Summer 1988

Chitral nestles high in the Hindu Kush in Northern Pakistan on the border with Nuristan and Badakhshan, two provinces of Afghanistan. North of Chitral the old road bends before K2’s 26,500 feet and continues to Mastuj and to Gilget beyond. Luxuriant rice fields green the Chitral valley between rugged mountains. Disguised as an Afghan in my shalwar kamese, I undertook the dusty 13-hour trip into the mountains on a public minibus from Peshawar. Near Swat the bus came to a slow stop. As the approaching guard at the check post searched for guns and non-citizens, I turned my face away. He did not spot me, and the minibus continued its journey. I straightened with relief. I had passed the checkpoint undetected.

Two hours later the minibus stopped at a dirt lot, euphemistically called the Timengara Village Transportation Center, which was filled with other minibuses and trucks. Within minutes I had homed in on a driver yelling "Chitral, Chitral, Chitral" into the crowd of people. Ten others had heeded his call, so pressed shoulder to shoulder, 11 of us in the back of his Toyota pickup rolled and swayed though Dir and on to Chitral over the 10,400-foot Lawari Pass with its 42 sharp switchbacks, each and every one of which I had already traveled too many times. The excitement of meeting Commander Massoud continually overcame my feelings of weariness and rebellion against the cramped, spine-dulling danger.

In the summer of 1987 the situation in Afghanistan was tenuous. Before heading to Chitral, I had stopped in Peshawar to meet with Yahya and Ahmed Zia, Commander Massoud’s brothers, who had been notified of my reason for coming to Afghanistan. They had informed me that to reach Massoud, I would be passing through Russian outposts and minefields. As a precaution they had recommended that I hire a guide who had made many trips from Chitral to Massoud’s camps.

At last the truck stopped in the middle of Chitral Village. I had little energy even to claim my bags, much less carry them uphill through the small bazaar to the Mountain Inn. Fortunately, the evening was comfortably warm. My tiredness dissipated at seeing my good friend Haider Ali Shah, the innkeeper, and his aging father Ataliq Jafar Ali Shah, who had once been an advisor to the king of Chitral.

Of medium height and slight build, Haider Ali Shah, now showing his 50 years with salt-and-pepper hair, greeted me smiling. Outreaching his arms in a gesture of welcome, he informed me, "Jan Mohammad was here earlier today looking for you." I was glad enough to see this quiet man with his very polite manner and to surrender my heavy cases to his houseboy. "He will be here after dark, around eight-thirty, so I will have your dinner sent to your room."

Jan Mohammad, the six-foot, well-built Supply Chief from the valley of Panjsher, made sure that war and food supplies from the Pakistani border in Chitral reached Commander Massoud in Panjsher Valley. His supply route into the valley included passes over 14,000 feet and higher. Jan Mohammad and I had liked each other immediately at our first meeting in Garam Chasma two years before. He had responded to a letter I had written Commander Massoud about my gem research and desire to explore Afghanistan. The next summer I had sent a second letter expressing my interest in presenting formal training in modern mining techniques to the Afghans.

The soothing sight of my prepared room and a shower refreshed me. I anticipated adventure and danger in this long journey. The eight-thirty meeting time came and went, and I wondered if my meeting with Commander Massoud would ever become a reality. The moon shone through the open shutters on my room window as I busied myself checking my gear for the trip. Finally there was a light tap. Quickly I opened the door. It was Jan Mohammad, glancing over his shoulder and quietly entering. In his company was a slim tanned young Afghan. With a big hug Jan Mohammad lifted me to my toes, and with not much more than a whisper he greeted me. "This is Mohammad. He will come to get you tonight." Then turning to leave, he instructed, "Be ready anytime after midnight. Must go." Cautiously he opened the door and checked outside for visitors before leaving. The two men slipped back into the night as stealthily as they had come seconds before.

I waited fully clothed on my bed in the dark room, but I was so exhausted that I dozed until another knock., The young Afghan was back. My watch glowed in the moonlight—one o’clock. Looking around the shadows, the Afghan said only, "Azoo (Let’s go)." As he lifted one of my bags and motioned me out, I grabbed my pack and followed.

We skirted the lobby and the night guard. Mohammad led me around the back of the hotel and over a low stone wall. We hurried down the empty dirt road to a jeep with engine running and driver waiting. I threw my full duffel into the back of the jeep and sat down next to Guy Clutterbuck, through whom the message had come that Commander Massoud wanted to see us. Each of my visits to Central Asia had brought me new associates. Last summer Guy and I had met at the Mountain Inn while he was buying lapis for the British market. We had both expressed our desire to visit with Commander Massoud and had agreed to request the trip together. "Glad you made it. Did you have any problems?" I asked.

Guy shook his head No as we sped through the empty bazaar. Metal sliding doors secured with chains and large keyed padlocks girded each shop against the night. Splashing through one irrigation channel and stream after another, we traveled a winding dirt road that bordered a river into the inky quiet of the moonlit night. High in the Hindu Kush at the Afghan border on our way to Garam Chasma north of Chitral, the only sound came from our engine thrumming and revving in sine waves. The three of us stayed quiet. Roads in these mountains require concentration not only by the driver but also by the passengers. It was all we could do to cling to the side bar of the open jeep through every steep sharp curve and the driver’s double-clutching on the treacherous turns.

Suddenly we jarred to an abrupt stop outside Garam Chasma. Mohammad jumped out and motioned strongly for Guy and me. On the roadside 50 yards ahead we could just make out the silhouette of an armed guard at his post. Our young Afghan escort seemed to become one with the mountains, and Guy and I knew we had to follow. Not doing so could have cost us our lives. It wasn’t a long trek, but I felt adrenaline surge to meet the challenge of fear and exertion as we trailed Mohammad through the fields along water channels to the back of Prince Shuja’s single-story, whitewashed cement hotel with its 15 to 20 rooms and a sulfur pool.

Garam Chasma is a settlement with a bazaar extending two hundred yards along the river. The war had transformed it into a boom village stocked with supplies in shops six-by-six feet cobbled together out of scrap wood. During the day hundreds of people busily purchased goods for trips into Afghanistan.

Swiftly we moved through the darkened deserted lobby. The young Afghan opened a door into a small, musty, windowless room furnished only with two army cots and one old torn padded chair. Mohammad cautioned us to stay in hiding all day. He told us that food would be delivered to us and that he would come late the next night to take us across the border.

Two hours later we heard loud footsteps in the hall and a familiar voice thundering our names, "Gary, Guy, I know you’re here. Where are you?" John Gunston, I thought angrily, but we ignored his call. The British journalist was not to have been part of our journey or even to have known our plans. Didn’t he realize that he was risking our mission? Fortunately, John’s clamor went unnoticed by any of a number of people who might have stopped us, such as a Chitrali Scout. Guy and I knew that if the Scouts, policemen, discovered us, they would bar us from crossing the border and force us back to Chitral. We had been told that some might take a bribe, "bakshish," but that others, who did not want to assist the Afghans, would hinder our aid by turning us back. To this day I do not know how John Gunston had discovered our whereabouts.

Arrangements for our meeting had been long and painstaking in the making. Massoud wanted to discuss our plans for gem exploration and miner training programs. In Peshawar his brothers Ashmed Zia and Yahyar had forewarned us of the challenges we might face traveling between Pakistan and Afghanistan, even though we held legal visas for both countries. Besides knowing that we might encounter people hostile to the Afghan cause, we realized that we might inadvertently ride into the middle of a battle zone. Anticipating such dangers and more, 15 guard stations prevented all foreigners from crossing the border, which runs just before Dorah Pass. Above the narrow valley from Garam Chasma the road tops out at 14,450 feet above sea level on some maps. At either altitude we expected an arduous climb.

In the small dank, dark room Guy and I waited tensely for signs that our journey was to continue. Finally, late the next evening we responded to a quiet knock. There stood a tall distinguished-looking blond, Paul Costello, a Swiss journalist whom Guy had met the previous year. He said in a hushed voice, "The mujahideen are outside in a four-by-four ready to take us to meet Massoud in Farkhar." We gathered our packs quietly as he explained the plan. Two of the mujahideen would escort us on foot around the uncooperative border guards while the other two crossed through the checkpoint in the jeep. Our guides would carry our packs filled with heavy equipment, leaving us with only our lighter packs. The rationale was that the border guards would recognize American, Swiss, or English goods, cameras, and camping equipment. They were less likely to search and confiscate our items if the guides were carrying the bags. What we did not know was that we would be running a mile or more in the dark around each guard post and that three times we would have to brave hip-deep cold rapid currents in mountain streams. Without saying another word, the three of us slipped down the darkened hallway to the waiting mujahideen.

The first post posed no threat to our mission. Our escorts knew the guard on duty that night and, as prearranged, handed over a bundle of Pakistani rupees in exchange for his lifting the wooden gate to let our vehicle pass.

Fifteen minutes later, the guard at the second post demanded US$150 each from both Guy and me. We argued for 15 minutes before settling on US$20. Our escorts encouraged us to pay more, which raised our suspicion that they might be sharing the toll. But my anger served no purpose. Bribery opens doors in many parts of the world.

Mohammad warned us that the next posts would be more difficult. We would have to evade the guards entirely. Our driver was to stop a quarter of a mile before the block to let Guy, Paul, and me jump out and follow our guides to the far side. A quarter moon dimly lighted our way through the fields to rendezvous with our jeep a half-mile past the danger. Twice we missed our connection because the driver and our guides had not accurately defined the meeting place. Searching up and down the road for the truck cost us precious time.

Because dawn broke before we had cleared the last guard post, we had to hide until the cover of dark the following night. One of our guides walked ahead to arrange for us to spend the day in the tent of an Afghan engineer who was working on the road with a mixed crew of Pakistani and Afghan laborers and guards.

Sleeping until mid-afternoon, we were awaked by the sound of Pakistani voices outside our tent. Afraid of discovery, we hardly breathed during a conversation that seemed to last for hours. There we lay silently staring at the roof of the tent. Finally our blue-eyed engineer-benefactor, Mainuddin, came in with food. "How much do we owe you for your kindness?" I asked.

"Nothing," placing his finger across his lips. Without any conversation he stayed with us for 20 minutes before he returned to his work.

Then Guy whispered that he had to relieve himself. I motioned back that he could not leave the tent. Soon I heard the sound of water pouring on metal and turned to see what vessel Guy had found. After that I was never so thirsty as to drink from his canteen.

Night seemed long in coming, but about an hour after dark our guide reappeared, motioning us to follow. Outside the tent about 25 yards away several men stood talking around a campfire. Three of them wore Pakistani military uniforms and guns. We knew if they spotted us, we would have trouble for being in this area without written permission. They would confiscate our possessions, arrest us, and deliver us to the court under armed guard in Peshawar. Then a new Afghan face materialized. We set out after the man, managing to creep unnoticed around the road camp and up the mountain. After half-crawling, half-walking the next two hundred yards, our new guide announced with a hint of pride in his voice, "Welcome to Afghanistan."

Now we could move upright on the path, but when the narrow light of the moon slipped behind the clouds, we had to press on in almost total darkness. In the extraordinary expanses of sky and mountains every aspect seems to expand in opposite directions. The Hindu Kush night absorbs all light like black velvet yet enhances star shine and moon glow; muffles all sounds yet telescopes the faintest crackle or whisper; separates each person in aloneness yet requires extreme cooperation merely to exist. Voices murmured and horses moved off to our left. We headed toward the sounds into an open valley, where five horsemen awaited us in the dimness. With them was the guide and interpreter Guy and I had hired on the recommendation of Massoud’s brother.

"Move quickly," he said in English. "We fear the Pakistani have followed you."

After we had tied our loaded bags onto the horses, we climbed large rocks to mount. Instead of saddles, we had to straddle our bags. Perhaps it was because this type seat was new to me or my pack wasn’t secure, but from the beginning I struggled to keep my balance as we headed on up the mountain toward Dorah Pass.

The mountains cast an ominous shadow over the trail, and the night seemed dead still except for the impact of our horses scuffing loose rocks. In the world of cities it is hard to imagine the depth of black silence the Afghan mountains can reach, compounded by the tight-held tongues of men on guard to protect their whereabouts from unseen enemies. Occasionally the horses stumbled as we slanted down the mountain trail, which had rapidly narrowed to 15 inches. To my left the treeless shapes merged with the sky; to my right the scree stirred by our progress hurtled into the void. I knew that on a human scale, the drop was bottomless.

Suddenly my horse faltered. His right hind leg gave way—and my balance with it. I grappled for the rope that held the bags. Straining to regain his footing, again the horse slipped. The bags began to slide from beneath me off to the right. Oh, no! The horse lunged forward to avoid falling while I desperately grasped his neck, but my bags escaped from beneath me. All I could do was hold on as he whinnied and lost balance entirely, swaying in the direction of the bags and the slope, heaving and careening us sideways down the mountain. Too late to dismount, I fell with the horse. Several feet before hitting the ground, my right leg clung to his flank as if it were pressed by G-forces. Then my hip crashed onto a boulder, and pain radiated sharply up my spine. In my terror I thought I could feel the warm ooze of blood running down my leg. I was certain my horse would die and with a crushed leg that I would never walk again.

Coming to my rescue, the others pulled the quivering beast forward off of my leg. Then they struggled to hoist me back up the mountain to the trail. Asking what they could do for me, I told them, "Just let me rest a few minutes, and then I will try to walk." Miraculously, the horse stamped in relief, and although pain raged throughout my body, particularly my hip and leg, I too seemed whole. I asked Guy to please bring me the orange pain pills from my first aid bag.

Now we had to make a decision about the trip. Ahead of us there would not be medical help until we reached Massoud—three days and several mountain passes yet to negotiate. Behind, the Pakistani guards would cause us serious problems when they realized we had slipped past them. No doubt they would take action out anger and embarrassment. We would all risk physical abuse depending on individual temperaments. I decided there was only one answer—we had to press on.

Cringing in pain as my companions helped me onto my horse, I found my body responded to the painkiller as we rode through Dorah Pass and down into the valley between Dorah and Topkhana. An hour later we stopped at a large tent called a chaikhana, the Dari word for teahouse-diner-motel. With help I dismounted, exhausted, longing for sleep, which came easily to me in the tent.

I awoke to Guy’s urging, "The horses are ready and we want to start." My hip and leg raged anew as I stood up. After eating wheat bread, called nan, I drank hot green tea and swallowed another pain pill. Meanwhile, our companions were gathering important information from another traveler, who reported Russians in the immediate area. Our guide had gone ahead to survey the situation. He had consulted travelers coming in our direction. They warned that the Russian troops had occupied an outpost about ten miles ahead. To continue, we would have to climb over Topkhana Mountain on foot, as it would be too steep for the horses to carry riders. Paul and Guy—and I—had doubts that I would be able to endure the strain. "If I can ride as far as possible and walk at my own speed, I would like to try." I told them.

A half an hour into the climb, I already lagged two hundred yards behind. In another half-hour they had cleared the top of the mountain and were out of sight. Alone as I neared the top of the mountain, I heard gunshots in the distance. Ducking for cover behind a boulder, I spotted someone running in my direction. Because of his dress and Chitrali cap, I guessed he might be one of Massoud’s men. Taking the chance, I showed myself. Fortunately, my assumption was correct.

Interpreting his hand signals, I understood my friends had met him and were waiting in the valley on the other side of the mountain. With his AK-47 he pointed to the Russian troop position, saying, "Ruskie! Ruskie!" Then he pantomimed how they had shot at him as he had topped the mountain, but he knew the best way to circumvent their vantage. I hobbled in the direction he pointed, and an hour later, I rejoined my party without incident, to everyone’s great relief, especially mine.

Naturally they had all rested while they waited, so they wanted to start off immediately. Even though I needed a break, I did not want to delay them further. As we continued, I gained confidence that I could make it the rest of the way. To give me a flat place to lie down, we spent the night camped in the valley.

At four, well before dawn, I awoke with Guy tugging my arm, "The horses are ready and we want to start now in case the Russians are coming to this area." Still suffering, I alternated between riding until my backside and legs ached and walking until I could barely stand. I stumbled and slogged along throughout the day and into dusk. Just before complete darkness enveloped us again, we made out in the distance a log cabin and a crowd of mujahideen. Adrenaline carried us the last weary mile.

As we entered the cabin, the group of men inside rose and extended their hands, then motioned us to join them where they sat. Securely surrounded by these tall, rugged, well-armed soldiers and exhausted from exertion and pain, I was too sleepy to worry about Ruskies.

A young boy came to each of us carrying a long-spouted pewter pot in one hand and a large pewter bowl in the other. Holding the bowl under our hands as he poured warm water from the pot over them, he then offered us a towel after we had rubbed our hands in the water. Dinner was never more welcome, a bountiful goat stew and green tea with nan. That night we slept shoulder to shoulder on top of our sleeping bags inside the cabin.

Long before sunrise we started north up the mountain to Varsaj and on to Farkhar, where Massoud had a command post and several buildings of supplies. Reaching the crest by early afternoon, we welcomed the green pastures and rapidly flowing narrow streams as balms to our eyes and our spirits. In this challenging environment simply making it to a destination is a cause for celebration. Longing for respite from the climb of over five thousand feet almost straight up, we joined three friendly travelers in front of a fire for tea. Later, while washing my face and rinsing my hair in the stream, I looked up into the stark blue sky. All around me lay boulders brightly festooned with yellows, reds, and browns. "The flowers of Badakhshan," my guide informed me. At this altitude they are not real angiosperms, but lichens—but beautiful nonetheless.

Refreshed, we traveled on until five o’clock, stopping in a grouping of small wood buildings that appeared to be new. Our guide asked a villager about Massoud’s location. We were heartened that the villagers expected us to spend the night as their guests. Massoud would come for us in the morning.

The horsemen and our guides wanted to conclude their service. And as usual, they wanted more money than we had contracted. After haggling for 20 minutes, finally we paid them a little extra. They departed, seemingly pleased with our settlement.

Guy turned to me excitedly "Anytime now"

"Yes," I agreed, feeling exultant, "Soon we will meet the ‘Lion of Panjsher,’ "the man who sent for us."

The next morning we had hardly finished breakfast when two Russian jeeps sped into the village heading directly for us. A gigantic man leaped out of the first with an AK-47 and two bandoleers of ammunition across his chest. Wearing a brown Chitrali cap, a thin, tall, bearded figure stepped from the second jeep. Though his companions were well armed, he himself wore no gun. He greeted us with a healthy handshake. It was Massoud!

I noticed first his alert face, his focus, and his fine composure. He appeared to lay his own weariness and concerns aside to concentrate on us. Determination and expectation seemed to balance in his bearing, and I had an eerie feeling that beyond our conversation we were communicating with the mountains he defended.

Massoud motioned for Paul, Guy, and me to get into the first jeep. What a relief it was to ride in a vehicle instead of on a horse. Smoothly passing green pasturelands along the road, we arrived in Farkhar in half an hour. Massoud led us into his office, where he invited us to spend the night and introduced us to his assistant, Haroun Amin. Haroun had spent time in Los Angeles, so he interpreted in fluent English. Massoud told us that after we reviewed in detail our proposal with Haroun, he would meet with us on the following day to make decisions.

After he left, Haroun listened to our presentation. We had discussed our plan for over an hour when he asked, "Mr. Gary, would you carry a message back to the U.S. Consulate in Peshawar for us?"

"Certainly," I agreed.

Haroun handed me several handwritten pages. "This is an account of a seminar held by the various mujahideen factions in Chaman-e-Khostdeh (Farkhar) Teloqan, Afghanistan, under Massoud’s leadership. It is not sealed, so you may read it if you like."

"I will be glad to deliver it for you," I told him.

Guy and I sat on the office porch and read Haroun's report:

After reading Haroun’s report, I reflected on the present situation. Surely the Russian occupation and now this intertribal fighting were too much for any leader to bear. The Russian invaders were killing the friends of Massoud, even as they followed his plans and commands.

Despite his responsibility, Massoud walked into the office a few minutes later as if all he had to do was discuss gems and our training program for miners. No one meeting him outside this embattled arena would realize the importance of the position he had carved out for himself. His father before him had been an Army Brigadier General. Massoud had started with 30 followers, 17 rifles, and $130. Now, because of his courage and grasp of military strategy, he had attained an almost mythical stature.

The next morning I took a clean brown shalwar and kamese from my pack and went off to find a private spot a quarter of a mile upstream from the office where I could bath and change clothes. As I walked back, I glimpsed Massoud entering some bushes farther upstream for his own bath. When he returned to the office wearing a robe, he appeared to have come from some fierce burnished other world. There seemed an aura about him, as if somehow he remained untouched by the frailties of politics and men. Placing his multicolored three-by-five-foot prayer rug facing Mecca, he began to pray.

Afterward, Massoud walked into our room. We all stood up from the floor. He shook our hands and asked us to sit. He appeared calm, focused, and ready to discuss emerald exploration. Haroun outlined my plans for Massoud in Dari. We spent more than an hour discussing the potential for employment in gem mining, which would produce wages for the people, as well as tax funds and foreign currency for the government.

After a time Massoud excused himself, asking us to stay until the next day for further discussions. The next afternoon Guy and I learned that Massoud would be ready to meet with us in an hour. The meeting was very formal, and Massoud appeared to be in a hurry. He said he had given our previous conversation much thought and had several questions for me. We spent 30 minutes going over the particulars of exploration, mining, and plans for future Symposiums. He recalled how, shortly after the Russian occupation of Afghanistan, the mujahideen had begun finding emeralds in the bomb craters created by Russian bombs in the valley. Massoud’s men had been selling these emeralds, so he was very interested in investigating the potential for commercial production in Panjsher Valley.

Then Massoud said, "I must go. I approve and will support your plans. I will appoint someone to work directly with you. Have a good and safe trip back to Pakistan. I will give you a letter for the field commanders you may meet on the return trip." Guy and I thanked him for his hospitality, even though I knew letters of permission would be of little value as only five percent of Afghans can read. I reconfirmed that we would do our best to assist his villagers with their mining.

We packed and got on the trail before sunrise the next morning. We wanted to cover 15 miles of mountains toward the south and reach Eskazer before dark. Our party consisted of Guy, two horsemen, and me. Paul Costello had stayed on with Massoud’s people.

Early the second morning we made our way toward Topkhana, majestic in the distance. Between the time we had first crossed this mountain to reach Massoud’s headquarters and now, Massoud’s soldiers had attacked and defeated the Russian-occupied outpost. Since the Soviet survivors had fled into the mountains, we did not have to climb Topkhana again to avoid them. Instead, it would be safe to travel around the base of the mountain. Safe from attack, that is, but not necessarily from thousands of landmines the invaders had planted to sabotage Massoud’s supply route from Pakistan to Panjsher Valley. Wanting to get through the minefields below Dorah Pass by sundown, carefully we led our mounts on a tight rein. All along the way we saw dismembered body parts of horses that had strayed off the path. I stopped a couple of times to take photos of the mines less than a yard from my foot. Guy and our guide asked me to stop because it made them so nervous to see me so perilously near danger.

That night we slept in a chaikhana made from a large gray-colored military tent. Twenty cents purchased a dinner of trout fresh from the lake at the base of the pass. In the morning I looked up and wondered aloud to Guy, "How are we going to climb that mountain?"

"Don’t you remember coming down?" he asked me.

No, I didn’t.

"You took those pain pills and just floated down in the dark!" he reminded me. We made slow progress up the steep trail. Many times we had to resort to the Afghan technique of holding onto the horses’ tails to pull ourselves along. Even so, the ascent cost us such strenuous effort that we had to rest at the top. On the otherside of the pass we relaxed until dark before proceeding toward Shasidim, where we found the pickup truck Jan Mohammad had promised to have waiting on the trail. Eagerly Guy and I jumped into the rear. Even though the road was only a two-tire-wide winding path pavéd with rocks, we were both happy to be riding instead of trudging uphill at the end of a horse’s tail.

The first two posts we reached were unattended. Apparently the guards had not expected visitors and had slipped into their tents for a nap. But ten minutes later the driver hit the brakes with all his weight. Apparently the guards posted just ahead had rolled a huge log across the road to control traffic while they slept. Guy, one of our Afghan guides, and I scrambled out of the back of the pickup truck, lugging our gear with us. We jumped over the log and lumbered along as fast as we could on the stone-filled dirt road. We had managed only ten yards when we heard noises from the tent. Fortunately for us, by the time the guards had opened the flap, we were well down the road and lost to sight in the pitch-black night.

We slowed to a walk five minutes later as truck lights shone behind us. After a bumpy ten-minute ride, the truck came to a stop again. The driver leaned out of the window and signaled with his hand that another guard post lay directly ahead. Once again we shouldered our gear and walked down the valley at a 45-degree angle from the road. This time two guides led us to the bank of a 15-yard-wide roaring mountain river. It was so dark we couldn’t see the water, but one guide pulled our arms in a motion to indicate that we must cross the stream to avoid detection.

All four of us linked hands tightly and started into the current. As we reached the halfway point, the water suddenly surged, adding another four inches to our trial. Now it was roiling around our hips. In panic both guides wrenched free of our grip and scrambled back to shore. Just then another swell hit us, knocking Guy under. I managed to grab his shirt, but I couldn’t prevent myself from being forced downstream. Seizing a good hold on the back of his shirt as he towed me like a water-skier. Then the surge hit us again, rolling and tumbling us both underwater for several yards before I was able to get a tenuous footing on the bottom, even as Guy kept dragging me along. Finally he forced his head above water, which wasn’t an easy trick because he had tied his bootstraps together and hung his boots around his neck by the laces, where water filled them like ballast.

Once Guy was up, we staggered for the bank and followed the stream for about a mile before having to recross to find the road and the truck. After waiting half an hour without a sign of our group, we figured the driver had gone on without us, so we decided to continue on foot to Garam Chasma.

Guy started to chill in the cool air. Then he began shaking, and as we walked, he shook worse. About 15 minutes later we spotted a large military tent surrounded by horses, goats, and sheep. Obviously the livestock belonged to Afghans traveling to or from Pakistan, so we decided to wake them for help. Coveting the warm clothes one man was wearing, we offered Pakistani money equivalent to US$50. By that time Guy didn’t care what he spent. He was getting hypothermia. The men stared at us as if we were crazy—two sopping-wet aliens blue with cold arrived out of their dreams in the dead of night, offering to buy the clothes off their backs for an outrageous sum, but they groggily agreed to sell us one herder’s big wool coat. Guy quickly wrapped the coat around his body.

We had been walking for another half-hour when suddenly we saw lights advancing from behind. To keep out of sight, we dropped to the ground on the side of the road until the truck had drawn a little in front of us. Spotting our driver, we began waving and yelling to him, but with the engine noise, he couldn’t hear us. So we chased the truck and banged on the door. Finally he realized what was happening and stopped.

He looked shocked. Obviously he had feared us drowned in the stream or captured by the Pakistani army. No doubt Jan Mohammad would have been hard on him if he had lost us. Feeling lucky and grateful, we jumped into the truck and rode into Garam Chasma just as daylight graced the sky.

I had felt deeply inspired by the first Symposium in Hawaii in 1981. Now we had the go-ahead and blessing of Ahmad Shah Massoud to continue our work. In addition, we had permission to start surveying in his territory. Guy and I began planning immediately for a survey of Panjsher and a second Symposium. I realized that the best thing I could offer the people of Afghanistan was education on exploration, mining, and marketing gems.