Morning in my village begins quietly. When the first light touches the snowy peaks above Yugo, a small village in northern Pakistan, the entire valley seems to wake slowly and gently.
I step outside and breathe in the cold mountain air. Around me rise tall mountains, their tops still white with snow even in summer. Below them stretch green fields, apricot orchards, and the wide grey ribbon of the Shyok River.
Yugo lies along the banks of the Shyok, one of the tributaries of the Indus River. But geography alone cannot explain what life here feels like. To understand Yugo, you have to spend a day here.
In the early morning, the valley is filled only with the sounds of nature: birds calling from the trees, the wind moving softly through the fields, and the gentle rush of water in the irrigation canals that run through the village. I start my morning walk through the farmlands. Narrow paths run between small fields of wheat, barley, and vegetables. Tall apricot trees shade the paths, their branches heavy with fruit in summer. One thing visitors notice immediately is that the orchards here have no walls or fences. People walk freely through them.
In Yugo, sharing is part of the culture.
If you pass by during the fruit season, someone will almost certainly invite you to taste an apricot straight from the tree. Visitors are welcome to enjoy the fruit, but there is an unspoken rule: take only what you need and treat the trees with respect.
Following the sound of water, I reach a small spring near the edge of the village. This spring is the heart of Yugo. Clear glacial water flows out from the mountain and is channeled through pipes and canals to homes and fields across the valley. Locals believe that the water carries natural minerals and herbs from the mountains above, giving it a unique freshness and medicinal value.
Standing there with my hands in the cold water, I understand why people here value it so deeply. In a place where everything depends on the land and the mountains, water is life.
Later in the morning, I walk to a place called “Khlaqbaring”, where three elderly men sit weaving baskets. Abdul Rahim Amu, Muhammad Ali Pasha, and Hawaldar Abdullah are all in their seventies, and their hands move with the quiet confidence of people who have practiced a craft for decades.
They weave two types of baskets made from local willow: khari and chorong. The khari is used to collect fruit, while the chorong is carried on the back to transport harvests down from the mountains. In summer, it is common to see women returning from the hills with these baskets full of grass or apricots.
But Khlaqbaring is more than just a workplace. In the evenings, young people and elders gather here together. Stories are shared, traditions are explained, and local history is passed from one generation to the next. It is one of the many small ways the community keeps its culture alive.
As the day grows warmer, I stop by something that often surprises visitors: our natural refrigerator.
Locally, we call it Darkhan, a Balti word that refers to a cold storage place. The structure is built above a canal carrying glacial water. The constant flow of icy water beneath the floor keeps the small room naturally cool. Inside, families store vegetables, fruits, and other food without using electricity.
Simple ideas like this have helped the village live sustainably for generations.
A short walk away stands another traditional technology: the water-powered flour mill. Water rushes through a wooden channel and turns a small wooden turbine that spins heavy grinding stones. Villagers bring their grain here to be milled into flour.
Instead of paying money, they follow an old custom—leaving a small bowl of flour for the miller from every sack of grain. It is a simple system based on trust and community.
In the afternoon, I walk toward one of the most historically important places in the valley, “Braqbika”. On a large granite rock, ancient carvings of Buddha and inscriptions remain from centuries ago. Long before Islam reached Gilgit-Baltistan, Buddhism flourished across this region, and travellers left these carvings behind.
Standing beside the rock, I often imagine the generations of travellers who passed through this valley long before modern roads existed.
As evening approaches, the atmosphere in Yugo begins to change. People return from the fields, children play in the lanes, and smoke rises from kitchen fires.
One of the busiest places in Yugo during winter is the Yugo Lunda Market, the largest second-hand market in the region. Traders sell warm jackets, shoes, blankets, and other goods that arrive from distant places—the UK, Europe and Korea. For people living in the harsh mountain climate, these affordable items are essential—especially in winter when temperatures drop below -20°C.
Visitors often find the market fascinating. You can spend hours exploring piles of colourful clothing and unexpected treasures.
By nightfall the village grows quiet again. The mountains turn purple in the fading light, and the Shyok River continues its steady journey through the valley.
Life in Yugo moves slowly, shaped by the seasons, the land, and the traditions of the people who live here. Most families depend on farming and livestock. Grass is cut from the mountains to feed animals through the winter, and natural manure is used to fertilise the fields. Very little is wasted.
Perhaps that is what makes Yugo special. It is not just a beautiful place—it is a community that has learned to live closely with nature.
Visitors who come here are not simply tourists. They become guests in a living culture, where hospitality, respect for the land, and a slower way of life still guide each day.
And if you spend even a single day here, you may find—as many people do—that Yugo is a place you never quite want to leave.
