IT TOOK US THREE DAYS to drive to Faizabad, home to the northernmost American military base. En route we passed dozens of stripped Russian tanks, most of which had been repurposed as bridges, retaining walls, storage units, and playground equipment. Even art installations: In a field by the side of the road we saw a row of three half-buried tanks sticking out of the ground like an Afghan version of Cadillac Ranch.

In Kunduz, a jovial Afghan teacher helped me order charcoal-grilled sheep shish kebab from a street vendor, and we struck up a conversation. "It took the Russians only a few weeks to take Afghanistan—just like you Americans," he said. "And I believe the regret began immediately."

We spent a night in Faizabad, then drove a few hours east to Baharak, the last town in which we could buy provisions.

"It took the Russians only a few weeks to take Afghanistan—just like you Americans," an Afghan told me as we ate charcoal-grilled sheep in the streets of Kunduz. "And I believe the regret began immediately."

Doug, using his avalanche forecaster's waterproof pad and clear script, was our quartermaster. A veteran of extended climbing expeditions to Pakistan, he knew exactly what we needed. He'd announce the acquired item, then mark it off his list.

"Ten kilos rice: check. Ten kilos potatoes: check. Two kilos salt: check. Aluminum pot: check. Plastic pail: check. Fifty feet nylon cord: check."

In Baharak we stayed with Sardhar Khan, a powerful leader in the Badakhshan province. We'd been told we needed his blessing to pass through his territory and into the Wakhan.

Khan, 48, is a small ethnic Tajik with a creased chestnut face who calls himself a former warlord. One of the most feared and respected commanders in Afghanistan, he spent 15 years bivouacking in the mountains with his militia—ten years fighting the Russians, five years fighting the Taliban—but the man I met was polite and soft-spoken. He personally laid out the silverware for a picnic in his tiny apricot orchard and told us about the school he'd built with Greg last year. It was the CAI's largest—a fortresslike structure with stone walls four feet thick and a wood-burning stove in each of the eight classrooms. More than 250 kids would be attending the school this fall.

With his wars over for now, Khan was writing poems. Greg sent me a sample of his verse after our trip:

You may wonder why I sit here on this rock, by the river, doing nothing.
There is so much work to be done for my people.
We have little food, we have few jobs, our fields are in shambles, and still land mines everywhere.
I am here to hear the quiet, the water, and singing trees. This is the sound of peace in the presence of my Allah Almighty.
After 30 years as a mujahedeen, I have grown old from fighting. I resent the sound of destruction. I am tired of war.

The next day, our fourth day out of Kabul, we reached the village of Eshkashem, at the mouth of the Wakhan Corridor. Here we met another strongman, Wohid Khan, a tall, taciturn, handsome Tajik in his early forties. As commander of the Afghan-Tajik Border Security Forces, he oversees 200 Afghan troops in their patrol of a 330-mile stretch of the Afghan-Tajik border, including the entire northern boundary of the Wakhan. Khan granted us permission to traverse the corridor, one end to the other, but he couldn't guarantee our safety once we crossed into Tajikistan. The most he could do was provide us with a handwritten note that vouched for our honorable intentions.