1.Somewhere in a finger-shaped corner of Afghanistan called the Wakhan Corridor, in the dusty warmth
1.Somewhere in a finger-shaped corner of Afghanistan called the Wakhan Corridor, in the dusty warmth of August, I am trekking as slowly as time seems to be moving. A plateau stretches into a distant horizon of vast peaks, as the alpine sun, intense at this elevation, bears down mercilessly. My hands, the only body parts that aren’t covered, are dark and dry, the texture of crinkly paper. My back is searing from an ill-fitting backpack. My calves burn. My right heel, inflamed by tendonitis, forces me into a somewhat staggered, unwieldy gait.The insides of my stomach occasionally lurch and wriggle from whatever dodgy meat or silty mountain water I had imbibed in prior days, each passing wave of panic producing frantic dashes toward the nearest clump of boulders. I feel heavy and listless, hungry, and angry at having fallen so behind in my group, a caravan of intrepid hikers blazing up and down the steep hillsides ahead. It is mid morning — still only the beginning of our day, really — yet there is far more distance to cover before we can rest, and I’m fighting with myself whether I’m capable of any more steps, much less five or ten-thousand more. -- source link
#travel#photography#nature#wakhan#central asia#alpine#mountains#adventure