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| Heading closer to the Ak Sai River |
Tbilisi, October 31st
Three months after our return from Kyrgyzstan and my return to work, I have finally summoned the time and energy to write a new blog post about the last adventure of our Kyrgyz summer: a madcap dash on horseback through the wilds of Naryn Region to the surreal mountain lake Kel Suu. It was a last-minute add-on to our summer of trekking, but it proved to be one of the most memorable parts of a superb summer of outdoor active travel.
We finally pulled ourselves away from Karakol on July 21st, two days after returning from
our Inylchek Glacier trek. It was slightly sad to say goodbye to the staff at the
Madanur Hotel, our home away from home for the previous month. After a long bus trip to Naryn, around Issyk Kul Lake and then diving south through some pretty barren semi-desert, we arrived in Naryn town in a driving downpour. Luckily our marshrutka dropped us off right outside the Community Based Tourism (CBT) office along the main street. We dragged our bags inside and introduced ourselves to the staff, with whom we had been messaging back and forth for a month. We nipped next door to pick up the border-zone permit that we would need for venturing to Kel Suu, caught a taxi to our guesthouse (Datka's), then returned to CBT to arrange our horse trip.
It proved to be a rather frustrating process. Gulira, the boss of CBT, had assured us that she had arranged a horse guide for the trip we had proposed, but when Rustam, the guide, showed up to meet us, we realized that Gulira hadn't told him anything about our route and our timeframe. Rustam frowned as we laid out our plans; his horses were nowhere near the starting point of our trip, and he hadn't done a trip over the pass we had chosen. He had a guest house in the At Bashy Valley and had thought that we would stay there that night, while we had committed to staying in Naryn. We thrashed out payment, went shopping for food with Rustam, then returned to Datka's for a good night's sleep while Rustam drove back to his base in Kyzyl Tuu.
The next day was a bit of a write-off, directly as a result of Gulira's lack of communication and organizational skills. We put much of our luggage into storage at our guesthouse and loaded ourselves and our camping gear into a taxi that Rustam had sent to pick us up in Naryn. Our driver was a frustrating combination of reckless and slow; we hurtled at unsafe speeds over the pass to At Bashy town before then dawdling for 45 minutes in At Bashy while our driver disappeared without explanation, leaving us impatient to get going again.
Eventually our driver reappeared and we drove off to Kyzyl Tuu. We were concerned that we were losing valuable riding time, but we needn't have worried, as we arrived to find Rustam in a holding pattern. He had arranged for a truck to transport his horses to our starting point in Pervaya Maya (May 1st in Russian; Kyzyl Tuu means Red Flag in Kyrgyz; the At Bashy valley features Russian Revolution-themed place names, including Bolshevik), but the driver kept calling with various excuses while we fretted and fumed. We had ample time to inspect our horses, a quintet of stallions. Terri was surprised that we were riding stallions and not mares or geldings, and Rustam explained that in the At Bashy valley it wasn't done to ride anything other than stallions. We were both a bit apprehensive, as Terri hadn't ridden much in 15 years and I hadn't ridden much in my entire life, and stallions have a reputation for being feisty and hard to control. At least the saddles looked comfortable and the rest of the riding and camping gear looked to be in good shape.
While we waited we had a chance to chat with Ryan and Meredith, a couple of Peace Corps volunteers. Ryan was stationed in Kyzyl Tuu and was living in one of the rooms of Rustam's guest house, while Meredith was visiting him from another corner of the country west of Bishkek. I have always been fascinated by Peace Corps volunteers, and have run into them on many of my travels through Africa and Central Asia. Ryan and Meredith were fascinating to talk to and a source of lots of interesting tidbits about everyday life in rural Kyrgyzstan.
Eventually, several frustrating hours later, Rustam had given up on his original unreliable trucker and gotten another truck to come and load our five horses aboard. Rustam's horse man Altynbek went in the truck with the horses while Terri and I climbed into Rustam's Subaru and drove behind. We stopped at a few places along the way to buy last-minute supplies, including of some of the most delicious honey we had ever tasted; the producers claimed that At Bashy honey had twice won a world-honey-of-the-year award, and so a price of 4 USD for a litre seemed a thunderous bargain.
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| Setting off early in the evening from Pervaya Maya |
After At Bashy our road turned to rutted dirt and we passed the horse truck, making plodding progress, in a cloud of dust. We got to Pervaya Maya and got out at a small stream crossing. We unloaded our gear and stood around staring up at the high peaks of the At Bashy Range, glancing at our watches and cursing Gulira. Eventually the horses arrived and we saddled them up and climbed aboard. It was almost 7:00 pm when we finally started riding upstream, and we were racing a setting sun.
I was surprised at how unpainful the riding was at first. My previous horse trip,
a dozen years earlier in Mongolia's Altai Mountains, had almost crippled me, as my knees had been in constant pain from wrapping my legs around the horse. This time, though, with better saddles and comfortable padded saddle cushions and longer stirrups, it seemed a lot less rough on my knees.
The path led steadily uphill, along a forested ridge and into a deep valley. The riding was easy most of the way, but a steep rocky bit had both Terri and I getting out of our saddles to walk, much to the amusement of our two Kyrgyz companions, completely confident in the surefootedness of their mounts. We kept pressing along, not passing any places suitable for camping, as the sun set and dusk began to deepen over the hills. Finally, at 8:45, in almost complete darkness, we found a flattish meadow full of wildflowers and set up camp. We put up tents while Rustam and Altynbek hobbled the horses and started cooking. Luckily it wasn't too cold despite being at almost 3000 metres' elevation, and Terri and I sat outside looking up at the stars and sipping a bottle of Moldovan wine while waiting for dinner to cook. When it arrived, we sat around a crackling campfire and ate, content with being in the middle of spectacular, albeit invisible, mountains. We crawled into our tents at 11:30 and slept soundly, full of food and excited that we were finally underway.
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| Terri and two of our horses at our first campsite |
We awoke to clear skies and the whinnying of horses who had been released from their hobbles to graze freely on the lush grass. Breakfast consisted of generous portions of oatmeal porridge, and by 8:50 we were packed up and in our saddles, ready for another 1000 metres of climbing up to the Bogoshty Pass. It was a steady climb, at first past dense patches of spruce forest and then through alpine meadows festooned with colourful wildflowers. Far overhead we saw patches of glacier and forbidding rocky ramparts, with fleeting glimpses of imposing summits. We rode fairly steadily, the horses sweating and working hard in the thin air. Terri and I got off and walked twice on particularly steep sections (as much to get out of the saddles and stretch as out of genuine nervousness). Finally the top of the pass came into view, a steep scree slope with water running across it. Even our Kyrgyz companions got off to lead the horses up this final precipitous ascent, and soon enough we were all contemplating the view from the top, some three hours after setting out.
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| Heading towards the 3900-metre Bogoshty Pass |
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| Happy to be atop the Bogoshty |
To the north we looked steeply down the path we had just ascended, while southward the ground sloped away much more gently towards a distant and as-yet-unseen Ak Sai River. There were hints of something large in the haze on the horizon, but nothing definite; we would have to wait for our first clear views of the Kokshal Range. We took photos, adjusted the loads on our horses and then set off downhill, excited to see new territory.
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| The expedition at the top of the pass |
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| Idyllic valley on the descent into the Ak Sai Valley; note the yaks |
The descent was reasonably easy, with only a couple of tricky spots where we nervous Westerners hopped off the horses to walk, to the mirth of Rustam and the puzzlement of Altynbek. The meadows were lush and green and supported herds of horses and, rather to my surprise, yaks. We stopped for lunch in a beautiful meadow ringed by snowy peaks and plagued by persistent horseflies. It was a relief to our bruised backsides to get off and lie on the saddle cushions for a while while Altynbek brewed up tea and we tucked into bread, cheese, tinned fish and a delicious salad.
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| My view much of the time |
The rest of the afternoon passed in a never-ending gentle downhill to the Ak Sai River. Our loss of almost the entire previous day meant that we had to cover some 150 kilometres in four days, making for long days in the saddle. We descended from the verdant high-altitude meadows to drier, scruffier terrain along the course of a mountain stream. The Kokshal mountains took shape gradually through the haze, a wall of white astride our path in the far distance. Here and there yurts dotted the hillsides, surrounded by herds of horses and sheep, and late in the afternoon we diverted towards one, lured by Altynbek's desire for some fresh kymyz, the fermented mare's milk that is the national drink of Kyrgyzstan.
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| Our first good view of the Kokshal Mountains |
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| The tunduk, the skylight at the top of a yurt |
Our hosts were a middle-aged couple who welcomed us in as though we were old friends rather than a couple of random foreigners on horses. We entered the yurt and, once our eyes had adjusted to the gloom, we looked around interior. It looked very familiar from previous trips to Kyrgyzstan, from the interior layout to the furnishings and the distinctive skylight, or tunduk, that is so characteristic of Kyrgyz nomadic culture that it forms the centrepiece of the Kyrgyz national flag. We lounged around a low table, drinking tea and nibbling cookies while our host dispensed
kymyz. I had developed a taste for the distinctive smoky sour flavour of the drink
back in 2004, but Terri wasn't at all taken by her first impression of the stuff and after a few polite bird sips, she passed her cup to me to finish. We sat discussing the state of the flocks, the weather and the trail ahead until Altynbek and Rustam had drunk their fill, then said our goodbyes, saddled up and rode the final ten kilometres to the banks of the Ak Sai.
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| Kymyz break in a yurt along the way |
It was fairly non-descript terrain, and I was glad not to be plodding across it as a pedestrian; Terri, on the other hand, set off on foot, keen to give her badly bruised tailbone (a souvenir of our Inylchek adventures) a bit more of a rest. Keen to cover ground, once Terri got on her horse, we trotted for a long stretch. On my previous horse trek, trotting had been an absolute Calvary to be endured, but this time, with longer stirrups, I was better able to rise out of my saddle to absorb the jarring cadence of the trot. My horse was competitive, and once he started to trot he started going faster and faster to keep ahead of the others, eventually changing to a canter and once, rather alarmingly, into a full gallop that had me holding on for dear life and pulling back frantically on the reins.
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| Idyllic campsite beside the Ak Sai River |
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| Terri on the banks of the Ak Sai |
Not long before sundown we reined our horses in beside the river and dismounted to set up our tents. It was a pretty spot, full of birds, and we had enough time to sit around sipping tea (and a bottle of Chilean red wine) while Rustam conjured up a plov, the rice-and-meat dish that is a universal staple of Central Asian cuisine. The views were stupendous, back towards the jagged At Bashy Range, and ahead towards the even more vertiginous Kokshal Range. To either side the broad Ak Sai valley stretched to the horizon. Almost no-one lives in the Ak Sai over the winter: at 2500 metres above sea level, it's bitterly cold for six months a year, and the summer herders retreat to houses and villages in the At Bashy valley.
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| Our horse man Altynbek |
The grasslands seemed quintessentially Kyrgyz, and there was no better way to engage with the landscape and its people than on horseback. We sat on the grass perfectly content, watching the Milky Way appear as the last light faded over the mountains. Both Terri and I were bone-weary after a long day on horseback, and we were sound asleep not long afterwards.
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| Looking and feeling a bit weary after a long day in the saddle |
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| Last light over the At Bashy mountains |
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| Sunset light on the Kokshal Mountains |
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| Heading south from the Ak Sai River |
We awoke at 6:30 after a sleep of utterly refreshing profundity. We got going reasonably quickly, breakfasting on oatmeal and a litre of fresh milk from a nearby yurt (Altynbek opted for leftover plov rather than fancy city food). We had worried about the crossing of the Ak Sai River, but it proved to be an easy ford this late in the summer; our feet didn't even get wet as our horses picked their way deftly across the slippery cobbles with the sure-footedness of mules. Once across we made good time across the endless plain, trotting much of the way.
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| A pretty red rock canyon |
Finally we turned east, crossing a beautiful red rock canyon that had been hidden until we were right on top of it. We followed a jeep track for a while, then abandoned it to follow a river directly upstream through a series of idyllic meadows. After a long, gradual climb past a series of yurts and a few abandoned Soviet-era structures, we stopped for a long, relaxed lunch in yet another wildflower meadow while the horses energetically cropped the grass short. We watched a golden eagle take wing, while around us we could hear well-fed marmots sounding their shrill alarm calls.
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| Lunch stop |
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| Yet another pretty glade |
This day was the centrepiece of our trip. Our lunch spot was close to our objective, the narrow lake of Kel Suu, trapped between rocky ramparts in the heart of the Kokshal Range. We proceeded further uphill after lunch, crossing a pair of steep passes with stupendous views before a final climb up a boulder-strewn slope brought us to the shore of the lake. The first view of the lake was unforgettable, an emerald jewel in a vertical granite setting. We stood and stared out across the lake to where it vanished in a narrow cleft to the south. Two parties of tourists who had arrived by jeep trooped down to the shore for a ride in small inflatable motorboats, but we were happy just to look from dry land at the marvellous spectacle.
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| A precipitous descent |
Suddenly the two long days of riding, and the day of frustrating logistics beforehand, all receded and all that mattered was the elemental, ethereal, unearthly beauty of the spot. Overhead a kettle of griffon vultures wheeled effortlessly, impossibly high above our heads.
We stood there mesmerized for a long time, but eventually the sun moved behind mountain cliffs and the dazzling light vanished from the waters. It was time to think about starting our long return ride.
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| First view of Kel Suu |
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| The team at the lake |
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| Homeward bound |
It was getting late in the afternoon, and we had to find a reasonable spot to camp for the night. We retreated from the lake by a different route, scattering snow finches in front of us, following the jeep road about eight kilometres downstream to where a series of tourist yurt camps had been established. After two days of near solitude, it was jarring to be surrounded by tourists in bright Gore Tex and the sound of internal combustion engines. After a rather terrifying climb up into the first camp, where a single misstep by the horses would have led to a painful and possibly fatal tumble down a steep slope, we proceeded to a more isolated spot beside the river to spend the night.
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| A little slice of Patagonia |
The views from camp were expansive and reminiscent of southern Patagonia, with steep granite spires soaring above sweeping grasslands. Rustam cooked up a delicious pasta dinner while Terri and I watched the stars come out. Rustam told us that Polaris, the North Star, was called the Golden Spike in Kyrgyz, since, like horses tethered around a spike, the stars spin around Polaris endlessly.
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| Rustam, our fearless leader |
Rustam was an interesting character to talk to. Like me he had studied physics and had worked at the Kyrgyz Academy of Science in Bishkek in the plasma physics section. Like me, he had tired of academia. In his case he had returned to his father's village in Kyzyl Tuu and had become, rather improbably, the mayor, using his education and connections to try to navigate the tricky waters of government funding. He had gotten into tourism completely by accident, picking up a couple of German tourists hitchhiking years before and, on the spur of the moment, inviting them to stay at his house. He drove them around for a few days, showing them the sights, and decided that this might be the basis for a career. He had always loved travelling by horse, and he found that tourists like us loved the fantasy of travelling across the landscape by horse. He had established ties with a Swiss tour company and set up trips for them for two, three, four or more weeks. He had two trips in the field at the moment, and had only decided to go on a trip himself with us on a last-minute whim. We discussed his favourite corners of the country to explore on horseback, and tossed around ideas for future trips before the evening chill got to us and we retreated to our tents and warm sleeping bags.
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| Our faithful stallions |
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| Terri and I on horseback |
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| Our long-suffering steeds |
We awoke the next morning refreshed and rested, unlike Altynbek and Rustam who had been up three times in the night to chase off stallions from nearby yurts who had come visiting in the night to pick fights with our horses. We breakfasted, then had Rustam take a few photos of Terri and I on horseback (something that I had been unable to do myself, for obvious reasons) before setting off. Our path led us up over the jeep road pass and then down to our previous trail along the pretty riverside meadows. Once again we were prisoners of our constrained calendar and had to ride for four hours almost non-stop before reaching our previous fording point over the Ak Sai. By this point our horses were hungry and rebellious, spitting out their bits and refusing orders. It was a relief to all concerned to cross the river, dismount and have lunch while our mounts devoured vast quantities of grass with single-minded devotion.
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| The long trail up towards the Bogoshty Pass |
After a luxurious late lunch, it was more hard slogging uphill, via a return visit to our kymyz hosts (only on this second visit did I notice the solar panel leaning against the yurt). Late in the afternoon, some 8 kilometres south of the Bogoshty, we called a halt and camped well above the river, on a terrace with beautiful views. Both Terri and I felt weary, ground down by the unrelenting pace that we had rather foolishly set ourselves, and we were glad to get back down to ground level. I did some juggling beside the tents and played harmonica before we turned in early on our last night of the trip.
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| Our final campsite |
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| Not a bad place to spend the night! |
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| Morning water stop |
Our last day in the saddle was appropriately long and arduous. After a series of rainshowers the night before, the day dawned blue and warm, and we were off betimes, moving before 8:30 for the first time on the trip. The light on the reddish grass and sparkling stream was magical, and both Terri and I felt more at home in the saddle than we had up until that point. We stayed in the saddle almost all the way up to the Bogoshty Pass, dismounting only for one particularly steep, rocky part. We were learning to trust the sure-footed judgment of our horses rather than surrendering to vertigo and fear.
It took remarkably little time to get to the crest of the pass, where we stopped for photos and a final view of the enchanting Kokshal Range.
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| Walking down the steep initial descent from the Bogoshty |
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| Exhausted and bruised, Terri takes a much-needed siesta |
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| More wildflower-strewn meadows |
Once over the pass we pounded downhill relentlessly, setting a pace that was tough on knees, thighs and backsides. We stopped for a final lunch amidst a profusion of wildflowers, and Terri passed out on her horse blanket, utterly worn out by four days of non-stop riding. We revived her and then retraced our steps of four days earlier, picking our way down a long descent, past our first campsite where Terri's horse stopped for a good feed, sure that we were going to stay the night; he was extremely put out to be spurred onwards, away from his favourite restaurant of the trip!
The descent into Pervaya Maya was almost anti-climactic, with the heat of the "lowlands" (2000 metres above sea level) hitting us like a hammer. It was a long, dusty plod through the length of the village to where Rustam had parked his car at the house of a friend. We stopped in to devour a table full of goodies, ravenous after four days of fresh air and long rides, then climbed into Rustam's car for a high-speed drive back to At Bashy. It had been an intense and over-ambitious four days of riding, but it proved to be one of the absolute highlights of our summer in Kyrgyzstan.
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| Rustam atop the Bogoshty Pass |
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| Our amazing sure-footed steeds |
