Articles > Tien Shan: The Heavenly Mountains

For the previous several hours we had caught fleeting glimpses of the faint outline of a range of mountains shimmering through the heat haze that obscured the horizon. To our north, the vast featureless Kazakh steppes, an area the size of Western Europe, stretched away seemingly to infinity. Ahead lay the western foothills of the Tien Shan, the so called Heavenly Mountains, that lie at the heart of Central Asia.

But this deserted, rather soporific scene belied the region’s brutal past. For two thousand years barbarian races swept across Central Asia raping, pillaging and ravaging as they went. Scythians, Huns, Avars and Magyars all took their turn but none cast a shadow of destruction to equal Ghenghis Khan’s Mongol horsemen, thundering across the continent in a terrible unstoppable tide of slaying, enslaving and subjugating all who stood before them. After successive generations of Mongol Emperors came Tamerlane, the Earth-Shaker, reputedly the most pitiless scourge of all, who left the skulls of his vanquished foes piled high in the ruins of their cities as a warning to others. In the colonial era, British, Russians and Chinese vied for political control. Rudyard Kipling coined the term, The Great Game, to describe one hundred and fifty years of intrigue, military adventurism, and espionage.

Stretching eastwards for over a thousand miles, the Tien Shan recognises no border. This ocean of peaks, laced together by plunging valleys, high mountain passes and windswept glaciers, disentangles itself from the Pamirs of Tajikistan, forming mighty frontiers to Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, encompasses all of Kyrgyzstan, and penetrates deep into China before petering out before Mongolia. At its apex on the Kyrgyzstan-China border, Pic Pobedy climbs to over 24,400 feet, the northernmost 7,000m peak in the world.

Speeding along the route of the ancient Silk Road, we passed between irrigated fields of melons, cabbages and sunflowers, part of the great oasis stretching eastwards from Tashkent. Wherever we strayed beyond the irrigation, the ground was parched, pummelled into useless dust by the fierce summer heat. Within the few villages alongside the highway, the buildings were largely constructed from mudbrick. Outside each, fruit trees, figs and vines were streaked with the ubiquitous dust. Cakes of animal dung were laid out in the sun to dry - fuel for fires in winter in an area where nothing is wasted. Roadside stalls offered water melons, sweets and cigarettes, but little else.

The coaches stopped where the tarmac ran out and we transferred to old battered buses for the last fifteen miles of rough tracks into the mountains. As we entered the foothills of the Tien Shan the countryside grew more lush. Apple orchards and stands of poplars were supported by gushing mountain rivers, in spate from the summer meltwater. We had decided to walk the last five kilometres to our camp and so disembarked at a small bridge over one of the rivers. It was good to get out of the cramped confines and stifling heat of the vehicles and stretch our legs.

I had joined a group of seventy five people who had flown out from England to spend a week trekking in the Tien Shan to raise money for the Leonard Cheshire Charity. Our group was diverse in age, experience and background. We included social workers, nurses, company directors, PR executives, housewives and secretaries. The oldest of the group was 71 and the youngest 18. There was a mother and daughter partnership as well as a father and daughter team. Over the next few days as we explored the Tien Shan’s hidden recesses we would get to know each other’s stories.

Our reasons for being here were equally diverse. For some it was the adventure of travelling to such a little known and yet historically rich region; for others, the challenge of an arduous trek in these remote and isolated mountains; whilst others had a personal commitment to the work of Leonard Cheshire in supporting and creating opportunities for disabled people around the World. All had made a considerable commitment by giving their time and energy to raise a minimum of £1,800 for the charity.

A motorcycle and sidecar stood somewhat incongruously outside a yurt, a large domed tent constructed of sections of felt stitched over a framework of laths. The owner quickly appeared with his two daughters and told us that he spent the summer here in the mountains tending his orchards. An hour or so later we crossed a small stream to be met by the smiling faces of the camp staff offering us welcome cups of green tea. Camp was already set up and dinner cooking over an open fire.

That evening in an elaborate ceremony, through the use of interpreters, we were introduced to our Russian guides. They were a representative ethnic mix of the region: Russians, Uzbeks and Kazakhs. The Russian boss, Boris, introduced each of his team in turn. Victor, Garik and Zhenya had all been leading groups in the mountains for years and had made ascents of the former Soviet Union’s highest mountains, Pic Lenin and Pic Communism. Sergei had recently been one of eleven successful summitteers on an Uzbek expedition to Everest. There was no doubt that we were in good hands. Their evident willingness to please was matched by the supporting crew of interpreters, cooks and camp staff for whom nothing was to prove to be too much trouble. Our supper that first night, served to our tables with beaming smiles and exhortations of "Good eating", was a hearty soup followed by exquisite stuffed peppers all cooked over an open fire.

The following morning we rose early, breakfasted and split into four groups for the day’s walk to our next camp. Each group was led by a Russian guide with his interpreter and escorted by one or more English guides from Across the Divide, the event organisers, each of whom were trained in mountaincraft and First Aid. We set off along a little used herders’ track into the mountains. The hillsides were a sea of swaying grass and wild flowers: long dancing stems of white hollyhocks; the blue ball-shaped flowers of alliums; a profusion of dog rose bushes, most now past flowering but covered in shiny red hips; bushes bearing tiny wild cherries; and clusters of asters and buttercups.

We came to an open-sided yurt belonging to some Kazakh herdsmen. They sat in the shade, their weather beaten faces screwed up against the harsh light. Later, as we climbed high up the hillside above, they came chasing past us on horseback coralling a herd of ponies.

Clouds boiled over the mountain tops and the sky darkened. Soon thunder rumbled across the heavens and flashes of lightning lit up the hillsides as thick curtains of rain swept towards us. There was no avoiding its relentless advance and soon we found ourselves in a downpour which quickly changed to the drumming beat of hailstones the size of marbles. It passed as quickly as it had come. We dropped down a steep ravine to a valley beyond. Some way on we located our second camp.

The evening was cool but we gathered close around a large fire. Sacha, the Uzbek entertainer, now took centre stage. Sitting on a low stool and cradling his beloved guitar he sang in a rich baritone a mixture of haunting ballads and cheery folk songs. In answer to this, out of our ranks stepped Terry, a probation officer from Sussex and also by chance an accomplished folk singer. These two, supported by a couple of girls on the trek who turned out to have truly beautiful voices, lead the singing in their respective languages. Each evening they produced a diet of rock and folk and, depending on how the mood took you, you could either join in with the singing or lie back and gaze up at the stars letting songs in Russian, English, Welsh or Irish wash over the top of you.

The pattern of our days, rising early, walking all day, chatting, soaking up the atmosphere, washing in the icy rivers, eating well and spending the evenings around the fire became well established. We explored the mountains on a circular tour walking every other day to a new camp and in between times mounting forays to the high cirques. Our walks were punctuated by frequent stream crossings. The volume of meltwater dashing down from the glaciers had transformed normally benign streams into charging torrents that demanded respect. The Russian guides built precarious bridges and rigged rope hand rails to assist people in crossing them safely.

As we climbed higher we came upon brilliant turquoise lakes concealed in folds in the landscape. The vegetation gradually diminished until bare scree slopes climbed directly up to sheer rock faces. Sacha accompanied us wherever we went, guitar slung over one shoulder, strumming and singing when the spirit moved him. With his jovial face and endless repertoire, he reminded me of the ever present bard, Cacophonix, from the Asterix cartoons. Even after a tough climb he would sit on a rock crooning away.

Our third and highest camp was hard earned. We toiled up relentlessly steep slopes for hour after hour with little cover to offer us any respite from the harsh sun. For many on the team this was their first foray on foot into high mountains. David, an advertising manager from Stoke on Trent, told me on the first day that he had never spent a night in a tent before coming on this trip and admitted that he was very apprehensive about the trek. As a businessman he considered that he had encountered hardship if the air conditioning in his hotel room broke down. For the first few days he looked shell shocked by this sudden initiation to rough living and stiff exercise, but as the week progressed his waistline diminished, his back straightened and he held his head higher. He was constantly bantering with Rodney, a retired director of a major engineering corporation and a gritty Yorkshireman, who despite being an experienced walker was comically accident prone and also finding the going tough.

The inspiration to all of us was Bertie, a 71 year old lecturer from Cardiff, who had arrived at Heathrow leaning on a walking stick. For him the rough going and steep ascents were cruelly demanding. He faced these trials with a single minded, uncomplaining determination. His triumph of will power, conducted with great dignity and an ever present smile, exemplified the ethos of the Leonard Cheshire logo which emblazoned our T-shirts - Enabled.

The reward for our labours more than justified the effort. Several miles and thousands of feet above the nearest vehicle track, Camp 3 had been established by helicopter. We crested a rise to find it set on a high plateau, ringed by towering peaks amongst which Syram, the highest in the region, presided. The scale of this superb setting and the pristine nature of the mountains was overwhelming.

The following morning we climbed on, ascending steeply to reach the toe of the glacier that lead up to Syram and its unnamed pyramidal neighbour. High on the exposed hillsides yellow poppies danced blousily in the wind whilst sprays of blue forget-me-nots were interspersed with edelweiss and the stalks of wild onion plants. Successive staircases of scree lead us to the end of the glacier. Crunching our way noisily across the rock spangled ice plateau, we made our way into the centre of a vast amphitheatre. Mountain summits rose up like dragon’s teeth all around us.

Stopping at a mound of rocks, our guide indicated to us to take off our packs and sit quietly. It was a place to pause and reflect. Through the enveloping silence came the sound of the wind singing through the passes; the tinkle of meltwater running off the ice and the occasional cry of a bird hanging in the thermals overhead. I felt the freedom of the mountains; the space to appreciate nature’s treats - a simple flower, an exquisitely marked butterfly, a cloud scudding across an otherwise perfect sky; the room to think clearly; the satisfaction of hard exercise and the tremendous feeling of confidence as strength returns to idle limbs.

I sought the spirits of past travellers. The mountains bore no trace of those who had preceded us save for the occasional faint track made by shepherds and the occasional hunter. Had the Mongols pursued their unfortunate foes into these rugged mountains? Had the merchant traveller Marco Polo passed by on his wanderings? Or had British or Russian officers operating alone and on some covert mission sneaked over this precise glacier whilst playing their shadowy part in The Great Game?

In most cases, if treated literally, the answer to such quizzical musings was probably not. But if you closed your eyes and felt for the soul of these isolated mountain passes, a vivid imagination could conjure up any dramatic tableau. After all, plenty of novelists had sent their heroes scurrying about the mountain ranges of Central Asia. Rudyard Kipling based his classic novel ‘Kim’ on an attempt by Tsarist agents to infiltrate the mountain kingdoms. John Buchan dispatched his aristocratic adventurer Lewis Haystoun to the Pamirs to defend the interests of Empire in ‘The Half Hearted’. Even Flashman, George Macdonald Fraser’s likeable rogue, parried and fornicated his way around these parts against a backdrop of amorous Indian princesses and Russian spies.

Breaking off from my fantasies I could see each person lost in their own reverie. No-one wanted to break the spell that had been cast over the group. Tears streamed quietly down a couple of faces overcome by the power of unexpected emotions. The spirit of the Heavenly Mountains runs deep.

Articles

• More from John Warburton-Lee