We fell in with a band of armed Kohistanis', from Chillas. Still up in the high passes, with their flocks and huts. Three of them were carrying older Pakistani rifles, one a long, blue barreled, shotgun, and two fellows sported Kalashnakovs (AK47). Some walked along with Asad and Ayesha, and I trailed behind, chatting, as I rode, surrounded by my own personal bodyguard. They were heading to Besal to shoot rocks, or something.We followed the long linear Lulusar Lake, as our road twisted along, never more than thirty feet above it's mirror surface. The nearly vertical brown and black cliffs on its western bank, the steep mountain side behind with patches of green, and the azure sky and silvery clouds reflected before our eyes. One couldn't tell where the earth ended and the water's reflection began. The lake before us vanished around the bend of the valley.