The three-day horse trek from Kyzart to Song Kul (and back), day three.
I wake up at 0500. Light filters through the gaps in the roof around the chimney and I can see the walls of the yurt clearly.
I’m tempted to step out to watch the sunrise, but it’s cold and motivation is low. I turn over and close my eyes hoping to return to sleep.
A minute later I have my track pants on and am zipping up my puffer jacket. The draw of the sunrise is too much. The night before I had told Izaac that there was no way I was going to get up for it. And now here I am, dressed in five layers, about to start the day.
I hike up a hill for broader views of the lake. There’s frost on the ground, but the horses seem unpreturbed by the cold. They’re quietly munching on grass, hobbling here and there in search of tastier shoots.
The sun comes up behind the mountains and I bear witness to the lightening skies, the rose glow on the opposite horizon. As the sun lifts itself from its nightly traverse of the planet I can see its rays strike the peaks of the mountains across the lake before slowly oozing down the slopes.
A rider appears in the distance headed towards me. I follow his progress until he’s upon me. Where from, he asks. New York. USA. He nods. I return the question. Kyrygyzstan. He points to the ground with his whip as if calling the earth to witness. Here.
I walk back to the yurt. My feet are cold and my hands have yet to warm up in the thin gloves I have on. Water hasn’t yet been set to boil and so I decide to wrap myself up in my blankets for warmth. Breakfast is at 0800 and I plan to nap until then.
I run into Elle as I enter. She’s dressed for a walk. I take off my outer layers and crawl back into the bed, surrounding my feet with the blankets.
My desire to sleep leaves me and I’m up 30 minutes later. I dress once again in almost all of the layers I have brought and decide to walk along the edge of the lake, headed west.
It’s a serene morning, the lake all but still. It’s a marked contrast to the day before when the lake felt agitated, the quick period of waves belying an anxious undercurrent. I climb a small rise next to the lake and try to capture its expanse before deciding to turn back to camp in search of breakfast.
On the way back my path is blocked momentarily by a herd of cows who have come to the lake to drink. They don’t linger; drinking quickly before heading back to the pastures to continue their days grazing on the light green shoots.
Steve and Izaac are relaxing on the ridge, soaking up the morning sun. The Australian women have gone for a swim and we can see their three small figures lakeside shaking the water off their bodies.
One of the Danes comes up behind us carrying the Kyrgyz flag that had been affixed to one of the yurts. He wants to take photos with it by the lake and gives Izaac his camera to do so. Izaac offers to take some photos with his camera; he has a longer zoom. The Dane acquiesces and marches towards the shore, waving the flag at intervals.
When he returns Izaac takes up the flag for some photos of his own. He’s not motivated to walk to the lake and instead waves it before us for Steve to capture photos for his socials.
Breakfast consists of a hot cereal that’s incredibly filling. I barely make a dent and head back out into the morning to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the views. The cook is taking photos of the camp and the people and takes a picture of me as I approach her on the ridge. I ask if I can take her photo and she puts down her phone to pose. She nods her approval when I show her the results.
The horses are saddled and soon there’s a shout of Let’s go! The guides are ready and it feels like my horse anticipates the trek home. While on the first day he was happy to linger in the back of the pack, today he seeks out the front as we ride along the lake.
The guides ask if we want to try galloping. I’m uncertain, but when we reach a flat area by the river Shannon’s horse takes off. Her father follows, racing forward causing my horse to chase after them. I’m holding on for dear life. The guides had offered no instruction on how to ride a galloping horse; fortunately Shannon had made a few suggestions the night before.
It’s scary then thrilling then fun until we approach a hill rising up away from the lake. I pull back on the reins and give the command to stop. Jerba slows as we climb and I’m thankful I haven’t fallen off. It’s crazy to think that during his gallop there are times when we are all aloft.
On the first day Izaac’s horse was spurned into a gallop by his guide and he had tumbled head over heels as his horse jumped over the uneven ground, destroying one of his camera lenses and brusing his ribs. He’s fortunate to have escaped with such minor injuries.
We follow a series of horse tracks up away from the lake, climbing gradually until we reach another pass. From there, it’s a steep descent. The guides gather our group together and offer to let anyone who wants to to dismount and walk down. We all retain our mounts and begin the slow descent. I lean back and white knucle the saddle the entire way down.
At one point Jerba’s left leg slips, but I comfort myself knowing he has three others with which to stabilize himself. Had I known that we were to experience this on our last day I may have had second thoughts on the trip. I’m not the only one and I’m glad I went in knowing nothing.
Before us one of the Singaporean women has dismounted and makes her way gingerly down the mountain. In the distance we can see her group relaxing on a meadow waiting for her to rejoin them.
The benefits of the steep descent is that it offers sweeping views of the valley below. We’ve been able to see Kyzart since the top of the pass, a smaller village beside a larger town to the right.
Midway through I surprise myself, becoming moderately comfortable with our progress and the fact that the moutain drops to the side. Enough at least to think a little bit more about the composition of my photographs. Though later, I don’t take into account the fact that my camera has knocked against the back of my saddle, throwing the focus off.
We continue our descent, the path carving through a valley. Cows graze on the slopes, paying us no mind. On the other side of the valley the mountains rise in pinks and tans.
Our ride today is shorter, three-and-a-half hours versus the usual four. As the path flattens out we pause in a medow, having caught up with Izaac and Steve and the Australian women who had left before us.
My knees are killing me and I hobble over to where the group has assembled on the grass. We’re all feeling joint and muscle pain after bracing ourselves against the stirrups for so long, even Shannon. I’m glad I’m not the only one. I thought it was age, but everyone protests when I bring it up. Everyone is feeling the effects.
The rest of the ride feels like the longest part as we make our way to the valley floor and to the village. We pass a group who are just setting out and I’m both excited for them and curious what they’ll think of the descent we just completed. I think about warning them, but there’s no reason to spoil their afternoon.
Irrigation channels have been dug and we pass canals of water flowing towards the fields. Wildflowers have bloomed in spots, broad bright yellow patches carpeting the otherwise green landscape.
I’m glad we’ve come in May. While still cold, we’ve preceded the summer crowds. At our second camp, someone had mentioned they build more yurts to accommodate the summer crowds. The high-season surge is only now starting to emerge, which is why our groups were so crowded into the available space. A woman we had passed hiking the trail was turned away when she reached our camp and had to continue to the next. We had no room.
We walk down the road to the village, passing a necropolis, the monuments in various states of disrepair. In Kyzart we pass the mosque. A man on a motorcycle watches us pass; the two children seated behind him wave wildly to us and we wave back, attempting to match their enthusiasm.
The walk through the village feels like the longest part of the trek. I ask Kimmy if he’d do a fourth day. He shakes his head no. Would he do another horse trek. No. He shakes his head and smiles. Maybe in three years.
We pass other small groups of children, waving and saying hello as we pass, returning their greetings. When we finally reach the guesthouse, I dismount for the last time and give Jerba a few last pats, thanking him for taking me on this journey.
We’re fed lunch and then it’s time to part. The Emma and Anna leave first, headed towards Kochkor and a canyon hike at Konorchak. We hug and wish each other well; the rest of us are headed back to Bishkek. Kimmy had originally planned to continue on to Bokonbayevo near the shores of Issyk-Kul, a lake to the east notable as the world’s second-largest saline lake (the Caspian Sea being the largest), but he’s tired and wants to rest before continuing his journey.
Peter and Shannon fly out the next morning at around 03h and have booked a night in the hostel before they depart. The man from Washington is figuring things out.
In the minivan back to Bishkek I ask Kimmy where he’s staying. He names a hostel and I tell him I have a couch if he’s interested. I remember being a backpacker on a limited budget and I’m happy to help him stretch his com just a tiny bit. He jumps at the offer.
We hit traffic on the way home and we’re hit by another automobile inside the city. I had been napping but hear a collision. I’m unclear on what’s happened but I wake to us driving on, closing a gap before us, joining the parade of cars towards the center of town.
At the hostel we part ways. Izaac and Steve have decided to return to the city and text us to see if we’d all like to meet for drinks. It’s Peter’s birthday and he makes plans to rendezvous with them. We’re still 20 minutes from my apartment and I’d like to shower and have dinner. I tell them we’ll text them when we’re done.
Kimmy and I end up at Navat for dinner. It’s near the apartment and we don’t feel like venturing far. I shower when we get home and by then it’s close to midnight. I text the group letting them know we’re not going to make it, but Kimmy and I meet up with Steve and Izaac for dinner the following night for a Kyrgyz dinner at Sonoon.
It’s a beautiful restaurant in an area full of restaurants and bars. Steve and I each order the trout. It’s delicious and I’m happy to spend a little more time with them before we all once again separate, Kimmy towards Itzzy Kul, Steve and Izaac to Tashkent and an Uzbekistan itinerary that’s still being formulated.
I mention I have plans to return to Central Asia next summer and Izaac’s ears perk up. He’d love to spend more time here and I tell him I’ll keep him apprised. Given that he’s planning to travel another 18 months, there’s the liklihood we’ll end up in the same place elsewhere too. We make a note to check in on each other now and again to see where we are in the world. The number of fellow-travelers I consider friends ever expands. 🇰🇬
