July 7 – 14, 2018

“I am losing precious days. I am degenerating into a machine for making money. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men. I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news.”

-John Muir

I’m back. I can tell myself this a thousand times. Back on the bike. Traveling, wandering, exploring the world – and myself. But is it ever really the same? Each experience is new and unique, serving to reveal a bit more about the world – and myself.  I traveled by bike through some of the most remote corners of the highest mountain ranges in the world – the Andes and Himalayas – for nearly 2 years before returning home, ideally bringing with me all the direction and answers that I was seeking. But it was an illusion. It seems to me that if you go off consciously looking for something, rarely will you find it.  I have since interviewed for two executive level jobs that my former self was perfect for, but neither felt right this time. I had changed. This is what I thought I was “supposed to do” after traveling that long. But after being home for 1 year, I discovered I was no closer to that end than before I initially embarked. The truth that I found is that my soul yearns to wander. An unquenchable thirst for discovery and unbound curiosity drives me, and has once again made me restless. The dull smolder of my desire to hit the road and travel by bike was not yet extinguished…and perhaps it never will be.

In Nepal in 2016, I met a Swiss couple that I immediately bonded with. We traveled together for several months through Nepal, India, and Tibet, sharing experiences, laughs, and that same unbound curiosity. When they reached out to me one evening in May asking if I wanted to meet them in Kyrgyzstan in July, my response was simply, “yes”. Always say yes.

“Where is Kyrgyzstan?” I was asked by countless people when told of my plan. “Ummm…ok…and why do you want to go there?” was the typical next question often posed with very perplexed looks. To be honest, I didn’t know much about it either, but a quick search on Google images told me all that I needed to know – and that I needed to go.

Kyrgyzstan is a landlocked country in Central Asia bordering Kazakhstan, China, and Uzbekistan and as a result is farther from the sea than any other individual country in the world. It has a population of 5.7m comprised of the nation’s largest ethnic group, the Kyrgyz, a Turkic people, who represent 73% of the population. Other ethnic groups include Russians (6%) concentrated in the north and Uzbeks (15%) living in the south. Still not quite sure where it is? Yeah, me either.

The Tian Shan mountain range covers over 80% of the country. The highest peaks are in the Kakshaal-Too range, forming the Chinese border. Peak Jengish Chokusu, at 7,439m (24,406 ft), is the highest point in the country and is considered by geologists to be the northernmost peak over 7,000 m (22,966 ft) in the world.

Kyrgyzstan has a rich history spanning over 2,000 years, encompassing a variety of cultures and empires. Although geographically isolated by its highly mountainous terrain, which has helped preserve its ancient culture, Kyrgyzstan has been at the crossroads of several great civilizations as part of the Silk Road route. Though long inhabited by a succession of independent tribes and clans, Kyrgyzstan attained sovereignty as a nation-state only after the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991.

A three hour flight from Denver to San Francisco with an overnight stay to see an old friend, followed by an 11 hour flight to Seoul, a 4 hour layover, a 6 hour flight to Almaty, Kazakhstan, and then another over night layover, followed by finally a 4 am wake up before catching a 45 min flight to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. I could look at the clock and see what time it was, however, my body had no concept. I landed in Bishkek and immediately felt that rush of anticipation again. I was back.

My mind wanders as I daydream out a window that will not open in the backseat of a cramped beige Honda minivan. It’s 101F outside. My shirt, saturated by sweat, clings to my chest like another layer of skin. It’s like being in front of a hair dryer on high, blowing on me for 6 hours. We’re taking a transport to Karakul, up to the mountains to begin this new journey. The driver and his friend make jokes and try to communicate with us in Russian as one of them jettisons a half consumed liter of orange Fanta out the window.

We got out the van in the tiny village of Kyzyl-Suu and found a guest house, which was really a home stay with a local family. In Kyrgyzstan, Community Based Tourism (CBT) was initiated in May 2000 and seeks to partner with local families to offer an authentic homestay experience. The proceeds go directly to the families, with the goal to improve living conditions in remote mountain regions by developing a sustainable and wholesome ecotourism model. Our homestay was in a traditional white washed concrete home. From the outside, the modest appearance downplayed the elaborate interior. The 3 of us shared a large community room, with 3 beds made up for us. We were served a dinner of blov, a local fried rice dish with pieces of lamb. Breakfast was an omelet with bread. Our host was a 16 year old Kyrgic girl with a shy, yet curious smile, who was eager to practice her English with us. All the food was delicious, the accommodations immaculate, and the interactions warm. The price? 500 son (about $7).

Loaded with 5 days of food, we packed every crevice of our bikes and headed out into the Tian Shan mountains, anxiously anticipating whatever we would find. The tarmac road quickly gave way to dirt, before whittling down to the familiar foot path and with it, that old tingle came flooding back. Lungs expanded. Pulse slowed. Mind calm. Jubilant giggles seeped out of me like a school boy just released from math class out to recess. I remember this feeling.

Emerald blue streams pervasively gushed from centuries old glaciers and cascade down the rocky ridges like fingers, as the road we are traveling on meanders it’s way through the endless valley. All around we are surrounded by menacing peaks while nomadic tribes and their sheep sparsely dot the lush crayola green hillsides.

Our first night camping was in an open expansive valley situated along the river in between two daunting jagged mountain ranges. The grass that we pitched our tents on was a dense green carpet, set along the raging yet somehow tranquil river that carved out this valley. After seven hours and 4000 feet of climbing, my body was shattered and I fell asleep at 7:30 with a book on my chest. I was awakened hours later by flashes of lightning, pummeling thunder, and a steady deluge of rain thumping the dome of my tent. Dozing off, I was again jolted awake by flashes of light, however these were not the ubiquitous lightning strikes but rather more localized headlamps dotting around my tent. Through my foggy slumber, I could hear voices. Normally I would not think anything of this, however, over dinner Ivo had told me a story about some western bikepackers who had woken up to empty bags, all their belongings stolen in the middle of the night. I wanted to get out of my tent but it was raining heavily and I was not sure how many people were out there. I looked out from underneath the flap of my tent and could see a light from across the meadow pointed directly at my tent. My mind was getting the best of me. I had never felt this way while traveling before.  Unsure what to do, I put on my headlamp, gathered my wits about me, and just laid there waiting for something to happen. Finally when nothing changed and the light still beaming across the meadow towards my tent, I pointed my headlamp in their direction to at least send a signal that I knew that they were there. When the rain subsided slightly, I put on my rain gear to check out the surrounding area and made my way over to Ivo’s tent. He also was awake from the commotion and I asked him what he thought. “What do you want to do?” he asked. “They are likely just local nomads with a flock of sheep, looking to pass the night here and got caught in the rain. We don’t have much option. Packing up in the rain would be terrible. I think it’s only a problem if they have been drinking but I think everything will be fine,” he calmly reassured me. I sloshed back to my tent, and awoke the next morning, everything still intact, no people around, and still a steady stream of rain pelting the top of my tent

We packed up and proceeded to claw our way for 4 hours, straight up 2700 vertical feet on what could best be described as a scree field. The foot path was gone, but we knew which direction we needed to go. Step, step, breathe. Step, step, heave the bike. It was still 1000 vertical feet before gaining the summit of the pass, and we could see a storm coming quickly – too quickly. What started out as rain, rapidly degraded into 30 mph winds throwing heavy slush diagonally at us just below the ridge. The temperature was plummeting. With no shelter anywhere, we frantically scrambled to put up our tents. This turned out to be a valuable lesson. By the time we had set up the tents and climbed inside for shelter, the storm had passed, leaving both us and our tents completely soaked. Storms in Kyrgyzstan come in quick and leave quick. Most of the time during the day its best to just put on gore-tex and hunker down.

We dodged storms seemingly every hour for the first four days. Through the cavernous valleys, we could easily see the next storm front approaching with plenty of time to prepare our gore-tex for the next installment. Each night I fell asleep to the playful sounds of horses in the valley, yelps and whistles of the nomadic herders, the rushing glacial streams, all of which would eventually give way to the very timely overnight deluge of rain.

We’re traveling along a 12k foot plateau,over a perpetual swath of green velvet turf, in what is likely the loneliest place I have ever been. The only outside fleeting interaction is from an occasional nomad, but that is at most twice per day. My mind often wonders, who were the first people to set this track and where were they going?  This track that we are following is discernible the way a line appears when one runs their finger the opposite way along that velvet. It is broken only by the dozens of icy river crossings ranging from ankle to mid thigh in depth. I am blanketed by a feeling of overwhelming solitude. There is no Wi-Fi, internet, cell phone, email, or text messaging. I am here. I am in it. I feel like I could disappear and nobody would ever know; yet instead of fear, I am calm. I am in my place and my spirit is soaring. We ride and push our bikes all day and feel as if we have gotten nowhere; lost so far into a timeless and forgotten landscape, along nameless paths that stretch on for days.

By night 5, we are shattered – mentally and physically. Our food is nearly depleted. We arrive in what most people would think of is just a couple of houses put together but is actually a village 30 miles from Naryn, the town that we had hoped to reach by today. We are told that down a dusty gravel road there is a shop where we can buy some supplies. It is a small Soviet era concrete structure, that is seemingly abandoned.  We opted to ring the door bell and within a few moments, a woman who appears to be in her early 40s, invites us in. Her name is Mira and she is wearing a flowing velvety green gown with long sleeves and a purple head scarf. She smiles with a much needed kindness, given our tattered condition. She has the basics like Coca-Cola, biscuits, vodka, and cigarettes but none of those appeal to us. She also tells us that she has a guesthouse in the back.

It is a Muslim home, and because I am not related to Ivo and Brigitte, I am not permitted to sleep in the same room but instead given my own room. Both are elaborate and far outshine the very modest and primitive exterior façade of the home. Bathing is a water pipe fed by glacial run off on the edge of a hillside, saturated with violet wildflowers, overlooking a river gorge 400 feet below. I could not have asked for anything better after 5 days.

We awoke the next morning to the call to prayer over the village loudspeaker.  Like a hangover, we are acutely aware of the fatigue induced by the efforts of the prior 5 days.  We proceed to limp our way 3 hours to the small village of Naryn, for a much needed 2 days of reprieve.

Why Kyrgyzstan? Maybe a better question is: What took me so long to get here?