It started off ‘casual’ enough; Iggy gathered us at the south end of the high mountain pass and told us to stay close together and listen to him—not necessarily explaining the why behind the what, but clear none-the-less. We traversed the steep, loose slope down and left before stepping around a rocky prow. Above us at least 25 people were descending the slope via an untold number of “paths”; that number was in addition to some similar amount climbing up. Butt scooches, hands and knees, running—w/music, large packs, and a dog—, scree-ing, slow methodical walking; the multitudes were moving in all manner of confidence, competence, and attentiveness. Despite there not being blood, gore, panic, or immediate danger, I would classify it as a ‘shit show.’
Seven hours earlier we had emerged from our pyramidal, nylon tents to a clear and calm, but still shady, morning. The sun was still tucked behind the jagged ridges and peaks that formed our narrow valley. Our little NOLS alumni group’s camp was on the outskirts of the larger Sirota Camp—as we had taken to calling it, there were actually numerous companies/vendors selling accommodations of all sorts in this small, semi-forested, less rocky part of the valley. Backed up to a rocky outcropping and a steep, tree-filled hillside the peaks of our tents barely peeked above the stalks of over-grazed Caragana (a tall, spiny pea plant) while their square bases sidestepped piles of horse, cow, and human manure.
In our large, tubular, yellow dining tent, breakfast had been laid out for us. Strong black tea was served from a small aluminum kettle, then cut with boiling water from a similar, only much larger kettle. Plastic cups of the steaming beverage were passed down the lines where we sat on either side of our table cloth. Spread on the table cloth were biscuits and fruit, bread, Nutella, and various nuts and candies. Soon bowls of soupy porridge were ushered in from the cook tent and passed among the group. We mostly ate in silence, with mmmms and ‘please pass the…’ being the predominant utterings.
Twenty-minutes later, the packing of light packs is smooth and efficient, though the tents (bound for our horses) are still strewn across various shrubs and boulders as a means to help eliminate the evening’s condensation and humidity. Soon enough though we need to settle for a brief and vigorous shaking then a clammy stuff into their gray duffle bags. Iggy and Carolyn tag-team the day’s route briefing and we shoulder our packs for the day’s nine-plus-ish mile journey. Before navigating the steepness, roots, rocks, and scree of higher up, we first must make our way through some 20–30 other humans packing, chatting, bathing, smoking, and otherwise beginning their day—and that was only on the outskirts of camp.
As we leap frog with other groups, the alternating batkak (the Kyrgyz word for the ubiquitous mud) and steep, sandy trails hold our attention. It is never fast moving as a group of eleven, even with Iggy’s decently set pace. So we accordion up the hills, making the frequently frowned upon ‘fuck you’ break a few too many times—so much so that one of the older participants asked “isn’t this one of them screw-you breaks?” I had to correct them to right terminology, but the sentiment was there.
The steepness ends as we crest a smooth, glacially polished bench that helps retain a striking—and understandably popular—glacially-fed, turquoise lake. Ahead, much more elevation is to be gained, but we revel in knowing the steepness is behind us; just a long, rocky, traversing slog ahead. We have naively put the descent into a “its-just-going-down” category.
I pass out small Twix bars, Mac goes to the lake to get water, Carolyn and Florence go swimming. Iggy and company smoke cigs while others point large, expensive lenses (or sleek iPhone 18s) at the landscape, angling for the view that does it justice.
Eventually, as the hour trends toward noon and clouds begin to coalesce, we shuffle upward. Rocks, scree, beaten dirt, and loose sand are all underfoot at some point with steep uphills often needing attention and technique to avoid blowing out the step or sliding off the purchase on the hard packed, gravelly ups. A few side-hill water breaks and some leap-frogging with other hiking groups later we are at a small bench below the final “up.” Above us, Altyn Arashan is broad and populated with what appears to be a handful of people with some still making the ascent; at least they are no longer dots!
I pace Becky up the hill, sometimes in front, sometimes just behind, my presence being a gentle nudge upward. Conversation and encouragement are ongoing and some chit-chat with a Franco behind us help me distance my thoughts from the building weather. Clouds gather and gray the sky, taking away our bluebird morning. “Will lightning happen” I push the thought away; slowly upward ’til then and then a mad-scramble backwards would be my management technique at this point. But maybe not I think as I spy Mac, Carolyn, and Iggy on the skyline. We trudge upward.
I don’t expect the knife edge at the top. Nor do I expect the crowds, the wind, or the yurt village several hundred meters below, on the opposite side. Mac greets Becky and I and talks with her as she takes in the view and catches her breath—no small feat at 12,800 feet. I wander southward along the crest, weaving in and out of people in various reposes. People sit and cook and smoke and swig water and tan and do 360º turns filming themselves for the ‘gram, and point and meditate and so much more. Somewhere overhead two drones battle for the best overhead shots while selfie sticks clash like foils and the less equipment prepared watch their phones tumble off their precarious perches. Kyrgyzs, Russian, Swiss, English, and French all trickle into my less refined ears. I think there is more but certainly can’t place it.
I pull on a wind layer, then a puffy. The gray clouds continue to build their menace, but I am more reassured now, standing at the top, seeing the base not-that-far below, but I’ve yet to see the descent; just a glimpse of four, white-hat-clad people inching upward in a line below. The yurt village in the flats seems pretty close.
The course has gathered just off the high point and we snack and share some stories and take pictures, not unlike the 45 other people amassed on the knife edge ridge. Eventually, after some pics for social media and some snacks, Iggy herds us further southward along the ridge. We file one-by-one. I am not in charge here, but my heart beats faster as I begin to see more of the descent. Iggy has chosen a somewhat decent line that cuts across the slope, using a descending traverse to gain what I can now see, is a genuine shit-show.
The people are everywhere. Going up, going down. Loose rocks slide through gravel scree. A dog barks and scrambles into some loose terrain. People take one step up, then slide downward onto their knees as it blows out. Hands are occupied holding phones, arms out for the action-selfie or trying to make upward progress through the looseness while flying a drone.
We descend onto the eastern slope with a few steep, insecure steps down. Not truly a horrible fall if one were to slide, just a scary slide into steep scree, but not worth doing. We migrate around a small prow and I find myself more flabbergasted at the array of people that are now within my sight. ‘Trails’ go every which way: crisscrossing, running parallel, and perpendicular. No rhyme or reason, just impacted ways upward and downward—some way better than others—with people using them all.
We merge into the melee and keep close together. Our trajectory keeps us from knocking bigger talus or smaller scree onto each other, but the numerous other people are clearly potential subjective, objective hazards. The group stays close, though inevitably I find myself at the back coaching a few folks through the scree-ing that becomes de-riguer as we near the bottom third of the steepness. No falling, sliding, or tumbling rocks breach the space around our group, though scary moments of bigger ones moving around us keep us on our toes and pointing our noses down and out. “Speed is safety” i say more than once as we inch along our chosen descent; less time exposed, less risk of incident. Below us, two horses stand at a switch back, marking, to me, the end of the more attentive management. Untethered, they stand, awaiting their riders’ returns. We pass below them where the maze of braided trails combines more neatly into one, and we beeline it to the yurt village as the rain drops get fatter and heavier—lunch awaits us below.
Featured Image: Looking south-ish from Altyn Arashan pass;
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