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Video day 13:
Day 13 – Thursday, August 28, 2025
170 km / 2,300 m elevation gain / 11:32:22 moving time
Just before six, the gates of the Hotel Asfandyar near Mikhailovka on Lake Issyk-Kul close behind us. Hermann and I are finally riding together again.
Since we split up on the Arabel Plateau, Hermann—still in top form—had completed both loops, while I had ridden about 100 kilometers along the shore of Issyk-Kul from Tamga (CP3). I’d been waiting for him at the Hotel Asfandyar, probably as its only guest. Now I’m recovered, rested, and full of anticipation.
Ahead lie roughly 300 kilometers and 3,500 meters of climbing to the finish in Karakol. Two passes still stand between us and the end: Eshkilitash and Chon Ashuu.
We ride into the dawn, toward the rising sun. To our left, the lake glimmers; all around us, the lights of waking villages. The asphalt doesn’t last long—soon we’re back on dusty track. The landscape isn’t spectacular—fields, meadows, an occasional farmhouse—but in the distance, snowcapped peaks glint in the early light. The sky glows with that deep blue only morning knows. Children wave, farmers drive their animals along the paths.
Just as food and water begin to run low, we reach Sary-Telegay. The little shop doesn’t offer much, but there are a few cookies, Snickers bars—and at last, that deep red pomegranate soda again.
A detour around a collapsed bridge is easy to find. From a distance, we see it’s just a narrow crossing—others before us had simply balanced across the broken concrete pipes.
Then we merge onto a road—and what a road! Wide and freshly paved. Will it stay like this all the way to Karakara, 40 kilometers ahead? I hadn’t noticed this stretch when planning. Surprises like this are rare, but we gratefully accept the gift.
A sleek container shop appears by the roadside. We treat ourselves to ice cream, even though our last break was barely fifteen minutes ago. In the shade of a yurt, we savor the cool sweetness—luxury at 2,000 meters.
Then we “race” on. The smooth tarmac makes the kilometers fly by, the hills roll easily beneath our wheels. And where the road goes up, it must go down again. But our pace is repeatedly halted: herd after herd blocks the way—cows, sheep, goats, countless horses. The autumn descent from the high pastures. Someone had told us winter often begins here by late August. The animals seem eager, or perhaps it’s less enthusiasm than the crack of the herders’ whips that sets the pace.
Karakara at last. Wasn’t there supposed to be a shop here? Apparently not. Do we have enough supplies? Probably. I tend to hoard anyway—deep in my Tailfin bag, leftovers from days (well, nearly two weeks) ago still lurk. Not smart, but reassuring.
No shop, but still asphalt—and now the heat is brutal. Shade is rare. Hunger strikes. I ride ahead, rested and surprisingly strong, leaving Hermann behind again and again.
Finally, I find a little bush for cover and set up our impromptu picnic: crumbling bread, cheese sweating in the sun (yes, cheese can do that), and the inevitable tin of sardines in tomato sauce.
For dessert, wafers that could almost rival Loacker cookies from home.
Back on the bikes. The terrain grows hillier. Near a campsite, I spot another container shop. I’m craving Coke—buy two, plus a few more Snickers. As soon as we step outside, the shopkeeper locks up behind us.
Trucks maneuver, construction machines roar. I think nothing of it—until a barrier appears: a military checkpoint.
Of course—we’re near Kazakhstan, and the next 30 kilometers run parallel to the border. Passports out, waiting, time ticking. It’s already early afternoon.
The asphalt ends abruptly. Now it’s gravel—rough, uneven, churned up by roadwork. Stones, roots, potholes. A river roars to our left, steep slopes rise to our right. The road climbs steadily. Herders pass us, their flocks flowing by.
Later, the valley widens. The sun still high, but the air cooler. Mountains all around, a few yurts, an old Lada rusting by the roadside—a relic from another era. Goats, horses, sheep, as always. Occasionally, we push the bikes for short stretches, but nothing serious.
Then the final climb—a round, grassy hill to crest. And what we find there takes our breath away: just before the top, around 3,600 meters, the panorama opens wide. The peaks of the Tian Shan rise higher and higher, a vast wall of rock and snow. Magnificent.
At the top, we meet a couple setting up their tent—with a view of Khan Tengri (7,010 m) and its mighty neighbors. They’re traveling without race pressure, simply out exploring. We envy them a little.
The sun sinks; it’s getting cold. We pull on warm layers. Just below the pass, a few off-road vehicles are parked—overnight guests, no doubt, dreaming of adventure beneath the seven-thousanders.
A few hundred meters of descent ahead, then about 40 kilometers downstream to the next military station.
Silence. And suddenly: brraaap-brraaap!
A quad bike claws its way up the steep gravel track, engine howling. Tires dig deep into loose rock, dust billows, stones clatter. Another follows. And another. And one more. Where are they coming from—and where are they headed at this hour? Karakara is over 50 kilometers away, and the sun has long set.
Our route keeps changing: sandy track, grassy path, then coarse gravel again. Up and down, sometimes steep—despite my map showing “gentle descent,” which seems optimistic. People? None. No yurts, no huts. Only the occasional yak or sheep—so someone must be nearby.
It’s getting dark fast. Some riders tackle the last 150 kilometers through the night. We choose the tent. The path looks tricky in the dark, the map shows several river crossings ahead.
And climbing to nearly 4,000 meters in the middle of the night? No need. We’ve got time. The “Snail” is far behind us, and we’re content.
Our campsite is stunning: high above a rushing river on a grassy plateau. The full moon rises, the water below glitters silver. Beautiful.
A packet of Chinese instant noodles, brushing our teeth, lights out. Alarm set for 5:30.
