bike struggled, its hum turning into a labored growl.
“Keep pushing, bro,” I encouraged him through the intercom.
We stopped briefly about 50 meters before the summit to take some drone shots. The view left us speechless. Green valleys spread out below, dotted with lakes and streams. In the distance, the mighty Nanga Parbat revealed its snow-capped crown through the clouds.
At the top, tourists gathered around a small café, sipping tea and taking selfies with the iconic Babusar Top signboard. The wind was icy, cutting through even the thickest jackets. I met a few fellow travelers from Sargodha and Islamabad, cheerful and curious.
“Are you Abrar?” one of them asked, smiling.
“Yes,” I laughed. “You can find me on YouTube.”
“Nice to meet you! We’re headed to Skardu.”
“Have a safe journey,” I wished them, shaking hands before getting back on the bike.
The place was crowded, so we decided to descend a bit to find a quieter spot for tea. The road down from Babusar was steep and winding, the kind that demands both skill and faith. On one side, patches of snow glimmered; on the other, the valleys fell away dramatically.
Descent to Chilas
As we descended, the landscape changed drastically. The lush greens slowly gave way to rocky browns. The air grew warmer, thinner, and drier. In just an hour, it felt as though we had crossed seasons.
“This gives you a perspective of how much altitude we’ve lost,” I said, watching riders scoop snow from roadside glaciers.
By the time we reached Chilas, the temperature had risen by nearly fifteen degrees. The transformation was stunning — from icy winds at Babusar to the dry heat of the lower valleys. Chilas is known for its harsh summers, but on this day, the weather was pleasantly mild, thanks to the recent rain.
We joined the Karakoram Highway (KKH) at Chilas Zero Point. The road gleamed, freshly paved, a sharp contrast to my memories of it from years ago when it was still under construction.
The plan was to ride onward to Astore, but news from travelers changed our minds. A massive landslide near Tatta Pani had blocked the road, leaving hundreds of vehicles stranded. Families, bikers, and tourists alike were waiting, uncertain of when the route would reopen.
“Looks like we’ll have to stay in Chilas tonight,” I said, pulling over near the Shangrila Hotel.
Evening in Chilas
The Shangrila Hotel in Chilas is among the oldest and most reliable places in town. For PKR 12,000, we got a cozy two-bed room, neat and decorated in a traditional style. The wooden furniture, local artwork, and cultural architecture made it feel warm and authentic.
After a quick shower, we headed to the hotel’s restaurant. The place was crowded — everyone seemed to have the same idea. We ordered chicken shashlik, opting for something different after days of eating karahi. The wait was long, but the meal was worth it.
Outside, the weather was surprisingly pleasant. The rain that had troubled us all morning now added a gentle freshness to the air. We sat by the riverbank, the soft gurgle of water mixing with distant laughter from other travelers.
Chilas, often described as harsh and hot, had shown us a softer side. The mountains glowed amber under the setting sun, and the air carried the quiet peace of an evening earned after a long day’s ride.
I took a deep breath, reflecting on the journey. From the rain-soaked valleys of Batakundi to the snow-laden peaks of Babusar, and down to the warm embrace of Chilas — it had been a day unlike any other.
We had crossed rivers, battled cold winds, ridden through mist, and met strangers who felt like friends. Every twist of the road had a story, every mile a memory.
As night fell and the sound of the river lulled the valley into calm, I looked at Rangeeli parked outside, still glistening under the soft light. “You did well, old friend,” I whispered.
Tomorrow, if the roads cleared, we would continue toward Astore. But for now, there was only gratitude — for the journey, the beauty, the challenges, and the chance to witness Pakistan in all its untamed glory.
“Keep praying for me,” I said in the vlog’s closing line, the camera capturing the final glow of dusk. “And remember — adventure begins where certainty ends.
