NOW we were very close to our destination of the formidable Ratti Gali peak, for which we had been travelling under all kinds of conditions all these past many days. Though very excited, we slept like logs that night snuggled inside the nomad tents, what with the warmth of roast meat in our stomachs and fires burning all around. Amazingly, when the morning came the magic of the valley was still there, only the fire were not there. Instead, a mist full of secrets engulfed the nomad tents and rocks.
The nomads insisted that we should give them the honour of staying with them for another night and we insisted that we could not wait to present ourself at the grave of the great Pir sahib. To begin with, the whole tribe was ready to escort us to their Pir sahib’s grave, we were slightly reluctant because Pir sahib’s eternal abode was in the opposite direction of our destination. Finally, it was decided that only one of them would guide us to Pir sahib.
This devout guide had the shock of his life when, after putting as safe a distance between the nomad abode and us, we almost threatened him to get lost. He, in turn, threatened as with dire consequences, and went back muttering vengeance. I was sure that lamb which was slaughtered the night before belonged to his stock.
We resumed our trek. The Ratti Gali glacier loomed right in front of us, as if threatening to crash down and bury us good and proper. Then came a point when we understood the reason why we were carrying those useless ice axes. The eternal snows were under our feet and we had to slash them with our axes to make a way and climb. When the evening descended, and it descended rather suddenly, there emerged a small hut perched on the snows of the glacier. Khawaja Sahib ordered a halt and decided to spend the night in this stone hut. This was to be a base camp for next morning’s onslaught on Ratti Gali peak.
That night was horrid, freezing, uncomfortable and unbearable beyond words. No roasted lamb or fires burning to warm our chilled bodies, just a chappati or two with aaloo shorba in which the potatoes were harder than the rocks of the valley.
A senior by the name of Javed Asar complained that he was forced by the call of nature to venture outside the hut and due to the non-availability of water, he had utilized the snow. Hence, he felt absolutely paralysed in the lower parts of his fragile body.
During the night, the winds howled like mad wolves and our bodies shivered like eels out of water. We also feared the attack of disgruntled nomads. It was late night rather than early morning when we came out of the hut for the final assault on the mountain, flashing our torches on the glacier which was at that moment solid and negotiable. In next hour or so, with the warmth of early rays of the sun, it was to turn into slush. It was not a difficult climb and our ice axes helped us in maintaining our balance. Finally, we were there — Ratti Gali peak almost 17 thousand feet high, shrouded in mist and eternal snow. It was rather flat at the top.
Khawaja Sahib raised his hand and shouted: “Hip, hip, hurray!”
We followed in equal excitement. Soon we were breathless not because of excitement but due to the height and our ‘hurrays’ dwindled. Out came my baby Brownie Kodak camera which I had bought for a princely sum of Rs26 and I took some snaps. We celebrated our achievement with a cup of tea and then started descending on the other side of peak into Azad Kashmir, where the valley of Kishan Gunga awaited us.
Soon, we left the eternal snows behind and then an unbelievable sight unfolded right before us as we were descending and all of us suddenly stopped. There lay under our feet a valley that seemed right out of a fairy tale, remembrance of which still haunts me and I am still not sure whether I actually saw it or it was a fabrication of my youthful imagination. I do declare and swear that in my almost 50 years of wandering, I have never set eyes upon such a fairy tale landscape and a dreamlike vista, such a breathtaking panorama of nature’s wonders. It is futile to describe it but then life too is futile, so why not give it a try.
As we were going down on the other side of Ratti Gali summit, the snow gave way to a lush green carpet with thousands upon thousands of flowers rolled out in front of us. We tried not to tramps them but it couldn’t be and we kept on descending into a valley of wonders which was littered with poppies as far as the eye could see. And amidst the colours of a Khalid Iqbal painting, deep greens and flaming reds, there glistened a mountain stream flowing as if it was mercury.
But the best was yet to come — beyond this amazing valley and its stunning beauty, there was a wall of unbelievable blue mountains, standing guard over this hidden Shangrila, lest its beauty and purity be vandalized or molested.
There was another dream within this dream — in the midst of these blue mountains, partly shrouded in the mist, were two sapphire blue lakes, appearing still and stunning from where we saw them. And in one of these lakes a white wonder floated majestically, a small glacier which swarm in the lake, languidly like a snow swan. Was it not a wonder of wonders that a small waterfall emerging from the heart of the blue mountains was falling right into this lake? We kept on gazing mesmerized, the snow swan floating came under the waters of this fall and its pressure forced it to glide away.
“Sir,” I addressed our leader Khawaja Sahib, who was puffing, “can’t we head for these lakes, one of these lake, preferably the one with the snow swan, spend the night there and then move forward tomorrow morning?”
There were other voices which rose in support of my suggestion but Khawaja Sahib was not as young and romantic as we were, was a practical man and he smiled, fully understanding over teenage desires. “No my boys, we don’t know the proper way to reach those lakes and they are not as near as you imagine. We might get lost and who knows if those lakes are there or not there?”
“They are there!” we shouted.
“Who knows?”
I have yet to come across a hiker or a vagabond of mountains who has seen those lakes and described them to me. Perhaps they were not there and I was under the influence of Shafiqur Rehman’s Neeli Jheel. So we resumed our journey, kept on going down till the lakes disappeared in the distant mist, the lush green grass and riot of flowers gave way to stony and dangerous paths.
Once again we were labouring, puffing and cursing our fate, but not so loudly as we had just come out of a dream within a dream. The terrain was treacherous beyond description. We were treading on razor sharp pathways which bore kinship to pule sarat, and during one of there crossings one of our mules slipped and disappeared in the abyss, never to be recovered.
We mourned the loss of our luggage and then the loss of the mule. Needless to say it was a harrowing experience and the thought that was foremost in everyone’s mind was: “What if instead of the mule it was me?”
NOW we were very close to our destination of the formidable Ratti Gali peak, for which we had been travelling under all kinds of conditions all these past many days. Though very excited, we slept like logs that night snuggled inside the nomad tents, what with the warmth of roast meat in our stomachs and fires burning all around. Amazingly, when the morning came the magic of the valley was still there, only the fire were not there. Instead, a mist full of secrets engulfed the nomad tents and rocks.
