P eshawar was in heavy rain. Next day I caught the train up the Khyber Pass to Landi Kotal, but floods halted it at Jamrud, the beginning of the pass. While waiting, I chatted with the engine's crew who offered me a lift back in the steam locomotive, handing over the controls but taking them back before we crossed the airport runway.

The floods having cut the bridge towards Swat, the bus simply got on the line and crossed the railway bridge. By evening we'd reached Kalam, at the head of the valley, a small place of wooden mosques and totem-like headstones. Motorable tracks advanced a little further, but beyond was trekking country. It was a rugged landscape above orchards of walnuts and apricots, ripe apples being harvested, green rushing torrents and snow peaks. The local men wore salwar-kameez, round felt hats, tough sandals; most shouldered rifles, bandoliers of bullets. Kalam had a cheap doss house, an air of romance. I hung around, took day walks up other valleys, once returning with a ragged teenager wanting 2 rupees for a bus fare. I gave him one – he could find the other. He produced a Beretta pistol, well-greased. “500 rupees?” “No thanks!”

I wanted to go further, but not alone. Then Johann turned up. Austrian, in his early twenties, keen to explore, he was used to mountains. We walked to Utrot, bigger than Kalam with more guns, where a dark German with a flared, Nureyev nose ran a food joint, then, next day, towards Gabral. Older men were discouraging. There were dacoits, the people ahead were 'jangli admi' – wild men. We decided to head up Ushu valley instead, cross the high pass then descend towards Chitral. A tough trek; I worried him, being ten years older. He worried me in not wanting to carry food. It might be a week.

Johnann bought fishing line and hooks. We set off, mapless and unarmed in that land of guns, through resinous conifers, past fields of maize and potatoes ripped away by floods. The womenfolk, boasting many plaits, were not too strict about purdah. Men were restoring the track. A crazy boy briefly joined us, always smiling, distracted eyes, throwing aimless stones. Ushu, six miles on, had a tea-house run by a smart, Urdu-speaking kid. We felt naked amongst a clientele bearing rifles or shotguns. I was finding it hard to keep up with Johann. Perhaps he was right. We overtook four men heavily laden with tobacco bound for a village three days ahead, then passed three more porters, feet bandaged in rags, carrying rock salt. One complained of a sore toe, once broken and badly set. I dressed it. Later, they passed us and he wanted medicines for his eye, back, tooth.

At Matelthan, the last chance of food, I bought dry roti, onions and raw sugar. Johann still refused. Beyond lay occasional drifts of stagnant snow. A woman bore her load on the aluminium frame of some foreigner's rucksack. By evening, the valley deserted, we halted in a group of roofless huts and Johann went fishing. It was growing dark when I joined him. Fishless, under bright moonlight we shared a joint.