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my video day 2:
Sunday: Daroot Korgon – Sary Mogul
120 km / 1700 m
In the morning, dream weather. The vast Alay Valley lies before us. The roughly 1,600 meters of ascent to CP1 are spread over 110 kilometers. My legs feel good. After yesterday, I couldn’t imagine ever having the strength for bigger climbs again.
Already, the first water crossing lies ahead, a huge murky puddle. Hermann calls out to me that I can just ride through it—the “oane Gitsch” did it too, meaning the other girl. Grumpily, I reply, “I am not the oane Gitsch!” I manage to get through dry-footed, this time. Grumbling tones, however, will no longer be heard on the entire SRMR. It’s pointless…
The Alay Valley (the locals simply call it Alay) is part of the Pamir-Alay, stretching almost 200 km from east to west between the Alay Mountains to the north and the Trans-Alay range of the Pamirs. The endless expanse of the Alay lies before us. I somehow imagine a “valley” differently. Our view vanishes into almost limitless distance. The vast, dry, treeless and shrubless grasslands lie at an altitude of 2,500 to 3,500 meters.
Breathtakingly enormous peaks appear on our right as the morning progresses. We cycle in the shadow of the tall white peaks of the Trans-Alay range. The Alay area is touristically open due to mountaineers heading to the summit of Pik Lenin (7,134 m), the highest point of the Trans-Alay range. At the yurt camps directly at the base of these giants, where our first checkpoint is located, it is quite busy.
But we are not there yet… The route goes slightly up and down. We hope that, despite it being Sunday, the store in the next and only village on our route, Achyk Suu, is open.
We need to restock “food” and water. We are lucky; we have to detour slightly in the tiny village but manage to get water, pomegranate juice, even ice cream and other sweets like Snickers, which are everywhere in Kyrgyzstan and are a delicious source of energy. A bit of chatting with other cyclists and some astonished locals, with the help of a translator into Kyrgyz, and then we must move on—not dawdle too much to reach our daily goal.
The next 30 kilometers fly by. Mostly it is flat through the Alay Valley, but it is repeatedly interrupted by descents into river valleys, river crossings, and then climbs back up onto the plateau. At the first “river crossing,” I had taken off my cycling shoes and waded through with sandals, but afterward, that seemed too cumbersome. Now, I just go through with my shoes on, even if my feet stay constantly wet and cold. Is that good in the long run? My infection hasn’t been long gone; I am still coughing…
The journey continues through endless expanses. No major difficulties arise, except for the fact that, in some areas, there is no clear path through the vast grasslands, and we have to navigate using the track on our GPS device.
We leave Kashka Suu to the left; a “store” would be about 3 km off the main route. We rely on the assumption that there will be food at CP1. And we will probably still reach Sary Mogul in daylight.
The checkpoint, Topol Camp, at the foot of the Pamir ice giants, is still about 30 kilometers away. The nearly 1,000 meters of elevation ahead of us mean the terrain is becoming hilly. But we are distracted from the effort, as around every curve a new dreamlike scenery unfolds.
Ahead of us lie the high Pamir peaks with their snow and ice slopes. We pass by yurts, and children come to the trail, wanting high-fives. Then we pass small lakes, and in the distance, we can already see the camps.
After earning our first stamp, we are still well ahead of the “Snail” checkpoint. There is lunch, and hungry as I am, I dive in: rice, a bit of meat, vegetables, and fruit—delicious after all the “junk” one eats along the way.
The descent from CP1 reveals itself in the first kilometers as a narrow single trail. Caution is required, and sometimes we have to dismount and push. Especially the steep rocky slope down to the river, which has carved deeply into the terrain and formed a gorge. Below, the raging river roars, opaque and brown-foaming like my beloved latte macchiato.
Without the narrow bridge, one could not cross here. On the other side stands a rider watching us, dressed in traditional clothing and a Kalpak, the typical felt hat for Kyrgyzstan and other Asian regions—tall and white, embroidered, though I don’t look closely.
Bridge over the torrent? Sure, but midway, a few meters from the other bank, it ends. Presumably, it leads from one bank to the other in the morning, but now, in the afternoon, the water level has probably risen due to melting glacier water from the Pamir giants. Hermann slings his bike over his shoulder and wades through, the torrent reaching over his knees.
Oh dear, I hope I can manage without being knocked over by the water force. I focus on carrying my heavy bike high enough. It’s crucial that the whole bike stays above water because if the wheels with their wide tires dip even a few centimeters, the rushing mountain water exerts such strong pressure that I almost lose my balance, especially when lifting a leg to take a step.
For me, it’s difficult to maintain firm footing. Hermann, with a bit more body weight, finds it easier to stay stable. Luckily, he comes toward me and takes the bike from me—my rescue. If I fell here with the bike, I would inevitably be swept away by the brown, frighteningly strong torrent. But it goes well, except that my feet are ice-cold.
Not so bad, since this side also climbs steeply out of the gorge again. That warms me up a bit. The first few meters are tricky climbing, but you don’t slip far if…
On the narrow dusty path, bike and person can’t fit side by side; the left side drops steeply. One step forward, push the bike, half in the air, somehow pressing the handlebars from behind. The steepness gives me foreboding thoughts of the Old Soviet Road to CP2.
Short pause and look back. Ah, now I understand the rider’s presence: he drives his horse into the torrent up to the bridge’s end, carrying paying hikers to the safe shore. Speaking of clothing, he is a teenager with a hoodie and a smartphone, apparently earning pocket money.
Now 25 km of descent await to Sary Mogul. Initially, we pass several touristy yurt camps. It’s quite lively here. These camps, like Topol Camp, which housed our CP1, are starting points for ascending Pik Avicenna, better known as Pik Lenin, which at 7,134 m is the fifth-highest peak of the Pamirs and the highest of the Trans-Alay range.
Ostentatious Russian and Kazakh SUVs constantly block the road as they head up, leaving us in a thick dust cloud. Yes, it’s busy here.
The gravel road demands concentration; it’s quite rocky, and sometimes you must watch out for loose stones.
I constantly have to stop and look back at the wonderful mountain scenery. Horses accompany our way. We plan to stop for today in Sary Mogul. The Ali Guesthouse is already booked. I had actually planned Sary-Tash, but couldn’t find accommodation online, and it would have been too late to secure anything on-site.
Reaching Sary Mogul is still a bit tricky; a river lies between us. A dust-covered path along the shore leads us to a bridge. The next challenge is finding accommodation. Where it is marked on Google Maps, it isn’t there. We wander through the village for a while, guided here and there by locals, until we find the inconspicuous little house.
Dana, a small girl in her arms and a little boy hiding behind her, welcomes us warmly and shows us our room. We will probably be the only guests, as the house isn’t very large.
We quickly ride out to find an open store, since the next day there would be 150 kilometers to the village of Gulcha, a hub on the Pamir Highway, with likely nothing in between.
On the way to the store, we pass children wanting high-fives. But what is this? Something red flashes, and a split second later I’m soaked. Brats! After the initial shock, I jump off the bike; the two boys scatter, the red plastic bowl drops. A quick glance, angrily I kick it with my right foot. Then I get back on my bike and ride silently. Anger, indeed reaching its peak, doesn’t always feel like triumph. Hermann says my reaction was a bit exaggerated, and now I also feel slightly guilty. In the end, my clothes are wet, and I’m cold, as the sun has long disappeared.
We restock our supplies and cycle back. At the scene of the crime, nobody is around; the red thing is gone.
The hot shower with the handheld showerhead in the family’s bathtub is very welcome. For the toilet, we must go around the house. Toilet? Four walls and a slit in the floor, as is typical in rural areas here.
I thought the booking included bed and breakfast, so we are pleasantly surprised to also be invited to dinner. There is very delicious mutton (we call it “Schäbsernes”) with fried potatoes and vegetables, and we enjoy it, though with mixed feelings. The event is jokingly called “Sick Road Mountain Race,” as many participants get gastrointestinal issues or food poisoning. Meat is generally advised against. I would have found it impolite to leave the meal untouched. Let’s hope…
We sit at the table with an Australian tourist couple when there is a knock, and Tobias appears in the doorway, followed minutes later by Role. Big hello. A bit later, Jos and Markus also arrive. What a coincidence—we actually know all four of them… It turns out the coincidence isn’t that big; via GPS tracker data, one can easily find out: Gabi and Hermann are slightly off-route and stationary, which likely means there is a sleeping option there.
Space is made. The family—mother, father, and several children—sleep on the kitchen floor. So kind!
Despite a comfortable bed, I don’t sleep well and am not rested after a few hours. Breakfast is ready at 3:30 am, many thanks, Dana! Then we head out—into the darkness of Day 3.
