The astonishing/vertiginous/stark/dramatic local landscapes are not the only reason that most visitors to northernmost Pakistan fall in love with Gilgit-Baltistan.
The unspoilt local humans are special, too.
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The astonishing/vertiginous/stark/dramatic local landscapes are not the only reason that most visitors to northernmost Pakistan fall in love with Gilgit-Baltistan.
The unspoilt local humans are special, too.
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Haldi village is a “modest” one, in a “remote” valley in northern Pakistan.
Surely one of the world’s most spectaculary-sited settlements, Haldi sits above the Shyok’s vast riverbed…and immediately below the Haldi Cones.
The Karakoram has many considerably higher mountains, but it is not hard to understand why more than a few people regard the Haldi Cones as the most spectacular – at least among Karakoram peaks which a visitor can see, “up close”, without having to embark on a demanding, high-altitude trek.
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Just before 5.30 pm on 15 May 2024 we reached Khaplu, where we would stay two nights in an unforgettable hotel.
Superbly “restored” (and not overly-restored) this century, “the original” was built in the 19th century, as the local royal palace and fort.
Food was excellent, our “rustic” rooms were both lovely and comfortable, electricity supply was a tad erratic, hospitality was warm, and there was a beautiful garden, immediately in front of our room.
The grandeur of the surrounding landscape was almost beyond belief.
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This post’s photo was taken 90 minutes after the previous chapter’s, as we continued along the road from Skardu to Khaplu.
Doubtless, most members of the current global human population have never heard of either town, but trust me: the road between them is one of “our” planet’s most spectacularly-scenic.
At 4.30 pm on15 May 2024, I simply pointed the camera out of the 4WD’s (briefly-opened) window.
A focal length of 30mm considerably “flattened” the typically-astonishing Karakoram landscape’s vertical aspect.
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This post’s photo was taken less than one minute after the previous post’s.
For the “#19” image I was looking west-ish, back over my shoulder, and up.
For this post’s photo I looked ahead – east-ish, downhill, and over to the other (non-Indus) side of the road.
Most of Gilgit-Baltistan’s substantial settlements – and agricultural land – are in relatively low places, near rivers that run along the “floors” of deep Karakoram valleys.
Generally, these are places where very little rain falls; often, the average annual total is below 100 mm.
The actual total is hugely variable, from one year to another.
Arable/potentially-arable land is very scarce.
All local agriculture is irrigation-dependent, and requires a prodigious amount of maintenance, almost all which is done manually.
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Just before 3pm on 15 May 2024, circa 90 minutes after we left Shangrila Resort, we were roughly halfway through our drive from Skardu to Khaplu.
We stopped for a few minutes, to stretch our legs and “take in” the landscape; in this part of the world it is only very occasionally possible – let alone relatively safe – for a vehicle to stop and park.
By “normal”/global standards, the landscape around/above/below us was “epic”, prodigiously vertiginous, and strikingly stark.
By Karakoram standards, however, it was merely “typical”; my photographic vantage point was not a signposted “lookout”, nor a celebrated “beauty spot”.
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Fixed-wing aircraft have never been able to land at the spectacularly-sited Shangrila Resort.
Nonetheless, one such passenger plane is there, and has for many years been one of the resort’s signature features.
Circa 30 minutes driving distance from Skardu, the resort has a heart-shaped lake, faux-Chinese buildings, and landscaped gardens – all of which are dwarfed by the surrounding Karakoram peaks.
Its most incongruous “attraction” is the resort’s cafe: a 1947-vintage Douglas DC-3.
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For most of its visitors, Skardu is the “gateway” to the Karakoram – the world’s second-highest mountain range.
Arguably, the Karakoram is even more spectacular than the Himalaya; having experienced both, I reckon the Karakoram takes the metaphorical “biscuit”, handsomely.
All fourteen of the world’s “recognised” 8,000 metres+ peaks are in either the Himalaya or Karakoram; my beloved and I have seen at least six of them.
Most of the Karakoram is in Pakistan’s Gilgit-Baltistan region.
At 2,230 metres ASL, Skardu’s airport sits just slightly above the bottom of a deep valley.
The pictured tarmac is two metres higher above sea level than is the Australian continent’s highest peak.
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This post’s hero is the westernmost major Himalayan Peak.
Nanga Parbat (8, 126 metres above sea level) is “our” planet’s 9th highest mountain.
Flights from Islamabad to Skardu pass by Nanga Parbat’s western and northern sides.
In terms of how it stands in relation to the terrain around its base, Nanga Parbat is enormously taller than Everest.
It is often credited as offering an appropriately-located human’s eyes the greatest amount of uninterrupted, solid “up” that a human can see, anywhere.
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Whilst nobody who is familiar with both cities would ever mistake one for the other, Australia’s and Pakistan’s capital cities share many key characteristics.
Each was meticulously sited and planned.
Canberra is a deal smaller than Islamabad, but both have relatively modest populations – much smaller than several other cities in Australia and Pakistan.
Each is a young, inland city, established in the 20th century as a “showcase” national capital.
Like Canberra, Islamabad is spacious, with an uncommonly large amount of “green” and quasi-“natural” open space.
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