Pamir Highway: Family Reunion on the Roof of the World
After more than a year apart, the four of us finally found ourselves back together—somewhere between the soaring peaks of Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. Our daughter Martha had flown in from Canada, and our son Robbie joined us after ten months immersed in the language and landscapes of Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, where he’d been learning Russian. We could have met somewhere simple, all-inclusive and sunny—but we decided on the Pamir Highway: wild, remote, rugged. And unforgettable.
From Dushanbe to Osh, the ten-day journey was everything I’d hoped for and more: a photographer’s dream, an adventure-lover’s paradise, and a profound cultural experience carved into the high-altitude dust of the Pamirs.
Pamir Highway journey begins
We kicked off in Dushanbe, weaving through Soviet-style boulevards and market chaos before leaving the city behind and heading up up up. By the time we reached Kalai Khum, the road had already hugged the edge of sheer drops, snaked along the powerful Panj River, and given us our first glimpse across the border into Afghanistan.
And that border would be our near-constant companion for the next five days. The Panj River, often no wider than a village street but surging with vast peaks and troughs of white water, was the only divide from Afghan villages, mosques and farms.
At times, we were so close we could see washerwomen beating clothes on stones, children playing between mud homes, and once—slightly alarmingly—a group of Taliban racing along in their Toyota Hilux with a mounted machine gun manned on the back. Yet it never felt threatening – they paid us no notice and our irrepressible guide Mirzo was probably related to them anyway!
Into the Bartang Valley
The hike to Jizev in the Bartang Valley was one of the standout moments. We turned off the Pamir Highway and drove 20km to the cable footbridge crossing of the Bartang River. After a nail-biting traverse, we climbed a narrow trail, along a thin ribbon of lush vegetation that followed a stream. On reaching a small plateau of tiny paddies and miniature irrigation channels, we were welcomed with fresh bread, salty milk tea, and warm smiles by Gulsha and his family. Their home was a mix of rough mud walls and beautifully intricate timber interiors—centuries-old constructions that could be easily be dismissed as mud huts if we hadn’t ventured past the threshold.
Gulsha shared stories from his childhood, including a dramatic memory of a snow leopard and an ibex, locked in battle and tumbling together to their deaths off a cliff. The scene, even retold years later, gave me chills. In fact, maybe that was just down to the icy swim I’d had in the river before dinner.
Hot Springs and Cold Roads
Another unexpected highlight: the Bibi Fatima hot springs, named after the Prophet Muhammad’s daughter. Tucked into the hillside, they’re modest on the outside but magical within. I followed the local custom—ducked beneath the steamy surface into a small cave, scooped pebbles from the bottom, and silently made a wish for our family’s health and happiness. Whether or not the legend holds true, the sense of quiet peace in that moment is something I’ll always treasure.
Food on the journey was, shall we say, functional. Hearty soups, meat-heavy stews, and endless rounds of flatbreads from the tandoor kept us going. But what the food lacked, the people more than made up for. Their generosity, hospitality, and sheer resilience left a lasting impression.
Guardian in the Mountains
In Bulunkul, one of the coldest inhabited places in Central Asia, we met Gor, a mountain dog of immense strength and stature. This wasn’t a pet, but a working guardian of sheep and goats—his job: fighting off wolves in the high pastures. Built like a bear, with a calm, noble presence, Gor was both protector and beloved member of the family. Watching him stride around the village like a silent sentinel was a reminder of how life in the mountains demands both power and loyalty.
From the Roof of the World
Our guide and driver, Mirzo, was a revelation. Equally at ease navigating the disintegrating roads, mountain passes (the Ak-Baital Pass is 4,655 m), negotiating with checkpoint soldiers, and chatting with elders in isolated villages, he seemed to know everyone. There were regular checkpoints —some official, some improvised—but Mirzo’s charm, confidence and a fist full of Somoni, ensured we were always waved through with a smile or a nod.
The views along the Pamir Highway defy description. From the turquoise shimmer of Yashilkul to the meteorite-formed beauty of Karakul, from the stark lunar landscape of Murghab to the icy stillness of Tolparkul, the landscape changed constantly but never became familiar. You can never get used to that kind of scale.
And then there were the mountains: the Hindu Kush, the Kara Khoram, the massive Lenin and Engels Peaks rising over 7,000 metres. These were not postcard views—they were visceral and slightly terrifying in their scale. Unfortunately, we never saw the Vladimir Putin Peak nor the Boris Yeltsin Peak.
Language, Laughter and Translation
Having Robbie along was a game-changer. His Russian helped unlock stories, navigate markets, and smooth interactions with everyone from bazar vendors to checkpoint guards. But I was surprised how far I managed to get with a mix of Google Translate and hand gestures. I had great conversations with various taxi drivers and market stallholders about Scottish independence, the latest signing at Man City, and even variations in UK rainfall. These chats were some of my favourites and always ended with warm handshakes and golden toothed smiles.
Final Days and Farewells
A late spring snowfall sent the temperature plunging to -10C at Tolparkul and scuppered our plans for a hike up to Lenin Peak base camp. But instead, we had the chance to ride horses through a stunning frozen valley. The views of Lenin Peak were majestic, and the silence of the landscape was broken only by the wind and the soft sound of the horses’ hooves on snow.
The trip ended in Osh, a historic Silk Road city in Kyrgyzstan, bustling and noisy after the silence of the high mountains. We had said goodbye to Mirzo at the border, said our thank-yous in Tajik, Kyrgyz, Russian, and English, and began the next stage of our journey—heads full of memories, memory cards full of pictures, and hearts full from the love of shared adventure.
Say Yes to the wild road
If you’re a photographer, an adventurer, a seeker of stories and connections—or simply someone looking for a deeper kind of travel—don’t let the remoteness of the Pamir Highway deter you. You don’t need a Russian speaker to make it possible (though Robbie was worth his weight in plov). You just need curiosity, patience, and a willingness to go with the flow.
This was not just a holiday. It was a reunion in the mountains, a cultural deep dive, and a sack of memories to last a lifetime.
Thanks to Khudoguy @Roof of the World Travel for organising the trip, Caravanistan for a wealth of information when planning and to Mirzo for driving and guiding.
Pictures by us all: me with Fuji x100vi and iPhone 16pro, Martha with Fuji X-M5, Robbie with Sony RX100M6, Anna with iPhone 15.
See more of my travel photography here.