With bags packed, we set off for Islamabad, joining the Tour Rangers for yet another adventure. This year brought surprises — Imran Bhai, our trusted guide, wouldn’t be joining us. Instead, the trek would be led by Moin and Akmal Lal.

Akmal, the spirited trekker from Booni, Chitral, was a character like no other — blunt, eccentric, and unmatched in determination. Love him or hate him, one thing was certain: this trek wouldn’t have been possible without him.

It was because of him we could witness the land of royalty — a land where yaks have roamed for centuries, where flowers bloomed and danced in the silent breeze, where green meadows stretch endlessly, bearing witness to the wanderers passing by, where the glacial streams roar without uttering a word, and where Karomber Lake lies cradled in her solitude, guarding secrets only the boldest dare to seek.

Every trek starts the same: strangers with their own tales converge, setting off on a shared adventure. Ours began in Islamabad, a van humming with Abida Parveen and Naseebo Lal’s song as we headed towards Chitral. Optimism ran high as we dreamed of reaching the Karomber Lake and hearing her whispered legends.

But as journeys often remind us, the path to the destination is rarely smooth. The first trial came swiftly — we were met with the news that floods had washed away the only road connecting Chitral to Booni, our planned stopover. No vehicle could pass. It was the first taste of the cursed road’s wrath.

We stayed in Chitral that evening, the rugged mountains casting shadows over our doubts. But soon enough, we gave in to our collective curiosity, leading us to take on the broken road. In the darkness, we could barely make out the damage, but locals crossing on foot sparked a flicker of hope. With relatively diminished optimism we rested, knowing the real trek had only just begun.

Morning brought renewed energy as we packed, ate, and set off for the first washed-out patch of the road. Thanks to Akmal’s local ties, we reached the edge of the broken path and crossed it on foot, leaving our gear behind. But when we learned that there were no porters available, some of us trudged back to carry our luggage, food, sleeping bags and stoves.

From there, we squeezed onto two jeeps, only to repeat the cycle: cross another damaged patch, switch vehicles, and push on. By the time we reached Booni, we discovered yet another obstacle — the bridge to Mastuj had been swept away by the river. So, Booni became our unexpected base for the night, and what a tea-filled respite it was! Between Akmal’s friends, roadside dhabas, and his family’s hospitality, we must have had tea six times that day.

The highlight, however, was a spontaneous visit to the Qaqlasht meadows, vast green plains perched above the town. Though not in full bloom, the meadows were bathed in golden sunset light, their silence punctuated by a gentle breeze.

We woke up refreshed, only to be greeted by yet another setback — the single road’s blockage had caused a diesel shortage in Booni. Unfazed, we moved on, pinning our hopes on Akmal’s ever-handy connections.

At Mastuj, the van was left behind as we crossed the town’s damaged bridge on foot. Two jeeps awaited us — one a larger vehicle for most of the group, while Aisha, Usman, (fellow trekkers) and I squeezed into a Suzuki Jimny. This intimate ride turned out to be memorable as we bonded over Punjab University (our shared alma mater), debated the absurdity of building a DHA in the mountains, and exchanged hearty Punjabi juggats.

Our next stop was the avalanche-hit village of Brep, where tragedy had swept away homes. At a desolate petrol station, Ali bhai entertained himself by trying — and failing — to ignite a fuel tank with a matchstick. His antics were interrupted by the arrival of the second jeep, which brought fresh diesel courtesy of, you guessed it, Akmal’s father’s wide-reaching connections.

Onward we went, navigating through a kilometres-wide avalanche of mud, where we spotted a dog casually strolling across the expanse. Usman and I joked that he was probably off to meet his in-laws, though I often wonder if he ever made it.

By night, we reached Bang, a quiet village where our journey paused but tensions escalated. For the first time, Akmal dropped his usual playful demeanour and gave us “the talk”. His rare seriousness hinted at the trials that lay ahead.

After dinner, we gathered in a single room where Akmal and the guesthouse owner prepared us for the hardest stretch of our journey yet. Their 45-minute briefing was equal parts warning and encouragement. A 12-kilometre road had been completely swallowed by the river, leaving only a narrow, precarious trek high above its original path. Locals took six hours to cross it; for us, it could take double. Encouraging, right? However, they assured us we could do it — there was no turning back now.

Morning brought no reprieve as our jeep journey ended abruptly after just an hour. The road had literally disappeared, another victim of relentless rains. The theme of this trek seemed to be ‘washed-away roads’. Undeterred, we grabbed our bags and trekking sticks, and so began the trek.

Our spirits lifted briefly as we reached a picturesque village nestled in the mountains. There, a local porter — joining us on the journey to Karomber — welcomed us into his home for a short rest. In that serene moment, embraced by rustic charm, we paused to catch our breath, certain that no matter how daunting the path ahead, it was going to be worth it.

The locals once again warned us about the treacherous trek ahead, but then, a blessing arrived. A villager, curious about our journey to Karomber Lake, revealed an alternative — a wooden bridge in his village that led to a gentler route. Though five kilometres longer, it promised a less gruelling journey.

Built by two brothers who lived on either side of the river, the bridge was a marvel of local ingenuity. After much debate, most of us chose the longer path, leaving a few other trekkers — Akmal, Saleema, and Arooba to brave the original route with the porters. We crossed the bridge and began our 17-kilometre trek. Local guides led us through the rugged mountains and the tranquil village of Zhuppu.

We treaded through the path, which seemed endless, under the scorching sun. Just when fatigue began to creep in, a stroke of luck arrived — locals offered us a ride in the open back of their four-wheeler. As we bounced along, they showed us a centuries-old defence point, where Chitralis had once fought against Tajikistan, a massive stone wall connecting two mountains.

After the ride, the trek resumed, leading us to our first glacial water crossing. The coldness of the water sent a shock through my body — a sensation so frigid that my feet still long for warmth at the mere thought of it. But we pressed on, walking for hours until we reached a village where we were supposed to catch another jeep.

But, as always, the curse of the journey proved faithful, sticking to us like an unwanted companion. No jeep awaited us.

When we reached the village, we had to walk another 4–5km because the only jeep bridge had been destroyed, and another was barely holding on, making it impossible for the vehicle to reach us. So, we walked again, until we reached a pasture with lush green grass and a calm, inviting stream. There, we dipped our aching feet into the icy waters, letting it soothe our exhaustion as we waited for the rest of the group.

When they finally arrived, we didn’t dare to hope for an end to the walking. And rightly so — another 20 minutes on foot brought us to where the jeep was parked. Ah, the joy of finally sitting down in a vehicle was indescribable.

Packed into the jeep, the journey resumed — though it felt like it had never truly paused. By nightfall, we reached a small guesthouse in Lasht, where we settled in for the night. An amusing highlight of the evening was when we discovered the local knock-offs — “Soober” biscuits and “String” energy drinks — bringing a smile to our weary faces as the day drew to a close.

The next day, Akmal dropped another “exciting” update: our last roadblock was near a village called Kishmanja, where the jeep trek had merged with the river. The path was damaged at three points, with one section so eroded it left a gaping hole. Our jeep driver took one look, sat down, and calmly announced, “I’m not driving here. If you want, take the jeep and drive yourselves.”

Negotiations ensued, and after much pleading — and a promise to help repair the road — he reluctantly agreed. We sprang into action, collecting stones, widening the track, and filling gravel. An hour later, progress was negligible; we were nowhere near mending that patch.

Akmal sent the jeep helper to find labourers from a nearby village, and, in a fateful twist, they recognised Akmal’s father from previous road projects. As they worked, some of us headed to a Chitral Scouts check post, hoping for tea and distracting ourselves from looming failure.

Hours dragged on. Dejected, we returned to find no improvement — the jeep couldn’t cross. Exhaustion and despair set in. For the first time, I truly believed the journey was over; the curse seemed unbreakable.

Then, after nearly five hours, Akmal and Moeen appeared with the driver and a senior officer, beaming with news: the jeep had made it across. For a moment, everything felt right. That tiny victory, after all the struggle, was pure happiness.

Packed into the jeep, we navigated a rugged jeep trek, barely a road at all. As we approached the Darkhot Glacier lying silently among towering peaks with hushed water flowing beneath it, its once-mighty form now scarred by human impact.

Most importantly, we had finally entered the glorious Broghil valley, home of yaks and untouched beauty, ‘only’ 250 kilometres from Chitral. By afternoon, we reached Ishkarwaz, the last checkpoint before crossing into the Wakhan Corridor, a realm bordering Afghanistan and Tajikistan. Here, the Wakhi people live as their ancestors did, their lives unchanged by time.

Stepping into the valley with its 34 lakes (named and unnamed), glaciers, and wildflower meadows felt like being transported into another world. To enter is to be granted an audience with Her Highness Karomber, a rare privilege for only the most determined travellers.

Finally, we made it to Laskhkargaz, our first-night stay in camps, where the mountains saw you silently, observing you as the breeze passed through their snow-covered peaks, and the roof there was made of stars. Laughter and stories filled the air as anticipation for the lake grew. Under the vastness of the Milky Way, we felt infinitesimal, yet deeply connected to the universe.

Above all, we were standing at the gates of Her Highness’ palace, where the vast, verdant expanse of the Broghil valley granted us entry into her inner courts. Here, she has rested for centuries, patiently awaiting the wanderers. In her presence, she shares her stories, listens to theirs, whispers the ancient legends of her land, and personally welcomes you — one of the few fortunate souls chosen to stand in her royal company.

We began the trek the next day with content hearts and eager feet, leaving Lashkargaz in small groups. First were Waleed, Nawaz Bhai, Usman, and Ali, followed by Aisha, Abdullah, Sadia, and I. Moeen led the porters, and Akmal, Saleema, and Arooba were last. We moved like minnows among giants, walking the ancient paths once tread by daring ancestors. Passing through quiet villages, we were greeted by warm smiles and the unspoken hospitality of the valley’s people.

The first group, led by Waleed, set a fast pace, and in our attempt to catch up, we took a wrong turn. A shout echoed from above — it was Moeen, guiding us back on track. We ascended, breathless but determined, and soon rejoined the group. After crossing the first glacial waterfall of the day, we took some rest. We continued strolling in a bit, making little conversations; someone put songs on their phone, and the music perfectly complimented the breeze of the valley, while the river sparkled like scattered diamonds.

Karomber’s presence loomed in the distance, a snow-covered peak where she rested. The Yaks grazed nearby, seemingly indifferent to our passage. As the sun dipped, so did our energy. Our feet started protesting, and the mind questioned the purpose of it all. But the heart, drawn by the call of royalty, urged us onward. So, we pulled up our socks and pushed forward, pausing occasionally to rest on the lush green pastures, feeling the breathing rhythm of the valley.

By then, the peak of the mountain loomed above the lake, and you could almost taste the promise of sitting by those blue waters. Yet, with every step, it seemed further away. Mound after mound rose, each ascent filled with hope, each descent sinking you into despair. The body was tired, each footstep heavier than the last.

Then came the marshes, soft underfoot, followed by another fleeting glimpse — only to reveal a small, black lake. Those 45 minutes stretched into eternity, the minutes blurred into hours, the narrow path seemed endless, and the trek felt like it would never end. But still, you walked on.

And then, finally, the first true sight of her — the princess. Her blue waters, so still, seemed to capture the very sky above, as clouds drifted over her silent waves. The mighty guard stood tall, silent, as a small glacier peeked through her crown. Flowers danced in the breeze, the grass greener than ever. There she was — vast, tranquil, with waves gently kissing the shore as they had for eons. In that moment, you understood the legends that had been passed down through generations.

You understood the curse — the journey had to be arduous, for royalty is never meant for the common, and meeting her too easily would have cheapened the experience.

As you reached the final mound, you crested it and froze. There she was, the princess in all her glory. No sound, no voice, just the gentle wind welcoming you. Time stood still; you were in a realm beyond the boundaries of time. A minute could have passed, but it felt like thousands of years. You stood alone with her, in a place untouched by the notions of right or wrong. You met her in the stillness, where nothing else mattered.

I stood there, overwhelmed and silent, like how a traveller who had finally reached their destination after a lifetime of wandering would. Slowly, I stepped into her court. Her waves, gentle yet powerful, lapped at the shore as though welcoming me to her kingdom.

We spoke without words. She whispered the tales of her ancient past, the myths of her origin, the secrets hidden in her depths, the untold poems, the folklores of the natives, the flocks that flew over her, the first wanderer who saw her millennials ago.

In return, I shared my journey — years of dreaming, a second attempt, the curses overcome. But none of that mattered now. In her presence, my burdens lifted, my heart lightened, and my soul found peace. We sat together in a conversation beyond words and time. Those twenty minutes were a universe unto themselves — a life fully lived.

That night, we slept beside her under a sky ablaze with stars. By morning, the weather had turned sombre, as if mourning our impending departure. Clouds gathered, and a light drizzle kissed the earth as we packed our camps. Her waves, now grey and solemn, seemed to echo our goodbyes.

With a final glance from the last mound, we left. Our laughter, our songs, and our stories now belong to her winds, woven into her lore. Karomber will whisper our tale to the next dreamers who dare to seek her, and our memory will linger in her court for eternity…

Till we trek again!

Header Image: Karomber Lake

Note: All photos in the article are provided by the author.