Stalked by animals in the Kyrgyz Mountains

It's three in the morning, it's pitch black and we're frozen to the bone. Layered up in our sleeping bags we sit in our door-less wooden cabin, clutching a hand-made wooden spear and a penknife respectively, petrified that a wild animal might attack. Outside, it's snowing.

Kyrgyzstan, nestled between Kazakhstan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan and China, was at this point pretty much unchartered territory when it came to tourism. It's both a blessing; cheapish flights, no hoards, great stories to tell; and a curse; the language barrier, shoddy infrastructure and lack of understanding. 

What this landlocked country really has going for it though, is the wild, and in many places completely undiscovered mountains; one of the reasons that led me there and to one of the most frightening, and exhilarating, nights of my life.

Camping on the first night

With a long weekend our disposal, an overnight bus from the capital (Bishkek) was an easy enough matter to transport us to the Eastern edge of the country by Lake Issyk-Kul, where our adventure began. Early October is, in Central Asia, the beginning of the bitterly cold winter season and with snow already covering even some of the lower peaks, none of the local guides were prepared to take two unknown British girls up into the mountains. Compromising slightly on our planned route, and confident in our abilities, we set off anyway, clutching a recently purchased map and praying it was as accurate as those we're used to in the UK.

Kyrgyzstan's unspoiled countryside has plenty of beauty to gawp at, with the vivid autumnal hues in the undulating foothills, lush green valleys extending for miles squeezed in between snow-capped peaks, frozen waterfalls and ice-blue glacial lakes. Setting up camp (it was a quick affair - we only packed a one-man tent to save on space and weight) by a small river in the valley, we marvelled at the quiet and, having shared campfire stories with a group of Israeli trekkers, we were lulled to sleep by the soft trickle of the nearby water.

Lake Ala Kul

Next came the big climb, up to a glacial lake at over 3,000 m above sea level. As we climbed, and the depth of snow gradually increased, temperatures decreased and the perfect blue sky we had enjoyed the day before vanished. We made it to the top just before the weather closed in, and in time to put our geography knowledge to the test whilst admiring the deep blue water nestled within a bowl at the top of the peak.

Our hut for the night 

By the time we reached the hut that was to be our shelter for the night, half-way back down, it had begun to snow and our compass had stopped working. Settling in for the night, we made the wooden shack our own, collecting enough fire-wood to last the night, cooking ourselves a warming broth, and even creating a make-shift door out of a fir tree. Knowing that we were, that night, the only humans for miles, and over 24 hours walk from civilisation was initially thrilling. As the darkness descended though, the educated, rational part of brains seemed to disengage, and every sound, every murmur and every crackle became, in our minds, one of the many wild dogs, or one of the half a dozen bears that live in the mountain range, stalking us in the night. We found ourselves clutching make-shift 'weapons' as we kept the fire stoked so we could use fire to fight off any beast that might attack us. 

We didn't sleep a wink.

As the sun rose, we couldn't help but feel foolish. The hut was surrounded by tiny paw prints; nothing bigger than rabbits and squirrels and perhaps a couple of rats had been 'stalking us' that night.All the same, on the final leg of our walk, we did come across some significantly larger paw prints in the snow, and were accompanied by a couple of feral-looking wild dogs for a few heart-in-mouth moments… 

Given the choice, would I do it again? Absolutely. My sense of adventure thrives on situations like these. This piece was originally written  and published on Sea to Sky Lifestyle Magazine. 

Sunny views lower in the valley