Tian Shan Mountains – Kyrgyzstan

Never have I had a guide knock on my hotel room door and waltz in with his assistant asking that I reveal the kit I intend to travel with for the coming week. Building up to the trip, the online forum constantly reminded us to pack for weather usually reserved for polar expeditions. As such, I was terrified I was going to freeze to death in a mountain range at relatively low altitude during its summer months, especially as I had to pack for four seasons for a two-month world tour, although luckily Stas the guide was happy enough with my sleeping bag and the bonus of a liner. With the first test complete I strolled on out to meet the rest of the group for dinner which turned out to be six single ladies, all around the same age as me, but all kitted out with gym memberships, infinite health and fitness advice, and smart watches that could detect anything from sleep deprivation to incoming solar storms or anything else that could be likely used as an excuse for not feeling quite 100%. A couple joined the following day, but it turned out cryptocurrency was their tipple; what with my rusty passion for cows, an eclectic week of discussion lay ahead. Our final test before commencing the main trek was a little hike through a canyon with Stas nervously watching on as we climbed up little ravines and tackled the usual terrain encountered on such a hike. Essentially it was a doddle, one that was rewarded with stunning views of the red sandstone cliffs that graced our presence during a delicious picnic lunch. My only concern was trying to avoid rolling my already fragile ankle, especially since signing a heap of indemnity forms declaring myself fit and ready for such activities, and made all the more difficult as I was distracted by the most scrumptious cob of corn I’ve ever eaten that I decided to tackle while walking.

The following day we began our six-day trek that would take us into the Tian Shan mountains that border Kyrgyzstan with China. Should you wish to pronounce Kyrgyzstan, try kur-gist-aan, of simply forget and speak utter nonsense like I’ve done for the past few months. We passed a giant rock formation that looked like a broken heart to some, although to others like myself looked just like a broken rock. We then turned away from the village and sped off uphill and into some of the most incredible scenery I’ve ever had the pleasure to walk in. To write ‘sped off’ is no exaggeration and I believed it was just everyone out to prove a point until Stas would inevitably slow the pace as the week progressed. This never materialised and instead we maintained a constantly impressive pace, arriving to lunch stops before midday and campsites hours ahead of schedule. Thankfully I was able to comfortably keep up and only altitude would end up slowing the whole group on the penultimate day. The trek covered just shy of 100 kilometres and although the scenery was dramatic and our final camp was up at 3,600 metres, there was little to cause much pain. A team of six horses carried all our gear, a little tent over a big hole eliminated the need to nervously crouch behind a rock, and Stas and his assistant Aibek kept us well fed and hydrated with a never-ending flow of tea. The weather was largely agreeable, starting off warm but not too warm and getting cooler as we rose into the mountains. The wind and rain made appearances with one camp getting set up in atrocious conditions although even then the sun came out for a wee while to offer some respite before retiring for the day. Rolling grassland and pine woods gradually gave way to rockier mountain passes as the days passed but no matter where we were, there was always the sound of fast flowing water coming down from the snow and ice that topped the mountains. The water was beyond chilly, but it felt healing when sat on a rock with my feet submerged in the river after walking 20 kilometres most days.

The penultimate day was always described as the ‘biggy’ and although it required a wee bit of effort, it’s still a pass widely used by goats, sheep, cows, and their keepers when moving to and from the summer pastures up on the Arabel Syrt, the large plateau where we would be spending our final night. Arriving at the top of the mountain pass we were greeted with plenty of flat walking albeit on boggy grassland and flanked by mountain peaks and their small glaciers. The weather threatened but behaved itself and we made it to camp around lunchtime, pitching our tents on the shore of a lake where the intermittent bursts of hot sunshine revived clouds of mosquitos from apparently nowhere. Well-fed and a little rested, the majority of us took on the optional hike up a nearby 4,100 metre peak. Up to the camp I had yet to feel much of the altitude but as we began our final and highest ascent, I started to remember that miserable feeling of trying to get to the top of a bloody high mountain. Happily, I wasn’t the only one and near to the summit we all took delight in resting for a while despite the horrific looking storm clouds on the horizon. Nevertheless, we made it to the top, enjoyed a bar of posh chocolate, took the necessary photographs, and began the much easier amble down to camp. It became a race between us and the storm clouds that had begun to block out the entire horizon with what appeared to be catastrophic rain. Picking up the pace, we made it to our tents just as a wall of hail descended upon us along with wind that happily flattened someone’s tent and required an emergency relocation during which time hail turned to snow. Less than an hour later, I was greeted at my tent by Stas with a hot cup of tea; the storm had passed and left behind a landscape dusted in snow. This was exciting enough, but during dinner the snow started again, this time more heavily, and I went to bed around 8.30pm like an excited little boy on Christmas Eve.

As usual, I was the first to emerge from my tent and my reward on this final morning of camping was a good inch of snow covering everything from the mountains to our tents, to our pack horses. I crunched my way through the virgin snow and made use of the outdoor toilet one last time, grateful for the little tent in an otherwise wide open and flat local environment. Breakfast was scheduled later than usual and so I headed back to bed for an hour and when I emerged for a second time the sun had risen enough to really provide a show. The whiteness was only broken by the lake which itself had a spooky mist hovering over it that was slowly lifting to reveal clear blue skies. It was all quite extraordinary, made more prominent by the fact it was July 1^st. We all now understood why Stas and co were so anxious we had gear that could keep us warm. Being July, the snow melted quickly as we knocked out the final six kilometres of our trek through squelching bog land. The horses were loaded onto trucks, us into a minivan, and we drove along a road that had been built for a nearby gold mine. The road took us to the top of a 3,800-metre-high pass where we waited for a fleet of fuel tankers to come up the mountain before we dropped around 1,500 metres in 30 minutes down continuous switchbacks. The level of effort we go to in the pursuit of gold is both ludicrous and shocking.

A few beers, a table to sit at, a warm shower, and a cosy bed saw us fit and ready to take on the final day of the tour which involved a dip in Issyk Kul Lake, a walk around the magnificent Skazka Canyon, a visit to a yurt maker, a bit of archery, and the opportunity to hold a golden eagle, all of which was excellent. This all fitted around our drive back to Bishkek, a large part of it along the placid lake with the snow-capped mountains on the far side and as this disappeared, we were met with the tree-lined highways that reach into the capital city. Driving into Bishkek, the sun lowering in the sky that invites the body to sweat profusely when in a vehicle at such time of day, another huge mountain range rises in the distance, Kazakhstan teases me as we skirt its borders, and I’m listening to my favourite dance tunes while non-stop smiling as I reflect on an incredible 60 days of travelling; a feat that earlier in the year I didn’t think I could enjoy on my own but how wrong I have been. Kyrgyzstan is one of the best, up there with East Africa 15 years ago and Greece seven years ago, trips where it’s almost impossible to be any happier thanks to great countries, great tour leaders, and a wonderful group of people to travel alongside who are on a similar wavelength. The last 60 days have unleashed a freedom I haven’t felt for over a decade, one I thought could never be rediscovered, yet apparently, I’ve done it and long may it continue.

Check out the tour here.