The Gilgit Road and Burzil Pass, 1920s
The last rush of packing over, we boarded a small houseboat at the ghat, or landing stage, and began our long journey with a peaceful ride down the Jhelum River…
From: 1927 C.E. To: 1927 C.E.
From Across Asia’s Snows and Deserts by William J. Morden, 1927.
The last rush of packing over, we boarded a small houseboat at the ghat, or landing stage, and began our long journey with a peaceful ride down the Jhelum River through Srinagar, the charming old capital of Kashmir. On the banks, ancient houses leaned crazily in every direction, their sod roofs green with long grass and bright with occasional blossoms. Picturesque bits of native life on the river and at the many landing stages caught our eyes as our dunga glided slowly by, while tradesmen came alongside in their little craft, hopeful of a last sale.
We left Srinagar behind us at last, and floated down the still river on a gorgeous moon-lit night, with distant ranges showing dimly white and occasional Kashmiri songs sounding plaintively from the dark shores. In the morning we were not far from the end of the first stage.
Bandipur, a small village at the far side of Wular Lake, was to be our actual jumping-off place, and it was there that our first coolies were engaged. At the Engineer's bungalow we against sorted loads, for it was found that the silver, or “hard money,” which it had been necessary to bring in order to pay for local transport and supplies, weighed an even one hundred and twenty pounds. The stowing of this in various boxes brought their weight above the limit of sixty pounds each, so shifts of stores and equipment had to be made to care for the additional weight.
After May fifteenth, the official opening date for the Gilgit route, rates for coolie hire are fixed by the Kashmir Government, but as we were starting a month and a half before that time, we had to make our own arrangements with the coolies. We had been told at Srinagar that there might be difficulty in persuading men to attempt the crossing of the passes so early in the season, but when it was known at Bandipur that we needed transport, a mob of fully a hundred and fifty presented themselves. They crowded onto the verandah of the bungalow and several times we were forced to clear the place before the necessary sixty could be picked. Eventually all loads were assigned and we were able to start. Tragbal, four thousand feet above Bandipur, was reached after a stiff climb of six hours, during which we found ourselves even softer than we had supposed.
Although known officially as the “Gilgit Road,” no wheeled vehicle has ever traversed the winding pony trail which leads over the Himalaya from Kashmir to Gilgit. The road is maintained by the Kashmir Government and over it are transported, in summer, all the supplies for the small garrisons in Gilgit. During winter the route is closed to travel and only hardy dak-runners, or mail-carriers, brave the storms of the passes. At each stage along the route the Government has built rest houses, and these small stone buildings are a great help. They are sturdy shelters where one may have fire and rest after the day’s hard work.
The Tragbal, or Razdhainangan, is the first pass encountered on a northward journey from Kashmir and it is a very easy one in summer, for then a wide pony trail leads by easy grades over grassy hills to the summit. Early in the season, however, the winter trail follows the telegraph line straight up mountain sides and across great snow fields which present difficulties to test the endurance of the most hardy traveller.
The usual footgear for crossing snow-passes, used by natives and “sahibs” alike, are the Kashmiri grass-shoes, ingenious sandal-like affairs made of rice straw twisted into ropes. Natives often wear them over bare feet, but less hardened travellers first put on a pair of specially made, light woollen socks, then a pair of quilted woollen shoes; both socks and shoes have the big toes separated from the others and strands of the grass rope pass between them. At first their strangeness makes one a bit awkward but as soon as confidence is gained, grass-shoes are excellent footgear on snow and rocks.
It was two thirty on a beautifully clear morning when we started upward from Tragbal rest house.
A full moon illuminated every object and threw the tall spruces into deep shadows; neighboring peaks stood out, clear-cut and silvery, and one could even look down into the Vale of Kashmir, where Wular Lake was dimly outlined in the moonlight.
Our coolies had started a few minutes ahead of us, but we soon passed them resting in small groups. Kashmiri coolies carry T-shaped sticks on which they support their packs when resting, a device which obviates the necessity of sitting down dining short halts, with the attendant effort of getting to their feet. Our men took frequent rests in this manner.
There was a path of sorts, which had been made through the drifts by the dak-runners, but it was narrow and difficult to follow. We found we had to keep our eyes constantly on the trail; even a glance aside while walking was apt to plunge us into deep snow. It was hard work, for the usual stride of the Kashmiri coolie is very short, and the packed trail was so rough that one had to step exactly in the frozen footprints or the labor was fully doubled. Though the temperature was low when we started, the air was quiet, but as we neared the top a biting wind made it necessary to protect our fingers and ears. The summit of the Tragbal by the winter trail is somewhat higher than the 11,586 feet of the pony road and is quite enough to make hard work for men fresh from the plains.
Dawn came as we neared the top and a glorious spectacle made us pause. Southward, beyond the Vale of Kashmir, rose the peaks of the Pir Panjal and Kajnag ranges, all pink and lavender, while deep purple shadows showed where the valleys lay. Haramok, a jagged rock mass to the east, stood boldly outlined against the sunrise, with rays of light striking across the sky above it. We stood lost in admiration for several minutes, until the approach of the sun warned us to don our snow glasses and continue if we did not want exceedingly hard work after the snow had softened.
Beyond the summit a steep descent to a partly snow-covered valley brought us to Koragbal rest house, fifteen miles from Tragbal. We were quite content not to be forced to go farther that day.
When we awoke next morning it was snowing hard, so our start was delayed until daybreak. The fourteen-mile march to Gurais was for much of the way through snow three feet deep, and as it was soft, it was again necessary to follow in the footsteps of those ahead.
In places there were slides and drifts across the trail and where there was no snow, the mud was deep and very slippery. Our feet were constantly chilled, for the muddy water went through the woollen socks under the grass-shoes and thoroughly soaked them. It was interesting to note, however, that our feet warmed up when we again struck snow, probably because the snow was not wet enough to penetrate the wool and our feet warmed the moisture already in the socks.
Coolie transport on the Gilgit Road is hired for from one to three stages only, so at Gurais we paid off our Bandipur men and obtained new ones for the onward journey. The new men were all stindy looking chaps who were to go with us beyond the Burzil.
In March and April the famous Burzil is one of the most dreaded passes of Asia and thoroughly deserves its reputation. Over thirteen thousand feet in height, the approach to it is up a valley where the mountain sides are perfectly formed for avalanches.
These are even more dangerous on the approach than on the Pass itself, for the steep heights above start small snow slides which gather volume and momentum as they descend. In the few moments it takes these cascades of ice and snow to reach the valley, they become irresistible, and carry everything before them. To avoid this danger as much as possible, it is necessary to start at night and travel rapidly before the sun’s warmth has loosened the threatening masses of snow on the mountains. Besides avalanches, sudden snow-storms, accompanied by violent icy winds, are of common occurrence on the Burzil in spring.
All travellers venturing across the Burzil before the middle of May are warned that they do so at their own risk. We were told in Srinagar that our caravan of coolies would probably not be able to cross for several weeks, but we hoped that by the time we reached the Burzil, after four days from Bandipur, we might be able to take advantage of a bit of fair weather and make our way over the Pass.
The weather remained unfavorable, however, and at Peshwari we were faced with the prospect of having to remain until the storm ceased. From Peshwari to Burzil Chauki at the foot of the Burzil Pass there is great danger from avalanches, and the march can only be made in good weather. When we went to bed at Peshwari there seemed little chance of our getting away for several days. At two o’clock, however, a light wind drove away the clouds and the temperature dropped, which made a start possible.
From Peshwari to Burzil Chauki, though but eleven miles, was a hard day’s work, for the snow was deep and soft and the grade constantly stiffened. At Minimarg, a little telegraph station and post-office just half way, the Burzil valley turned sharply north and widened to about eight hundred yards. We crossed many old slides both before and after Minimarg and were constantly urged onward by our guides, for as I have said, the approach to the Burzil is one of the most dangerous parts of the route. For the last five miles the reflection of the sun from unbroken expanses of snow burned our faces badly, and though the air was still cold, we found it very hot work. We were glad to reach the rest house at Burzil Chauki a little after midday.
Three o’clock the next morning saw us plodding upward by lantern light. The Burzil Pass, which begins just above the rest house, is a long narrow valley between steep mountain sides, where snow accumulates to great depths. Owing to storms, dak-runners had not crossed for several days, and though a dim path showed in places, for much of the way there was no trail. Our party was forced to struggle through these deep drifts, which so accentuated the labor of climbing that we had to take turns at breaking trail. A bitterly cold wind blew down the pass and the fine frozen snow stung our faces like tiny needles.
At dawn we passed a little shelter hut, perched on a light steel tower thirty feet above the snow. It was said to be for the use of dak-runners and telegraph repair men, and we were told that when the drifts were gone in summer, the cabin stood over fifty feet from the ground. Snow lay everywhere; only a few rocks near the mountain tops showed bare and bleak.
Just as the sun reached us, we arrived at the summit—13,775 feet—where a small stone hut offers shelter to travellers caught in sudden storms. There Clark discovered that he had frosted two toes rather badly, so we halted while they were well rubbed with snow.
We had hoped to find the mail-carriers’ trail on the north slope but the snow there was even deeper than on the ascent. From the summit we plunged into drifts which were waist-deep and it was very slow, gruelling work to make any progress at all. In the absence of a trail there seemed little choice of routes, so we struck as directly as possible downward.
While resting on the snow we were surprised to see a small butterfly fluttering about. It looked strangely out of place in the Arctic whiteness of the surrounding mountains.
About two miles below the summit we met the upbound dak-runners. There were four men in the party, all Astoris from north of the pass. Three carried heavy bags of mail on their backs, while one man ahead travelled without a load and broke trail for the others. The leader was wearing crude snow-shoes about fifteen inches long, with flat wooden cross ribs to which ordinary grass-shoes were lashed. Though the snow-shoes were ingenious, they looked too small to be any great aid in the soft snow.
After the sun rose, the glare from the snow was blinding. Dark glasses protected our eyes to some extent, but the reflected light burned and blistered our skin until it was very painful. Handkerchiefs tied around our faces helped somewhat, though they caused our glasses to fog so badly we could barely see. For several days after leaving the Burzil, our faces were raw and our lips blistered and cracked.
Near Sirdarkoti, a little rest house at the end of the descent from the Pass, we heard that two of the coolies had given out and we hurriedly dispatched two men back to where a long line of figures could be seen working slowly downward. The two coolies, however, had recovered and came gamely on with their loads. We learned that they had been taken with mountain sickness near the summit and had been very ill for a time. All of the men had been given snow-glasses before starting but some had broken or lost theirs and we had several cases of near snow-blindness.
We had known that we were the first party to cross the Burzil that year but were surprised to learn from the records kept by the chowkidars, or caretakers, of the rest houses, that we were a full month ahead of the first party of the previous year. It is no wonder that officials in Kashmir had advised us to wait, but luck had been with us and we had crossed without mishap.
The deep snow encountered on the Pass had called for such great effort on the part of the coolies that we remained at Sirdarkoti until early the following morning, when we continued on down the widening valley, past the rest house of Chillam, to the small village of Das. Ponies had been sent to meet us at Das and our Gurais coolies were paid off there, while we pushed on to Godhai, another rest house eleven miles beyond.
Although the little ponies of the Himalaya—commonly known as “tats," from the Hindustani tatu or pony—are not much to look at, they carry one hundred and sixty pound loads over rough trails in a most surprising manner. We were very glad to see the little beasts after our steady foot travel, and it was a great joy to be again able to look about without the inevitable misstep. We had passed the great obstacle of the Burzil and, for the present at least, the wintry heights lay behind us.
While riding along the trail about five miles below Godhai, a tremendous mountain showed suddenly above the nearer ridges. Great ice-fields and glaciers gleamed in the sun, with jagged rock-pinnacles protruding through the white. We knew without asking that the giant before us was Nanga Parbat, 26,620 feet in height, and eighth among the mountains of the world.
For awhile the trail wound through a deep gorge which entered the valley of the Astor River a few miles below the village of Gurikot. We saw birds in increasing numbers during the march and identified sparrows, magpies, swallows, hawks and the ubiquitous crow.
At Gurikot the Astor River is crossed by a steel cable suspension bridge. The cables for the bridges along the Gilgit Road, each cable an inch in diameter and fully three hundred feet long, were brought over the passes on the shoulders of hundreds of coolies, strung out along the trail like a great snake. Transport problems such as this make one realize the truly admirable work done by the British engineers who built the difficult Gilgit Road.
From Gurikot Bridge the trail climbed several hundred feet above the valley floor, which was terraced and farmed extensively. Little irrigation ditches ran along the mountain sides, for nowhere inside the main southern range of the Himalaya is rainfall sufficient for agriculture. One little canal was carried across cliffs and around comers in hollowed logs supported by props and pegs let into the rock. It is only by the exercise of constant care and vigilance that any of the districts of Astor, Gilgit, Baltistan, Ladakh, and the little principalities of Hunza and Nagar can support their scanty populations.
The people of Astor are fond of flowers, and in summer almost every man wears a blossom in his cap. The dress of the Astori consists of a long gray woollen coat worn over very baggy trousers, and a tight-fitting round woollen cap with a roll at the bottom. During summer the people all go barefoot. Women invariably run at the approach of strangers. The few we saw were dressed in dark woollen coats and trousers, with head coverings which came down over the shoulders and often had metal ornaments sewn on the front. An Aston’s house is of mud and boulders, with a flat mud roof pierced by a hole which does duty as window and chimney. The lot of these people is not an easy one, but they are better off than their neighbors in Gilgit for the Astor valleys, though small, are not so barren as those further north.
Morden, William J. Across Asia’s Snows and Deserts, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1927.
About TOTA
TOTA.world provides cultural information and sharing across the world to help you explore your Family’s Cultural History and create deep connections with the lives and cultures of your ancestors.
