Celestial Mountains by Clive Tully

There's no doubting that the might and grandeur of big mountains can make you feel very humble. Doubly so when you look up at a summit in the certain knowledge that someone is up there fighting for their life. I'm at the South Inylchek Glacier base camp at 4,000 metres, gazing in awe at the towering bulk of Pobeda, 7,500 metres tall, and the second highest mountain in Kazakhstan. Somewhere just below the summit is a stricken Japanese climber, too exhausted to go down with his three team mates. Making their way up in a desperate bid to rescue him is a party of Russian climbers, but the news on the radio isn't encouraging. It's halfway through the afternoon, and the Russians are absolutely exhausted - it seems they may not be able to go on. It doesn't look good for the Japanese climber. He's already spent two storm-blasted nights up there on the edge of the death zone, and the chances of his surviving another are surely fading.

Suddenly the air is filled with the distinctive beat of helicopter rotor blades. It's the same machine which ferried me up onto the glacier yesterday. After a brief stop at base camp, the Mi-17 takes off again, climbing straight up the mountainside. Similar to those used by the Red Army as troop carrier and gunship during the Afghan war, it's doing something I wouldn't have believed possible were I not witnessing it myself.

This flying Transit van has gone way, way beyond its operational ceiling of around 5,000 metres, and is now scuttling back and forth above the summit ridge of Pobeda, looking first for the Japanese climber, then his rescuers. We watch open-mouthed as a package is tossed out to the Russians - food, fuel and oxygen - then back it comes in a series of wide circles, touching down again at base camp. Although the helicopter evacuation of Beck Weathers from the top of the Khumbu Icefall (around 6,000 metres) below Everest is, I believe, the record for a helicopter physically plucking someone from a mountain, what I've just seen would almost certainly rank as the highest ever helicopter-assisted mountain rescue.

This is no mere Transit van, however. Doubtless ever so slightly tweaked, it's the Kazakhstan President's helicopter, leased out for the summer to Kan Tengri Mountain Services, the company which runs the South Inylchek base camp, and the well-appointed fixed camp in the Karkara valley. Boss man Kazbek Valiev flies with the chopper as well, doing the daily 40 minute run from Karkara to the base camp - a stunning flight over mountains and glaciers, swooping close to spectacular knife-edge ridges. Perhaps it reminds him of former glories - he was a member of the first Soviet expedition to climb Everest in 1982.

For me, the trip onto the glacier - the largest by volume in the world - is like a journey to another planet. I'd spent most of the previous two weeks trekking in the lower Tien Shan (Celestial Mountains), soaking up a wonderful mix of birch forests, pretty valleys and mountain passes, with some beautiful flower-strewn Alpine meadows thrown in for good measure.

There are plenty of opportunities to experience some of the local culture even before I get the chance to pull on my walking boots. Almaty, the former capital, has shops which vary between classy fashions with sophisticated window displays, and the more typically Soviet-style supermarket barely identifiable as such from the outside. The market is a real education - this is the place to get your cold cuts of horse meat.

Almaty, I was warned on the flight out, is a hotbed of violent crime. Don't go out onto the streets at night on your own, I was told. But it seems as though there's an element of the Wild West here even in broad daylight. At a small open-air bar just outside my hotel, the barman casually toys with an automatic pistol, snapping the magazine in and out of the butt to impress a glamorous lady customer sitting opposite.

Outside Almaty, the tarmac quickly gives way to dirt roads, with people living much more rustic lifestyles. Before hitting our first night's camp, we visit a man training a magnificent eagle to hunt foxes, whose pelts are highly prized by Russians for coats and hats. The rapport between man and bird is tangible. Then he invites us in to tea and impresses me with his ability to crack walnuts with his bare hands!

Once you adjust to the routine, trekking is a brilliant way to experience a country. Your slumbers are broken bright and early with a cup of tea brought to your tent. Then after a quick wash (maybe), pack up and get ready for breakfast, served in the mess tent. The walking varies from easy strolling to hard work, particularly the steep climbs up over 3,500 metre passes, where the altitude has you gasping for breath.

Apart from making sure I was generally fit, I prepared my lungs for the experience beforehand using a gadget called Powerbreathe. Its spring-loaded valve enables you to improve the condition of the muscles surrounding your lungs, increasing their power and capacity. I know from previous treks that at least I would have suffered from some shortness of breath - this time I had no altitude-related problems at all.

Excitement too from the numerous river crossings. Some we cross by jumping from one rock to another, some simply by wading, with the really powerful ones forded with the assistance of our luggage-carrying horses - an experience in itself for an equine-phobic Tully!

The trek itself was split into two sections, with a rest day at Karkara in between. The end of the first section is especially memorable for two reasons. Firstly, it's the morning that I happen to severely sprain my ankle, landing badly on a tussock of grass as I trot downhill from my tent to the river below. The following four hours walk out to pick up our bus is excruciatingly painful - in fact the remaining two weeks of trekking and several months afterwards aren't too clever, either.

Secondly, we drive to Lake Issyk-Kul, Kirgyzstan's jewel in the crown and number one tourist attraction, now, unfortunately, also number one environmental disaster. A couple of months previously, a truck on its way to the Kumtor Gold Mine had overturned into one of the lake's tributary rivers, spilling nearly 1800 kilos of sodium cyanide in the process. Large numbers of people were evacuated, and more than 500 were hospitalised with cyanide-related illnesses following the spill. Incredibly, when I visit, there are people at a shore-side holiday camp - a jumbled collection of wood and corrugated iron chalets - bathing in the lake with no apparent regard for their safety.

I won't forget in a hurry the evening our camp is invaded by marauding cows. The advance guard sets about chewing the wrist straps of my trekking poles, which I'd parked outside the tent. When I shoo it away, it trips over a couple of the guy lines. Then the rest of the herd moves in on the camp - most entertaining without a doubt is the plight of the poor Russian crew member squatting over the latrine, suddenly finding himself hemmed in by cattle. Eventually the herdsman arrives on his horse, laughing his head off, and after a few cracks of his whip, the cows are away down the valley.

Wonderful memories, too, of the wood-fired sauna in a tiny cabin in the Ulken Kokpak valley - its low ceiling dripping hot water tinged with pine - and the short dash to cool off in a nearby icy mountain stream. Then there was a magical encounter with Tursun, a farmer who spent the summer grazing sheep and horses in the most idyllic of mountain settings, living in a yurt, the traditional cross between a circular shed and a large tent. The lattice-work frame not only holds the outer felt covering in place, but provides numerous hanging points for all kinds of possessions inside - everything from a variety of belongings in plastic carrier bags to the large-bore shotgun used when the wolves get too close.

We ask him what he likes about the yurt lifestyle. "The freedom," he admits, "and the beauty of the mountains." He wonders why we want to come here for a holiday instead of going to a beach. Our answer, of course, is the same as his.