The best jungles to trek and tramp are the ones between Barian Nathiagali and Thandiani. But if you want to be "far from the maddening crowds" then simply put aside the Barian-Nathiagali portion and rush to the heaven between Thandiani and Nathiagali
To be there was an old dream, which came true at last in July last year. We were in Abbottabad, all set to trek from Thandiani to Nathiagali via the breathtaking range of Miranjani and its great jungles. So, with our rucksacks packed we left Abbottabad for Thandiani at about 5:30 in the morning by jeep. The women in our party were to move by another vehicle to receive us at Nathiagali in the evening. Our jeep would drop us at Thandiani from where we would be on our own.
It was about 24 km to Thandiani and a very steep climb, some 5,000 feet of gradient packed tightly in those 24 km. Life was waking up in the tiny helmets of the hillside terraces, and the sweet smoke of breakfast fires was curling softly about. Far below in the Abbottabad plain, the molten copper gold of the early morning sun had started to spread. Passing through thick pine jungles and sharp curls of broken road, we were at last in Thandiani, with its massive TV booster towering above us.
Thandiani (8,800 ft) is at the northern tip of the great Dunga Gali range in a plateau-like stretch full of thick forests. The place was silent, beautiful and inviting, with some on the loneliest rest houses, an old church, some abandoned cottages, and wayside tea stalls. During preparation days, it was the favorite retreat of the British officers posted at Abbottabad. But in view of the unknown, long foot journey involved, we could only spare time for a cup of coffee at a freshly fired tea stall. And the tea stall Chacha, an ex-serviceman, was prompt in producing five steaming cups of excellent cream coffee for us. He plainly disagreed with the well displayed billboard of the forest department Rung right above his tea stall which said Nathiagali was 25 km on foot from Thandiani.
"Big bullshit", he said, shaking his head firmly. "They hardly know a thing. It's no less than 42 km from here to Nathia." Taken aback, we exchanged sheepish grins with each other, but reminded ourselves of the validity of the written word of the board.
As a matter of fact, we desperately missed a well-scaled, properly contoured map which our leader Mehr Afzal had promised to procure but could not in view of the unusual haste undertaking the program. Now what we had was a map of sorts with plain generalities. Anyway, we said goodbye to Chacha and started our journey towards Nathia. After descending the picturesque lawns of the Forest Rest House, we were on to a narrow, slippery, moss-covered track winding through the thick jungles of kayal, deodar, firs and conifers. To our east was the Jhelum River valley across which could be seen the cast snowcapped ranges of Kashmir and Pir-Panjal.
Kohistan and Kaghan lay at our back in the north with the lovely Malika Parbat and the great tip of Nanga Parbat peeking right behind her. On our right in the west were the area of black mountain ranges and the faraway invisible hills of Peshawar. And, of course, the lush Abbottabad plain, rolling towards the Haripur orchard and the Indus lay to our southwest. Heading south we looked forward to the great Miranjani range and the high alpine world of the Gallis.
Soon we crossed Barmey di Galli. Here arrangements were being made for the opening ceremony of a new road to Muzzaffarabad. After a few turns and confusing forks, a leveled, almost well marked path appeared. The walk became immediately light and chirpy. Jokes tinged with romantic sighs and high spirits started to flow freely. The hushed enchanting world of cloud-swept jungles, velvety forest mosses, ready-to-pluck-mushrooms-and peacefully perched helmets on the faraway slopes had started to unfold and bewitch. This was the high crest of the Dunga Galli range. But the track had started to descend quietly now with the telltale signs of some nearby galli (valley) and habitation. And then as it finally dipped into the valley of Biram gali, we came across a sleepy little village.
Unwashed kids welcomed us and shy damsels, pale, wafer thin elders and terribly under-nourished stray dogs. It was a simple, shy and shabby little place. A marooned, high and dry chunk of life.
But it all ended the moment we started climbing the steep gradient on the other end of the valley. It was hard, sweaty work. We were feeling dead tired now and yearned for the well-known Briamngali Rest House, which was somewhere in close vicinity. And there, as we took the hairpin curl of the narrow track it stood. The old, romantic Birangali Dak Bungalow, with tin-roofed verandah overlooking lush grassy lawns and with a great jungle vista. As we entered it, a sharp thunderclap stuck somewhere and it started to rain. But we were safe in the cozy lap of our colonial heaven now. Spacious rooms, old furniture, classic windows, huge fireplaces and that special, tasty, aroma of old English. The young chowkidar, Ashraf, wasted no time in arranging service for us, and served us with hot tea. As he was lighting a candle to fight away the gathering darkness, he said: "Here in this rest house we don't have electricity but the entire area around is fully electrified "But what is your department doing" We asked him. "Nothing," he murmured.
We looked round and found that the Dark bungalow was in a pathetic state indeed. No lights, no running water, un-repaired fixtures and furniture, no gas cylinders in the kitchen. It was a pity and we prayed that the forest department would wake up and safe this dying beauty. Built in 1928 by the British’s at a height of 6,500 ft, it used to be a haven for wandering foresters.
As I opened the old kitchen cabinet, I come across something unbelievable. Books, yes, old and deliciously smelling, hardbound books lying amidst dirty kitchenware. As I flipped through the dusty, moth eaten pages there were neat stamps of "Not to be removed" on every book.
As soon as the rain subsided, we got back on our feet. The route now was simple. From here to Miranjani with a brief break at the midway Digri Rest House and then over to Nathia. But some times there is such a bolt from the blue that it knocks out every bit of planning. Thanks to our stupid, "mapless" haste and a total disregard for local consultation (ah! The track seemed so straight and clear to us), we were far off the point by the time reality dawned on us.
"Well, you have missed it all," said the old Haji Shah at a wayside "khokha." "Now just be ready to go through another tough through I wonder how someone can reach Nathia on foot by the evening from here. My real worry is how you will cross all these nullahs so dangerously swollen after the rains." He spitted out his naswar as we tried to digest it all.
We had some how stayed down into the Dor river valley, lulled by the deceptive smoothness of the track, whereas we should have climbed the crest of the high running Dunga Gali range by leaving this track and turning left. Anyway nothing could be done, and it was totally pointless in going all the way back and wasting precious time. Mehr, a man of few words, quickly turned round and shouted, "lets move," and pulled us all in his wake towards the gurgling valley.
The first zigzag crossing across the cold, violent current was almost knee-deep. Nullahs were bursting at the seams and the heavily bewildered valley was ringing with thunderous noise. Hemmed in from all sides by lofty pine covered ranges and cries-crossed by hundreds of furiously awakened streams, this was the great Dor river valley. The entire range must be draining into it. We were slowly and painfully making our way across the mishmash of mad torrents, eroding banks, shifting islands and the crunchy pebbled ground of slippery stones. But the challenge of going by a new route to Nathia was fun. And then God intervened. We got a guide. He was Javed, a local working in the T & T Department, Rawalpindi, on his way back to duty after leave. "One should absolutely avoid visiting this place in the rainy season," he admonished as we caught up with him.
"Mountain sides erode in this season taking away men, houses and trees. So just beware of walking on the lumpy edges." We kept nodding, while he carefully took us through the watery chaos in the right direction.
At last after having been thoroughly crippled by the terrible water-stone mix, we climbed to the safety of the high banks at this point combined together, took a sharp turn and entered a gorge to disappear. How silent it got suddenly. The upward curling track had entered a beautiful mountain scene - hushed silence, bracing air, a sense of deep relief.
Javed smiled and said: "It's all over, relax. This climb would take us to the top of the highest point from where you can get down into Mansa valley and move to Nathia, while I take my own route to Abbottabad."
The schedule looked tough but we were so happy getting rid of the water. The climb was sheer, and soon we were all drenched in sweat. Far below in the gorge, the river looked like a thin foamy line. Then as we entered the pine-wooded stretch of a grassy meadow, Javed pointed to a far away village on the terrace. "That is my wife's village," he said smiling shyly. "And it is beautiful," I said. At which Javed felt silent, looked sadly at the jungle and replied meekly after a while: "Yes, beautiful, but it is the beauty which you like. Life for us there is different. We are a poor folk, cut away from the doctors, from school, from the road, we just hang in there like orphans."
After a slow climb we were at last at the top. A small wayside shop and a pretty little mosque invited us for a break. We offered our prayers in the cool crispness of the mosque. "Pack up", blurted Mehr looking worriedly at his watch and the faraway meadow of the Malsa Valley. Javed came forward and said goodbye to us.
The snake-like path curled down-wards through slippery, rain dampened dangerously eroding mountainsides. And we had also begun to take ambitious short cuts to save time. Before our final dip into the valley, we came across a lush meadow, exuding rich sprawling warmth and sweet fluffy comfort. One immediately felt like rolling in it for a while. But the march continued. And we finally got into the valley. The rich oasis of Malsa was spellbinding, sparkling like some perfect jewel in the after-rain sunshine. Murmuring brooks, shady fruit trees, and solitude. It took away all our fatigue. The stone houses had beautiful awnings and verandahs of finely carved walnut woodwork with well swept courtyards in the front. On our way we met a loaded caravan of horses and donkeys carrying sacks of rations and provisions for the isolated people of these valleys. Here was, on fact, the lifeline of these marooned places.
We at last got to Barahotar, the great meeting point where all the diverse feeding nullahs of the Dor become one, forming into the river of that name. Moreover, it was also the end point of the highroad from Abbottabad (the main city which feeds these areas.) Here was the typical hubbub of a busy market place - goods arriving from the city being dumped in the stores or getting loaded onto the animals for transportation to the inaccessible valleys (like Malsa), lines of Suzuki’s, vans and pickups honking at the 'adda.' Well, the shadows of the day had already lengthened and the sight of the Suzuki’s had awakened the demons of temptation in us. "Not a step more," someone growled. Shrewd Mehr was looking intently at us and then he chuckled quietly; "No more walks? No more." "You have done your bit. You have already walked twice the normal distance. So, get into the van."
And so we reached the main Abbottabad-Nathiagali road and the van speeded on to Nathia. By the evening, we were united with our good ladies. But the claim of the Chacha of Thandiani still hangs in the balance.