In flight entertainment

In the middle of the airline-imposed night, I staggered blearily to the galley at the back of the cabin for water. I flipped up the blind in the window of the door and gave an involuntary gasp - below me in bright sunlight spread the mountains of Northern Pakistan. Fold after fold of steep smooth brown rock, white with snow along the ridges, rose up from deep valleys. Rivers snaked coldly on the valley floors, the patchwork of small fields beside them just discernable. I gazed in awe as the mountains rose higher towards me, the snow now thick and constant, reaching down into higher valleys. Grey-green glaciers edged their way down from the snows into the rocky landscape. I tried to work out where we were - it was indeed Northern Pakistan. Below me somewhere was the bridge built by Greg Mortenson, the school, the village he described so well... I could see it now even more clearly, dwarfed by this huge, harsh beautiful landscape. I stood and watched unable to tear myself away, until the mountains gave way to desert.