A shepherd’s journey across a Zerafshan Pass

Source: mapy.cz / OpenStreetMap

The Pamir Trail still does not have a confirmed route from the Zerafshan Valley to the Rasht region. We explored a remote mountain pass called Ti Shakh (4130m) in the heart of the Zerafshan Range to establish if this could be a route that’s suitable for hikers and free of any hassle from the border authorities. Watch this beautiful and informative film, giving an insight what it’s like to explore virtually uncharted territory in the wild mountains of Tajikistan. See here or click on the map to view.

A trail dog called Sioma

I’m not a dog person. At all. I think dogs smell, always need attention and are too dependent on their humans. So, I’m not sure why I let this puppy dog tail me when I started my first recce adventure in Tajikistan, the Hissar Range to be more precise. But I did. And it was kind of fun. And kind of a pain.

Dogs need food and generally don’t bring their own. I planned my four-day trek meticulously, bringing the minimum amount of equipment and food as I wanted to go for a light-weight approach. I took out my inner tent and slept under the fly. I left my proper camera and shot all my pictures on an iPhone 8. I only took pasta and pesto and super noodles for the three camping dinners. My route was in proper wilderness and there were no shops to resupply. Allowing this canine to tag along was, mildly put, a massive disruption in my already tight food plan.

Sioma checking how to set up camp

This dog is going everywhere I go. Sometimes when I look back I think I lost her, only realising she is straight behind me. When I cross a river and she is determined to get across, even if it involves a swim. When I go to the loo, I have an audience. The good thing about dogs is that they are pretty alert animals. Over the years, I have been warned about wolves and bears in the Tajik mountains. Although I have never felt unsafe, it might be handy to have a live wildlife alarm system with me.

I start cooking my pasta and the already skinny pup is looking at me with classic puppy dog eyes, clearly starving. Damn, only now it really dawns to me that Sioma (as I call her after the valley we where she adopted me) is in it for the long haul. And that this means my food supply will be cut in half. Sending her back is probably not going to happen, she seems pretty determined to stick around. So, rationing food is the only option.

You’re feeding me this?? Thankful pup…

Day two. After grumpy growls at the donkeys that joined us last night we are headed to the end of the Sioma Valley to tackle an almost 4000 metre pass. It isn’t quite clear how difficult this pass is going to be. The terrain is rough, the Sioma River is still a wild river and higher up there is a glacier, its state unknown. I secretly hope Sioma won’t be able to cross the main river so she’ll head back to where she came from. Where there’s a will there’s way and the young dog manages to hop across. The final climb up the pass is terrible and quite frankly dangerous. Some sections are prone to rock fall. Despite trembling on her feet, she does continue. We are being watched by a shepherd on the top of the pass. If something happens, at least somebody knows. A quick chat with the shepherd teaches me that my intended route across the Anguisht Pass to Iskanderkul is never done by shepherds. They tend to go the long way round via the Mura Pass. There is no margin for hick-ups and I have this dog with me. If I can’t cross this pass I would run out of food and there is no way to contact my driver for the change of plans. I decide to loop back to the M34 road across two other mountain passes. It is a part of the Pamir Trail I wanted to check anyways. And it is back to where Sioma and I met.

The view from the Khanaka Pass

I pitch my tent, cook some pasta for the both of us and enjoy the amazing views across the Payron Valley. The nearby shepherd camp is empty but later in the afternoon the shepherds return, including their feisty shepherd dogs. One of the shepherds summons me, convincing me it is not safe with bears and wolves in the vicinity and that I should stay with them. I hesitate. The one thing I am actually afraid of is the Tajik shepherd dog, Alabai the breed is called. They are trained to fend off predators including wolves and snow leopards, to protect the flock of sheep and goats. Their owners cut off the ears and tail to get them as “streamlined” as possible to avoid getting hurt in a fight.

The dogs find Sioma mighty interesting, sniffing her bum incessantly (another reason why I don’t get dogs). Occasionally they growl at me, but the shepherds tell them off with force. Just as I doze off, I hear loud barking and one of the shepherd dogs launches at the tent. I lay frozen in the tent, heart beating in my throat. The shepherd gives the dog a whack with his stick. Man, I hate these dogs….

Selfie with my favourite trail dog ever, Sioma

Another day and this time two fairly big mountain passes. The flock and their managers have already gone up the green pastures. It’s a chilly start at 3100 metres of altitude. Sioma and I head up the pathless pass. It’s steep but technically not too hard and we reach the pass fairly quickly. Does this trail dog enjoy these views as much as I do I wonder? Mmm, it seems I’m really starting to get into this dog.

We enter the valley of thistles. The moment we enter the bottom of the valley, a dense field of spiky thistles covers every inch of soil. My trail runners are far from ideal here but I fear for my trail buddy. She is suffering and tries to find a way around it, to no avail. Also the approach of the next pass is agony and I choose a line up a dry riverbed. Blocky but anything better than the field of pain. With scratched ankles and paws we reach the final big pass. On the other side we drop towards the headwaters of the Luchob River, that flows passed the capital Dushanbe 40km downstream. We steer clear of a shepherd camp with three fierce canine guardians and find a sweet flat spot of grass with a small stream. This little dog is a tough one!

Tent life, with a fearless vicious guard dog

The final day will be hot and long so we leave early and drink whenever we can. It’s a stark valley with semi-wild horses and a well-worn trail. 21km and 6 hours later we reach the sanatorium Hoji Obi Garm. This is goodbye to my favourite dog up to this point in my 45 years on Earth. If I had lived in Tajikistan, I would have adopted her. It wasn’t to be… I treated Sioma to a big fat liver sausage and said a somewhat tearful farewell.

Some dogs aren’t too bad.

Formidable Barriers

Jump for joy! The background is the spectacular Darvoz Range. Photo: Michael Wissmann

The Pamir Mountains are one of the least visited mountain ranges on the planet. Certain sub-ranges are not even visited by its own inhabitants, the shepherds, anymore. A team of intrepid trekkers ventured this summer to the northern Pamirs to research a route connection for the first long-distance hiking trail in Central Asia, the Pamir Trail. The trail starts close to the border with Uzbekistan in the west of Tajikistan and terminates in the far south, the Wakhan Corridor. The intended route between the Rasht Valley and the Vanj Valley across the wild Darvoz Range is still a blank on the map, with no obvious trails or other vital infrastructure. It is a haven for endangered wildlife, such as the Markhor sheep and the elusive snow leopard.

The Rasht Valley has seen turbulent times in recent history. In the 1990’s it was the epicenter of the civil war that tore Tajikistan apart and cost according to the most conservative estimations at least 50,000 lives. These days it’s relatively quiet, especially in the valley we are headed for, the Obikhingob Valley. It’s a dead-end with a terrible road that connects it with the rest of the country. The aim of the recce expedition is to find an attractive and hikeable route across this wild part of the Pamirs.

The suspension bridge sways as we walk across, with the furious Obikhingob River underneath us. The river drains the meltwater of some of the largest glaciers in the Pamirs and it’s at its maximum volume. The left bank is lush and covered with alpine flowers. Big glaciated peaks poke out behind the green slopes. Except for a few farm houses there is no sign of human habitation. Since this area was declared a national park, shepherds have been barred from herding their livestock on the hillsides of the Darvoz Range. The deeper we head into the valley, the harder it gets to find the trail. It’s late and after a steep overgrown gully we decide to call it a day and pitch our tents on a flat but overgrown little plateau overlooking the spectacular valley.

Crossing the wild Obikhingob River. Photo: Derek Hardwick

Erosion is the biggest threat to the existing trail network in the Pamirs. Every winter avalanches wipe away trail sections. In spring time heavy rains saturate the soil and cause big landslides. Our first natural barrier is a steep river bank, without a trail. The bank has essentially broken off, leaving highly unstable ground for us to cross. It’s a proper no-fall zone. One mistake on the more than 50 degrees slope and you’ll end up in the fast-flowing river, 20 metres below. The heavy packs we’re carrying add to the difficulty of the tricky traverse. One by one we tread the instable passage. Lino, one of our team members, slips and slides down and scrambles with everything he has to stop his fall. Miraculously he manages to stall and find his way to the other side. Everybody has gone a little quiet, thinking what challenges may lie ahead of us.

The Bijou Valley, a natural barrier we weren’t able to tackle, this time. Photo: Michael Wissmann

Just 2 kilometres further we do find our ultimate challenge: a milky-brown torrent called the Bijou River. It’s wedged in a narrow valley and drains the meltwater of two large glaciers, the Bijou and Nusoyak glaciers. Wading through is not an option and we can’t find a bridge. Along with our support team we follow a vague trail on the steep river bank, in search of a solid snow bridge to cross to the other side. We spot a small one and decide to look further. A few hundred metres upstream we see another one. Two of our support team descend to the river to assess it, but most of us are not sure. There is a massive crack visible and if the snow bridge collapse it means certain death. Munir, our cook, is already on the other side and states it’s fine to cross. Mmm… Kim and Arthur head down to assess the bridge their way. Kim drops a 5kg rock on the edge of the snow bridge, causing roughly 8 square metres to break off. That’s a definite no. Even if we would make it across, there is a possibility we have to turn back the same way. What does this bridge look like in 5 days, if it’s still there at all? Deflated and disappointed we gaze at the river. It’s a formidable barrier, even more of a barrier than the towering peaks that surround us. We set up camp on the bank of the Obikhingou, and decide just to explore the valley higher up the next day.

A makeshift bridge, too risky to cross with a 20kg pack. Photo: Kim van der Leeuw

From a distance, the terrain in the Bijou Valley doesn’t look easy. From up close, the true left of the valley is near to impossible. Treacherous gullies, thick vegetation and areas of potential rock fall make this a very undesirable route choice for the Pamir Trail. At least we know now, which is worth something. On our way back to our camp Yun, our Tajik guide, spots a structure. A wooden ladder is attached to a big rock with some cables. It’s angled and again the team members are looking at each other. Is this safe enough, especially carrying large heavy packs? Even some of our local guys express their doubt, which is for us enough to vote against the crossing. The Bijou River is, for now, our Waterloo.

The Obikhingob Valley, seen from the north. Photo: Jan Bakker

The team switches mindset and we reset our aims. Along the way we observed the mountains across the Obikhingob, called the Peter the Great Range. It’s the northern most sub-range of the Pamirs and the peaks are tall, close to 6000 metres. Even the south-facing summits are plastered with glaciers. The approach to the valleys seems doable. We plan to set up a camp near the last village in the valley, Arzing. This is an excellent base to explore the far end of the valley called Pashmighar, an abandoned settlement, where three major rivers come together to form the Obikhingob. But first we head straight up, to the terminus of an enormous hanging glacier. The mountain itself does not have a name on the maps we are using, despite the fact it’s 5200 metres high. It’s an idyllic valley, with crystal clear streams and a sea of flowers. The high summits are a first ascent paradise for mountaineers. As we get higher we look back to an incredible panorama of the snowcapped peaks of the Darvoz Range. It’s a sawtooth ridge and looks intimidating. Somewhere between these ice giants is a pass that may allow us to the other side, the Vanj Valley. Perhaps next year.

Our perfect basecamp near the village of Arzing. Photo: Jan Bakker

We created a short film about this epic expedition, see here. Thank you Paramount Journey for the great logistical support on this expedition. For those who are interested in a trekking trip in Tajikistan, please visit their website to learn about the options: www.paramountjourney.com.

The Pamir Dream Team, post-expedition

See you again in 2022! Photo: Kim van der Leeuw

50 shades of blue in the Pamirs

Not a bad place to pitch your tent

The Pamirs is possibly Asia’s best kept secret out of all of its mountain ranges. The highest peaks reach dazzling heights far above the 7000-metre mark and the longest glacier in the world outside the polar regions can be found here. There’s an extensive network of shepherd trails that make this rugged mountain chain unexpectedly accessible. Jan Bakker, co-author of the guide Trekking in Tajikistan, explores a high-altitude lake district in the heart of the Pamirs with a team of intrepid trekkers.

Our Toyota Land Cruiser bounces and shakes its way along the thundering Panj River, which forms the majority of the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The crumbling tarmac is regularly exchanged for rocks and mud. On the opposite side of the river we see small, isolated Afghan settlements enclosed by enormous mountain faces. It’s harvest time and the people are working hard to prepare the villages for the imminent brutal winter that lurks around the corner. The degraded Pamir Highway and the rickety wooden electricity poles seem like a luxury compared to the mainly autarkic existence across the river. After the 14-hour journey passing military check points, wobbly bridges and excited children we arrive at our first port of call Khorog, the capital “city” of the autonomous region of Badakhshan (GBAO) otherwise known as the Pamirs. It’s a peaceful town on the banks of the crystal clear Gunt River and a strategic base for many trekking routes in the area.

We are headed to the mountain village of Bulunkul, where we start our trekking expedition through the heart of the Pamir Mountain Range. At an altitude of 3760 metres it is the highest permanently inhabited settlement in Central Asia. From Khorog it’s a big jump in elevation and we make a d-tour via the neighbouring Shakhdara Valley to acclimatise. We spend the night in one of the many homestays that can be found in improbable remote locations all over the Pamirs. The family welcomes us with tea, homemade yoghurt and oven fresh non, the typical round Central Asian bread. The mudbrick house is built in accordance with a unique religious architecture called Chid. The design of the skylight is inspired by one of the world’s oldest religions, Zoroastrianism. It’s constructed with four window-panes, each representing the basic elements earth, water, air and fire. The five pillars in the house symbolise the five members of Ali’s family, a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed and founder of Isma’ilism, a branch of Shia Islam. The guestroom is a cosy space with colourful karputchas (carpets) where we will spend the night. In this part of the world there is no light pollution and the starlit sky pierces through the skylight, explaining the strong connection with the four elements.

A loo with a view, Bulunkul at a chilly altitude of 3750m

We reach Bulunkul via the 4271-metre high Koitezek Pass, one of the highest points on the Pamir Highway. Bulunkul is a place of extremes. In recent history, the mercury dropped to a whopping -63 Celsius, making it into the top 10 coldest permanently inhabited places on the planet. We’re on the western end of the Murghab with hardly any shelter against the bitterly cold winds that blow without interruption across the dusty plains. It’s only September, but we can already unpack our down jackets. In the distance, we see a dust cloud moving towards us. The caravan is our Tajik crew and their pack animals that will support us during our 9-day traverse across the Rushan Range, a sub chain of the Pamirs.

The Alichur Valley and the western edge of the Murghab Plateau

The first camp is a centuries old caravanserai on the banks of the Alichur River. One of the southern routes on the Silk Road ran across this valley and this place was a refreshing station for traders and pilgrims. To reach our camp we are forced to wade through the ice cold, waste deep river. It’s a breathtaking spot to spend the night. A short climb up the small ridge behind our camp gives us a sense of scale of this vast mountain range. Below, the Alichur meanders towards the turquoise Yashilkul Lake, Tajikistan’s fourth biggest lake. The next two days we’ll be following its northern shores. In the far distance the summits of the Rushan Range, that we’ll be crossing in a few days’ time, are beckoning.

There’s a long day of walking ahead of us. Before sunrise we fuel ourselves with hot porridge and tea and hit the trail shortly after. We are facing two tricky river crossings and a steep cliff. The first river crossing is fairly easy. We manage to keep our feet dry, hopping from boulder to boulder. The next obstacle is a 50 metre high cliff that rises almost vertically from Yashilkul Lake. We climb to the top of the cliff via a vague goat path, following a trail of goat droppings. The descent back to the shore goes via a solid, steep slope littered with small stones. It’s an extremely treacherous section. One of the team members tumbles down but manages to break her fall with her walking pole. Somewhat shaken we take a break when we reach the edge of the lake. The incident reminds us of the wild character of the Pamir Mountains. There are no way marks, fences or stairs. Pathways are criss-crossed carved in the mountain slopes by shepherds who have tended their livestock in this part of the world for centuries. Trails and bridges are wiped away by avalanches, landslides and mud flows on a regular basis. In case of an accident, help is far away. There is no mountain rescue service and in most cases not even mobile phone coverage. We are on our own and that is exactly the appeal of a trekking expedition in this wild, untouched mountain range.

Saying goodbye to Yashilkul

We leave Yashilkul behind us and enter the wide, U-shaped Langar Valley via a short but strenuous climb. Spiky summits of over 5000 metres dominate the skyline on both sides of the valley. It’s a gradual ascent along the Langar River, that merges downstream with the Gunt River. This is one of the many tributaries of the legendary Oxus River, that bears the name Amu Darya these days and drains into the Aral Sea in Uzbekistan. Half way the valley we pitch our tents near a shepherd camp at around 4000 metres. In winter, shepherd families live at lower elevations to avoid the harsh temperatures and deep snow conditions. They spend the entire summer at higher altitudes in search of good grazing grounds for their goats and sheep. We are treated to fresh bread and kret (dried, salty yoghurt balls made of sheep milk) and catch a glimpse of the unique way of life high up in the Pamirs.

Camping in the Langar Valley

Higher up, the valley bends to the west and the wild Langar River has devolved into a tiny trickle, fed by the hanging glaciers on the north facing wall next to the 4610m high Langar Pass. We reach the highest point of the pass and descend to a small turquoise lake just below the pass. At the end of the lake we find a brilliant camp spot and decide to call it a day. After setting up our camp we spend the rest of the day exploring the surrounding mountain ridges. This is the very heart of the Pamirs and it is dotted with glittering mountain lakes in all shades of blue. The trekking route winds its way through a broad plain with grazing yaks and hospitable Pamiri shepherds. We pass the three Uchkul lakes and descend to a large summer settlement on the top end of the Irkht Valley. It’s a motley crew of long-haired goats, nervously barking dogs and yelling children who call this mudbrick mini-complex home four months of the year. The following morning we start the ascent to one of the most spectacular mountain lakes in Central Asia, Zarojkul. The landscape changes abruptly from a broad plateau to a narrow, seemingly impenetrable gorge filled with massive boulders and crystal clear ponds. The eroded trail is in a poor state and we need to pay attention, especially with the donkeys. A misstep will end without a doubt 30 metres lower in the near freezing water. When this last obstacle is tackled it’s an easy stroll to the northern shores of Zarojkul.

Zarojkul in all its glory

This lake is sapphire blue and completely surrounded by glaciated mountains. Before we manage to pitch our tents, dark clouds build up and obscure the mountains. It starts snowing, making tomorrow’s crossing of the 4795 metre high Shtik Lazar Pass uncertain. We tuck into our sleeping bags, listening to the snow falling on the tent sheet.

A yak dung fire keeping the group warm

It’s still dark when we zip open the tent fly. First light trickles in and accentuates the silhouette of ridge east of Zarojkul. The weather has cleared and we get the green light for crossing the pass. We break up our camp and after a quick breakfast we start the ascent to the highest point of the expedition. Shtik Lazar is covered with an impressive glacier and an early traverse is necessary to beat the fickle weather patterns in the afternoon. The glacier is rather flat and free of snow. The rope and crampons stay in the bags. Because we already spent five nights above 4000 metres, the team is perfectly acclimatised and before noon we reach the enormous cairn on top of the pass. From here it’s a 2000 vertical metres down to the picturesque mountain village of Bardara, the finish of the trek. The moraine at the northwest end of the pass is a big pile of rubble. An unclear path winds its way down the blocks and regularly disappears into chaos. Our chosen route sees very few people, even locals. We realise that the final descent will be tougher than the actual traverse of the glacier. The route zigzags towards the terminus of the moraine and we drop further across the rugged terrain. At the top of the Bardara Valley we still need to wade through the river to reach our last camp on the western banks. From here it’s all the way down.

Crossing the Bardara River

It’s a special feeling to see friendly elements in the landscape again after having spent several days at high altitude. The first tree is solitary but stands proud next to the path and we can’t hide our big smiles. Gradually the valley becomes greener and we see the first signs of civilisation, agricultural patches of land and a small mudbrick hut. The last serious obstacle is a tributary that drains the glacial meltwater of the Turshedavi Glacier. It’s warm and the river has reached a critical level, just below its banks. Upstream we search for a safe place to cross but without success. We wait for our pack animals to arrive and hitch a ride across. The donkeys struggle to stay on their feet in the fast-flowing water, but we all manage to reach the other side dry. The final descent progresses quickly. The team is visibly motivated, breathing in the thicker air of Bardara. After nine days in the Pamiri mountain wilderness we collapse on the comfortable karputchas of our local homestay. No five-star hotel can beat this.