As a feat of engineering, the Karakoram Highway is a triumph of man over nature (at least temporarily). It is the highest paved international road in the world, and follows a network of ancient trade routes linking Kashgar with the Pakistani capital, Islamabad. Along the way it crosses the Khunjerab Pass (4800m), otherwise known as the "Valley of Blood" - a reference to local bandits who took advantage of the terrain to plunder caravans and slaughter merchants. More blood was spilt during the 20 years it took to push level and blast the present 1300km highway through the mountains: over 400 road-builders died, and it didn't take me more than a few hours in my hired taxi to see why. 

Lake Karakul is located in the snappily named Kizilsu Kirgiz Autonomous Prefecture, and my Uyghur cabbie informed me it would be a five hour ride from Kashgar. Leaving the city, the imposing, snow-capped Pamir Mountains quickly swung into view, like silent sentinels guarding a hidden kingdom. After an hour barreling down an unmade road we halted at the village of Upal, taking a breather to inspect an interesting local cemetery behind the tomb of Mahmud Al-Kashgari. As I made my way between the multitude of crumbling, earthen headstones, I realized that this was the first proper graveyard I had seen in China, slowly merging with its surroundings as it suffered the vagaries of time and weather.

Continuing from Upal the highway began to climb, and the surrounding geology became increasingly spectacular. Flanking the road were massive sandstone cliffs, long-eroded and twisted by unseen natural forces. The subtle red, black and grey shades of these impressive rock formations were incredibly beautiful, and I found myself apologizing to the driver for incessant photo stops. Passing through the border checkpoint at Ghez, the road became even steeper, and the air noticeably cooler and moister. Gushing mountain torrents cascaded from mist-shrouded slopes to accompany the road, and huge boulders balanced precariously above us on overhanging crags.

As the road leveled out at the top of the incline, we entered a world of crystal clear pools and lakes, sweeping dunes and boulder-strewn plains, ringed by snowy peaks wreathed in heavy cloud. The highway was being reconstructed here, and camels and yaks vied with earth-moving equipment for space next to makeshift roadside dwellings. Clutching the wheel with one hand, my driver pointed out the twin summits of Kongur Shan (7719m) and Muztagh Ata (7546m), which cradle Lake Karakul in their vastness, and give the area a stunning backdrop.

Enclosed by ice mountains, the still, translucent waters of Lake Karakul (literally "black water" in Kyrgyz) reflected their surroundings with startling clarity. Like a slow-moving film, the color of the water mirrored the sky above, bright blue and aquamarine hues merging with somber greys as dark cumulus scudded overhead. Spurning the overly commercial lakeside yurts, I made my way to a nearby Kyrgyz village, seeking accommodation. The ancestors of the Kyrgyz were probably European, and the fair skin and blue eyes of the villagers who took me in was initially quite startling. Subash enjoys the luxury of part-time electricity, and most inhabitants make their living from animal husbandry and the occasional sale of trinkets, jewelry and rugs to passing tourists.

The spartan nature of my mud-brick living quarters was easily offset by the genuine warmth of my hosts, and every villager was keen to meet and greet me, despite the general lack of a common language. After an undisturbed afternoon's lakeside horse riding, a night spent chatting and sipping yak butter tea with these delightful people was a fitting climax to my journey. Despite the changes that this region will undoubtedly undergo in the near future, I came away hoping that this special and remote corner of China would remain undeveloped for years to come.

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