Mountains of my mind
“What are men to rocks and mountains?”
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Mountains have long been a place of refuge for those seeking personal indulgences or an ambition of escape (or in my case, both). Their glacial capped peaks captivate you from afar, draw you into its guarded passages until it is only you, your bike and steep inclines for miles around. Although I bitterly complain whilst in the saddle, you cannot help but be awed by your surroundings and impressed at your accomplishments. You might think it’s the views that makes it worth the climb, but for me it is the sense that you are cycling between peaks that were here long before you arrived, and would remain so long after you leave; a continuum that even the advances of society and science will never overcome. It gives me a small sense of joy that here nature can endure and, much like the crazed cyclist passing through, have its own space away from the hurls of civilisation.
I started this expedition dreading these climbs and I think one of my first ever blogs was devoted to this fear - and the lack of pubs around to replenish me. Those same fears returned during this section of the trip, piquing as I camped in Uzbekistan looking out towards Tajikistan. As I set up my tent the mountains that define the border between these countries were shrouded in an evening haze; but as the sun began to rise the following morning an illumination occurred, outlining this majestic natural border and highlighted just how high I would be climbing over the next few days.
A battle ahead or so it seemed in my mind: the last camp in Uzbekistan
Plans to make a big dent in the distance needed heading into Tajikistan were immediately thwarted by a local farmer who pulled me into his house for what was intended to be a chai. After being settled down in a room that clearly doubled up as the family sleeping area I was treated to an indulgence of differing stale foods and fly covered sweets; which I accepted in a bid to play the role of guest as well as they were playing host. The chai comes in and only the men stay in the room. No sooner do the kind hostesses leave than one of the blokes lifts up a floorboard and pulls out a bottle of vodka. Clearly in a euphoric state, he pours the chai back into the kettle and to my horror fills up the bowls with neat vodka and insinuates we down them. Caught off guard, and thankful that I inherited some strong drinking genes, I stayed for a few more bowls before I made my leave, much to their protests and all before the bell had struck 8am.
Crossing into Tajikistan was a surprisingly straightforward process and ahead of me lay an open, pothole-free road that was hemmed in on both sides by two differing mountain ranges. To my right were the Fann mountains and to my left were the Suzem mountains. I would continue on this stunning road for the next 50km, through the ancient realm of Sogdia, a place where its culture and peoples were very different to that of the rest of Tajikistan. My intended end destination that evening would be Artuch, a mountaineering base camp 2300m above sea level where I would store the bike before hiking for a few days through the Fann Mountains.
When you come off the main road, in fact the only road running through this part of the country to its capital, Dushanbe, it is as if you have gone back in time. Cars, not that there were many of them on the main road, simply disappeared, houses too morphed slowly from the usual four sided-one roofed structures we are all familiar with to walls clinging to the cliff faces, and then again into herders yurts. The change in altitude it appeared brought more than just cooler air and more greenery.
The road ahead: the long slog to Artuch
After a biblical battle climbing ‘roads’ that resembled pony paths by the end of it, I arrive at my destination. Truly exhausted and with only a cold night in my tent ahead, I was anxious about how my gear and legs were going to hold up over these next few days. I would be camping at altitudes of near 3000m, summiting passes 1000m+ further up with only a Snugpak jungle sleeping bag and a microfleece for insulation. Well, one truly horrific night saw me beg some equipment from a mountain guide the following morning, with the state of my legs from yesterday’s climb demanding I also ask for hiking poles.
Finally kitted out, I began a three day voyage around the lakes of the Central Fanns, scenery and remoteness I had not experienced for years. Entire days would go by where the only semblance of civilisation was a hiker far in the valley below; or more annoyingly, an energy bar wrapper or rusted tin can by the side of the path. Words cannot begin to describe the sheer elation, peace and solitude I enjoyed over those few days, not to mention the blessed relief from the saddle. To be so far removed from civilisation that sounds and habitations no longer reach you is such a rare and grounding experience; elevating you to a place that transcends the meters gained and something that only vast wilderness can bring about.
It was with a sorry heart that I finally descended from my final camp, next to a glacial lake back to Artuch base camp, continually looking back over my shoulder to ensure what I had just experienced was not all in my mind. Hauntingly beautiful, I got the impression that the Fann mountains would forever be a place I would long for, no doubt turning dreams into nightmares, creating pangs to return and sowing the seeds for further adventure (sorry future employer). Back at camp and kindly hotspotted by a fellow adventurer I received news that Tajikistan was on the brink of all-out war with Kyrgyzstan, its neighbour, and something that could potentially cause quite a few logistical nightmares for me, mostly that continuing east would be impossible; which, I suppose was insignificant in truth given the wider picture.
Seeing is believing: the Fann lakes loop
The descent from Artuch on the bike was physically far easier but unquestionably more dangerous than going up, with periods of the journey genuinely making me a fair bit nervous. It had appeared that there had either been rain in one of the adjacent valleys, or some serious glacial melt had occurred as some of the small streams I had passed coming up were far larger versions of themselves on the descent. Surprisingly relieved at the eventual return to tarmac, it marked a completion of phase one of the mountain madness, with potentially only one last summit of the expedition remaining.
I continued for another 50km on legs that felt more like jelly than my own body, shivering onwards as the introduction to Autumn I had received in Samarkand was now well and truly in full flow. The road I was on follows the Zarafshan River further up into its catchment and I enjoyed watching it morph from a gentle braided river on the border with Uzbekistan into a fast moving, meandering beast gorging deep into a valley that tries desperately to contain it. This huge movement of water and energy creates a landscape that was a joy to behold, albeit painful to cycle through. Cycling in Uzbekistan you constantly worry about potholes and ruining the bike, whereas here you can really soak up your surroundings and marvel in the works of nature.
I finally found a motel for the night, but with the budget running low I negotiate sleeping in their garden instead of a warm bed. Another cold night lay ahead, made all the more challenging by the inability to shake how big a day tomorrow needed to be out of my head. The challenge in store tomorrow was further compounded by the fact that all I had eaten for the past four days was dahls (thank you Ahms), stale bread and about half a kilo of peanuts, not the ample diet I would be needing to complete a 1.4km rise over about 17km, with gradients I had not encountered yet. More worryingly, with phone signal rarer than hen’s teeth I would be doing all this Dua Lipa-less.
River > Rock
Be it the cold or nerves, I slept terribly that night. Sill, no time to dwell on that as I had literal mountains to climb today. I dined on a breakfast fitting for such occasion: stale bread, the last of my peanuts and some Nesquik powder shaken into one of my water bottles. I am sure Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay dined on a similar banquet before their big push, and my feast amounted to probably the entirety of Shackleton’s crew’s rations for the week. There was to be no complaining and I set off on the bike eager to push through something that would be painful but hopefully over with in five hours’ time.
Now I won’t detail the entirety of the climb (I need to have some stories for the pub when I am back), but needless to say it was painful but like most things we dread, not as bad as we let our imaginations run away with. A lesson no doubt to take back with me; do not fear the unknown and your imagination is usually a scarier place than most realities. This truism is something I am sure we all encounter, often on a weekly basis, and it takes a great deal; to rationalise your way through it at times….but at least does make you get creative with plans B and C.
At long last I began the much anticipated, and well earned, descent. However, with barely a break-pad left and a biting headwind I was brought to a state of near hypothermia. Hands numb, eyes watering and a cold that felt like it just went straight through me. It was such a strange feeling to be cold throughout such a long period, and not since France all the way back in April had I been this chilled.
Pulling over for a chai to warm up with I realise the mountain pass had represented more than just a pain barrier, it also separated two distinct cultures. Sogdia became the very fringe of the great Fergana Valley. The people, vibe and climate markedly different. This has been one of the truest joys of a cycling expedition, being able to feel and see the changes in peoples. Going slow enough to absorb your new surroundings and yet possessing enough pace to know that future adventures lay tantalisingly close, sometimes only a few hours cycling away.
Nearly there: halfway to the descent
A day later I arrived at Khujand, back on the Silk Road and a city that marks as far east as Alexander the Great ventured. From here he decided to strike south and the (in)famous push towards India began. He ventured no further east apparently due to his scouts informing him that nothing but mountains and empty plains lay further east. As this is my intended direction I can only hope things have changed a bit since then.
I intend to head east after a day’s rest, into the areas not even Alexander wandered. My rough direction will be due East, parallel to the great Syr Darya river before intersecting it somewhere north of Kokand. This last, great, river will mark the final stop along a chain that has taken me from the comfort of my home to the very heart of Eurasia, a culmination of blood (thankfully little), sweat (too much to detail) and tears and the end to this dream. I can only hope at catching a glimpse of the Syr Darya sturgeon, a species not seen since the 1960s. However, not seeing it will not define this expedition, merely heighten the need for us to look after the remaining sturgeon species we can find and to fight for what little wild places remain.
The route back into Uzbekistan will be a nerve wracking one. Intense recent conflict now mean shelling, armoured vehicles and ruined villages now line my intended route, and I am receiving mixed news daily on whether it is safe to cross. I’ll make an educated guess on the day and with a slightly more varied diet hope to have the energy to either cross or make the long detour.
With the expedition now tricking down into days rather than weeks I catch myself reflecting and reminiscing more than usual. The oddity of the route, the fulfilment it has given me, and a sense of deep thankfulness to have had such kind support from friends, family and the backing of the expedition’s fantastic core supporters. Travelling solo means you are as free as you’ll ever be, but also at the mercy of your own mistakes and limited company. Without all this kind help from you all, and strangers I have met on the road, I do not think I could have made it this far. To the sponsors (see below) who backed what many would call an unusual expedition, many others half-crazed, thank you! You have enabled me to live several lifetimes in the space of several months. In turn, I can only hope that one day I can support an adventure of a lifetime for someone else, someone who intends to go one further for a passion that inspires a joie de vie in them (ideally sturgeon).
The legends sponsoring the expedition are: alpkit Foundation, Fishmongers' Company's Charitable Trust, the Jeremy Willson Charitable Trust and New England Seafood International
Khujand: out for a bargain
