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The Serpentine Path of Bitkor Road

A Journey Through Peril and Beauty in the Mountains of Gilgit-Baltistan

By HabibPublished 6 months ago 3 min read

The sun had barely risen above the towering peaks of Gilgit-Baltistan when Rafiq tightened the straps of his backpack and gazed out over the valley. Below him, the famous Bitkor Road unfurled like a white ribbon, snaking across the brown, craggy mountainsides toward Jalalabad, shimmering in the early morning light.

It was a road both feared and revered—a lifeline and a test of courage for all who dared traverse it.

Rafiq was no stranger to these heights. Born and raised in a small village near Hunza, he had grown up listening to stories of Bitkor Road. Truck drivers whispered about hairpin turns so sharp they felt like stepping off the edge of the earth. Traders spoke of landslides that could bury an entire convoy in seconds. Yet amidst the danger, there were stories of wonder: waterfalls that spilled like silver threads down rocky cliffs, glaciers glistening in moonlight, and valleys so deep that even echoes seemed to vanish into silence.

This morning, Rafiq had a mission. His uncle’s small shop in Jalalabad had run out of supplies after heavy snow had blocked the Karakoram Highway for days. Bitkor Road was the only way through. So he loaded his Suzuki jeep with sacks of flour, boxes of medicine, and crates of dried fruit. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t help a shiver—not only from the cold wind that whipped down the slopes, but from the thrill of the journey ahead.

The first stretch was deceptive wide enough for two vehicles, with sunlight glinting off the dusty road. But soon, Bitkor Road began its dance. It twisted and coiled like a dragon among the mountains, each curve tighter than the last. Rafiq carefully navigated the hairpin bends, sometimes leaning out the window to check how close his tires were to the crumbling edge.

The drop was sheer. A thousand feet below, the Gilgit River sparkled like molten glass. Every so often, he passed ancient stone markers, some chipped and faded, reminders of traders and caravans who had once crossed these mountains carrying salt, silk, and secrets.

Bitkor Road had its moods. In one stretch, Rafiq found himself driving through a shadowy corridor where towering cliffs blocked out the sky. A few turns later, the mountains opened like a curtain, revealing dazzling views of snow-capped Rakaposhi blazing white against a sapphire sky.

He pulled over at a small lay-by to rest his hands, trembling from gripping the steering wheel so hard. There he met an old shepherd named Karim, who stood leaning on a wooden staff, his goats scattered across the barren slopes.

“Ah, Bitkor Road,” Karim said, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “She takes what she wants, but she gives much beauty in return.”

Rafiq offered him a handful of dried apricots. Karim accepted and told stories of winters when the road disappeared under avalanches, and of times when travelers found refuge in caves lit by oil lamps. He spoke of the legend of Bitkor, a woman who, according to local folklore, wept tears that turned into the springs along the roadside, sustaining life even in harshest droughts.

Thanking Karim, Rafiq continued on. Around each bend, new vistas unfolded: towering ice walls, dusty ridges painted in shades of ochre and rust, and far below, terraced fields where villagers waved as he passed.

As he neared Jalalabad, the air grew warmer, scented with pine and juniper. Children played near the road, shouting in laughter, waving at his dusty jeep. Despite the journey’s strain, Rafiq felt alive with purpose. Bitkor Road had tested his skill and nerve, but it had also rewarded him with memories he would carry forever.

By evening, Rafiq rolled into Jalalabad. The sun glowed like a copper coin on the horizon. Shopkeepers rushed to help unload his supplies, grateful for the food and medicine he’d brought. He leaned against his jeep, watching the mountain shadows deepen into indigo.

Somewhere high above, Bitkor Road wound silently through the peaks, waiting for its next traveler. And Rafiq knew that as long as he lived, he would return to its serpentine path a road carved into the heart of the mountains and the spirit of Gilgit-Baltistan

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