A Saturday in Galiyat Pakistan

The morning light filtered through the small gap in the curtains, painting the walls of my top-floor room in a soft, ethereal gold. It was a Saturday, and the world outside my window in Dunga Gali was waking up in the crisp, clean air of the Galiyat hills. The quiet hum of the mountains was a perfect counterpoint to the distant rumble of a car on the winding road below. I stretched, my body unclenching from the night's rest, feeling as though I had woken up inside a forgotten postcard.

Breakfast was a simple, yet perfect ritual: a bowl of grilled chicken salad dotted with boiled eggs. The flavors were fresh and clean, a wholesome start that felt right for the day I had planned. Afterwards, I got dressed, choosing my clothes with the careful consideration of someone preparing for an adventure. An olive shirt, a pair of black tights for comfort and warmth, and finally, a bright red cardigan that felt like a burst of defiance against the earthy tones of the landscape. It was a small act of self-expression before I stepped out into the quiet grandeur of the hills.

The hotel was tucked right in the heart of the Dunga Gali bazaar, so the walk to the famous Pipeline Track was short. As I neared the entrance, I saw the ticket booth. The attendant looked up, his expression a familiar mixture of curiosity and practiced indifference. I offered a quick, practiced smile. "Salam," I said, "I'm local." The words slipped out easily, a small fib to save myself the inflated tourist fare. He nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips, and waved me through. Just past the booth, an old man in a traditional waistcoat, a guide, approached me with a question on his lips. I shook my head gently before he could even finish. "Thank you," I said, "but I know my way." A small rebellion against the need for guidance, for companionship, when all I really wanted was the solace of my own thoughts.

The path was alive with people. There were families with excited children pointing at birds, groups of young boys and girls from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Punjab, their laughter echoing through the trees, and older men walking with purpose. The air was filled with a rich tapestry of dialects. Small tuck shops were dotted along the way, their wares priced for the unwary tourist. I smiled, walking past the small tables overflowing with overpriced snacks and drinks. My own bag held a bottle of water and a granola bar; I was prepared.

I walked for a good while, the chatter of the crowd and the rustle of leaves becoming a gentle, constant soundtrack. Then, I saw a small, secluded table to the side of the path, perfectly positioned to overlook the valley. I sat down alone, a quiet observer of the passing world. The view was spectacular. A deep stillness settled over me, a moment of profound peace where the laughter of strangers and the whisper of the wind were all part of a single, harmonious whole. I let my mind drift, enjoying the simple act of existing in such a beautiful place.

After about an hour of walking, I decided to turn back. The sunlight was slanting differently now, and a cool breeze had picked up. The entire place was beginning to take on the hues of late afternoon, a gentle, melancholy beauty. There were definite autumn vibes in the air; a few trees were already turning from deep green to a soft, burnished gold. I came across one spot where the trees formed a perfect arch, a tunnel of dappled light and shadow. The place was utterly silent, a pocket of stillness on a bustling trail. I stopped, pulling out my phone to capture the moment. The video would serve as a reminder of this rare silence, a memory of a perfect quiet.

On my way back, I passed the groups I had seen earlier. Families were now on their way out, their energy a bit lower, but still humming with the joy of the walk. Other people were still on their way in, fresh and full of anticipation, buying their tickets with excitement. It felt like I had experienced a full cycle of the day on that trail, from the bustling morning to the quiet afternoon.

As I neared the hotel, a thick, cool fog began to roll in, swallowing the hills and trees in a soft, milky embrace. It clung to the air, making everything feel hushed and mysterious. The wind picked up, a rush of cool air that tugged at my hair and made me pull my red cardigan tighter. I stood outside my hotel, watching the clouds and fog merge into one, a solitary figure in a moving landscape. With my arms folded across my chest, I took one last, deep breath of the mountain air before finally turning and stepping back inside, into the quiet warmth of my room. The bed was a welcome sight, promising the sweet release of rest. My brief but perfect escape was complete.