While passing over the Soan Bridge in Rawalpindi one cannot fail to notice the heaps of garbage that litter the Soan river bed. This once beautiful river is no less than a nullah.

Yet a glance at the surviving vegetation on the surrounding hills shows a remarkable growth of beautiful and priceless phulais (acacia modesta). Sparing the steepest slopes, expanding buildings have now replaced even this vegetation.

The first time my friend Iftikhar told me about the wonders of the Soan valley, I thought he was out of his senses. Is it not the same stinking flow of waste water that we see every time we pass over the Soan Bridge? How can such a thing be ever classified as beautiful? Having sensed my disbelief, Iftikhar took me to his village near Pindigheb, in the heart of the valley.

The tales he told of his land were fascinating. The stories of deep canyons carved by the river and its tributaries, the teeny springs in torrent beds, the reed infested river bed where the beautiful Black Francolins hymn loudly, the ponds in the reeds swarming with all kinds of migrant waterfowls and the timeless graveyards strewn with rocks where the king of crows, the Punjab Raven would hide in their preferred reckon-like seclusion; it was all too good to be true for the Soan river I had known all along.

What was the veritable truth? I had to find this out. It was one cold December afternoon when I decided to pack my bags and take a plunge into the wilderness, totally unaware of what was in store for me.

I left for Iftikhar's village. It is located in village Utran, about a dozen kilometres from Dhulian Chowk. My host offered to show me hares after dinner. In knowledge of my penchant for nature and wildlife, he vowed to make every minute of this trip memorable.

We set out to spot hares in the dim cloudy night. One hour of walking the wheat fields in the rainy night and we managed to spot no less than 30 hares. I was told the locals had imposed a ban on any kind of hunting in the environs of the village. Not only was their hospitality amazing but also their work for the conservation of their areas' wildlife.

We couldn't go to the river to explore the rolling hills and the deep gorges the next morning. We had to be content with a walk where we had been last night, this time looking for birds and taking photographs. Much was seen, but the treat of the morning was the very rare Punjab Raven that has disappeared from Punjab. Once back from the early morning walk, we bid adieu to the friend's family and made our way back home, promising to his father that we would be back some day.

Fortunately, the chance to be back in Utran came soon -- and in a month's time I was able to arrange another trip. I invited my cousin to join me this time. We meticulously planned the details for this second outing, ensuring no part of the wondrous land is left devoid of our attention. So again we made it to Utran, my friend's village, late one night. It was way too late for any kind of activity, so we took to our beds after dinner.

In the morning Grey Francolins sounded the wake-up call. After a scrumptious early morning breakfast we headed straight for the river to verify the truth of all the previous boasts of the river's beauty. I did not doubt the claims; they were just too hard to believe for the same Soan river every one of us looks at with ugly disgust while in Rawalpindi.

As we began the journey to the river, we were led down from atop the plateau hosting the village into the confines of a small tributary torrent. Things began to unravel, when the promised springs were spotted. Drop by drop, warm water oozed out of the ground slowly inching away from us. On both sides were precipitous heights, poked with small caves, wherein Rose-ringed Parakeets and Rock Pigeons were perched, awaiting the first rays of the morning sunshine to relieve them from their long cold night's misery.

The bed of the torrent was not very wide, hardly a few dozens of meters across. Thick growth of Phulai lined the slopes and the precipice whilst the bed of the torrent housed a flora as variable as the Xerophytic date palm (Phoenix Dactylifera) to Hydrophytic reeds (Typha Augustiflora). The stream itself hardly managed to flow, though it certainly did. The torrent had, over time, cut indentations under the precipitous cliffs creating small stream pools which housed little fishes hardly any bigger than my index finger. However, much I have wanted to know which specie they were, I have not been able to find out.

The torrent bed would widen at some places, at others it would cramp so strictly that there would be no path to cross other than through the reeds. After about half an hour of walking, the reeds thinned out and the precipices turned into steep grassy climbs lined with acacias. In a short while we found ourselves standing above the river bed of Soan, with the promised Reed beds and the Elephant grass visible in front of us.

Very soon a flurry of noises turned even more stories into facts. The Black Francolins were certainly calling from inside the reeds. A little cackling revealed the presence of waterfowl in a pond ridden invisible by the Elephant grass (Saccharum Munja).

To enjoy the sights of the wilderness, my cousin and I decided to make hideouts in the reeds abounding the lake and observe the arrival and departure of the waterfowl with greater closeness. Once we hid, in no time a flock of Gadwalls arrived at the pond. Soon other birds joined them. By the end of our sitting, we had sighted Gadwalls, Storks, Stilts, Common Teals, Northern Pintails, Common Coots and Ruddy Shelducks, all in this little pond.

While coming out of the hideout, I happened to flush a female Black Francolin. My cousin later on told me that while he was hidden in the reeds, three Black Francolins playfully wandered within a meters' distance of him, and that they kept on inquisitively circling him to somehow unfold the true identity of this unwelcome guest in their domain.

After spending a few hours observing nature, we left for the friend's village for a lunch. On the way back we took a new route to the village, this time climbing over the hills and then climbing down again. The scrub covered hills were not only astoundingly beautiful but also afforded excellent views of the Soan river meandering through the rolling hills. The scenery appeared to be a perfect reproduction of what the pioneer Geographer W.M Davis had called the age of maturity of a river.

We had lunch before we prepared to depart Iftikhar's house. That was it for my trips to Utran. The Soan we see in Rawalpindi is a sorry manifestation of our criminal neglect towards our environment and nature's bounties, which we have always taken for granted. And the worst part is the fact that Soan river is not the only example of the same. Our land is replete with instances of such criminal neglect. And yet we are nowhere close to learning our lesson.