Taju, our guide, greeted the team at the terminal, a rickety old shed set up to process the few tourists that arrive in the area by plane. After loading the three brightly coloured kayaks on the roof, we set off on the final stage of a long, bumpy journey.

After hours of transit, we rounded the corner where the mountains come together, constricting and channelling the Indus into the upper reaches of the gorge. Our minds buzzed with excitement as our eyes greeted the sight of the first rapid. Mayhem ensued as the team rushed to get into it, unloading boats and organising gear for the week ahead.

“Our minds buzzed with excitement as our eyes greeted the sight of the first rapid”

We’d been warned, of course, that Pakistan is a land of terrorists, crippled by war and in a state of chaos. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. The people of the north, who migrated south out of Tibet hundreds of years before, are peaceful, friendly and generous.

They maintain a welcoming way of life despite being wedged between Afghanistan and India in one of the most militarised zones on the planet.

As we explored the town of Skardu to make final preparations before heading out into the gorge, the vibrant culture of this isolated city came alive. We were engulfed in the bedlam and sounds of the market.

The curiosity of three westerners with bright kayaks searching for food was returned with warm generosity. We were sent on our way with the best wishes of the community. Upon our return these same kind souls celebrated with us, hosting a banquet in our honour.

The river raged into a pandemonium of boils, deadly eddy lines and a gigantic pit of a hole. As we made our way downstream, we quickly discovered that when the 1000-year flood of 2010 ripped through the gorge it changed the river completely, making any beta from previous expeditions practically useless. We knew this wasn’t going to be an easy descent.

From the road, following the river above the high water mark, the lines looked wide and open: easy paths around the monstrous river features. From river-level, it was another story.

Kilometres of read-and-run big-water boating filled with tight technical moves above terminal holes and must-make ferries linked the steep gorged-in sections, inspiring respect as the river smashed its way downstream.

Slowly, we started to get in tune with the river, though the sheer scale and force of the water made scouting tough. While a rapid may have appeared simple, it felt unbelievably humbling and difficult, the remoteness and power of the river turning what looked like an easy class three into a challenging class five.

Then there were the rapids that are off the Richter scale. Never had any of us experienced a river offering so much world-class whitewater through such unreal landscapes day after day, kilometre after kilometre.

“Never had any of us experienced a river offering so much world-class whitewater through such unreal landscapes”

It’s worth noting that the road above was as dangerous as the river itself. High above us, Taju raced downstream whistling and yelping as we passed through countless rapids.

We scouted and ran rapid after rapid with no portages until day five, when the incredible Malupa blocked our path. The force shook the bank as the water exploded.

We watched in awe before shouldering our boats to begin a tricky portage through the maze of rocks. Launching back into the river and continuing downstream, we could see there was a line to run, but left it for someone else.