Warwan Valley Kishtwar | Trek to Alpine Lakes of Warwan

Warwan Valley Kishtwar | Trek to Alpine Lakes of Warwan
Ashes, Blood, and Alpine Lakes”

The day began like any other, but what followed was nothing ordinary—it was madness, a raw battle between man and mountain.

At dawn, our team rolled into Afte village, eyes sharp, hearts pounding with the unknown that lay ahead. At 8:15 a.m., the first step was taken—quiet, almost innocent. The trail warmed us for 4.5 km to Kuzaz hamlet, a village carved from dreams. There, Mr. Shaan Abid, a kind local teacher, poured us tea and doubts. His words struck like thunder—“In a single day? Impossible.”

Impossible? The word stung. The fire inside us hissed louder: Watch us.

From that moment, the trek was no longer a journey—it became a duel.

The mountains wasted no time. Floods and cloudbursts had torn the land apart. Landslides sprawled across our path like monstrous barricades. Every step was a gamble, every slip could mean the end. By the time we clawed through the rubble, the rocks changed the game—slippery, loose, cruel. Walking felt like dancing with knives, balancing between control and collapse.

Nine kilometers in, our lungs were begging, our legs whispering rebellion. A short break, a sip of tea, a smile forced through exhaustion. None of us knew—the mountain was sharpening her claws for the real fight.

Then came the illusion. A distant glimpse, a false pass—it tricked our eyes, toyed with our hope. What looked like the end was only the beginning. Maps laughed at us, showing miles yet to go. What followed was a triple execution—three passes, one after another, each more merciless than the last.

By the time we staggered onto the final ridge at 4,264 meters, we were shells of ourselves. Blood roaring in our heads, oxygen slipping away, hearts like war drums. Quit? The thought slithered in. But pride was louder. Pride and the madness to prove the impossible wrong.

We pushed. We broke. We rose again. From ashes, from agony, from the hollow spaces where strength had died. And finally—there it was. An alpine lake so wild, so untamed, with glaciers and peaks guarding it like the throne of the Greater Himalayas. For a moment, the pain vanished. We had won—or so we thought.

But the mountain wasn’t finished. She had one last monster—Kralsar Lake at 4,380 meters. Seventeen and a half kilometers already behind us, we were half-dead, torn between turning back or stepping into madness.

“Quit now?” one of us asked.
“Not after coming this far,” came the answer.

That was it. No turning back.

Every step to Kralsar was a war. Legs trembling like shattered steel, arms numb, lungs tearing apart. I felt myself slipping into delirium, walking in some dream where poets whispered, “This is your moment. Climb. Climb, or die trying.”

And then—there it was. Kralsar. The lake rose before us, carved in ice and silence. In that instant, it felt as if the mountains themselves applauded, their glaciers clapping thunder, their winds singing. We had bled for this moment—and we had arrived.

But no time to rest. Darkness was crawling closer. The descent would be our final race. We ran—yes, ran—on shredded legs, broken lungs, and sheer madness. Every ridge was a blur, every stone a knife. We ran like hunted men, like Olympians with death at their heels.

By the time Afte appeared in the twilight, we were wrecked, empty, finished. No crowd, no applause, no garlands. Only silence. Only aching muscles and fire in our chests.

But inside us? Victory. A victory louder than cheers, brighter than medals. Yesterday, we didn’t just trek—we fought the impossible, and we won.
#mountains #mirdaniyal #warwanvalley #kuzuz #mountaingoat