Tucked in the shadows of the Karakoram Mountains in Pakistan’s far north, Hunza Valley is a timeless land of snow-capped peaks, apricot orchards, and ancient beliefs. It also provides the perfect setting for an adventurous family holiday.

Photographs by Kate Eshelby

*Left to right*: Salahuddin, the veteran security guard at Baltit Fort; an apricot orchard.

Cherry trees heavy with blood-red fruit stand out against the snowy peaks of Hunza Valley in Pakistan’s mountainous north. Nearby, steep farm terraces unfold like emerald skirts around the 13th-century Baltit Fort, daubing the surrounding desert with splashes of vibrant color. We’re ushered into the timber-and-stone stronghold by Salahuddin, a veteran security guard with a mustache so long it’s tucked around his ears. Inside, the fort’s walnut woodwork is intricately carved with motifs like breaking waves, solar wheels, and swastikas, evoking Tibetan temples. “This region is nicknamed Little Tibet because of the many similarities we share with our neighbor,” Arman, our guide, explains.

Before the 1947 partition of British India, the territory that became Pakistan was dotted with independent princely states like Hunza, which was ruled by a long line of mirs; Baltit Fort served as their residence until it was abandoned in the 1940s. This area was crucial to Britain during the era of the Great Game as a counter to Russian expansion into Central Asia’s rich trading grounds. Still, the mirs of Hunza retained some autonomy and were able to hang on to their status well after Pakistan’s independence; Hunza and neighboring Nagar remained princely states until 1974, when they became administrative districts of Gilgit-Baltistan, a rugged and starkly beautiful region on the border with China.

I’m exploring Hunza with my husband and two preteen sons. From the fort, we cross a bridge over a river thundering with gunmetal-gray glacial water and continue along shepherd trails to Altit, an even older fort with an imposing watchtower. Stone irrigation channels weave around orchards of peaches, pomegranates, and apricots that cling to the mountain precipices. Later, we make our way back to Karimabad, Hunza’s district capital. Formerly called Baltit, after the fort that looms above it, the sleepy town was renamed in the 1970s for Prince Karim Aga Khan IV, the spiritual leader of the Ismailis who predominate in this region.

The Ismailis are a liberal branch of Shia Islam, which is why in an otherwise conservative country, many ladies in this valley go about with their heads uncovered. “Historically we made apricot wine and arak from mulberries, and still do secretly!” Arman smiles. Ismailis also contribute significantly to social development here through the Aga Khan Development Network. Many well-regarded schools have been built, and they’ve spearheaded the restoration of cultural heritage sites, including the two forts. The AKDN also owns the recently opened Hunza Serena Hotel, our base for a few nights.

We eat our meals on the hotel’s terrace accompanied by jaw-dropping mountain views: majestic Rakaposhi; the sharp spire of Bublimotin, or Ladyfinger Peak; pyramidal Spanik. Closer to earth, poplars rise from the fields like pencils of green. During our stay, men are still working on the hotel’s infinity pool and gardens, but once finished, they’ll blend seamlessly into the landscape: the curl of the Hunza River below, and a wilderness of rock above, capped by some of the tallest mountains on the planet.

Geologically this area is a cauldron of cataclysmic activity; millions of years ago, the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates smashed together, throwing up three of the world’s highest ranges: the Karakoram, Himalayas, and Hindu Kush. While India’s eastern Himalayas are cloaked in subtropical rainforest, this western expanse presents a stark contrast—rocky and elemental in its bareness, with high-altitude deserts. “During the summer, India is drenched by the monsoon, but here the Karakoram creates a rain-shadow effect,” Arman explains.

Getting to this corner of Pakistan is an adventure in itself. We flew from Islamabad to Skardu, a tiny airport haloed by snowy mountains—only specially trained pilots are certified to make the challenging landing. From there it was an eight-hour drive along the Karakoram Highway, one of the world’s highest paved roads. The zigzagging route follows a leg of the ancient Silk Road to the Hunza Valley, a once-isolated land often romanticized as the inspiration for James Hilton’s Shangri-La, the Himalayan utopia depicted in his 1933 novel Lost Horizon. Despite the inevitable changes since the highway opened the area up, untouched corners remain, and locals still believe their apricots (there are over 48 different varieties) bring longevity.

Another day we meander up through woods and villages to the Ghulkin Glacier, stopping at a tiny café — a simple wooden room with rustic tables and chairs—for fresh apricot juice, sweet and pulpy; then buckwheat pancakes slathered in homemade mulberry jam, followed by tea brewed from sea buckthorn leaves. Our walk continues among wild roses, willow and walnut trees, and fruit orchards. Lavender cascades over dry stone walls. Round bowls of apricots have been left to dry on flat rooftops, like tiny orange suns. Everywhere the people are so friendly, emerging from their homes to offer handfuls of fruit.

*Left to right*: Local lunch of mulberry jam, traditional pancakes, and apricot oil; a woman in Hunza Valley.

Eventually we reach the glacier, a gigantic icy tongue with huge boulders scattered across it. Pakistan has more glaciers than anywhere else on earth outside the polar regions. Archipelagos of ice rise like slumbering dragons from the moraine. We clamber beside glacial waterfalls and streams of crystal-clear water, which snake over the frozen surface in turquoise rivulets. “Stay near me,” Arman warns, aware of concealed crevasses. Our sons enjoy carving their own seats in the ice with Arman’s ax, savoring the coolness after the hot walk.

The following day, we brave the Hussaini Hanging Bridge, a wood-and-wire affair suspended above the Hunza River. The boys are thrilled by the precarious crossing—and even more so by their ride back on the adjacent zipline. Upriver in the village of Passu, we also enjoy one of our favorite meals of the trip at the Yak Grill, which serves yak burgers with fries made from local potatoes. “We wanted to prepare indigenous food in a new way,” Tariq Ali, the manager, tells us as we admire the views of the Passu Cones, a series of pointed peaks that tower above the Karakoram Highway to our north.

The reality on the ground is very different from how the media typically portrays Pakistan. Despite public opinion, this part of the country is safe. “The crime rate is almost zero in Gilgit-Baltistan,” Arman confirms. When I ask him about the absence of visible poverty, he adds, “Here, everyone has work and their own land so they can grow enough food for their families.” Yet it’s the tumultuous politics that lets the country down. Almost everyone tells us that Pakistan’s only good prime minister was the cricket legend Imran Khan, who cracked down on corruption before being controversially thrown in prison.

Hunza is a place where the mountains hide treasures: raspberry-red rubies, garnet, purple amethyst, and emeralds glitter beneath the rugged terrain. The locals play their own lively version of polo with informal rules and no referees. And brightly painted Bedford trucks ride the roads like fairgrounds on wheels, adorned with black cloth talismans—believed to ward off the evil eye—that flare out wildly in the wind, like the skirts of whirling dervishes.

A goat pen in the high meadows of Chapursan.

In search of further adventure, we move on early one morning to Chapursan, a less-visited valley in Upper Hunza, close to the borderlands of Afghanistan and China’s Xinjiang region. Toward the end of the four-hour journey the road—accessible only by 4×4—narrows alarmingly as it traces sheer cliffs that drop straight down to a churning river.

Up here, commercialization is left behind: there are no restaurants, guesthouses, or tourist facilities Instead, the landscape is big and wild, with stone shepherd houses and alpine meadows where shaggy yaks graze while our boys jump the rocks in glacial streams. The thrill of plunging into the frigid water becomes a rite of passage. “I feel so alive,” Zac, our eldest, grins, as he leaps quickly out.

We sleep in a former mir’s house, now owned by Karim Raza and his family. The interiors are cozy, with crimson cushions spread across the floor. Sunlight beams through a skylight, dappling carved wooden pillars that nod to traditional Pamiri homes in not-so-far-away Tajikistan. That evening a cloth is laid out and we eat a delicious homecooked meal of chicken, spinach, and rice.

Another day we cross into rural Nagar Valley, Hunza’s quieter neighbor. In the village of Minapin, we stay for three nights at Osho Thang, a guesthouse known for its food: meat pies and stews slow-cooked in stone pots. Outside, villagers in wool caps walk the winding roads carrying baskets of grass or leading cows by rope.

From there we ascend to the Rakaposhi base camp, which sits at an elevation of 3,500 meters. The trek takes us through forests of juniper and pine before opening to a green wonderland. Rakaposhi suddenly appears, diamond bright, and the evening sun illuminates a sea of Himalayan fleece flower. Weather-wise we’re lucky—the sky is clear, and the mountain’s contours are vibrant and pure.

The trail continues past gnarled trees, their limbs leaning toward a glacier that unfurls like a stately carpet. Cows graze serenely in the alpine meadows above us. In this far corner of Pakistan, it seems, Shangri-La lingers.

A view along the Hunza Valley from Karimabad’s Baltit Fort.

How to Do Hunza

GETTING THERE

Pakistan’s flag carrier flies daily from Islamabad to Skardu, from where it’s a six-hour drive to Karimabad.

WHO TO CALL

All travel needs in Pakistan can be arranged by Islamabad-based Waljis, the country’s first and longest-serving travel company, run by the ever-reliable Iqbal Walji. The author’s 12-day trip for a family of four cost about US$5,000, covering all accommodation (including a night of camping at Rakaposhi base camp) and ground transportation.

This article originally appeared in the December 2024/February 2025 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“A Head for Heights”).

High Times in Hunza

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