I had been riding for three days straight when Hunza finally revealed itself.
Not slowly. Not gently. All at once — like someone pulled a curtain off the sky.
The Karakoram Highway had been punishing me for hours. My back ached, my visor was cracked from a stone chip somewhere near Besham, and I hadn’t slept on a proper bed since Rawalpindi. But then the valley opened up, and Rakaposhi — all 7,788 metres of her — stood there like she’d been waiting for me personally. I stopped the bike in the middle of the road. There were no cars. There was no one. Just me, the engine ticking as it cooled, and that mountain.
The Karakoram Highway — Pakistan's Greatest Road
Every rider has that road. The one that ruins all other roads for you. The KKH is mine.
Built over a decade by Pakistani and Chinese workers — thousands of whom lost their lives blasting through mountains — this highway is less a road and more a scar carved through the Karakoram range. Riding it feels almost disrespectful to the scale of what’s around you. You’re a speck. Your motorcycle is a smaller speck. And the mountains simply don’t care.
I’d left Lahore four days earlier with a tank bag, a sleeping roll, and the kind of nervous energy that only comes from doing something you know will change you. By the time I crossed Gilgit and pushed north toward Hunza, that nervousness had transformed into something quieter. Reverence, maybe.
Karimabad — The Town That Feeds You Without Asking
Pull into Karimabad on a motorcycle and you are immediately adopted.
I parked near the old Baltit Fort and before I could even take off my helmet, a man named Muzaffar was asking me where I’d come from and whether I’d eaten. I hadn’t. Twenty minutes later I was sitting on a rooftop with a bowl of diram phitti — a Hunza bread dish — and Muzaffar’s entire extended family asking me questions about Lahore.
Hunza people have a relationship with strangers that the rest of the world has forgotten. You are not a tourist here. You are a guest. There’s a difference.
The fort itself is worth the entire journey. Built in the 9th century, it sits above the valley like a crown, and from its upper terraces you can see both Ultar Sar and Rakaposhi at the same time. I sat up there for two hours. Didn’t take a single photo for the first hour. Some things need to be seen with your eyes before they’re seen through a lens.
Eagle's Nest — The Ride That Made Me Cry
I’ll admit it. I cried.
The dirt track up to Eagle’s Nest is not for the faint-hearted. It’s steep, loose-gravelled, and narrow enough that two motorcycles cannot pass each other. I nearly dropped the bike twice. But the top — the top is something else entirely.
From Eagle’s Nest, you see Hunza Valley the way a bird sees it. The silver thread of the river below. The apricot orchards glowing gold in October. The Passu Cones on one side, Rakaposhi dominating the south, and Ultar Sar so close it feels like you could lean your ladder against it.
I don’t know if it was the altitude, or the exhaustion, or just the accumulated weight of everything I’d ridden through to get there. But sitting on that ridge at sunset, I felt something release in my chest. Like a breath I’d been holding since Lahore.
Practical Notes for Riders
- Best time to ride: May–October. The KKH at Attabad can be icy and dangerous after October.
- Fuel up in Gilgit — pumps get sparse. Carry at least 5 litres extra.
- The road from Gilgit to Karimabad is mostly paved but has stretches of gravel near Nomal. Take it slow.
- Altitude note: Hunza sits around 2,400m. If you’re coming from the plains, give yourself a day to adjust before doing the Eagle’s Nest climb.
- Stay at: Hunza Serena or Old Hunza Inn for budget — but honestly, any rooftop guesthouse in Karimabad will give you a view that costs a fortune elsewhere in the world.
The Return
I stayed four days. I’d planned for two.
That’s the thing about Hunza. You come for the mountains and you stay for the people. I left with a bag full of dried apricots that Muzaffar’s wife insisted I take, a memory card full of photographs, and the quiet certainty that I would be back.
The KKH south felt different on the return ride. Familiar, somehow. Like a road that already knew me.
I’ve ridden a lot of Pakistan since that first trip north. But Hunza was where I understood — really understood — why I ride.
Some roads take you somewhere. Some roads take you back to yourself.