Great Adventure

I had told myself way back in Morocco, 'No more adventures!' I had obviously forgotten that directive. My sole purpose for coming to Kyrgyzstan was to see the mountains. As fast as I could I went from air terminal to clear across the country to the base city of Karakol. I spent one day getting permits, ignoring trekking operators, and scrounging around the bazaar trying to complete a pack worthy of an expedition.

Here is how it started. I arrived expecting to rent a stove and buy nice dehydrated meals and maybe splurge on a little one man tent. This was my impression from the guidebook. Here is what it looked like by the end of the first day. The trekking outfits that claimed to rent equipment didn't. One that didn't claim to rent equipment had since changed that policy, except their concept of a stove was more like a barbecue. The one Coleman they did have was apparently made of gold since the agent wanted twice what it's worth, per day, and a deposit of twenty times its value. I refused first on surprisal, and then on principle when I found I'd be paying him more to borrow a stove than I would pay a porter to carry my backpack. That's another thing. The guidebook had a bit of advice on trekking. I was heading up and over a pass that would take either 1 or 2 days. By the end of the first day I had acquired the necessary interpretive ability to decipher this statement. It helped that I met the man who gave the author of the guidebook this information. One or two days over the pass was not intended for me, alone, carrying a weeks worth of supplies. One or two days was intended for me, a guide, several horses, a couple porters, and a crew chief/cook. There were even more surprises in store. Comfortable travel was based on carrying around barbecues that burned gasoline. The importance is related less to warm food and more to warm bodies. The area I entered was less High Sierra and more Northwest Cascades. By the end of the first day I had surrended any ability to start a fire. Not only would the wood not burn, but paper was inundated with moisture from the air that when I could get it to burn it would rarely catch flame, but rather disolve behind a small crimson edge. If that wasn't frustrating enough, getting the paper to light would often require five or six matches since they themselves would rarely hold a flame long enough to matter. If you know me well, then you've guessed I went through all my scrap paper and a whole box of matches before realizing the final threat, nowhere to start a fire except cold water soaked ground. The little flame I did manage was quickly snuffed out and its embers ice cold before I could light another match. In other words, by the end of day one I was very frustrated.

My frustration, although persisting for the next two days, was continually interrupted by brief moments of encouragement that kept me in an uphill direction. The animals played a big part. Every morning my dazed crawl from camp would inevitably cross paths with an eagle taking its first flight of the day. There is nothing like a wingspan greater than my own to lift the spirits. The spiders that would make a home in my backpack and shoes at night were not exactly uplifting but definitely a needed distraction. A few hummingbirds nearly slammed into my face and some giant crickets caught my eye. At the height of my pessimism the animals did not fail to impress, and I stumbled upon a family of horses living high in the mountains, far away from whomever they escaped, whenever that might have been. They even slept across river from me. The animals alone provided encouragement, but the locals provided substinance and direction. By the end of the first day I had already turned to the nomads in the hills because I was lost, and had no bearings whatsoever. One man helped me find a river crossing, and numerous others assured me of my direction. One family offered lunch and let me play with their pet doe (in case you're wondering what mountain nomads eat: homemade everything including bread, tortillas, butter, tomatoes and cucumbers, potatoes au gratin, black currant jam, raspberry jam, yogurt and tea). Most importantly, they provided stoves and the willingness to let me boil water. Once I discovered that little trick I was definitely ready to complete my trip.

By the fourth day I had cleared the first pass. I already guessed the one or two days was out of the question, but I also came to learn that many of my difficulties came from the fact that the source in the guidebook, dependent on horses, could never have driven a team over the pass. His estimation of travel time was purely conjecture. But by the middle of the fourth day, I was poorly fed, tired, cold, eyeing a storm front chasing me down, but absolutely not at all frustrated. I had spent the last two days constructing a path up and over a pass that had only one trace of anyone having been this way in the recent past. After four days of hiking and surviving I crossed the threshold and caught site of a glacier on the other side. On the way down I took numerous pictures and marveled at my own private glacier, the first I'd ever seen up close and personal. Unfortunately by the time I got down a tricky rock slide, doubts had creeped in. I kept imaging a conversation with my dad as I showed him the pictures and unimpressed he remarks, 'no, that's just a snowpack.' I could've maintained the fantasy but I knew the pictures would be the death of me.

I had somewhat finished my stay near the glacier. A thunderstorm was upon me and the air was preparing for rain. I turned around for one last look, to say goodbye, and suddenly the whole world changed focused. Underneath what I now agree as a snowpack was a glacier. Half a kilometer in diameter, this massive disc stood hidden beneath a layer of snow and that beneath a layer of dirt. It wasn't until I got to the bottom that I finally saw the outline. I'm not saying this out of artistic embellishment, but I can honestly say until that moment I have never experienced awe. For a short moment, I was overcome by a simple sight. It's a wonderful emotion I don't expect to ever feel again. Once I noticed the tears in my eyes, I noticed the weight of my pack, the blisters on my feet, and the hail from the sky.

The world changed dramatically after that point. The storm had come full force, pouring down rain and as the storm desired, hail. I spent the rest of the day watching the moisture creep into my boots and up my calves, reaching my thighs before I finally reached the tree line and dug in for the night. The storm stalled for my rest, but I wasn't about to expect the same the following night. At about two in the afternoon on the fifth day I started constructing my tent out of rope, sticks, poncho and plastic bags. At about four the rain and hail started and didn't stop for another 12 hours. Needless to say, by the sixth day I was fully satisfied with my trip and very eager to get out.

Another little fortune was handed to me. On a whim I had found a lovely campsite on the fifth day. I could've walked for a few more hours but liked the area so I stayed. No more than 15 minutes further down the canyon I ran across the tourist track. Given I found it the last day, I was ready for it. An entire valley had been ripped into a swampy mudbog by opportunistic travel agencies and even more opportunistic tourists, the latter of which have no excuse. Frustrated I refused any offers for rides, protesting the presence of vehicles entirely. Even once in town I continued to refuse offers for trips to the bus station. Given that I was noticeably in pain, I even received an honest free offer, but stubborn as always, I refused, much to my regret.

In the end, after I'd rested, I was drenched in pride. I don't remember the last time I've been so proud of myself. I had traveled half way across the world, spent one day in a weekly bazaar, and headed into unknown mountains with a Russian map and a compass the size of a nickel. I also, one again, uttered my all to familiar mantra - 'No more adventures!'