Issue 164: More than the Patagonia of Asia

You might not be able to spell it or find it on a map, but Gerhard Czerner and Martin Bissig knew that it would provide the adventure of a lifetime. It didn’t disappoint.

Words Gerhard Czerner | Photos Martin Bissig

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In the Pamir Mountains, on the border of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, there are valleys that are rarely visited and difficult to access. Nestled in the heart of Central Asia, sharing borders with Kazakhstan, China, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan, rugged peaks over 5,000 metres high tower over the idyllic landscape, creating a breathtaking natural wonder. Martin, Gerald and I set ourselves the challenge of exploring this unique region by bike.

The mountains of the Turkestan Range, tucked away in the Pamir Mountains, had long been a source of fascination for me, ignited by tales of adventure and the mystical. Tommy Caldwell, the renowned American climber, raves about a secluded region in Kyrgyzstan in his book Push, calling it the “Yosemite of Central Asia”. Others even speak of the ‘Patagonia of Asia’ – a region that’s simply waiting to be explored. These words stirred something deep within me, igniting an unquenchable longing to ride my mountain bike through these untamed valleys and past these majestic granite needles.

Getting there was anything but easy. The valleys along the Kyrgyz-Tajik border are a land of adventure, though they’re not easily accessible. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, there have been repeated conflicts there, and after the fierce disputes in 2022, the area was off-limits to tourists for two years. Without a special permit, entering the area was out of the question. At the beginning of my planning, it was still completely unclear whether we would be allowed to enter the country at all. Then, just a few weeks before departure, we received the incredible news: the permits had been granted! An adventure in one of the most remote regions of the world was about to begin.

In Martin Bissig, who documented the trip with his camera, and Gerald Rosenkranz, I had found the perfect companions. Our anticipation was only overshadowed by a touch of uncertainty – what would the trails there look like? Rideable, or overgrown after years of seclusion? How much do we have to push and carry? All these questions were buzzing around in our heads, yet we were still excited to find the answers.

The capital, Bishkek!

When we landed in Bishkek, our awesome guide and translator Daniel, greeted us with a firm handshake and a smile that immediately radiated confidence. “Welcome to Kyrgyzstan,” he said. His muscular physique immediately pointed out that he was well-prepared for any adventure. As we drove to the hotel in the capital, home to 1.1 million people, we were blown away by the breathtaking backdrop with snow-capped peaks rising majestically behind the city to an altitude of almost 5,000m.

Our accommodation was just a stone’s throw from the lively Osh Bazaar, the city’s largest market – a fantastic place to experience the local culture. It was a vibrant explosion of colours, aromas, and sounds with spice stalls lined up next to mountains of fruit, and shelves bursting with exotic foods and handmade tools. In addition to classic meats such as beef and pork, we discovered specialities such as yak, mutton, and horse – the essence of Kyrgyz cuisine. This diversity is a reflection of the cultural mosaic of the country, where Catholic and Orthodox churches line the streets alongside the mosques.

The bike mecca of the future

Things got really exciting on the second day of our trip. Just 35km away in the Zil ski area at 1,850m, an incredible bike park is being built to attract mountain bikers from all over the world. We had the unique opportunity to explore the area together with Nikita and Dimitry, the visionary minds behind this impressive project.

They turned on the four drag lifts just for us, giving us an exclusive foretaste of what is to be built here. Nikita eagerly shared the details with us in Russian, while Daniel translated. “There are red and blue lifts. They haven’t finished the trails yet, but they’re on track to be ready in August. Just watch out for the holes on the lift track!”

The lift transport was a blast. It had its charm – a rubber-coated rope, which was hooked onto the stem of the bike, connected us to the T-bar drag. Depending on the model, this construction was sometimes more reliable, sometimes less… something we were to learn the hard way. It was bumpy, and we encountered all sorts of surprises along the way, like grazing horses and construction sites. While in Europe, such an operation would probably be shut down immediately, here it was no problem to shoo animals off the track to avoid a collision.

Once we reached the top, the fun really began. The descents were mostly pathless across the wide ski slopes, which made for an exciting challenge. There were only a few trails, but the terrain promised great things. The enthusiasm and drive of the two initiators was truly inspiring. We had our doubts about the possibility of creating a complete trail network in two months, but one thing was clear: this area has incredible potential.

Nikita and Dimitry then revealed a trail they’d crafted by hand into the slope, adding to the area’s appeal. We were in for a treat with around 300m vertical of steep turns, jumps, and step-downs, all set against the breathtaking backdrop of the mountains around Bishkek. It was impressive to witness the flourishing bike community here, built on pure passion. We had an outstanding time, but unfortunately, we had to move on the next day. The memories of this unpolished jewel and the infectious energy of Nikita and Dimitry will stay with us for a long time. We are thrilled to see how Zil will develop.

On the way to the awe-inspiring Turkestan mountains

A short domestic flight took us to Osh, a city that is considered the gateway to the majestic mountains of Kyrgyzstan. From there, we continued our journey and after an eight-hour bus ride, we arrived in Ozgorush, the starting point of our multi-day tour. The landscape, which initially enchanted us with its gentle, golden hills, gradually transformed into an impressive scenery of rugged mountain peaks rising sharply into the sky. Between these stone giants, we finally found our destination: a quaint guesthouse run by the welcoming Sulejman and his family.

Sulejman was a real all-rounder. He had already accompanied many trekkers as a guide, a cook, and with his transport horses. But mountain bikers? He had never seen them here before, and he was immediately enthusiastic. His father, an elderly gentleman with a snow-white beard and a traditional kalpak on his head, was just as excited. With a broad smile, he did a few laps on Gerald’s bike in the garden.

After a delicious dinner of potatoes, vegetables, and succulent mutton, we set about planning the next few days. But then came the surprise: the agency had forgotten to send the tents we had booked in advance. Without tents? That could have been the end of our tour, but it wasn’t. Sulejman remained steadfast. That night, he scoured the village and found not one, not two, but three small tents. The journey was saved for the moment, and we were all thrilled.

We set off eagerly the next morning. Our team, consisting of six people, four donkeys, and two horses, formed up. We were joined by Daniyar, the owner of the donkeys and a friend of Sulejman. We made our way to the first pass; the narrow path wound along a sparkling brook, leading us deeper into the mountains. But it soon became too steep to ride, which added an extra challenge to the adventure. We got a foretaste of what the next few days would bring: we would probably mainly be pushing and carrying uphill, which would be a great opportunity to bond.

After crossing the first pass, a good 3,000m above sea level, we took a well-deserved break. In the lee of an improvised stable made of tree trunks, branches, and clay, we enjoyed fresh yoghurt and cheese that Sulejman had organised from the shepherd. But we couldn’t linger for long. Dark storm clouds were gathering, but that just meant more adventure!

Finding our way was exciting… The GPS track that Martin had found online was our trusty compass, guiding us through the ever-changing landscape. The path repeatedly branched off into countless others that had been trodden by flocks of sheep. We got a little turned around for a bit, but that’s all part of the fun. We radioed Daniel, who was with the others, and were told we’d been on the wrong trail for an hour. A lesson we would (fail to) learn many more times in the days to come.

As with every tour, our team first had to find each other, and that’s always an exciting step, which became particularly clear that evening. The planned campsite, which we had carefully marked on the map in advance, was surprisingly ignored by our advance team. Why? No idea, but I was excited to find out. When we finally caught up with them, they were already on their way to the next pass. We were a bit tired and had not yet acclimated to the altitude, so we called them back and set up camp in a meadow. The ground was filled with horse and sheep poo, but that just added to the fun. We searched for a flat surface, eager to set up our tents, but we couldn’t find one. A night on a slope? All part of the adventure. And the tents? Well, that was a story in itself. One had a hole in the floor the size of a soccer ball. The second was leaking, and the third broke a pole. When it started to rain, the mood dipped a bit, but we kept our spirits high. At least it could only get better from here.

Into the breathtaking Karavshin valley

The sun shone brightly on our faces as we shouldered our bikes and began the first of two passes for the day. At the top, an endless green high plateau stretched out before us, promising an unforgettable journey. In the distance, the imposing Uponym Pass stood at 3,148m, a beacon of excitement and adventure. “That looks really steep,” I muttered, intrigued by the challenge before me. And I was right. A narrow gully, surely a wild stream when it rains, became our climb. Step by step, with our bikes on our backs, we crawled towards the highest point. Storm clouds loomed above us, driven by the wind. “Let’s go before the rain catches us!” Martin urged, his voice alive with excitement.

The descent started pathless, but soon turned into an incredible trail. Gerald couldn’t contain his excitement. “That’s precisely how I imagined it!” The evening’s pitch crowned the day: an idyllic flat meadow, right next to a stream and the perfect setting for a well-earned break.

The next morning, the route took us into the awe-inspiring Karavshin Valley, where an impressive gorge greeted us. Steep rock faces rose to the left and right, stretching hundreds of metres into the air. We crossed roaring floods on wobbly bridges, the narrow path partly covered by water – hazardous and thrilling. At the end of the gorge, the path wound its way high above the stream bed, offering spectacular exposed views. As we climbed, the mountains in the background grew more and more impressive.

As the day drew to a close, we witnessed the grand spectacle of thunderstorms rolling in, adding an extra layer of animation to the evening sky. We set up camp next to a small hut, where a shepherd gave us a warm welcome. Inside, sitting cross-legged on blankets, we enjoyed the simple but homely atmosphere. Sulejman prepared a stew on an open fire while the storm raged outside. He told us about the summer for shepherds up here, which is three months alone with hundreds of sheep and the nearest village three days’ walk away. It’s impressive, but unimaginable for us.

Between walls of granite

The next morning, the snow-white pyramid of the 5,509m Piramidalniy Peak shone against a deep blue sky. The majestic granite walls that line the Kara-Suu Valley were reminiscent of gigantic skyscrapers, standing tall, proud and incredibly beautiful. Daniel put on an additional show as he performed a backflip from his horse in front of the backdrop. We were amazed at his seemingly endless skills.

We used the rest day to dry our tents, clothes, and sleeping bags. Later, we hiked into the awe-inspiring Kara-Suu Valley, where the landscape is rightly referred to as ‘The Patagonia of Asia’. Every turn revealed more of these impressive granite walls, and my heart was in my throat with excitement. We spotted a few tents in a meadow, presumably belonging to mountaineers, but overall, the area was almost deserted, which made for an even more unique experience. We did, however, cross paths with a Russian family trekking the route and a few shepherds. Sulejman had told us that we were only the third group that year, which made our trip feel all the more special.

Despite the breathtaking scenery, we were ready for the challenge. Our tents were a bit damaged, but that just added to the adventure, right? We were about to tackle the two highest passes of the tour, which meant two cold nights at over 3,000m. The Russian trekkers had told us that they had been snowed in up there, but we were determined to forge ahead. “If it really snows, the tents will collapse,” Martin said, expressing what was on all our minds. It had rained every evening so far, and there was a good chance of snow. After much deliberation, we decided that we would give it a go. But we made one thing clear: if we couldn’t make it work, we’d turn around the next evening.

In the snowstorm

The morning sun rose over the peaks as we set off on the barely recognisable path towards the Kara-Suu Pass. We carried and pushed our bikes steeply uphill for four hours, step by step, accompanied by the increasingly thin air. Reaching 3,750m, we were left breathless – and it wasn’t just because of the altitude. All around us, imposing granite mountains towered into the sky, while in the distance, glaciated giants were shrouded in white spring clouds. We congratulated each other on our good fortune.

On the other side of the pass, the terrain dropped steeply into a narrow valley. A spectacular array of trails stretched out before us, a thousand metres of descent, packed with hairpin turns and technical challenges, but always manageable. Every metre brought new surprises as we rode through the landscape, which came alive with lush green meadows, jagged rock faces, and an untamed stream. We set up camp right on the bank, surrounded by this picturesque landscape. The weather was a bit unpredictable and no sooner had we settled in when the rain began to fall. Gerald was a natural. He improvised and stretched a tarpaulin over his leaky tent while the rain poured down relentlessly until the next morning. Around midday, the sky cleared, and we set off again. We balanced our bikes over narrow bridges, often no more than a single tree trunk laid across the rushing streams.

At 3,200m, we reached a hut where a shepherd shared a riveting story. In front of his door, he’d found a sheep that had been torn apart during the night by a wolf. Two other animals were limping around, injured, but the shepherd explained that losses are part of everyday life up here.

The alarm clock rang at five, a brisk, invigorating wind blew outside the tents, and after two cups of coffee, we were all set to tackle the Ak-Tupek Pass. We started well, but then the clouds rolled in, and the rain came pouring down on the gravel slopes. The precipitation turned to snow, and visibility dwindled to zero, adding another level of turmoil to the adventure. We ventured forward, our steps meticulously measured, navigating through the ever-deepening snow. Each step brought a slide, followed by moments of frustration. The storm made us shiver, even with all our layers on. I didn’t have the thick gloves in my rucksack, so my hands ached from the cold. My thin cycling gloves were insufficient protection in these temperatures.

After five hours, we had made it and we reached the top of the pass at 4,390m. Just as we reached the summit, the clouds parted, and we were met with a view of a mountain world that left us in awe. Glaciers flowed majestically into the valleys, and the untouched landscape shone with a winter glow. But the cold drove us quickly on, and we were eager to keep going. We embraced, knowing that from here on out, it was all downhill to Ozgorush.

The 30km descent was a thrilling challenge we accepted with glee. We were exhausted, but we still managed to enjoy part of the truly beautiful Ak-Suu valley. Every little climb was another challenge. All we wanted was to arrive. After an epic 13-hour journey, we finally arrived at our accommodation. Gerald took off his plastic socks, which had kept his feet toasty, and summed up our joint achievement in a nutshell: “From 4,300 to 1,400 metres – what an incredible day! I’m thrilled it’s over, and I’m also a bit sad.” Martin nodded in agreement. “Right now, I’m thrilled it’s over,” he said. I enthusiastically agreed: “What a remarkable, unforgettable experience! I’m really exhausted, too.”

I had no idea that the numbness in my fingers, a remnant of the icy hours, would become a magical, rough, and unruly reminder of this almost inconceivable journey through Kyrgyzstan.