There are these days in life that you will remember. Tomorrow will be one of them. I don’t know it yet, but the tension in the air may betray it, betray that whatever happens tomorrow will be more than memorable.
We stop our car on the banks of a river, whose rushing waters divide the valley in two, the side where we are standing and the one where we want to go. The road disappears into the rushing water, only to reappear a dozen meters upstream. Above, ochre-colored mountain peaks narrow the field of view in all directions. The real mountains of snow, ice and rock are hidden by these by themselves already 3000 or 4000 meter high foothills. Funnily enough, I remember the slogan of some outdoor brand, “No place too far”. Have you ever wondered, if some place might be too far for you? Not because you’re tired of walking or because it’s too expensive to fly there, but because you’re not sure how to get back to civilization, what obstacles you’ll face, or the non-existent safety? This place might be one that is too far, nested in the largest mountain range in the world, lying in the border area of Tajikistan, equally appreciated by smugglers like the outposts of the countries that end here, and are always ready to carry out their disagreements with armed force. It might be unsafe, we don’t really know.
We can’t go any further, maybe we could tomorrow morning when the meltwater dries up, but then we would be cut off from the way back. So, we stay where we are and set up our camp, while I trudge nervously around the tent. Tomorrow will be the day when I will have to navigate 2300 vertical meters, cross glacier and an unknow mountain face completely on my own. In the evening, I tell myself I will only go if I sleep well and take this as a good omen.
I don’t sleep well, in spite I set off in the night, slightly illuminated only by the moonlight with the roaring river the only sound to be heard. While briskly following the valley floor I wonder whether someone is watching me. There are always eyes in the mountains and close to the border, there are even more. But then I dive into the shadow of the neighboring peak and it becomes so dark, that I struggle to find a passage across the river. I take off my shoes and step forward slowly into the unknown depths of the water. At first it only reaches my shins, then my knees and finally my thighs.
Where would the current take me if I lost my footing? I’d rather not know. The other shore is reached and now my climb really begins. It’s still dark, but the moonlight getting more pale is the first harbinger of the day. Just after leaving the trail, I need to cross a second river as in the dark shadow of the mountain, I did not notice that I crossed the main river below the confluence with the tributary from the valley I am going to ascend.
The good news from this is that the river crossing on the way back will also be possible with much more water. Slowly I crawl up the slopes of a gorge while the contours of the surrounding ridges slowly emerging against the still faint sky of the rising day. As I pass a final meadow, I suddenly hear a snort, turn around a boulder and there in front of me is a majestic black yak. It makes a step towards me what gets me to make a quick move sideways and reluctantly say goodbye to what is probably the last sign of life I’m going to see for most of the day.
An endless moraine of scree begins constantly steepening up with the ground getting looser, that I follow for some hours. Seemingly, I do not move forward an inch but when I look back the valley floor is far below. Finally, the glacier tongue is close and I have to find a way to climb it. In the first morning sun, small salvos of debris erupt from the rock covered ice above. There is only one possible passage, and I clumsily toil for 80 vertical meters. However, this does not at least prepare me for what to expect above the cliff.
While up to now everything was kept in the grey of the surrounding rocks, I now see nothing but ice. A wide glacier stretches out in front of me, in the first part wildly rugged, almost flat in the second. Ice balconies and serac-guarded cliffs with icicles several meters high form the mountain flank in the north. Full of the urge to discover, I make my way through the ice, jumping over crevasses or circumventing those that are too large to be crossed. In the end of the valley the mountain I want to climb appears. Fully south facing the slope is the only not glaciated one, and though rocky and steep it looks quite manageable. After two or three kilometers on the ice I can take off my crampons and start ascending the steep slope. Already now I’m well above 4000 meters but still there remain a thousand meters more to go. Up to 5000 meters I make fast progress, only stopping from time to time to admire the ice face to my back, whose height I slowly gain, but then the thin air starts to trouble me. Although I had spent countless summers in the mountains of Europe and North America, I had never been this high before, as peaks of this height are simply rare outside of Asia and South America.
After a hundred steps I pause wrestling fo air for some minutes. Soon the intervals become smaller, 75, 50, 20 and the breaks longer. If I want to make it to the summit, I need to start descending by half past one, otherwise the way back will be too long, the rivers too swift. I try to rush, the last rocks give me a little more confidence, as scrambling is a pleasant alternative to staggering up in the loose, sliding underground.
Abruptly the summit ridge is reached, all that remains is to climb a three meter high icy wall and I stand on the snow-covered summit, on 5300 meters. At my feet, a large glacier unfolds, finding its origin at the peak I’m standing on. The valleys below are mostly invisible, hidden by the smaller mountains. But what takes my breath finally entirely away are the summits in the south beyond the border. Ice covered drops of kilometers separate the subtropical valley from the arctic ridges, most of them never visited by a human. The air is so clear that the distances seem to blur and the Karakorum, Afghanistan and Himalaya seem within reach.
But the story should not end too soon. Tired but happy I make my way back down, once again greeted by the very same yak, who appears to not have moved from the spot where it stood in the morning. Shortly after I arrive at the river. It’s three times bigger than in the morning and only by luck I find a passage where I can ford it. By following its bed for a few dozens of meters I can avoid the strongest current, but I have to walk through the water for quite a while.
As I reach the other shore intactly, I’m deeply relieved. Tying on my shows I feel someone is watching me. A man riding on a donkey comes towards me. The donkey is so small that he has to lift his feed to keep them from spilling over the ground. Behind him, on the same poor, overburdened donkey, sits a little boy, likely his son. I know right away the man is a soldier, but if there’s anything that’s not dangerous here, it’s him. We exchange a few words, he gently asks me where my permit for the border area is. Well, it’s in the car down in the valley, so not in the best place as I’m obviously just crossing the checkpoint. The soldier doesn’t care, he even invites me to lunch, but I’m tired and want to finish the last few kilometers of the day.
So I say goodbye and start walking down into the valley. I didn’t get very far when two armed men run towards me and make me stop. They have machine guns on their backs and don’t seem pleased to see me. Some harsh questions in Russian follow, without me understanding a word, although I can imagine what they are saying. With my two dozen words of Russian, I try to explain where I’m going. Then, after a few minutes of discussion, I simply turn away and walk resolutely towards the valley. For a few moments I wonder if someone will follow me or even stop me, but I’m not troubled, and by early evening I’m back in civilization.