Scraping the heavens
A short walk in the Tien Shan, Kyrgyzstan's "celestial mountains"
For fans of Soviet Modernist architecture, monumental statues of Russian generals, and oddly placed MiG fighter jets, the streets of Bishkek—the capital of the remote Central Asian republic of Kyrgyzstan—offer enough curious sights to occupy a lifetime.
But Kyrgyzstan didn't earn its nickname “the Switzerland of Central Asia” for its quintessentially Soviet cities. Rather, it owes this epithet to the lofty mountains that cover some 93 percent of the country.
Hemmed in on all sides by severe terrain, Kyrgyzstan is not far from the Eurasian pole of inaccessibility (the place farthest from the ocean). Given the country's extreme isolation and rugged topography, it remains relatively undeveloped. Outside of the major cities, the landscape conjures a prehistoric wilderness untouched by time.
I lived in Bishkek in 2014 and 2015, and from the comfort of my living room I could easily make out the white peaks of the nearby Kyrgyz Ala-Too, whose foothills lie just 20-odd miles south of the city.
This 13,000-foot wrinkle of rock and ice is an extension of the formidable Tien Shan range, itself a spur of the Himalaya. Although the mountains provided a spectacular backdrop to my everyday life, I felt a strong compulsion to see them up close.
Fortunately, Kyrgyzstan is keenly aware of its natural beauty—and its attraction to outsiders—and boasts a impressively robust community-based tourism network. This includes the Trekking Union of Kyrgyzstan , a small but capable outfit of local outdoor enthusiasts that organizes guided day trips and longer overnight treks into the mountains, valleys, and jailoos (summer pastures) throughout the country.
Shortly after arriving in Bishkek in late August 2014, I joined TUK for a daylong hike into the Alamedin Gorge, which slices southward into the foothills of the Ala-Too. Although the hike itself was by no means strenuous—and this comes from someone who'd recently spent the better part of two months glued to a car seat —the views were spectacular. What follows is a brief account of my equally brief jaunt into the Ala-Too.
My fellow hikers and I met at the TUK office in downtown Bishkek at around 7:45am. There we boarded a chartered marshrutka (one of the ubiquitous minibuses that haul passengers around the city at breakneck speeds) and gradually made our way out of the city. As we trundled southward, the mountains rising ever higher before us, I made small talk with my hiking companions and our guide, a buoyantly upbeat gold-toothed Kyrgyz guy of about 65.
Before I knew it, the marshrutka was bumping along a dirt track, flanked by the frothing, opalescent Alamedin River on one side and a shadowy peak on the other. We presently pulled off the road, hopped out of the van, and proceeded deeper into the valley on foot.
Although the trail was littered with loose debris and animal waste of all shapes and sizes, the valley floor was relatively flat and we made swift progress along the eastern bank of the river. But after maybe half a mile, the trail delivered us to a precarious bridge spanning the Alamedin River.
Constructed from three rusted, unsupported 4-inch pipes draped with a metal grate, the crossing hardly inspired confidence. A slack cable served as a handrail, but it only rose to my knees. The trail petered out at the base of the bridge, so we were left with three choices—continue off-piste along the near side of the river, brave the bridge, or retreat to the marshrutka. We decided to take our chances with the metal pipes.
Our guide nimbly hopped across the bridge, turned around, and enthusiastically waved us over from the other side. One by one, we followed his lead, exercising considerably more caution than him. I had lingered behind to take some photos, and so I was the last one to cross.
Everyone looked on as I hoisted myself up onto the bridge and gingerly picked my way across the pipes. Every couple of steps, the pipes shifted beneath my feet. As I reached the far side of the bridge, I let out a big sigh of relief. I'd been holding my breath the whole time.
As I reached the far side of the bridge, I let out a big sigh of relief. I'd been holding my breath the whole time.
We continued deeper into the valley, passing through pastures, boulder-strewn fields, and colorful birch copses. The trees’ red, orange, and yellow canopies reminded me a bit of fall in New Hampshire, where I'd spent my undergraduate years. Every now and again, we passed the skeletal remains of a yurt—an innocuous reminder that we were not, in fact, in Switzerland.
The sky had been partially overcast for most of the morning, but now, the sun began to peek through the clouds. Directly ahead of us, Usechenko Peak extended some 15,000 feet into the sky, casting a long shadow onto the valley walls below.
The Tien Shan mountains take their name from the Chinese Tian Shan, which translates to "celestial mountains." It is, no doubt, a fitting name for this range, whose peaks appeared to brush the heavens. I've seen my fair share of mountains, but few have induced such a profound sense of insignificance as these.
Eventually, we peeled away from the river, and began to work our way up the side the valley. After a few minutes, we rounded a corner and emerged onto a broad pasture. A few curious horses hobbled over to sniff us out.
Among them were three or four foals, probably just a few months old. None of the horses had any markings, but they certainly belonged to someone; in the summer months, Kyrgyz herders sometimes let their animals roam freely in these alpine meadows, rounding them up only to make a sale (or a meal).
A few minutes later, we reached a small tributary hastily rushing past us downhill. We followed the brook for some 300 feet, beating our way through a dense thicket and then scrambling over loose scree and wet rocks.
We presently found ourselves in a narrow cut, and rounding a corner, suddenly stood directly in front of a waterfall. It wasn’t a big one—just 30 feet tall, maybe. But the steep overhang of the cliff from which it tumbled gave it an impressive appearance all the same.
We stopped for lunch at the waterfall. While I munched on samsy (Central Asian samosas), qurut (dried fermented milk balls), and chocolate, our guide busted out a small gas stove and kettle, and we all had tea.
I took off my shoes and socks and plunged my feet into the water until I could no longer feel them, then plunged them back into a fresh pair of socks. (Side note: always carry extra socks. You will never regret it.)
Once refueled, we headed back down into the valley, and then along the river for another two or three miles. Although the scenery hardly changed, I didn't tire of the views up and down the valley.
Presently, the clouds began to darken and threaten rain. None of us wished to be caught on that perilous bridge in a thunderstorm, so we decided to retrace our steps to the trailhead posthaste. I took one last look aross the valley, and headed back in the direction of the city.
By the time we reached the rickety pipe-and-wire bridge, the skies had darkened, and the air was thick ozone. I carefully picked my way across the crossing, and once the whole group had gathered and regained our breath, we returned to the waiting marshrutka.
And not a moment too soon: just as we piled back into the van, the skies opened up and unleashed a cold, soaking downpour—a signal from the mountains that it was time to go. My companions and I relished our dryness from the comfort of our seats.
An hour later saw us back in the heart of Bishkek, the mountains once again a looming backdrop to the Soviet skyline, beckoning from beyond the gray. As the skies cleared up, revealing the peaks of the Ala-Too, I knew it was only a matter of time before I heeded their call once again.
This story was created with ArcGIS StoryMaps .
