Where Eagles Soar (part 2)
I know what it's like back home. Busy rushing here and there, too many things to do, not enough time. Work needs to be worked, parties need to be partied, friends need to be friended. I know my posts are long. So I try to limit my tales to just the interesting stuff. I try not to bore you with the little adventures and the smaller details that happen every day on the road. The kind of people who do that are the kind who make you sit through their entire collection of home movies - and then go for the photo albums. At least I have no photos.
That's why for example, I didn't bore you with the tale about us stopping on the drive to Issyk-Kul to sample some kumis (fermented mare's milk - tastes slightly worse than it sounds). It's also why I left out the story about the lopsided bosi that we had to collapse and rebuild (about four hours work). I assumed also that you didn't want to hear about the quaint little hot shower at the camp, in a pine shed, heated by a small wood fire. Or for that matter, that none of us got any hot water, since Sveta would shower for an hour before anyone else got a chance.
Maybe a few of the lads reading would have been interested to know about the German tourists that randomly appeared at the camp in groups of two or three for a couple of days at a time. But the interest would not have been with the tourists (unless you're into elderly German Ornithologists), but rather with the army of young, attractive Kyrgyz woman acting as translators.
And I don't think anyone will ever want to know the horrible details from the 'Long Night of Singing'. About how I caused this by saying that normally on a Friday night I'd be in a pub with a few beers, listening to some music - how could I have known the consequences of such a statement? That Sid would burst into song (surprisingly not bad), and then a round table of solos, with German, Kyrgyz, Russian, even Maori songs would follow. And the worst of all, the terrible Waltzing Maltilda, followed up (under duress, in my defense) with the dreaded Home Among the Gum Trees. Oh the torment.
No, these and a hundred other stories like them are best left unmentioned, buried in the shadows of memory. The stories you want to hear are the epic tales, where life is at risk, honour is at stake and comic ineptitude is carried boldly like a sword. Stories like The Great Expedition ...
A dew glistened on the grass, though the morning sun had burnt off all but the last of the lingering clouds. Impatiently the steeds stomped at the moist soil. Eager to be off, the tension rippled through their muscled bodies. They bucked and skittered as the supply sacks were fastened tightly to their sturdy rumps. At last they were ready. The four riders, each in turn, approached his steed and mounted up, like the Kyrgyz warriors of old. And then they were off.
Well nearly. I just had to convince my stupid horse to get his nose out of the pile of horse shit he was busy sniffing. Then of course I had to get him to turn around, oh, and start walking. A slap on the arse from the camp host went a long way to achieving this (the horse's arse that is, not mine).
Once out of the camp, we moved quickly along the path. Two of Murbik's hounds ran alongside. We carried supplies and gear for our three day expedition. The horses were well trained once you got use to them, and they moved along in single file. I discovered my horse had a particular fetish with arses and everything relating to them. I used this to my advantage, following closely behind Sid's horse, providing my mount with the apparently satisfying view of nothing but horse arse.
Both Cam and myself were familiar with horses, but no more than this. We knew the basics - where the accelerator and brake were, how to turn left and right. For the more advance things (headlights, windscreen wipers, reverse gear, etc) we were novices. We were heading along a wide dirt path, rather than going straight up the way we had hiked, so we assumed this was to avoid the trickier parts. Besides we had Murbik and Sid, men of the mountain, born in the saddle and weaned on mares milk. They would lead us safely through these wild lands.
It was hard to judge Sid's mood. He'd seemed quite happy about the situation the night before. After that, he'd disappeared into town to gather 'supplies', which were now wrapped in a sack and tied to my horse. He'd spoken little when he returned, and was also now rather recluse. Perhaps this was normal, having never been on a horse riding expedition into the mountains with a Kyrgyz man before, I had no base to compare it with. I decided not to think about it, and spent my time gazing at the scenery.
The first hour was fairly steady, uphill but not too steep. My knees however, locked into an unnatural position, quickly became stiff. I'm pretty sure I would have been hurting anyway, but it helped matters not at all that I was sitting in a saddle, with reins and stirrups designed for the average Kyrgyz mountain man (i.e. Papa Smurf and his kin). The net affect was a little like Mr T trying to ride a kiddies bike.
I learnt to adjust my sitting position, squeezing with my thighs, rather than putting pressure on my knees. The horse seemed to prefer this too, and it moved more steadily. This was a good thing too, because before long we were in some fairly steep terrain. Loose rocks littered the path which had narrowed as well. The horse stumbled more than a few times, but it was bred for the mountains, I was pretty sure it wouldn't fall. The bigger danger was me falling off it, and tumbling down to the valley far, far below.
I got the measure of it though, and Cam looked fairly comfortable by now as well. Murbik led the way, and Sid fell in between myself and Cam. The view was glorious from the top of the forested hills; sunny, green peaks and shadowy valleys undulated across the land. We headed down into one of these valleys and it was pretty obvious by now that we were heading up into the icy mountains, but a long way from where we had hiked to. This was more like it!
Once down in the valley, we followed the river winding through it. It was decent sized river, even larger than the one near our camp, and from the looks of it, flowing faster too. At the low point of the valley, we made our first crossing. It was a relatively safe spot though the water came nearly to our feet. Cam and I made it across easily and without incident.
We were now heading into harsher terrain. The path narrowed again, but this time trees and prickly bushes sprung up beside us to scrape against horse and rider alike. Loose stones, washed down from the mountains above, became more frequent than not, and the horses balked often. Murbik and Sid showed no sign of slowing and Cam and I kept pace.
We came against a cliff base and a mess of shrubs, we were forced to cross the river once again. The water was deep and fast and unfriendly. Murbik went first. Half way across, his horse slipped and went down. As it rolled into the water Murbik sprang clear. Drenched from head to toe Murbik climbed the far shore. Sid leapt forward yelling something, probably not polite. Murbik's frightened horse returned to our side of the shore, riderless.
Sid, grumbling and shaking his head, made the rather wise decision to head back down the stream and cross at a safer place. There was no doubting his mood now, he was clearly still not happy about this trip. Cam and I exchanged glances, we weren't too fussed about Sid and his moods. More concerning was that a mountain man, who had probably learnt to ride before he could walk, had just lost his horse to this river. What the hell did this mean for us?
Cam headed back down stream and Sid, determined to be grumpy, followed with Murbik's riderless horse in tow. A few meters on, Murbik's horse stopped dead and Sid was pulled from his horse, dragging his saddle with him (weighed down by his impractical shaped bag). Coming up behind I quickly grabbed the reigns of Murbik's horse, while Sid who had only just managed to land on his feet, dealt with his saddle. He was fairly livid now, shaking his head and muttering in Kyrgyz.
His horse skittered about the place, clearly upset by all the commotion. Cam took his pack from him, onto his own horse and rode on. I rode forward to help hold his reigns and Sid turned and barked at me. Obviously to Sid, the reason for the horse being skittish was not his radiating anger, but my presence. I gave up helping and rode on to Cam, leading Murbik's spare horse.
Cam and I waited patiently on our horses. Sid fiddled with his saddle, muttering to himself. Murbik meanwhile was busy ringing out his clothes on the other side of the river. It occurred to me that somehow the situation was reversed. The two novice foreigners were the only one's still mounted, one carrying the pack of the experienced mountain man, the other leading the mount of the young horseman in his prime.
Eventually Sid had his saddle retied and rode passed us to a crossing lower down. Cam followed and made it to the other side without incident. I still had Murbik's horse, and it was skittish from it's fall, balking frequently. I'd assumed that Sid would lead it across the water, but he was already on the far bank, discussing the failings of his saddle with Murbik. This task, it seemed, was mine alone.
I knew that if Murbik's horse balked and mine kept moving, I could be pulled from my saddle and into the icy water. If I was real lucky, one of the horses might then fall on me too. Well, you only die once, may as well be in a mountain stream under a horse!
With a loud and confident 'choo!' (Kyrgyz for giddy-up) we plunged into the frothing water. Both horses stumbled and balked, but they managed to keep their feet and keep moving. At the halfway mark, I felt the reins of Murbik's horse go tight. She had stopped dead. I pulled back so hard on my mount's bit that I must have removed it's wisdom teeth. At the same time I shouted 'CHOO' at the horse behind. Both horses skittered and ice cold water slashed in the air, but it worked, we stumbled clumsily on. And then we were through, riding up the dry safe bank.
I looked around for my applause, chest puffed out in pride, arms raised in victory. No one had even been watching. I dropped my arms, deflated my chest (a little anyway) and handed Murbik his horse. The four riders, together again, set out once more on the trail.
The trail became steeper still as the valley narrowed. We rode along side the river, but were forced often into the tangled mess of trees and shrubs of the higher ground. Horses were taken through dark, windy tracks barely narrow enough for humans. Thick tree branches and thorn bushes blocked the path and had to be pushed through. Low hanging branches had to be ducked to avoid being knocked from the saddle. This was no tender-foot trail.
For hours we followed these winding paths. We stopped rarely, only when Sid's saddle needed adjusting. My knees had given up complaining, too sore to care. My arse on the other hand was letting me know just what it thought of Kyrgyz saddles. We rode on, climbing higher and higher. Around us, the mountains began to harden. The fashionable soft greens of the valleys lower down were shunned by these hard-hitting ice lords. Black rock and crisp snow began to appear. The river began to weaken too, fed by fewer tributaries, and our crossings became somewhat easier. The trees, gradually began to thin out - leaving only the more hardy and solitary ones to this rocky land.
At last we came to a small grassy hill, surrounded by tough shrubs and a few gnarled trees. It was here that we would make camp. From this vantage we could see the mountains in all their glory. On all sides stood black icy peaks, and ravines littered with snow and the broken stones of a thousand avalanches.
You could say I dismounted, but it would be more accurate to say I fell slowly from my horse, then by leaning on it, managed to stay on my disfunctional knees. We untied the bags and spread out the gear, making ready for a late lunch. The bag of supplies was soon to reveal it's wonders to us. My dry tongue danced at the thought of jam and cream, fresh apricots and sweet bread - the delicious foods of the mountain people.
Sid cut open the bag and pulled forth several loaves of bread. Bread is good, everybody likes bread. Then came a large sausage. I had seen this before, a kind of pressed ham, not unlike a bland devon. Ok, a bit of meat is good for the diet. Then came the tins, I grabbed the first eagerly and read the label - "Sprats Pate". I turned to Cam, what the hell is a sprat? "Kind of like Sardines". Oh. I grabbed the next tin - "Sprats Pate". And the next, and the next. Sid likes a bit of tinned fish it would seem.
Murbik is also looking through the tins. I gather from his face that he's about as impressed as I am (though it's hard to tell with Murbik, he gives away little). Sid explains something to him and I understand that some of the tins contain something different. Murbik and I search through them like treasure hunters. At last a different label, I hold my prize up to the sunlight and read - "Sprats in Oil". Oh, yay for Sid.
I dig into the bag to find what else we have. Since it's empty I look around for another bag. Then my brain, in denial up to this point, finally kicks in. Our meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) for the next three days will be bread, devon and sprats. I accept it, I move on. I promise my worried gut all the fresh fruits, vegetables and dairies it could ever possibly want, if it can just, for three days, pretend that sprats are edible.
While we are eating, a Kyrgyz horse man appears in our camp from nowhere. I'm amazed, we are miles from the last camp. Where the hell did this guy come from? I find out that the valley we are in is one of the many passes between Kyrgyzstan and it's northern cousin, Kazakhistan. This man and a few other herders have a small camp, hidden in the bushes across the other side of the river.
I'm a little disappointed by this human presence, but the man informs us that there are wild goats that come down every night from the mountains to drink at the stream. These goats are one of the natural food sources for snow leopards and to find evidence of these will be as good a start as we could hope for in determining if there are leopard's in this area.
We set up camp. Cam and I share a tent and Sid and Murbik share another. The tents are normal western two-man tents, and quite good. Though Cam and myself have to use a couple of band-aids to patch a few holes in our fly. Sid helps out not at all in the setting up, he wanders about with his binoculars looking scientific. Murbik deals with the horses and Cam and I take care of the tents.
With camp set, we ask Sid the plan. We are half keen to wonder around the mountains this afternoon since it is still fairly early. Sid decides that this night there would be no hiking, but from our vantage point we would be able to keep watch for these goats.
In fairness it's a good plan, and we are tired enough that hiking is easily forgotten about. A comment however from Sid has me a little annoyed. He points to the snowy peaks and indicates that these are too hard to really get into, and that you would need a good ten days to explore them. The fact that we originally had exactly ten days to do this very job doesn't seem to occur to him.
We gather wood and start a fire. It's a clear sky and the night creeps in slowly. It's a practical life in the mountains, and even the sun seems to dispense with it's usual gaudy, over-dramatic departure. It slips from sight behind a mountain peak, quickly and quietly, so that the last rays of light are caught unawares and linger in the valley, lost and unsure. The pale white-blue of day drains slowly from the sky leaving a deep, dark endless night, sprinkled with the cold silver light of scattered stars.
Around our camp fire, wrapped in our warm winter gear, we peacefully work our way through the evening meal. We make our selection of Sprats in Oil for the main course, leaving the joy of the pate to the morning. The two dogs make short work of our left overs before curling into warm balls of fur and dozing off to sweet dreams of marmot chases.
We scan the snowy banks of the mountain stream, awaiting the arrival of our goats. The hours tick by but our guests are rudely late. As the darkness settles in, Sid retires with the claim that if the goats don't appear tonight they will surely be here very early in the morning. We will rise at 5am to make a sighting. A few hours later, with the fire slowing dyeing, the rest of us follow suite.
At 5am we awake. The sun is still low behind the mountain peaks. A few of the more adventurous rays of light have come on ahead giving the sky a soft glow, and revealing grey clouds. Sid, in black woolen trousers, army green jacket and matching beret, scans the mountains with his binoculars. Our goats have still not appeared. In the night the dogs had stirred frequently, barking. It occurs to me that if I was a goat, stupid though I may be, I would probably choose one of the dozen other valleys to drink in rather than the Valley of the Barking Dogs.
We keep watch for half an hour then turn back in for a few hours sleep. We rise to grey clouds and a cool wind. It had rained during the night and the long, green grass is heavy and wet. Sid doesn't join us for our breakfast (sprat pate, bread and devon - imagine our surprise!). Murbik (via a game of charades) explains that he is experience some instability in the stomach and bowel area.
We give him some time and Cam mixes up some Gastrolyte for him, but it seems he won't be up for any work this day. I am of course very suspicious. How convenient that he is sick on the one day that we will be doing some real work, and when there is a touch of poor weather. On the other hand, those sprats are pretty damn disgusting.
At any rate Cam and I decide we are going out anyway. We pack supplies for the day and head out, Murbik in the lead. I assume Murbik is coming with us the whole way, but once he has shown us across the river and pointed out a path he parts ways, heading for the hidden camp of the herders. I can hardly blame him, looking for goat shit in the mountains on a rainy day is hardly a fun day out for him.
We discuss our route, deciding to follow the south bank up, looking for tracks, then crossing the stream and exploring some of the higher, snow covered ledges on the north side. Our pace is a good steady one. We have no way of finding out how high we are, but it must be well above 3000 meters, perhaps up around 4000. The air is thin, and the lungs work hard to suck enough in.
The sun remains obscured behind grey clouds, and the wind carries the snow-cold to us. Wet grass clings to our hiking boots, coating them with a thick dew that seeps through to chill the toes. Cam is fitter than me and a better hiker, but neither of us feel a need to rush. A comfortable silence settles over us. We are, at the same time, walking together and walking in solitude.
Two large eagles circle overhead. Majestic and graceful, they glide silently from peak to peak searching for the small rodents that they feast upon. When it comes to bird classifications, I know nothing. I'd have trouble differentiating a pelican from a budgie. Cam on the other hand reveals that he was, as a youngster, into Ornithology (what other dirty secrets does this man have?). He recognises the eagles as most probably Lemmin Geirs, a bird about which little is known.
We reach the highest point of the stream, before it disappears under icy snow. Here we make a find. Some stool, quite a lot actually, which looks as though it could be that of a sheep or goat. I pack some into one of the empty sprats tins for Sid to look at later.
We cross the snow and head up higher into the northern black cliffs. Cam leads the way, twenty meters or so ahead of me. The wind picks up and a light rain moves in. I pull my hood down tight against the rain and cold. The trail we are following is one obviously made by avalanches. Broken stones of all shapes and sizes are piled in a haphazard fashion, as if tossed there by some careless giant. Some are loose, and give way under weight. I have to focus hard and move slowly to avoid falling or twisting an ankle.
I climb higher, intent on my path. Finally I reach the jagged ridges and when I finally look up, Cam has disappeared. Several paths weave around the rocky outcroppings and I know he could have taken any. I'm not concerned, we will easily find each other once we are through the crags.
I decide to take the higher path in order to get a better view. The stones are smaller and looser here. Too small to join the big ones in their race to the bottom. I decide to play safe and use my hands as well, in a climbing motion. I'm not so worried about falling myself, but more concerned about knocking stones loose. A stone knocked free would bounce and skitter down the cliff for a good thirty seconds without stopping.
While climbing, my hands clasp around something white with an odd texture. I pull it from the stone and find it to be a bone. Possibly a goat's, but I had no way of knowing. I pocket it for later.
Eventually, with careful and strenuous work, I reach a high rocky outcropping. Here I can see the whole valley: our tiny camp, the river and the rocky surrounds. I can see it all, an endless ocean of white peaks and green valleys. The cold wind whistles past, stinging my cheeks and searing my lungs. I stand there awed, hypnotised by the flow and ebb of life and nature in this harsh, perfect landscape - this place where eagles soar and leopards lurk.
My trance is broken by a call from Cam, a long way below. I make my slow and careful way back down. Upon joining him I learn that he had not actually taken any of the paths where I had lost him. He'd actually just sat down in under a rocky outcropping for a break. I'd walked almost straight past him. We laugh. No chance of seeing a snow leopard when we can't even see each other!
We stop for lunch. Despite the exertion I have little appetite. This may have something to do with the menu containing sprats, devon and bread. While eating lunch I notice a soft feather of beige and white, I add this to my collection of goodies. I now have a tin full of shit, a piece of bone and a feather. A king's ransom!
The clouds were looking more serious now so we decided to meander back down the valley towards camp. Some hours later, cold, tired and satisfied we plodded slowly into camp, greeted enthusiastically by the barking dogs. It was late afternoon but the weather was now turning nasty.
We are forced to our tents and there we stay for the rest of the evening. From our little sanctuaries, munching on sprouts and bread, we watch as dark cloud armies do battle in the sky, throwing down cold, heavy drops of rain and booming in anger. Thick grey clouds roll up the valley below to consume us in a dense wet fog, and then moved on as quickly as they had come. We drift off to sleep to the gentle drumming of the rain, wrapped up tight in our sleeping bags and beanies. Somewhere, in the mountains, the snow leopard sleeps peacefully in his warm dry cave.
At five, I wake briefly to check for our goats. The rain has stopped but a few clouds still linger, like those annoying guests who hang around long after the party is finished. There is no sign of our goats once again. The beasts of the mountains would stay hidden from us. I doze until dawn, when the soft but warm rays of the sun pierce the clouds and begin to warm the sodden land.
Sid is up, looking remarkably well for a man too sick to move the previous day. I show him my treasures from the previous day. He confirms that both the stool and the bone are that of a goats. I'm happy with that, though it is the smallest of victories. But there is no time for anything more.
Meanwhile, Murbik has gone to round up the horses for our return trip. We work our way through breakfast with very little enthusiasm. Today, we will be back at camp for a late lunch, a real lunch, with real food, with no sprats.
With breakfast done we set about breaking camp. Halfway through this task I am suddenly and acutely aware that I have not answered "nature's call" in three days. With now a certain amount of urgency I grab my bog roll and head for the nearest tree, which is unhappily a good 500m away. My pace is the fast march - not quite walk, not quite run - that one does when wanting to get somewhere fast but without making too many sudden movements.
Luckily I make it, and with explosive joy empty myself of three days worth of sprouts, bread and devon. I can't explain to you the feeling of relief and elation of that moment. There are no words strong enough.
I head back down to camp, several kilos lighter and practically skipping, to find the horses saddled and all ready to depart. We mount up and head off. This time the trip is mostly downhill. My knees are ok with this, however my groin seems now to be the focal point of the saddle. After the first hour I lost my ability to reproduce, after the second hour I lost my desire.
The rain has made the rivers a little higher and the crossings a tad more dangerous. Sid tries to avoid this by proposing a little shortcut. Instead of following the valley all the way back down and then turning and following the offshoot valley back to our base camp, we would go over the top of the mountain. Murbik seems uncertain, Cam and I have little to offer in the way of advice. So we head up hill on Sid's plan.
The path is a path for only a very short while. After that we are in thick shrub and dense trees, littered with hidden holes and obscured ravines. We backtrack many times trying to find a way through the tangle. In the end Murbik declares it to be impossible and we head back down to our original path. The first of Sid's shortcuts has not gone well.
We reach the river without event. After the concern the guys had with the river crossings I had thought they might be a little more attentive to our attempts to cross it than last time. As before, however, they cross ahead of us and ride on, not stopping to ensure that we make it across. Cam and I hold up well though and make every crossing without injury. I'm pretty impressed with us both, even if Sid isn't going to give us due credit.
After the river crossings, Murbik parts ways with us. He wants to visit one of the neighbouring camps and will meet us back at base camp later on that night. With him goes the two dogs, leaving only Sid, Cam and myself. Cam and I can remember the way from here however and we aren't too concerned.
Sid leads at a moderate and steady pace, always a few meters ahead. We have been some hours in the saddle and haven't stopped for a drink. The few stops we have made have been to adjust Sid's loose saddle. Both Cam and myself are quite thirsty and we attempt to indicate to Sid that we would like to stop for a drink. Sid either doesn't hear us or ignores us. Finally, Cam just stops his horse and dismounts. I follow suite, whistling at Sid. He turns in his horse looks at us, then turns back to the road and walks on.
Oh well, stuff him. Cam and I sate our thirsts. Cam mounts up before me and rides on. I turn to mount my horse and in the process my saddle slips loose and slides off the horses back. Sid is long gone, so I am on my own. I have seen Murbik working on Sid's bag and eventually manage to work it out, though I know it is only a partial fix. I ride on. Cam is waiting around the corner for me. Sid continues on ahead.
Sid for some reason leads us into the tree lines, instead of following the wide open path. We stick to him, but he always comes back to the path. Cam eventually stops following him and just stays on the path. Foolishly I follow Sid up a narrow windy path under trees too low for horsemen over six feet tall. As I came out of the trees again, a large branch catches me at waist height. There is no way to duck it, and the horse will not stop. I do the only thing I can, I grab the branch, face jammed with spiky bushes. The horse whinnies and moves out from under me, leaving me dangling, before I drop ungracefully to the ground.
Cursing Sid, I grab my hat from the tree, my sunnies from the ground and my horse from a few meters on. I mount up and followed on, but now staying to Cam's path, not Sid's. Eventually we come to a junction. We have come from the path to the right, but Sid wants to take the path to the left. Cam questions him, I express my general disregard for Sid and his shortcuts but Sid is determined.
Eventually we give in, following Sid up his preferred path. Within 500 meters the path disappears. We are forced to dismount and lead the horses up a steep, slippery bank. Both horses and humans are slipping often and it would make more sense to turn back. Sid stubbornly pushes on.
It is hard work, we climb for an age. Sid keeps trying to cut back to the right but a deep valley of thorns and nettles blocks the way. We continue to climb, this exhausting work is made all the worse by the knowledge that we are heading in the opposite direction to our camp.
We know we have all ready taken much longer than the trip up, but Sid, the stubborn little mountain gnome, is still trying to tell us that this path was better than the other. Cam and I laugh. There is little else we can do. We climb and climb, eventually we reach the top. Here the trees give way to a grassy slope on the far side of the cliff. We are finally able to mount up again.
From here the riding is easy, as we are on the south face of the mountain and there are no trees. We follow cattle tracks around the outside of the mountain. We are many peaks from our camp and we have a long way to go on this 'shortcut' of Sid's. Still Cam and I take solace in the spectacular view of lake Issyk-Kul miles below.
Eventually, tired, sore, hungry we plod into camp. We are just in time for dinner, and we devour it completely. Hot soup, and honey and jam and sweet bread and no devon and no sprats! It is one of the best meals of my life.
And so our adventure was over. The expedition finished. We saw no wild animals apart from a few marmots and a host of wild birds. The ibex and the sheep remained hidden by the mountains and the snow leopard, lord of the cliffs, was but a shadow amongst the shadows, too clever and too proud to reveal himself to us.
We spent the last two days at the Rehabilation Center, reunited with Isi and Sveta. Here are three snow leopards in captivity, and at last we came face to face with the creatures we had sought after. These magnificent animals seemed too proud and too wild to be kept in the small cage they were in. So it was good to see the new, large enclosure that they will be moving to in the next few weeks.
Cam and I worked on building a path to a look-out for the new enclosure. This will allow tourists to visit without actually disturbing the animals. It was good to be doing something real, something solid, but we worked for barely a couple of hours before we were forced to rest.
Also here was a French man and a French woman, making a documentary on the eco-volunteer project. They were finding it even more frustrating, the lack of coordination and snow leopard focus, that we were. Understandably they had been hoping to film volunteers out in the snow tracking snow leopards for days. They were however about to head into the mountains with the team of Gruppa Bars. These are the police force set up to catch snow leopard smugglers.
The Gruppa Bars arrived. Three huge Russian men, with crew cuts, full camouflage gear and rap around black sunglasses. These are the kind of guys who appear in Bond movies, with rocket launchers over one shoulder, lifting a jeep or truck above their heads. What's more they drove a banged up old van. Had it been black and not gray, you could easily think that the A-Team had just arrived.
At any rate the French film crew were happy with this. It was definitely something for the cameras. Isi was also a little excited, running around like a school girl. She had another two weeks with the project and had volunteered to go up and be part of the activity.
So as the van puttered away over the mountains, loaded with film crew and Isi, Cam and I packed our bags and hopped into our own little four wheel drive jeep to bring us back to Bishkek and civilization. For me now, it's on to China, to Urumqi and Glover. Now the first chapter of the adventure is over, the next one is about to begin.
That's why for example, I didn't bore you with the tale about us stopping on the drive to Issyk-Kul to sample some kumis (fermented mare's milk - tastes slightly worse than it sounds). It's also why I left out the story about the lopsided bosi that we had to collapse and rebuild (about four hours work). I assumed also that you didn't want to hear about the quaint little hot shower at the camp, in a pine shed, heated by a small wood fire. Or for that matter, that none of us got any hot water, since Sveta would shower for an hour before anyone else got a chance.
Maybe a few of the lads reading would have been interested to know about the German tourists that randomly appeared at the camp in groups of two or three for a couple of days at a time. But the interest would not have been with the tourists (unless you're into elderly German Ornithologists), but rather with the army of young, attractive Kyrgyz woman acting as translators.
And I don't think anyone will ever want to know the horrible details from the 'Long Night of Singing'. About how I caused this by saying that normally on a Friday night I'd be in a pub with a few beers, listening to some music - how could I have known the consequences of such a statement? That Sid would burst into song (surprisingly not bad), and then a round table of solos, with German, Kyrgyz, Russian, even Maori songs would follow. And the worst of all, the terrible Waltzing Maltilda, followed up (under duress, in my defense) with the dreaded Home Among the Gum Trees. Oh the torment.
No, these and a hundred other stories like them are best left unmentioned, buried in the shadows of memory. The stories you want to hear are the epic tales, where life is at risk, honour is at stake and comic ineptitude is carried boldly like a sword. Stories like The Great Expedition ...
A dew glistened on the grass, though the morning sun had burnt off all but the last of the lingering clouds. Impatiently the steeds stomped at the moist soil. Eager to be off, the tension rippled through their muscled bodies. They bucked and skittered as the supply sacks were fastened tightly to their sturdy rumps. At last they were ready. The four riders, each in turn, approached his steed and mounted up, like the Kyrgyz warriors of old. And then they were off.
Well nearly. I just had to convince my stupid horse to get his nose out of the pile of horse shit he was busy sniffing. Then of course I had to get him to turn around, oh, and start walking. A slap on the arse from the camp host went a long way to achieving this (the horse's arse that is, not mine).
Once out of the camp, we moved quickly along the path. Two of Murbik's hounds ran alongside. We carried supplies and gear for our three day expedition. The horses were well trained once you got use to them, and they moved along in single file. I discovered my horse had a particular fetish with arses and everything relating to them. I used this to my advantage, following closely behind Sid's horse, providing my mount with the apparently satisfying view of nothing but horse arse.
Both Cam and myself were familiar with horses, but no more than this. We knew the basics - where the accelerator and brake were, how to turn left and right. For the more advance things (headlights, windscreen wipers, reverse gear, etc) we were novices. We were heading along a wide dirt path, rather than going straight up the way we had hiked, so we assumed this was to avoid the trickier parts. Besides we had Murbik and Sid, men of the mountain, born in the saddle and weaned on mares milk. They would lead us safely through these wild lands.
It was hard to judge Sid's mood. He'd seemed quite happy about the situation the night before. After that, he'd disappeared into town to gather 'supplies', which were now wrapped in a sack and tied to my horse. He'd spoken little when he returned, and was also now rather recluse. Perhaps this was normal, having never been on a horse riding expedition into the mountains with a Kyrgyz man before, I had no base to compare it with. I decided not to think about it, and spent my time gazing at the scenery.
The first hour was fairly steady, uphill but not too steep. My knees however, locked into an unnatural position, quickly became stiff. I'm pretty sure I would have been hurting anyway, but it helped matters not at all that I was sitting in a saddle, with reins and stirrups designed for the average Kyrgyz mountain man (i.e. Papa Smurf and his kin). The net affect was a little like Mr T trying to ride a kiddies bike.
I learnt to adjust my sitting position, squeezing with my thighs, rather than putting pressure on my knees. The horse seemed to prefer this too, and it moved more steadily. This was a good thing too, because before long we were in some fairly steep terrain. Loose rocks littered the path which had narrowed as well. The horse stumbled more than a few times, but it was bred for the mountains, I was pretty sure it wouldn't fall. The bigger danger was me falling off it, and tumbling down to the valley far, far below.
I got the measure of it though, and Cam looked fairly comfortable by now as well. Murbik led the way, and Sid fell in between myself and Cam. The view was glorious from the top of the forested hills; sunny, green peaks and shadowy valleys undulated across the land. We headed down into one of these valleys and it was pretty obvious by now that we were heading up into the icy mountains, but a long way from where we had hiked to. This was more like it!
Once down in the valley, we followed the river winding through it. It was decent sized river, even larger than the one near our camp, and from the looks of it, flowing faster too. At the low point of the valley, we made our first crossing. It was a relatively safe spot though the water came nearly to our feet. Cam and I made it across easily and without incident.
We were now heading into harsher terrain. The path narrowed again, but this time trees and prickly bushes sprung up beside us to scrape against horse and rider alike. Loose stones, washed down from the mountains above, became more frequent than not, and the horses balked often. Murbik and Sid showed no sign of slowing and Cam and I kept pace.
We came against a cliff base and a mess of shrubs, we were forced to cross the river once again. The water was deep and fast and unfriendly. Murbik went first. Half way across, his horse slipped and went down. As it rolled into the water Murbik sprang clear. Drenched from head to toe Murbik climbed the far shore. Sid leapt forward yelling something, probably not polite. Murbik's frightened horse returned to our side of the shore, riderless.
Sid, grumbling and shaking his head, made the rather wise decision to head back down the stream and cross at a safer place. There was no doubting his mood now, he was clearly still not happy about this trip. Cam and I exchanged glances, we weren't too fussed about Sid and his moods. More concerning was that a mountain man, who had probably learnt to ride before he could walk, had just lost his horse to this river. What the hell did this mean for us?
Cam headed back down stream and Sid, determined to be grumpy, followed with Murbik's riderless horse in tow. A few meters on, Murbik's horse stopped dead and Sid was pulled from his horse, dragging his saddle with him (weighed down by his impractical shaped bag). Coming up behind I quickly grabbed the reigns of Murbik's horse, while Sid who had only just managed to land on his feet, dealt with his saddle. He was fairly livid now, shaking his head and muttering in Kyrgyz.
His horse skittered about the place, clearly upset by all the commotion. Cam took his pack from him, onto his own horse and rode on. I rode forward to help hold his reigns and Sid turned and barked at me. Obviously to Sid, the reason for the horse being skittish was not his radiating anger, but my presence. I gave up helping and rode on to Cam, leading Murbik's spare horse.
Cam and I waited patiently on our horses. Sid fiddled with his saddle, muttering to himself. Murbik meanwhile was busy ringing out his clothes on the other side of the river. It occurred to me that somehow the situation was reversed. The two novice foreigners were the only one's still mounted, one carrying the pack of the experienced mountain man, the other leading the mount of the young horseman in his prime.
Eventually Sid had his saddle retied and rode passed us to a crossing lower down. Cam followed and made it to the other side without incident. I still had Murbik's horse, and it was skittish from it's fall, balking frequently. I'd assumed that Sid would lead it across the water, but he was already on the far bank, discussing the failings of his saddle with Murbik. This task, it seemed, was mine alone.
I knew that if Murbik's horse balked and mine kept moving, I could be pulled from my saddle and into the icy water. If I was real lucky, one of the horses might then fall on me too. Well, you only die once, may as well be in a mountain stream under a horse!
With a loud and confident 'choo!' (Kyrgyz for giddy-up) we plunged into the frothing water. Both horses stumbled and balked, but they managed to keep their feet and keep moving. At the halfway mark, I felt the reins of Murbik's horse go tight. She had stopped dead. I pulled back so hard on my mount's bit that I must have removed it's wisdom teeth. At the same time I shouted 'CHOO' at the horse behind. Both horses skittered and ice cold water slashed in the air, but it worked, we stumbled clumsily on. And then we were through, riding up the dry safe bank.
I looked around for my applause, chest puffed out in pride, arms raised in victory. No one had even been watching. I dropped my arms, deflated my chest (a little anyway) and handed Murbik his horse. The four riders, together again, set out once more on the trail.
The trail became steeper still as the valley narrowed. We rode along side the river, but were forced often into the tangled mess of trees and shrubs of the higher ground. Horses were taken through dark, windy tracks barely narrow enough for humans. Thick tree branches and thorn bushes blocked the path and had to be pushed through. Low hanging branches had to be ducked to avoid being knocked from the saddle. This was no tender-foot trail.
For hours we followed these winding paths. We stopped rarely, only when Sid's saddle needed adjusting. My knees had given up complaining, too sore to care. My arse on the other hand was letting me know just what it thought of Kyrgyz saddles. We rode on, climbing higher and higher. Around us, the mountains began to harden. The fashionable soft greens of the valleys lower down were shunned by these hard-hitting ice lords. Black rock and crisp snow began to appear. The river began to weaken too, fed by fewer tributaries, and our crossings became somewhat easier. The trees, gradually began to thin out - leaving only the more hardy and solitary ones to this rocky land.
At last we came to a small grassy hill, surrounded by tough shrubs and a few gnarled trees. It was here that we would make camp. From this vantage we could see the mountains in all their glory. On all sides stood black icy peaks, and ravines littered with snow and the broken stones of a thousand avalanches.
You could say I dismounted, but it would be more accurate to say I fell slowly from my horse, then by leaning on it, managed to stay on my disfunctional knees. We untied the bags and spread out the gear, making ready for a late lunch. The bag of supplies was soon to reveal it's wonders to us. My dry tongue danced at the thought of jam and cream, fresh apricots and sweet bread - the delicious foods of the mountain people.
Sid cut open the bag and pulled forth several loaves of bread. Bread is good, everybody likes bread. Then came a large sausage. I had seen this before, a kind of pressed ham, not unlike a bland devon. Ok, a bit of meat is good for the diet. Then came the tins, I grabbed the first eagerly and read the label - "Sprats Pate". I turned to Cam, what the hell is a sprat? "Kind of like Sardines". Oh. I grabbed the next tin - "Sprats Pate". And the next, and the next. Sid likes a bit of tinned fish it would seem.
Murbik is also looking through the tins. I gather from his face that he's about as impressed as I am (though it's hard to tell with Murbik, he gives away little). Sid explains something to him and I understand that some of the tins contain something different. Murbik and I search through them like treasure hunters. At last a different label, I hold my prize up to the sunlight and read - "Sprats in Oil". Oh, yay for Sid.
I dig into the bag to find what else we have. Since it's empty I look around for another bag. Then my brain, in denial up to this point, finally kicks in. Our meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) for the next three days will be bread, devon and sprats. I accept it, I move on. I promise my worried gut all the fresh fruits, vegetables and dairies it could ever possibly want, if it can just, for three days, pretend that sprats are edible.
While we are eating, a Kyrgyz horse man appears in our camp from nowhere. I'm amazed, we are miles from the last camp. Where the hell did this guy come from? I find out that the valley we are in is one of the many passes between Kyrgyzstan and it's northern cousin, Kazakhistan. This man and a few other herders have a small camp, hidden in the bushes across the other side of the river.
I'm a little disappointed by this human presence, but the man informs us that there are wild goats that come down every night from the mountains to drink at the stream. These goats are one of the natural food sources for snow leopards and to find evidence of these will be as good a start as we could hope for in determining if there are leopard's in this area.
We set up camp. Cam and I share a tent and Sid and Murbik share another. The tents are normal western two-man tents, and quite good. Though Cam and myself have to use a couple of band-aids to patch a few holes in our fly. Sid helps out not at all in the setting up, he wanders about with his binoculars looking scientific. Murbik deals with the horses and Cam and I take care of the tents.
With camp set, we ask Sid the plan. We are half keen to wonder around the mountains this afternoon since it is still fairly early. Sid decides that this night there would be no hiking, but from our vantage point we would be able to keep watch for these goats.
In fairness it's a good plan, and we are tired enough that hiking is easily forgotten about. A comment however from Sid has me a little annoyed. He points to the snowy peaks and indicates that these are too hard to really get into, and that you would need a good ten days to explore them. The fact that we originally had exactly ten days to do this very job doesn't seem to occur to him.
We gather wood and start a fire. It's a clear sky and the night creeps in slowly. It's a practical life in the mountains, and even the sun seems to dispense with it's usual gaudy, over-dramatic departure. It slips from sight behind a mountain peak, quickly and quietly, so that the last rays of light are caught unawares and linger in the valley, lost and unsure. The pale white-blue of day drains slowly from the sky leaving a deep, dark endless night, sprinkled with the cold silver light of scattered stars.
Around our camp fire, wrapped in our warm winter gear, we peacefully work our way through the evening meal. We make our selection of Sprats in Oil for the main course, leaving the joy of the pate to the morning. The two dogs make short work of our left overs before curling into warm balls of fur and dozing off to sweet dreams of marmot chases.
We scan the snowy banks of the mountain stream, awaiting the arrival of our goats. The hours tick by but our guests are rudely late. As the darkness settles in, Sid retires with the claim that if the goats don't appear tonight they will surely be here very early in the morning. We will rise at 5am to make a sighting. A few hours later, with the fire slowing dyeing, the rest of us follow suite.
At 5am we awake. The sun is still low behind the mountain peaks. A few of the more adventurous rays of light have come on ahead giving the sky a soft glow, and revealing grey clouds. Sid, in black woolen trousers, army green jacket and matching beret, scans the mountains with his binoculars. Our goats have still not appeared. In the night the dogs had stirred frequently, barking. It occurs to me that if I was a goat, stupid though I may be, I would probably choose one of the dozen other valleys to drink in rather than the Valley of the Barking Dogs.
We keep watch for half an hour then turn back in for a few hours sleep. We rise to grey clouds and a cool wind. It had rained during the night and the long, green grass is heavy and wet. Sid doesn't join us for our breakfast (sprat pate, bread and devon - imagine our surprise!). Murbik (via a game of charades) explains that he is experience some instability in the stomach and bowel area.
We give him some time and Cam mixes up some Gastrolyte for him, but it seems he won't be up for any work this day. I am of course very suspicious. How convenient that he is sick on the one day that we will be doing some real work, and when there is a touch of poor weather. On the other hand, those sprats are pretty damn disgusting.
At any rate Cam and I decide we are going out anyway. We pack supplies for the day and head out, Murbik in the lead. I assume Murbik is coming with us the whole way, but once he has shown us across the river and pointed out a path he parts ways, heading for the hidden camp of the herders. I can hardly blame him, looking for goat shit in the mountains on a rainy day is hardly a fun day out for him.
We discuss our route, deciding to follow the south bank up, looking for tracks, then crossing the stream and exploring some of the higher, snow covered ledges on the north side. Our pace is a good steady one. We have no way of finding out how high we are, but it must be well above 3000 meters, perhaps up around 4000. The air is thin, and the lungs work hard to suck enough in.
The sun remains obscured behind grey clouds, and the wind carries the snow-cold to us. Wet grass clings to our hiking boots, coating them with a thick dew that seeps through to chill the toes. Cam is fitter than me and a better hiker, but neither of us feel a need to rush. A comfortable silence settles over us. We are, at the same time, walking together and walking in solitude.
Two large eagles circle overhead. Majestic and graceful, they glide silently from peak to peak searching for the small rodents that they feast upon. When it comes to bird classifications, I know nothing. I'd have trouble differentiating a pelican from a budgie. Cam on the other hand reveals that he was, as a youngster, into Ornithology (what other dirty secrets does this man have?). He recognises the eagles as most probably Lemmin Geirs, a bird about which little is known.
We reach the highest point of the stream, before it disappears under icy snow. Here we make a find. Some stool, quite a lot actually, which looks as though it could be that of a sheep or goat. I pack some into one of the empty sprats tins for Sid to look at later.
We cross the snow and head up higher into the northern black cliffs. Cam leads the way, twenty meters or so ahead of me. The wind picks up and a light rain moves in. I pull my hood down tight against the rain and cold. The trail we are following is one obviously made by avalanches. Broken stones of all shapes and sizes are piled in a haphazard fashion, as if tossed there by some careless giant. Some are loose, and give way under weight. I have to focus hard and move slowly to avoid falling or twisting an ankle.
I climb higher, intent on my path. Finally I reach the jagged ridges and when I finally look up, Cam has disappeared. Several paths weave around the rocky outcroppings and I know he could have taken any. I'm not concerned, we will easily find each other once we are through the crags.
I decide to take the higher path in order to get a better view. The stones are smaller and looser here. Too small to join the big ones in their race to the bottom. I decide to play safe and use my hands as well, in a climbing motion. I'm not so worried about falling myself, but more concerned about knocking stones loose. A stone knocked free would bounce and skitter down the cliff for a good thirty seconds without stopping.
While climbing, my hands clasp around something white with an odd texture. I pull it from the stone and find it to be a bone. Possibly a goat's, but I had no way of knowing. I pocket it for later.
Eventually, with careful and strenuous work, I reach a high rocky outcropping. Here I can see the whole valley: our tiny camp, the river and the rocky surrounds. I can see it all, an endless ocean of white peaks and green valleys. The cold wind whistles past, stinging my cheeks and searing my lungs. I stand there awed, hypnotised by the flow and ebb of life and nature in this harsh, perfect landscape - this place where eagles soar and leopards lurk.
My trance is broken by a call from Cam, a long way below. I make my slow and careful way back down. Upon joining him I learn that he had not actually taken any of the paths where I had lost him. He'd actually just sat down in under a rocky outcropping for a break. I'd walked almost straight past him. We laugh. No chance of seeing a snow leopard when we can't even see each other!
We stop for lunch. Despite the exertion I have little appetite. This may have something to do with the menu containing sprats, devon and bread. While eating lunch I notice a soft feather of beige and white, I add this to my collection of goodies. I now have a tin full of shit, a piece of bone and a feather. A king's ransom!
The clouds were looking more serious now so we decided to meander back down the valley towards camp. Some hours later, cold, tired and satisfied we plodded slowly into camp, greeted enthusiastically by the barking dogs. It was late afternoon but the weather was now turning nasty.
We are forced to our tents and there we stay for the rest of the evening. From our little sanctuaries, munching on sprouts and bread, we watch as dark cloud armies do battle in the sky, throwing down cold, heavy drops of rain and booming in anger. Thick grey clouds roll up the valley below to consume us in a dense wet fog, and then moved on as quickly as they had come. We drift off to sleep to the gentle drumming of the rain, wrapped up tight in our sleeping bags and beanies. Somewhere, in the mountains, the snow leopard sleeps peacefully in his warm dry cave.
At five, I wake briefly to check for our goats. The rain has stopped but a few clouds still linger, like those annoying guests who hang around long after the party is finished. There is no sign of our goats once again. The beasts of the mountains would stay hidden from us. I doze until dawn, when the soft but warm rays of the sun pierce the clouds and begin to warm the sodden land.
Sid is up, looking remarkably well for a man too sick to move the previous day. I show him my treasures from the previous day. He confirms that both the stool and the bone are that of a goats. I'm happy with that, though it is the smallest of victories. But there is no time for anything more.
Meanwhile, Murbik has gone to round up the horses for our return trip. We work our way through breakfast with very little enthusiasm. Today, we will be back at camp for a late lunch, a real lunch, with real food, with no sprats.
With breakfast done we set about breaking camp. Halfway through this task I am suddenly and acutely aware that I have not answered "nature's call" in three days. With now a certain amount of urgency I grab my bog roll and head for the nearest tree, which is unhappily a good 500m away. My pace is the fast march - not quite walk, not quite run - that one does when wanting to get somewhere fast but without making too many sudden movements.
Luckily I make it, and with explosive joy empty myself of three days worth of sprouts, bread and devon. I can't explain to you the feeling of relief and elation of that moment. There are no words strong enough.
I head back down to camp, several kilos lighter and practically skipping, to find the horses saddled and all ready to depart. We mount up and head off. This time the trip is mostly downhill. My knees are ok with this, however my groin seems now to be the focal point of the saddle. After the first hour I lost my ability to reproduce, after the second hour I lost my desire.
The rain has made the rivers a little higher and the crossings a tad more dangerous. Sid tries to avoid this by proposing a little shortcut. Instead of following the valley all the way back down and then turning and following the offshoot valley back to our base camp, we would go over the top of the mountain. Murbik seems uncertain, Cam and I have little to offer in the way of advice. So we head up hill on Sid's plan.
The path is a path for only a very short while. After that we are in thick shrub and dense trees, littered with hidden holes and obscured ravines. We backtrack many times trying to find a way through the tangle. In the end Murbik declares it to be impossible and we head back down to our original path. The first of Sid's shortcuts has not gone well.
We reach the river without event. After the concern the guys had with the river crossings I had thought they might be a little more attentive to our attempts to cross it than last time. As before, however, they cross ahead of us and ride on, not stopping to ensure that we make it across. Cam and I hold up well though and make every crossing without injury. I'm pretty impressed with us both, even if Sid isn't going to give us due credit.
After the river crossings, Murbik parts ways with us. He wants to visit one of the neighbouring camps and will meet us back at base camp later on that night. With him goes the two dogs, leaving only Sid, Cam and myself. Cam and I can remember the way from here however and we aren't too concerned.
Sid leads at a moderate and steady pace, always a few meters ahead. We have been some hours in the saddle and haven't stopped for a drink. The few stops we have made have been to adjust Sid's loose saddle. Both Cam and myself are quite thirsty and we attempt to indicate to Sid that we would like to stop for a drink. Sid either doesn't hear us or ignores us. Finally, Cam just stops his horse and dismounts. I follow suite, whistling at Sid. He turns in his horse looks at us, then turns back to the road and walks on.
Oh well, stuff him. Cam and I sate our thirsts. Cam mounts up before me and rides on. I turn to mount my horse and in the process my saddle slips loose and slides off the horses back. Sid is long gone, so I am on my own. I have seen Murbik working on Sid's bag and eventually manage to work it out, though I know it is only a partial fix. I ride on. Cam is waiting around the corner for me. Sid continues on ahead.
Sid for some reason leads us into the tree lines, instead of following the wide open path. We stick to him, but he always comes back to the path. Cam eventually stops following him and just stays on the path. Foolishly I follow Sid up a narrow windy path under trees too low for horsemen over six feet tall. As I came out of the trees again, a large branch catches me at waist height. There is no way to duck it, and the horse will not stop. I do the only thing I can, I grab the branch, face jammed with spiky bushes. The horse whinnies and moves out from under me, leaving me dangling, before I drop ungracefully to the ground.
Cursing Sid, I grab my hat from the tree, my sunnies from the ground and my horse from a few meters on. I mount up and followed on, but now staying to Cam's path, not Sid's. Eventually we come to a junction. We have come from the path to the right, but Sid wants to take the path to the left. Cam questions him, I express my general disregard for Sid and his shortcuts but Sid is determined.
Eventually we give in, following Sid up his preferred path. Within 500 meters the path disappears. We are forced to dismount and lead the horses up a steep, slippery bank. Both horses and humans are slipping often and it would make more sense to turn back. Sid stubbornly pushes on.
It is hard work, we climb for an age. Sid keeps trying to cut back to the right but a deep valley of thorns and nettles blocks the way. We continue to climb, this exhausting work is made all the worse by the knowledge that we are heading in the opposite direction to our camp.
We know we have all ready taken much longer than the trip up, but Sid, the stubborn little mountain gnome, is still trying to tell us that this path was better than the other. Cam and I laugh. There is little else we can do. We climb and climb, eventually we reach the top. Here the trees give way to a grassy slope on the far side of the cliff. We are finally able to mount up again.
From here the riding is easy, as we are on the south face of the mountain and there are no trees. We follow cattle tracks around the outside of the mountain. We are many peaks from our camp and we have a long way to go on this 'shortcut' of Sid's. Still Cam and I take solace in the spectacular view of lake Issyk-Kul miles below.
Eventually, tired, sore, hungry we plod into camp. We are just in time for dinner, and we devour it completely. Hot soup, and honey and jam and sweet bread and no devon and no sprats! It is one of the best meals of my life.
And so our adventure was over. The expedition finished. We saw no wild animals apart from a few marmots and a host of wild birds. The ibex and the sheep remained hidden by the mountains and the snow leopard, lord of the cliffs, was but a shadow amongst the shadows, too clever and too proud to reveal himself to us.
We spent the last two days at the Rehabilation Center, reunited with Isi and Sveta. Here are three snow leopards in captivity, and at last we came face to face with the creatures we had sought after. These magnificent animals seemed too proud and too wild to be kept in the small cage they were in. So it was good to see the new, large enclosure that they will be moving to in the next few weeks.
Cam and I worked on building a path to a look-out for the new enclosure. This will allow tourists to visit without actually disturbing the animals. It was good to be doing something real, something solid, but we worked for barely a couple of hours before we were forced to rest.
Also here was a French man and a French woman, making a documentary on the eco-volunteer project. They were finding it even more frustrating, the lack of coordination and snow leopard focus, that we were. Understandably they had been hoping to film volunteers out in the snow tracking snow leopards for days. They were however about to head into the mountains with the team of Gruppa Bars. These are the police force set up to catch snow leopard smugglers.
The Gruppa Bars arrived. Three huge Russian men, with crew cuts, full camouflage gear and rap around black sunglasses. These are the kind of guys who appear in Bond movies, with rocket launchers over one shoulder, lifting a jeep or truck above their heads. What's more they drove a banged up old van. Had it been black and not gray, you could easily think that the A-Team had just arrived.
At any rate the French film crew were happy with this. It was definitely something for the cameras. Isi was also a little excited, running around like a school girl. She had another two weeks with the project and had volunteered to go up and be part of the activity.
So as the van puttered away over the mountains, loaded with film crew and Isi, Cam and I packed our bags and hopped into our own little four wheel drive jeep to bring us back to Bishkek and civilization. For me now, it's on to China, to Urumqi and Glover. Now the first chapter of the adventure is over, the next one is about to begin.
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