The torrid heat of the plains below was forgotten, as we climbed through thick forests of spruce, beech and pine. Clouds and mist hung low, gray and moist. Freshets of icy water poured down the mossy sides of the ever steeper cliffs girding the road and river. Wet, muddy and unstable, the road grew more perilous as we progressed. Each hairpin turn menaced either a watery grave in the Jehlum River, or instant pulverization by a hurtling truck or bus.
Road travel seems to be Pakistan's natural form of population control.
It's impossible to close you eyes for a second, even during a 20-hour ride, lest you fail to see your last moments on earth. Screaming at the drivers, who keep their pedals to the floor and horns blaring, is pointless. You cling desperately to the seat back, or straps, brace your battered body, and pray to Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, and the Holy Virgin of Santiago, that you will survive the next mile.