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By the time I reached the Khunjerab Pass, the world had reduced itself to essentials, rock, ice, sky. At over 4,600 metres, it had felt less like a destination and more like a threshold. A sign had marked the border, beyond which the road had continued into Xinjiang, but the line itself had felt almost arbitrary against the scale of everything else.
I had turned off the engine and stood there, letting the silence settle. It hadn’ t been empty. It had been full of something I couldn’ t name.
Looking back, the road had disappeared into layers of mountains, each one fading into the next. It hadn’ t felt like I had conquered anything. If anything, it had felt like I had been allowed to pass through, briefly, on terms that were never mine.
The return had unfolded differently. Without the pull of a destination, the journey had opened up in quieter ways. I had stopped more often. Stayed longer. Paid closer attention. Hunza had drawn me back in, holding me there for days that seemed to exist outside of time. In Gilgit, I had met other travellers, each carrying their own version of the road,
TRAVERSE 145