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life. I’ d lost daylight, but not spirit. That night, when I was preparing to camp by the river, a young boy appeared out of nowhere and invited me into his home. Karma had circled back.
The next morning I rejoined the Karakoram Highway— that legendary road carved into the world’ s most dramatic mountains. It began like a dream: sweeping bends, towering peaks, the surreal turquoise of Attabad Lake reflecting the sky. I felt almost euphoric, until the illusion shattered. After Gilgit, the“ highway” turned savage— a patchwork of potholes, landslides, and chaos. Trucks, buses, and jeeps fought for every inch of broken road. Sometimes the only choice was to brake hard on the very edge of a ravine and pray that gravity stayed kind.
Checkpoints multiplied as I rode further north. The soldiers were polite, sometimes even friendly, but slow. Each stop a new delay, each form a ritual of patience. Occasionally, they insisted on an armed escort for a few kilometres— more formality than necessity, but another reminder of where I was. And then, just when the road smoothed and my confidence returned, another landslide would appear, forcing everyone to wait while men with shovels clawed a path through the debris.
It was during one such delay that I met a group of local bikers— young men with battered 150cc machines, huge smiles, and hearts full of
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