An Explorer’s Account of Finding the Beob Pass

All text and photographs by Christian Bleuer

The crossing from the upper Zerafshan Valley to the Rasht Valley was, in historical times, quite easy. There was just the minor obstacle of the Pakshif-Ghorif Pass, which was open from late May to October. From Ghorif a traveler could venture straight downriver through the Ghorif Gorge to the Rasht Valley, then known as Qarotegin or Gharm. But, like many old historical routes, it relied on small bridges and “ovrings” (traversing cliffs with wood and rocks stacked up to create a flat trail). The explorer Willy Rickers (1906) and the botanist Nikolai Vavilov (1916) both visited Ghorif and then went downriver with horses.

Now, over a century later it is not only impossible to go down the gorge with horses, but even just on foot. The locals say a very difficult climb up or down the gorge is possible by early October when the water drops low enough to walk in the river. Two French climbers made it up the gorge from the Rasht side on September 10-11, 2022, see here for their account. But they noted that the trip involved dangerous rock climbing sections on cliffs to avoid the river in multiple locations. It is not simply scrambling, but actually dangerous free solo climbing alternating with a very dangerous walk along a raging river where a single slip could lead to drowning.

The mighty Zerafshan River.

The initial reasons for this route to be abandoned are not clear. It may be that a longer route around the mountains from Samarkand to Hisor to Gharm became easier for long distance travelers throughout the 19th century for a variety of reasons. Or perhaps the 19th century decline of the Kyrgyz in the Rasht Valley (who had earlier pushed into this area to graze their flocks, displacing the original Tajik and Eastern Iranian-speaking population) led to the route being left to fade.

The final and main blow to historical high routes in mountain areas in Tajikistan was twofold: Soviet roadbuilding that created faster and safer routes elsewhere, negating the need for high passes, and Soviet genocidal policies against mountain farmers and livestock herders. Assessing mountain agriculture and livestock as having no value to a modern industrial economy (and finding mountain people and nomads hard to control), Moscow deported mountain populations en masse to cotton plantations in the lowlands. Many died in the process of deportation and hard labor on collective farms, and the survivors’ memory of their mountain homeland began to fade. In their absence the trails faded, bridges collapsed, and knowledge of exact routes was lost.

Ghorif, the most remote village in Tajikistan.

By the 1970s and 1980s, Soviet policies became less restrictive and people were allowed to return to rebuild their mountain villages in this region. Overpopulation at collective farms played a part, as did a new Soviet economic directive to produce more meat - meaning the return of shepherds to mountain areas. While people on the lowland collective farms often suffered from malnutrition and poverty, the majority ethnic European and Russian population of Central Asian cities like Dushanbe and Tashkent had a much higher standard of living and demanded a steady supply of food from rural areas. This sent more and more shepherds to the high mountains. With the return of shepherds to the mountains came the rebuilding of trails and bridges.

When a Russian and Ukrainian climbing team descended to Ghorif from summiting a nearby peak in 1992, they expected to find an abandoned village, but instead found 4-5 families living there. However, Ghorif was the only village on the south side of Pakshif-Ghorif Pass to be repopulated - and at a lower population level than lived here before. Other villages like Namnarud and Khoja Nasrud, along with many other smaller villages, were never rebuilt. These villages remain as ghost towns, featuring small stone houses with collapsed roofs and abandoned farm fields and orchards gone wild. There are still many abandoned farm areas that were never revived. Bears eat the fruit and nuts in abandoned orchards, and cattle and sheep graze on fields that never returned to life. A good example can be found at the Dashti Rabot meadows upriver from Ghorif. The flat field here is lined by rocks that were removed for plow agriculture, and next to a spring lies an old millstone that once ground wheat into flour. This area is now home to cattle that graze the grass, but no more crops.

View from Ghorif to the north.

Meat remains a product in Tajikistan that flows from rural areas where people rarely eat meat, to urban areas where the wealthier population enjoys a higher protein diet. The increasing concentration of wealth in Dushanbe and Khujand has pushed wealthy livestock owners to boost production by expanding grazing areas in the mountains, a process that involves new bridge building and the maintenance of trails. But the division of grazing area rights has created unconnected areas. Contract shepherds from the Zarafshon valley and elsewhere in northern Tajikistan bring their employers’ flocks through the Pakshif-Ghorif Pass and up the Namnarud Gorge. But they no longer connect over the ridge to the Rasht Valley side as they used to. And on the Rasht Valley side you will find contract shepherds who bring flocks all the way from southern Khatlon province. Nobody crosses the ridge anymore. Places like Khojai Muso Pass and Sari Jazira Pass are no longer used, and as a result are inaccessible to travelers.

There is no incentive for the wealthy livestock owners to build bridges and ovrings in the Ghorif Gorge, as that would not connect them to areas they have grazing rights for. And the smaller number of animals that are actually owned by locals (cattle, usually) graze the areas close by the villages and in dead-end gorges nearby. They have no incentive to build infrastructure as they don’t have the rights to graze the best grass above their villages.

Bridge at the Puli Mirzo.

A further complication has been the creation of international borders, leaving options such as the Khojai Muso Pass in restricted border zones. The result, for the mountain traveler wanting to travel between the upper Zarafshon valley and the Rasht Valley, is to go through a number of difficult mountain passes. After some investigation, it appears that the Beob Pass is the best option - confirmed by a 2023 visit to Ghorif when the locals said that was the best way to get to the Rasht Valley. However, as the head of Ghorif village stressed, the last group of travelers to go through that pass did so 40 years earlier in the 1970s.

A late July 2023 solo hike confirmed that Beob Pass is passable, but not without some difficulty. After the abandoned village of Namnarud there is no longer any sort of trail. The route is open terrain and, being in an area of Tajikistan with higher rainfall and limited grazing, the Beob Gorge is overgrown with a jungle of high weeds. At the top the gorge gets steep and steeper and you must navigate the boulders and rocks fields of old and new glacial moraines before a final sketchy ascent to the pass on glacier and a steep rock pitch.

Glacial lake at 3680m near the Beob Pass.

Beyond Ghorif the terrain becomes wilder, with bear scat seen regularly and thorny brush pushing over the trail. After Ghorif I didn’t see another person until the Rasht Valley side on the third day of hiking. By the standards of western Tajikistan, this is quite an isolated and wild area. Anybody who hikes through this area will need a high degree of confidence to hike independently. Danger is always waiting with every river and bridge crossing, and the Beob Pass is not a certain thing. It may be an unpredictable scrambling on glacier and steep rock. Another danger is presented by the weather, with the ridges here getting hit regularly by storms and with much higher precipitation than the Fann Mountains or the Pamirs. A well planned selection of clothing and tent is required.

The people here are very friendly and hospitable and will engage with you in a way that they wouldn’t in the parts of Tajikistan that regularly see tourists. While hiking up the Ghorif Gorge a shepherd resupply caravaneer tried to convince me to hike back down to Pakshif to stay the night with his family. He settled for me taking a selection of tomatoes, cucumbers and bread from his resupply bags. Farther up the gorge two shepherds coming down suggested I go down with them and spend the night at their camp. After the pass I had shepherd resupply caravaneers stop to offer me advice and assistance. The sole shepherd camp on that side was manned by a solo shepherd who also offered a place for the night in his large shepherd tent. In Ghorif I was greeted by several people and a larger number of curious children. I was shown to their new guesthouse and given a mattress, blankets and dinner. I ended the hike near Navobod where I had to turn down multiple offers of free accommodation in people’s homes.

Looking north from the Beob Pass (4030m), the crux pass of the PT’s section 4!

This area is the best option for connecting a thru-hike of Tajikistan. However, it will never become a popular tourist destination. The area is just too isolated, the hiking too difficult, and there is a lack of any single major attraction. There is no huge turquoise blue alpine lake, nor is there a massive glacial icefall that you can walk up to. The area is instead full of subtle beauty: a birch forest of the type you can only see on one other location in Tajikistan, a gorge overgrown with a jungle that elsewhere would have been deforested long ago if next to a road, a small mountain village emerging from destruction (Ghorif), and alpine grasslands and flowers that you won’t find in the drier or overgrazed parts of Tajikistan.

View of the Darai Mazor River.

Connecting the Dots

Lines on the map. Lines that penetrate seemingly impenetrable mountains. I’m fascinated by them. When I started exploring trekking routes in the Pamirs back in 2009 the best available topographical maps were Soviet era maps, that luckily someone took the effort to scan and publish on some obscure website. At the time I would digitally stitch these maps together, print them and laminate them. In this day and age, we are spoiled for choice. In recent years mapping applications popped up like mushrooms, riding the wave of the increased popularity of outdoor activities like hiking, biking and trail running. However, using those apps for mapping trekking routes in one of the most remote mountain ranges on the planet seemed a little ambitious.

Short recce hike in the Duzakhdara Valley. Picture Jan Bakker

During one of the Covid lockdowns in 2020 I started working on an idea I had for long time. Connecting trekking routes throughout Tajikistan to create a long-distance hiking trail, the Pamir Trail. I had been researching routes for the Cicerone guidebook Trekking in Tajikistan for a number of years and creating a thru-hike seemed like a logical next step. Tajikistan is one of the most mountainous nations on the planet with a whopping 93% considered mountain terrain. For millennia shepherds have carved out an extensive network of pathways that connect valleys and mountain ranges.

Peaceful Duzakh Village. Picture Eilian Huisman

After a spectacular drive on the Pamir Highway our recce team is dropped at the bottom of the Duzakhdara Valley. A local Pamiri friend chuckles when we share our plan to explore this particular valley as it is translated as “the valley of hell”. On the map it doesn’t look all too bad and it would make the perfect connection between the Bartang and Wakhan valleys, stitching up 15 stages in the southern part of the Pamir Trail. We spend the night in Duzakh, a sweet little village at 3300 metres. Fall has arrived and the leaves of the birch trees are vibrant yellow. It’s a stark contrast with the earthy colours of the mountains around us. This is the last settlement we will see for the next eight days. Our route traverses a part of the Shugnan Range from west to east, a remote part of the Pamirs with a host of 5000m+ peaks. We are here to recce two high mountain passes we know very little about. The use of high-resolution satellite images and open-source maps gives us an idea what the terrain might look like. Still, rivers could be too big to cross, pathways may have been swept away by landslides or the pass may be impassable.

Excellent trail high above the Duzakh River. Picture Eilian Huisman

The first stretch of the valley of hell is not a hell at all. The trail is marvelous, winding its way high above the valley floor. The side valleys on the opposite side reveal glaciated giants, each one reaching easily over 5000m in altitude and likely unclimbed. We pitch our tents on the sandy shores of a small glacial lake, despite the bear pawprints. In the late afternoon, when the sun almost touches the ridgelines, we spot a cloud of dust in the distance. A herd of Ibex is plunging down an impossibly steep gully, not bothered by the boulders that are dislodged in the process. This valley is wild!

How desolate can a landscape get? Picture Eilian Huisman

 The approach of the Duzakhdara Pass, our main objective for this expedition, runs through a seemingly endless U-shaped valley. The only living creatures here are ourselves and a massive herd of yaks, with a very agitated alpha male bull. It is throwing some charging moves at us, prompting us to make a d-tour behind a small ridge, out of sight. A vague path continues along a crystal-clear stream all the way to top of the pass. On the southern horizon looms the final frontier of the Pamir Trail, the Shakhdara Range with Pik Engels (6507m) and Pik Karl Marx (6723m) dominating the skyline. A small dip in the range marks the Vrang Pass, the final hurdle to the terminus of the trail at the Afghan border. The descent looks easy and I know we have succeeded in finding the missing link of the southern stretch of the Pamir Trail.

Duzakhdara Pass baby! 4400m and pretty epic views. Picture Jan Bakker

 We’re headed east now towards another unnamed and unmapped pass of almost 5000m high. This pass could serve as a route variation in case the main route becomes impassable. The trail ascends up the vast high-altitude desert of the Murghab Plateau. The land is arid with snowcapped peaks, deep blue lakes and hardly any people.  The altitude doesn’t drop below 3500m and at night it is bitterly cold. We chose to do this trip in September, weather wise possibly the most stable month of the year in the Pamirs. It’s also the month that night temperatures decrease dramatically. The stark surroundings of our camp are somewhat unsettling and makes us feel vulnerable. It’s our first night above 4000m and the mercury has plummeted to a bone chilling -10 Celsius, inside the tent. In the morning, the inner tent is plastered in a crust of ice. Nobody’s making a move until the morning sun hits the tent.

Checking the map. Picture Eilian Huisman

 Up till now the mapping app has shown dotted lines we could follow. Now, we’re about to enter a valley with no hiking routes marked and an unnamed pass of 4770m high. The topo map shows contour lines, a few mountain lakes and glaciers. We’ll rely on these features to navigate and make the crossing of that pass. The highest lake at the foot of the pass, Oqkul, looks brilliant and we decide to set up camp for a couple of nights to explore the area. We have our eyes on a 5300m high peak, with what seems like a doable approach. As we get closer, we realise that the climb to the final ridge is steep with loose, rotten rock. Not worth it. In front of us is a long glacier that winds its way up to another high ridge. That seems much more feasible and attractive.

Walking along the shores of Turumtaikul at 4200m. Picture Jan Bakker

 Out of the blue Kim, probably our strongest team member, asks me whether I’m ok. I have been moving very slowly this morning, and not feeling fit at all. I’ve been pushing away the fatigue by simply denying it, but being confronted by Kim’s question I realise that four weeks in the Pamirs has started to take its toll. The honest answer is that I’m not ok. I turn back as the rest of the team shuffles up the glacier. I stumble back to our camp, crash inside my tent and allowing my body to surrender to the fatigue.

The highest camp at Oqkul (4350m) and the 4770m pass in the background. Picture Jan Bakker

 After a 13-hour night in the sleeping bag I feel a bit better, psyched for the grand finale. The pass looks fairly easy, despite the lack of trails. It’s a long day to our final destination, a desert settlement called Bulunkul. This is officially the coldest inhabited place in Central Asia with a recently recorded low of -65 Celsius. After an easy climb we reach the top of the pass. We look across the endless desert plain of the Murghab Plateau with a distinct white pyramid poking out on the horizon. That must be Kongur, an almost 8000m high peak in Chinese Xinjiang and the eastern boundary of the Pamirs. We did it. We found a second hiker’s passage between the Bartang and the Wakhan valleys, once more connecting the dots of another section of the Pamir Trail.

Yak dung fire at our Oqkul camp. Picture Derk Hardwick

On top of the 4770m high unnamed pass with the Murghab Plateau filling the background. Picture Jan Bakker

Lots of stunning lakes around the Oqkul area. Picture Kim van der Leeuw

Almost in Bulunkul! Picture Eilian Huisman

Bukunkul street scene. Picture Kim van der Leeuw

A shepherd’s journey across a Zerafshan Pass

The Pamir Trail still does not have a confirmed route from the Zerafshan Valley to the Rasht region. Trail expert Christian Bleuer explored a remote mountain pass called Ti Shakh (4130m) in the heart of the Zerafshan Range to establish if this could be a route that’s suitable for hikers and free of any hassle from the border authorities. Watch his beautiful and informative film, giving an insight what it’s like to explore virtually uncharted territory in the wild mountains of Tajikistan. See here or click on the map to view.

A trail dog called Sioma

I’m not a dog person. At all. I think dogs smell, always need attention and are too dependent on their humans. So, I’m not sure why I let this puppy dog tail me when I started my first recce adventure in Tajikistan, the Hissar Range to be more precise. But I did. And it was kind of fun. And kind of a pain.

Dogs need food and generally don’t bring their own. I planned my four-day trek meticulously, bringing the minimum amount of equipment and food as I wanted to go for a light-weight approach. I took out my inner tent and slept under the fly. I left my proper camera and shot all my pictures on an iPhone 8. I only took pasta and pesto and super noodles for the three camping dinners. My route was in proper wilderness and there were no shops to resupply. Allowing this canine to tag along was, mildly put, a massive disruption in my already tight food plan.

Sioma checking how to set up camp

This dog is going everywhere I go. Sometimes when I look back I think I lost her, only realising she is straight behind me. When I cross a river and she is determined to get across, even if it involves a swim. When I go to the loo, I have an audience. The good thing about dogs is that they are pretty alert animals. Over the years, I have been warned about wolves and bears in the Tajik mountains. Although I have never felt unsafe, it might be handy to have a live wildlife alarm system with me.

I start cooking my pasta and the already skinny pup is looking at me with classic puppy dog eyes, clearly starving. Damn, only now it really dawns to me that Sioma (as I call her after the valley we where she adopted me) is in it for the long haul. And that this means my food supply will be cut in half. Sending her back is probably not going to happen, she seems pretty determined to stick around. So, rationing food is the only option.

You’re feeding me this?? Thankful pup…

Day two. After grumpy growls at the donkeys that joined us last night we are headed to the end of the Sioma Valley to tackle an almost 4000 metre pass. It isn’t quite clear how difficult this pass is going to be. The terrain is rough, the Sioma River is still a wild river and higher up there is a glacier, its state unknown. I secretly hope Sioma won’t be able to cross the main river so she’ll head back to where she came from. Where there’s a will there’s way and the young dog manages to hop across. The final climb up the pass is terrible and quite frankly dangerous. Some sections are prone to rock fall. Despite trembling on her feet, she does continue. We are being watched by a shepherd on the top of the pass. If something happens, at least somebody knows. A quick chat with the shepherd teaches me that my intended route across the Anguisht Pass to Iskanderkul is never done by shepherds. They tend to go the long way round via the Mura Pass. There is no margin for hick-ups and I have this dog with me. If I can’t cross this pass I would run out of food and there is no way to contact my driver for the change of plans. I decide to loop back to the M34 road across two other mountain passes. It is a part of the Pamir Trail I wanted to check anyways. And it is back to where Sioma and I met.

The view from the Khanaka Pass

I pitch my tent, cook some pasta for the both of us and enjoy the amazing views across the Payron Valley. The nearby shepherd camp is empty but later in the afternoon the shepherds return, including their feisty shepherd dogs. One of the shepherds summons me, convincing me it is not safe with bears and wolves in the vicinity and that I should stay with them. I hesitate. The one thing I am actually afraid of is the Tajik shepherd dog, Alabai the breed is called. They are trained to fend off predators including wolves and snow leopards, to protect the flock of sheep and goats. Their owners cut off the ears and tail to get them as “streamlined” as possible to avoid getting hurt in a fight.

The dogs find Sioma mighty interesting, sniffing her bum incessantly (another reason why I don’t get dogs). Occasionally they growl at me, but the shepherds tell them off with force. Just as I doze off, I hear loud barking and one of the shepherd dogs launches at the tent. I lay frozen in the tent, heart beating in my throat. The shepherd gives the dog a whack with his stick. Man, I hate these dogs….

Selfie with my favourite trail dog ever, Sioma

Another day and this time two fairly big mountain passes. The flock and their managers have already gone up the green pastures. It’s a chilly start at 3100 metres of altitude. Sioma and I head up the pathless pass. It’s steep but technically not too hard and we reach the pass fairly quickly. Does this trail dog enjoy these views as much as I do I wonder? Mmm, it seems I’m really starting to get into this dog.

We enter the valley of thistles. The moment we enter the bottom of the valley, a dense field of spiky thistles covers every inch of soil. My trail runners are far from ideal here but I fear for my trail buddy. She is suffering and tries to find a way around it, to no avail. Also the approach of the next pass is agony and I choose a line up a dry riverbed. Blocky but anything better than the field of pain. With scratched ankles and paws we reach the final big pass. On the other side we drop towards the headwaters of the Luchob River, that flows passed the capital Dushanbe 40km downstream. We steer clear of a shepherd camp with three fierce canine guardians and find a sweet flat spot of grass with a small stream. This little dog is a tough one!

Tent life, with a fearless vicious guard dog

The final day will be hot and long so we leave early and drink whenever we can. It’s a stark valley with semi-wild horses and a well-worn trail. 21km and 6 hours later we reach the sanatorium Hoji Obi Garm. This is goodbye to my favourite dog up to this point in my 45 years on Earth. If I had lived in Tajikistan, I would have adopted her. It wasn’t to be… I treated Sioma to a big fat liver sausage and said a somewhat tearful farewell.

Some dogs aren’t too bad.

Formidable Barriers

Jump for joy! The background is the spectacular Darvoz Range. Photo: Michael Wissmann

The Pamir Mountains are one of the least visited mountain ranges on the planet. Certain sub-ranges are not even visited by its own inhabitants, the shepherds, anymore. A team of intrepid trekkers ventured this summer to the northern Pamirs to research a route connection for the first long-distance hiking trail in Central Asia, the Pamir Trail. The trail starts close to the border with Uzbekistan in the west of Tajikistan and terminates in the far south, the Wakhan Corridor. The intended route between the Rasht Valley and the Vanj Valley across the wild Darvoz Range is still a blank on the map, with no obvious trails or other vital infrastructure. It is a haven for endangered wildlife, such as the Markhor sheep and the elusive snow leopard.

The Rasht Valley has seen turbulent times in recent history. In the 1990’s it was the epicenter of the civil war that tore Tajikistan apart and cost according to the most conservative estimations at least 50,000 lives. These days it’s relatively quiet, especially in the valley we are headed for, the Obikhingob Valley. It’s a dead-end with a terrible road that connects it with the rest of the country. The aim of the recce expedition is to find an attractive and hikeable route across this wild part of the Pamirs.

The suspension bridge sways as we walk across, with the furious Obikhingob River underneath us. The river drains the meltwater of some of the largest glaciers in the Pamirs and it’s at its maximum volume. The left bank is lush and covered with alpine flowers. Big glaciated peaks poke out behind the green slopes. Except for a few farm houses there is no sign of human habitation. Since this area was declared a national park, shepherds have been barred from herding their livestock on the hillsides of the Darvoz Range. The deeper we head into the valley, the harder it gets to find the trail. It’s late and after a steep overgrown gully we decide to call it a day and pitch our tents on a flat but overgrown little plateau overlooking the spectacular valley.

Crossing the wild Obikhingob River. Photo: Derek Hardwick

Erosion is the biggest threat to the existing trail network in the Pamirs. Every winter avalanches wipe away trail sections. In spring time heavy rains saturate the soil and cause big landslides. Our first natural barrier is a steep river bank, without a trail. The bank has essentially broken off, leaving highly unstable ground for us to cross. It’s a proper no-fall zone. One mistake on the more than 50 degrees slope and you’ll end up in the fast-flowing river, 20 metres below. The heavy packs we’re carrying add to the difficulty of the tricky traverse. One by one we tread the instable passage. Lino, one of our team members, slips and slides down and scrambles with everything he has to stop his fall. Miraculously he manages to stall and find his way to the other side. Everybody has gone a little quiet, thinking what challenges may lie ahead of us.

The Bijou Valley, a natural barrier we weren’t able to tackle, this time. Photo: Michael Wissmann

Just 2 kilometres further we do find our ultimate challenge: a milky-brown torrent called the Bijou River. It’s wedged in a narrow valley and drains the meltwater of two large glaciers, the Bijou and Nusoyak glaciers. Wading through is not an option and we can’t find a bridge. Along with our support team we follow a vague trail on the steep river bank, in search of a solid snow bridge to cross to the other side. We spot a small one and decide to look further. A few hundred metres upstream we see another one. Two of our support team descend to the river to assess it, but most of us are not sure. There is a massive crack visible and if the snow bridge collapse it means certain death. Munir, our cook, is already on the other side and states it’s fine to cross. Mmm… Kim and Arthur head down to assess the bridge their way. Kim drops a 5kg rock on the edge of the snow bridge, causing roughly 8 square metres to break off. That’s a definite no. Even if we would make it across, there is a possibility we have to turn back the same way. What does this bridge look like in 5 days, if it’s still there at all? Deflated and disappointed we gaze at the river. It’s a formidable barrier, even more of a barrier than the towering peaks that surround us. We set up camp on the bank of the Obikhingou, and decide just to explore the valley higher up the next day.

A makeshift bridge, too risky to cross with a 20kg pack. Photo: Kim van der Leeuw

From a distance, the terrain in the Bijou Valley doesn’t look easy. From up close, the true left of the valley is near to impossible. Treacherous gullies, thick vegetation and areas of potential rock fall make this a very undesirable route choice for the Pamir Trail. At least we know now, which is worth something. On our way back to our camp Yun, our Tajik guide, spots a structure. A wooden ladder is attached to a big rock with some cables. It’s angled and again the team members are looking at each other. Is this safe enough, especially carrying large heavy packs? Even some of our local guys express their doubt, which is for us enough to vote against the crossing. The Bijou River is, for now, our Waterloo.

The Obikhingob Valley, seen from the north. Photo: Jan Bakker

The team switches mindset and we reset our aims. Along the way we observed the mountains across the Obikhingob, called the Peter the Great Range. It’s the northern most sub-range of the Pamirs and the peaks are tall, close to 6000 metres. Even the south-facing summits are plastered with glaciers. The approach to the valleys seems doable. We plan to set up a camp near the last village in the valley, Arzing. This is an excellent base to explore the far end of the valley called Pashmighar, an abandoned settlement, where three major rivers come together to form the Obikhingob. But first we head straight up, to the terminus of an enormous hanging glacier. The mountain itself does not have a name on the maps we are using, despite the fact it’s 5200 metres high. It’s an idyllic valley, with crystal clear streams and a sea of flowers. The high summits are a first ascent paradise for mountaineers. As we get higher we look back to an incredible panorama of the snowcapped peaks of the Darvoz Range. It’s a sawtooth ridge and looks intimidating. Somewhere between these ice giants is a pass that may allow us to the other side, the Vanj Valley. Perhaps next year.

Our perfect basecamp near the village of Arzing. Photo: Jan Bakker

We created a short film about this epic expedition, see here. Thank you Paramount Journey for the great logistical support on this expedition. For those who are interested in a trekking trip in Tajikistan, please visit their website to learn about the options: www.paramountjourney.com.

The Pamir Dream Team, post-expedition

See you again in 2022! Photo: Kim van der Leeuw

The Fann Mountains revisited

Upper Alaudin Lake

Eight years ago I traversed the Fann Mountains with my friend Pete. In the summer of 2015 I went back with our mutual friends, Clare and Jerome. Inspired by the photos we had taken in 2012 Clare decided the Tajik mountains was a good place to celebrate her 50th birthday. Upon arrival there was something strange going on. Instead of forming a half moon shaped line in the tiny and chaotic arrival hall, we entered a bright lit, shiny and swanky terminal. Was this really Dushanbe Airport? Although it used to be mayhem I kind of miss it…

After a day of adjusting to the heat and general acclimatising in Dushanbe we were headed for Penjikent. Umed Ashurov, our host, warned us about road works en route. It may take a bit longer. The first infrastructural hurdle is the infamous Anzob Tunnel. We entered the tunnel and came to a standstill somewhere half way. It didn’t look very promising. Two lorries were unable to pass each other. For one hour nothing happened. Then things started stirring, with workers and a police man aggressively trying to demand cars to reverse. Long story short, after 2.5 hours and being high on exhaust fumes, we managed to leave the 5km tunnel. I’m sure this event took at least a year from my life (so if I die at 97 instead of 98 you know why!). There was another less significant hold up as they were welding a bridge over the mighty Zerafshan River (probably a good thing to let them do their job properly). After nine exhausting hours we received a warm welcome at Umed’s family residence in Penjikent.

Musician playing the Rubob while waiting for bridge repairs

 We planned a six day trek through the heart of the Fann Mountains, doing the Lakes Loop trek with an extension to Chukurak and finishing at the village of Zimtud. We spent the first night in the rather bombastic Soviet era mountain hut near Artush village. Here we met our entourage, who would spend the next six days with us. Our local guide and translator Davud appeared to be a very chatty guy. We were all itching to hit the trail. The first stage involved a 700m climb up the biggest lake in the Fann Mountains, Kulikalon. It became painfully clear that some acclimatisation was needed. Though technically easy, the trail is pretty steep at times. After three hours of hard work we reached Kulikalon. The backdrop of the peak named “Mirali” (after a Russian female climber who fell of the 1500m high north face) makes this place probably one of the most spectacular camp spots in Central Asia.

Twisted Juniper tree with Mirali Peak in the background

The first true challenge was scaling the 3780m high Alaudin Pass. The combination altitude, bad stomach and 1000 vertical metres made this climb for Jerome a true ordeal. But he summited and a few tears were shed by seeing the unbelievable blue-green colours of the Alaudin Lakes. Downhill might have been even tougher than uphill. Steep scree battered the knees and mental energy. The intimidating echoes of the thunder storm made us duck for cover every time. Knackered we entered our camp on the shores of Alaudin Lake.

Lake Alaudin, seen from the Alaudin Pass

The third day was meant to be a resting day. But we found this beautiful objective, visible from the west shore of Alaudin Lake. On the north face of Chapdara mountain we could see a massive hanging glacier glued on the vertical wall. I had been there in 2010 and knew you could get really close to it. So off we went, struggling up this steep grassy slope. The terrain changed to scree and as we approached the snout of the glacier we had to climb up the moraines. Hard work but absolutely worth the effort. On our way back we managed to squeeze in a little bouldering session. The juniper forest around Alaudin almost looks like a bonzai garden. Very surreal. At day four we were heading back into western direction, trying to tackle the 3680m high Laudan Pass. After the Russian climbing camp we found the trail zigzagging up through the juniper forest. Above the tree line we were yet treated by a friendly looking landscape. The mountains here had a green, lush carpet of grass.

Standing on the foot of the mighty Chapdara Glacier

After a false summit, Laudan Pass was finally visible. After two days we were descending back to Kulikalon, this time we planned to camp on the other side towards the Zierat Pass. We found a green little island in Kulikalon with a small stone causeway leading to it. Just as we had set up the tent it started pissing down with rain. This was basically the story every day. But somehow we managed to dodge the at times heavy showers by finding a cave or setting up camp in the nick of time. The Zierat Pass looked a bit daunting with no obvious trail and its steep slopes. From all the passes this was probably, at least psychologically, the toughest. Steep and monotonous. The other side is more interesting with a shallow green lake (Zierat Lake) and down to the fantastic Chukurak Lake. The latter is actually just 30 minutes up from the Alplager mountain hut. The hard way is better though!

The team at Chukurak Lake

 Unfortunately it was Clare's turn for violent sickness. With just one day to go it became unsure whether we could complete the trek to Zimtud. The 6th and last day we gave it a go, Jerome and I by foot and Clare on a donkey. Although she was still feeling weak and ill we managed to reach Zimtud, via the village Guitan where we were invited for a generous lunch by our donkey manager Hikmet. A great end to a brilliant trek.

50 shades of blue in the Pamirs

Not a bad place to pitch your tent

The Pamirs is possibly Asia’s best kept secret out of all of its mountain ranges. The highest peaks reach dazzling heights far above the 7000-metre mark and the longest glacier in the world outside the polar regions can be found here. There’s an extensive network of shepherd trails that make this rugged mountain chain unexpectedly accessible. Jan Bakker, co-author of the guide Trekking in Tajikistan, explores a high-altitude lake district in the heart of the Pamirs with a team of intrepid trekkers.

Our Toyota Land Cruiser bounces and shakes its way along the thundering Panj River, which forms the majority of the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The crumbling tarmac is regularly exchanged for rocks and mud. On the opposite side of the river we see small, isolated Afghan settlements enclosed by enormous mountain faces. It’s harvest time and the people are working hard to prepare the villages for the imminent brutal winter that lurks around the corner. The degraded Pamir Highway and the rickety wooden electricity poles seem like a luxury compared to the mainly autarkic existence across the river. After the 14-hour journey passing military check points, wobbly bridges and excited children we arrive at our first port of call Khorog, the capital “city” of the autonomous region of Badakhshan (GBAO) otherwise known as the Pamirs. It’s a peaceful town on the banks of the crystal clear Gunt River and a strategic base for many trekking routes in the area.

We are headed to the mountain village of Bulunkul, where we start our trekking expedition through the heart of the Pamir Mountain Range. At an altitude of 3760 metres it is the highest permanently inhabited settlement in Central Asia. From Khorog it’s a big jump in elevation and we make a d-tour via the neighbouring Shakhdara Valley to acclimatise. We spend the night in one of the many homestays that can be found in improbable remote locations all over the Pamirs. The family welcomes us with tea, homemade yoghurt and oven fresh non, the typical round Central Asian bread. The mudbrick house is built in accordance with a unique religious architecture called Chid. The design of the skylight is inspired by one of the world’s oldest religions, Zoroastrianism. It’s constructed with four window-panes, each representing the basic elements earth, water, air and fire. The five pillars in the house symbolise the five members of Ali’s family, a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed and founder of Isma’ilism, a branch of Shia Islam. The guestroom is a cosy space with colourful karputchas (carpets) where we will spend the night. In this part of the world there is no light pollution and the starlit sky pierces through the skylight, explaining the strong connection with the four elements.

A loo with a view, Bulunkul at a chilly altitude of 3750m

We reach Bulunkul via the 4271-metre high Koitezek Pass, one of the highest points on the Pamir Highway. Bulunkul is a place of extremes. In recent history, the mercury dropped to a whopping -63 Celsius, making it into the top 10 coldest permanently inhabited places on the planet. We’re on the western end of the Murghab with hardly any shelter against the bitterly cold winds that blow without interruption across the dusty plains. It’s only September, but we can already unpack our down jackets. In the distance, we see a dust cloud moving towards us. The caravan is our Tajik crew and their pack animals that will support us during our 9-day traverse across the Rushan Range, a sub chain of the Pamirs.

The Alichur Valley and the western edge of the Murghab Plateau

The first camp is a centuries old caravanserai on the banks of the Alichur River. One of the southern routes on the Silk Road ran across this valley and this place was a refreshing station for traders and pilgrims. To reach our camp we are forced to wade through the ice cold, waste deep river. It’s a breathtaking spot to spend the night. A short climb up the small ridge behind our camp gives us a sense of scale of this vast mountain range. Below, the Alichur meanders towards the turquoise Yashilkul Lake, Tajikistan’s fourth biggest lake. The next two days we’ll be following its northern shores. In the far distance the summits of the Rushan Range, that we’ll be crossing in a few days’ time, are beckoning.

There’s a long day of walking ahead of us. Before sunrise we fuel ourselves with hot porridge and tea and hit the trail shortly after. We are facing two tricky river crossings and a steep cliff. The first river crossing is fairly easy. We manage to keep our feet dry, hopping from boulder to boulder. The next obstacle is a 50 metre high cliff that rises almost vertically from Yashilkul Lake. We climb to the top of the cliff via a vague goat path, following a trail of goat droppings. The descent back to the shore goes via a solid, steep slope littered with small stones. It’s an extremely treacherous section. One of the team members tumbles down but manages to break her fall with her walking pole. Somewhat shaken we take a break when we reach the edge of the lake. The incident reminds us of the wild character of the Pamir Mountains. There are no way marks, fences or stairs. Pathways are criss-crossed carved in the mountain slopes by shepherds who have tended their livestock in this part of the world for centuries. Trails and bridges are wiped away by avalanches, landslides and mud flows on a regular basis. In case of an accident, help is far away. There is no mountain rescue service and in most cases not even mobile phone coverage. We are on our own and that is exactly the appeal of a trekking expedition in this wild, untouched mountain range.

Saying goodbye to Yashilkul

We leave Yashilkul behind us and enter the wide, U-shaped Langar Valley via a short but strenuous climb. Spiky summits of over 5000 metres dominate the skyline on both sides of the valley. It’s a gradual ascent along the Langar River, that merges downstream with the Gunt River. This is one of the many tributaries of the legendary Oxus River, that bears the name Amu Darya these days and drains into the Aral Sea in Uzbekistan. Half way the valley we pitch our tents near a shepherd camp at around 4000 metres. In winter, shepherd families live at lower elevations to avoid the harsh temperatures and deep snow conditions. They spend the entire summer at higher altitudes in search of good grazing grounds for their goats and sheep. We are treated to fresh bread and kret (dried, salty yoghurt balls made of sheep milk) and catch a glimpse of the unique way of life high up in the Pamirs.

Camping in the Langar Valley

Higher up, the valley bends to the west and the wild Langar River has devolved into a tiny trickle, fed by the hanging glaciers on the north facing wall next to the 4610m high Langar Pass. We reach the highest point of the pass and descend to a small turquoise lake just below the pass. At the end of the lake we find a brilliant camp spot and decide to call it a day. After setting up our camp we spend the rest of the day exploring the surrounding mountain ridges. This is the very heart of the Pamirs and it is dotted with glittering mountain lakes in all shades of blue. The trekking route winds its way through a broad plain with grazing yaks and hospitable Pamiri shepherds. We pass the three Uchkul lakes and descend to a large summer settlement on the top end of the Irkht Valley. It’s a motley crew of long-haired goats, nervously barking dogs and yelling children who call this mudbrick mini-complex home four months of the year. The following morning we start the ascent to one of the most spectacular mountain lakes in Central Asia, Zarojkul. The landscape changes abruptly from a broad plateau to a narrow, seemingly impenetrable gorge filled with massive boulders and crystal clear ponds. The eroded trail is in a poor state and we need to pay attention, especially with the donkeys. A misstep will end without a doubt 30 metres lower in the near freezing water. When this last obstacle is tackled it’s an easy stroll to the northern shores of Zarojkul.

Zarojkul in all its glory

This lake is sapphire blue and completely surrounded by glaciated mountains. Before we manage to pitch our tents, dark clouds build up and obscure the mountains. It starts snowing, making tomorrow’s crossing of the 4795 metre high Shtik Lazar Pass uncertain. We tuck into our sleeping bags, listening to the snow falling on the tent sheet.

A yak dung fire keeping the group warm

It’s still dark when we zip open the tent fly. First light trickles in and accentuates the silhouette of ridge east of Zarojkul. The weather has cleared and we get the green light for crossing the pass. We break up our camp and after a quick breakfast we start the ascent to the highest point of the expedition. Shtik Lazar is covered with an impressive glacier and an early traverse is necessary to beat the fickle weather patterns in the afternoon. The glacier is rather flat and free of snow. The rope and crampons stay in the bags. Because we already spent five nights above 4000 metres, the team is perfectly acclimatised and before noon we reach the enormous cairn on top of the pass. From here it’s a 2000 vertical metres down to the picturesque mountain village of Bardara, the finish of the trek. The moraine at the northwest end of the pass is a big pile of rubble. An unclear path winds its way down the blocks and regularly disappears into chaos. Our chosen route sees very few people, even locals. We realise that the final descent will be tougher than the actual traverse of the glacier. The route zigzags towards the terminus of the moraine and we drop further across the rugged terrain. At the top of the Bardara Valley we still need to wade through the river to reach our last camp on the western banks. From here it’s all the way down.

Crossing the Bardara River

It’s a special feeling to see friendly elements in the landscape again after having spent several days at high altitude. The first tree is solitary but stands proud next to the path and we can’t hide our big smiles. Gradually the valley becomes greener and we see the first signs of civilisation, agricultural patches of land and a small mudbrick hut. The last serious obstacle is a tributary that drains the glacial meltwater of the Turshedavi Glacier. It’s warm and the river has reached a critical level, just below its banks. Upstream we search for a safe place to cross but without success. We wait for our pack animals to arrive and hitch a ride across. The donkeys struggle to stay on their feet in the fast-flowing water, but we all manage to reach the other side dry. The final descent progresses quickly. The team is visibly motivated, breathing in the thicker air of Bardara. After nine days in the Pamiri mountain wilderness we collapse on the comfortable karputchas of our local homestay. No five-star hotel can beat this.