In the course of our 8-day trek I have no idea how far we have walked - the never ending cycle of ascents and descents and paths that twist and turn on the mountainside has completely blown any guesses I might have made. These same changes in elevation have proved the greatest physical challenge, and none were more grueling than those on the final day of the trek.
Given that we came back a similar route to the way we'd gone, day eight should not have been more challenging than day one. If anything, I'd have expected it to be easier as we were now amply acclimatised to the altitude. I couldn't have been more wrong.
We started early, rising at six, to maximise our chances of getting to a guesthouse before dark. The day began with a long, slow ascent from our riverside campsite, and I struggled from the outset. My legs, not a problem until now, ached; my toes rubbed in my boots; and my lungs felt permanently as through someone were sitting on my chest. When I walked I could not draw in enough breath to continue, but when I stood still to catch my breath I inevitably broke the momentum of walking. It was both agonising and infuriating.
I lost count of how many times we climbed to a breathtaking height, only to descend again to river level. The Dahliz Pass, colder than the week before, was thankfully not yet under snow, but although this was the highest point to climb, it was by no means downhill all the way home. I trudged on, willing my body to keep going for those last few hours back to Sarhad.
Whilst we stopped for lunch, two donkeys came to join us. They had seemingly become separated from the animal train with with they traveled, but neither the donkeys nor their owners seemed worried. We walked along in convoy, our guide riding on the back of one of these docile beasts from time to time.
Half an hour outside Sarhad and either seeing that I was on my last legs or sensing an entertaining photo opportunity, the donkey was passed on to me. It's been 15 years since I regularly rode ponies and I have never before ridden a donkey. Not even on the beach. I climbed on with some trepidation, despite the fact that my feet hung barely a foot from the floor, and clung on for dear life as the guide belted the animal's rump. The donkey wore a blanket and a piece of rope for a bridle, but there was neither saddle nor stirrups. I gripped on with my thighs as best I could and, as the donkey shot off down the hill, I wondered if I might have been better finishing the trek on foot after all.
Given that we came back a similar route to the way we'd gone, day eight should not have been more challenging than day one. If anything, I'd have expected it to be easier as we were now amply acclimatised to the altitude. I couldn't have been more wrong.
We started early, rising at six, to maximise our chances of getting to a guesthouse before dark. The day began with a long, slow ascent from our riverside campsite, and I struggled from the outset. My legs, not a problem until now, ached; my toes rubbed in my boots; and my lungs felt permanently as through someone were sitting on my chest. When I walked I could not draw in enough breath to continue, but when I stood still to catch my breath I inevitably broke the momentum of walking. It was both agonising and infuriating.
I lost count of how many times we climbed to a breathtaking height, only to descend again to river level. The Dahliz Pass, colder than the week before, was thankfully not yet under snow, but although this was the highest point to climb, it was by no means downhill all the way home. I trudged on, willing my body to keep going for those last few hours back to Sarhad.
Whilst we stopped for lunch, two donkeys came to join us. They had seemingly become separated from the animal train with with they traveled, but neither the donkeys nor their owners seemed worried. We walked along in convoy, our guide riding on the back of one of these docile beasts from time to time.
Half an hour outside Sarhad and either seeing that I was on my last legs or sensing an entertaining photo opportunity, the donkey was passed on to me. It's been 15 years since I regularly rode ponies and I have never before ridden a donkey. Not even on the beach. I climbed on with some trepidation, despite the fact that my feet hung barely a foot from the floor, and clung on for dear life as the guide belted the animal's rump. The donkey wore a blanket and a piece of rope for a bridle, but there was neither saddle nor stirrups. I gripped on with my thighs as best I could and, as the donkey shot off down the hill, I wondered if I might have been better finishing the trek on foot after all.
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