The Passu Cones stand over the Karakoram Highway in northern Pakistan as a row of bare limestone spires, and snow does not stay on them. The Wakhi name is Tupopdan, hot rock, for exactly that: through the winter the domes all around go white while this ridge sheds what lands on it and stays grey-gold. Behind it sits the Batura glacier, fed by Batura Sar at 7,795 metres, and that peak marks a corner of the world. No mountain anywhere rises higher to its north or to its west. At road level the bridge at Hussaini crosses the Hunza to Zarabad, and most of the people on it are villagers with somewhere to be. The planks are set far enough apart to watch the river sliding underneath, and from the middle the cones fill the valley upstream. Beside the deck hangs the older span the floods took, ropes frayed and boards missing. That wreck is the bridge in all the photographs captioned the world's most dangerous crossing, and nobody uses it.
Above the village, on a shelf wedged between two glaciers, Borith Lake is salt enough that no fish live in it. Ducks and geese still put down there on passage, and tents go up on the grass at its edge. Where the highway enters Passu you can step off the tarmac and walk up toward the glacier, under an hour to the snout. Most of the ice in this valley lies buried under grey rubble. This tongue stays clean white, and up close you are standing at the edge of the very ice that ground out the trough you walked up. The village fields below are hand-stacked stone walls and lines of poplar marking irrigation channels led down off the glaciers — a patchwork you could cross in twenty minutes, with a six-thousand-metre wall over it. Cloud tears across that ridge all afternoon and the limestone burns gold in the last light. Beyond it the Pamirs, the Hindu Kush and the whole spread of Central Asia fall away lower. From here the planet's high country simply stops.