Braving the Winter to Visit a Valley Shrouded in Snow and Secrets

Long forbidden to both foreign tourists and most Indian citizens, Gurez recently opened its doors to tourists.

As the chopper rose into the sky, my heart raced with excitement and a twinge of fear: This was my first helicopter ride. The man beside me glanced over and asked why I’d choose to visit the Gurez Valley now, when it had so little to offer. “Even the locals avoid it if they can,” he said.

I had no clear answer. All I knew was that the Himalayan valley, shrouded in snow and secrets in the far reaches of Indian-controlled Kashmir, held something important to me, and I was willing to brave the perils of winter to discover it.

Rifat Ara passing a wooden tool used for carding wool to her father, who is just beyond the frame. (Carding is a process that disentangles and cleans the wool.)

Ali Mohammad Lone preparing to card wool at his home in the village of Chorwan.

Mohammad Sakhi Shangroo weaving clothes with traditional tools at his home in the village of Markote.

Children huddled in front of a house.

During my childhood in the town of Baramulla, in northern Kashmir, I was surrounded by storytellers who conjured images of snowy Himalayan lands. Later, when I first saw images of Gurez, it seemed to embody the stories I’d heard, and I felt compelled to visit. My opportunity finally came in early 2022, as the pandemic began to wane.

Tucked away in the Himalayas along the ancient Silk Road, the Gurez Valley has historically been a part of Dardistan, the homeland of the Dardic people, which stretched as far west as Afghanistan. When the departing British colonial rulers partitioned India and Pakistan in 1947, the valley was split along the disputed border, known as the Line of Control, cutting its connection to its roots and placing Gurez — just barely — on the Kashmiri side administered by India.

Long forbidden to both foreign tourists and most Indian citizens, the valley — a heavily militarized frontier with razor-wire fences as a constant reminder of the ongoing conflict — recently opened its doors to tourists. Now, it bustles in the summer. But as winter descends, the area becomes inhospitable and isolated, with the only road in or out buried under up to 15 feet of snow.

Manzoor Ahmad in front of his house in Chorwan, near the Line of Control.

When I landed in the central town of Dawar, my eyes were immediately drawn to the majestic, pyramid-shaped Habba Khatoon peak, standing tall behind a line of passengers awaiting a helicopter ride. I was warmly welcomed by Bashir Teroo, a cheerful man who worked as a medical assistant in the health department. Mr. Teroo, who later proved to be a trusted guide, gave me valuable insights into the daily struggles of the communities in Gurez.

I was stranded in Dawar for the first three days because of heavy snow. But on the fourth day I awoke to the hum of a helicopter — the signal of a sunny day. I called Mr. Teroo and asked him if he could take me to Chorwan, one of the last villages along the Line of Control. He warned of danger: Sunny days after heavy snowfall can cause avalanches, he said. He suggested waiting until the snow had settled.

Isolated hamlets, like the one seen here, are common in the area.

We set out for Chorwan by car the next day. All along the route, the snow-laden terrain looked stunning, with smooth, white slopes giving way to majestic granite cliffs. Empty roads stretched before us.

As we approached the village, I spotted a few locals. One of them, Jaleel Ahmad, guided us to his house. Like all the houses in the village, it was built from sturdy wooden logs stacked horizontally. Here, the lower floors are often used as stables for livestock, while the upper floors serve as living quarters.

As winter sets in, the villagers turn to their looms and knitting needles to create a variety of handmade goods from locally sourced wool. A prized handcrafted treasure is the pakol, a flat, folding hat that remains a cherished symbol of the local identity.

In Mr. Ahmad’s home, as I sat on a raised platform in the warm kitchen, sipping traditional salt tea infused with butter, I felt an unusual sense of belonging.

Abdul Majid clearing snow in front of his shop.

Throughout my stay, Mr. Teroo had piqued my interest with tales of Tulail, a smaller valley deep in the mountains that he said embodied the essence of Gurez. It wasn’t until the 12th day of our visit that I finally set out to find it.

The sun blazed down, casting a silver sheen on the landscape, as I hired a man named Ajaz to take me there in his Tata Sumo, a large 10-seat S.U.V. with off-road capabilities. Winding roads led me through rugged terrain unlike anything I had ever seen before: The mountains grew sharper and towered over us like jagged knives. The villages I passed felt like portals to a bygone era.

The valley of Tulail felt timeless, and as daylight waned I had no choice but to arrange for an overnight stay. By the next morning, a light snowfall had turned everything dull and gray. I trudged on the slippery road, a raging snowstorm engulfing the valley, as winds whipped the powdery snow into a thick fog.

Muhammad Subhan trekking through heavy snow. In Gurez, long walks in difficult conditions are a part of everyday life.

I felt a sense of awe at the resilience of those who call this harsh landscape home. Snow and isolation make even a minor emergency a potential death sentence. Fresh vegetables are a luxury between November and April, and some residents trek miles just to make a phone call. Despite a new power project in the heart of the region, residents still rely on oil generators for just six hours of power each day.

And still, the people of Gurez persevere.

Abdul Salaam Lone outside his hay barn, which is stocked with feed for his livestock.

Isolated hamlets like this one help impart a sense of timelessness.

With their vehicle stuck in snow, a group of residents proceeded on foot to reach Bagtore, a village near the Line of Control.

A clothesline outside a home in the central town of Dawar.

As visitors arrive and the outside world presses in, residents fear that their customs and traditional ways of life will be lost. Some see tourism as an opportunity for growth and prosperity, but others worry that the lure of financial gains will threaten the communities’ genuine warmth and erode the very essence of the place.