Night had fallen after some of the most horrific rain I’d ever witnessed. Our old jeep slithered its way up a flooded old Himalayan rock and dirt road, with the whole crew pushing desperately, otherwise we’d be well and truly stranded.
A few more slithers and shoves along and we rumbled into the electricity free darkness of a tiny Himalayan mountain village. Suddenly, a generator fired up, the old half-house-shack was illuminated by a ring of fairy lights strung from a rickety tin roof above an aging sofa suite – welcome to Tarishing!
It’s late July in 1995, and I arrived at Manchester Airport, where I met up with my old friend and legendary mountaineer Doug Scott (RIP), and fellow climbers Sandy Allan and Rick Allen (RIP). Following several sketchy attempts to make a first ascent of the 8,126-meter-high Nanga Parbat by the treacherous Mazeno Ridge, they were heading back to Pakistan try again.
Through sponsorship, the team were to ride Raleigh mountain bikes from Skardu to Tarashing, crossing the high altitude Deosai Plateau. My job was to act as ‘the bike guy’, and to lead this acclimatisation mission on two wheels.
This was my first time in Asia, and it would be fair to say that I was thrown in at the deep end – willingly. This ride of a lifetime was set to have a huge and lifelong lasting impact on me – in countless ways.
I’d already travelled extensively throughout Europe on bike-based adventures, and figured I was already pretty culturally attuned – but several weeks later, I would eventually return home with a very different, unexplainable outlook and appreciation of certain things, that impacted the direction of my own life from then on.
Rough landings
Within a day of arriving in Islamabad, I had the most evil of stomach issues. None stop, both ends… things weren’t going well! The 28-hour twisted road trip by bus along the Karakoram Highway to Skardu didn’t exactly help.
After putting the bikes together, we set off for the long, relentless, and mind-blowing climb up to the plateau, which took two days. Along the way we camped at the roadside to acclimatise for its average 4,100-metre altitude and 5,500-metre highest spot. Riding amongst these bare-faced and graceful giants of mountains was truly humbling. I’d never witnessed anything quite like it – they seemed to tower above and beyond anywhere my cranked and straining neck could see. It really does put you in your place, which is something I’ll never forget.

Be it stormy nights spent under canvas with the Pakistan expedition crew, the humble fireside tales of legendary exploits of old, and of those being made, and others still to come. Maybe it was the soothing evening prayer chants from our local liaison officer echoing across the valleys, the purity of the high-altitude starlight, or the relationships being nurtured, I can’t say for sure, but I now knew where I needed to go in life. In a strange way.
Then came the rain…
All of this already, and yet the adventure was only just about to begin, and take an almighty twist.
As we started to descend from the plateau, the worst monsoons in years struck. Bridges were washed away and mountainsides melted with watery fury, destroying the narrow dirt roads clinging to their sides.
By the time we made it to Tarishing, we were stranded. The road was gone, the bridges were no more, everything had washed away.
There was no electricity, limited generator power, no phones back then, and zero connection to the outside world beyond news shouted across a broken riverbank. To top that, my health situation was now pretty concerning, and I’d lost a whole lot of weight too.
In the days that followed, the crew prepared to leave on foot for Nanga Parbat. I learned so much about different ways of life: from the realities of life as a mountain adventurer, to the near incomprehensible lives and cultures of the high mountain tribal locals.
As the guys walked out of Tarishing bound for Nanga Parbat, and I was unable to continue with them, my heart sank. It was just me and Gullum, a cook, left.

Our aim was to try and get out of the valley. The estimates were that it would be at least two months before we could even risk an attempt to leave. Supplies were crucially low, and so after a week or so, we made the decision to make a dash for it during a dry hour. That escape saw us scrambling over crumbing mountainsides with a bike and kit, crossing ravines and rivers by using fallen trees.
Once we did reach the next town, we took a ride in an aging and bald-tyred jeep along a mountain road, long since closed due to its danger.
As a one-armed, one-eyed and pint-sized man swung from front bumper to bumper to keep the wheels on the trail, I just held tight and waited to jump. After many more hurdles, eventually I made it back to Islamabad.
Tragically, Alison Hargreaves died during this extreme weather on nearby K2. The Mazeno bid also didn’t work out, although in 2012 Sandy and Rick returned to the mountain and finally made that first ascent.
It’s hard to explain, but it just goes to show how powerful travel and adventures can be. For me, that always means travelling by bike with some mountains involved.
