Spring in the Tian Shan Mountains, Kyrgyzstan

Kyrgyzstan has been our favourite place so far on our ongoing journey throughout the world. This special place has left its mark on us. We felt a real sense of freedom and friendliness from day one. The daily handshakes, high-fives, and hellos filled us with warmth, and the endless trails and magical camp spots have been an absolute joy to experience.

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Our ride took us through the Tian Shan Mountains, from Karakol to Bishkek, along BIKEPACKING.com’s spectacular 600-mile Tian Shan Traverse route. We warmed up with a climb up Djuku Pass, rode along the Arabel Plateau, cycled around the shores of Song-Kul lake, and finished with a descent down Kegety Pass. 

Spring was the perfect time to experience Kyrgyzstan. We rode through wonderful meadows of flowers in the valleys and over nearly 4,000-meter passes just as the snow was melting away. Life changes there during the early summer months. We watched as shepherds began to move their livestock further up the valley to graze, and the yurt camps started to get set up for the warm period ahead. The giant mirror lakes reflected the clouds as they grew above the distant mountains, and we were lucky to have only a couple of storms roll through, though they blew over quickly, and shelter was easy to find. 

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We felt so small, like little dots rolling through the vastness of the great valleys, plateaus, and 7,000-meter peaks. The riding was rugged and remote. The multi-day climbs and hours of hike-a-bike pushed us to our limits. But the reward! Incredible flowing descents and stunning, diverse landscapes around every corner. The variety of scenery and big temperature changes were unexpected, and we started to crave the cooler air of the high mountains instead of the hot, dusty lowlands. Although they’re not really low—90 percent of Kyrgyzstan is above 2,000 metres. 

Field Notes from the Journey

Our journey began in Bishkek, the country’s capital. It was a stark contrast to the sights of Kathmandu, from which we had flown. The streets were relatively empty, and the brutalist Soviet architecture was stark. We packed our bikes up and headed to the markets to browse the endless stalls of nuts, fruits, sweets, freshly baked breads, and massive watermelons nearly the size of our bike wheels. 

On day one, the skies were clear and the snowy peaks of the Tian Shan Mountains loomed in the distance. As the day progressed, we gradually drew closer and closer to the mountains, and eventually, they surrounded us. We had made it to just under the last steep hike-a-bike section of Djuku Pass, which tops out at 3,800 metres. 

We found a camp spot next to Lower Djuku Lake and rested for the push over the climb and onto the plateau the next day. We passed many nomadic families looking after their herds of yak, horses, and goats. One kind girl gave us some sunflower seeds, and another asked us for vodka but was very disappointed when we only had water. After having no major mechanicals on much of our trip, Britt managed to pick up a puncture on the last metres to camp. We tried to patch it, but it ended with Britt getting a face full of sealant. As Duane and I boiled water for our dried meals, Britt set about sewing up her tyre, which sorted the job. 

As we rose for day two, the sun was still shining, and everything was beautifully still. The quietness was swiftly drowned out by the sound of goats marching up the valley. The shepherds we had met the day before were up early and moving their hundreds of goats up and over the pass. This became a running theme most mornings. Each day, we would get up early, but not as early as the hard-working shepherds. They would always be up before us, riding to high points in the valley to search for their herds, before moving them up the valley for the day. By midday, there would be goats, cows, horses, and yaks grazing along the valley floor and to the tops of the hills. By the time we’d come to set up camp at the end of the day, they would still be out roaming the mountains, this time herding their animals back in for the night, safe for another day.

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Having camped at Djuku Pass, there was no warm-up. We started pushing straight up the hill. Towards the top, the gradient increased, and the rocks were everywhere, varying in size and shape, making it really tricky to get through. It took us a couple of hours to work our way through the maze of boulders, and when we got to the top, we were greeted with some incredible views along the Arabel Plateau. It was vast. We could see for miles, and steep, snow-capped peaks lined either side. The flats were a welcome rest for the legs, and we cruised along the varying goat and truck tracks until we made it to the end of the plateau. We had two glaciers to our left and a view down Arabel Valley. The scenes were too good to race past, so we set up camp and settled in for the night, listening to the river beneath us and the marmots squeaking around us. 

We got the full Kyrgyzstan experience on day three. Glorious sunshine, horrid headwinds, and torrential rain. It was one of the most incredible days on the bike we’ve ever had. Sun rays caught the tips of our frosty tents and the glaciers on the opposite side of the valley—it had been a chilly night up at 3,800 metres. As we had our breakfast, the bikes and ground started to defrost, and it was nice and warm by around 8 a.m. We rolled down into Arabel Valley. On the left was a little stream, and yellow buttercups lined the trail. It was as if it had been sculpted for biking; it was perfect.

We got a little complacent and fully soaked in the scenes until the wind picked up and we realised we were in for a more challenging ride than expected. The headwind was brutal as we continued further down the valley, and the clouds were starting to build above the hilltops. On the larger plains, horses, goats, yaks, and cows grazed the land, and there were many yurt camps on either side. By mid-afternoon, after numerous river crossings, we stopped at one yurt camp and were invited in for tea and sweet treats.

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By late afternoon, thunder and lightning were echoing through the valley, and then the torrential rain started. Luckily, we came across an abandoned shepherd’s hut, a perfect spot to shelter from the weather. We put the stove on and had dinner while waiting for the rains to pass. As if by magic, when we finished our food, the rain stopped and the skies brightened up. It was a special end to the day. The sun was setting above the distant mountains, and we rode through herds of yaks, watched herders bringing in their animals for the night, and had wild horses galloping alongside us. The trail flowed down the valley as far as the eye could see, and we followed it right until dusk, stopping next to the river, ready to snooze. 

Next up was the town of Naryn. We planned to descend from our camp spot along the Arabel Valley all the way there, as it looked like it would be an easy day of descending from the elevation profile (zoomed out). A few donkeys joined us for breakfast and then went on their merry way. We weren’t far behind them, and we were in high spirits as we made our way down the valley to start the day. We had seen on the elevation map that there were a couple of chunky climbs to start, so we tackled those first. They were tough, but the changing scenery over each crest kept our attention, with a mix of rolling soft green hills beneath rocky, rigid peaks.

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As we ventured up the second climb of the day, three shepherds and a herd of goats had just topped out as well. We shared some words, and one of the men asked for a photo. I happily obliged, and he was chuffed with the portrait. We watched them move their goats down the valley and then set about heading down the singletrack that lay before us. As we weaved deeper and deeper into the gorge, it started to feel more like the Alps, with the blue river flowing beneath us and the trees lining the hills. It started to get tough as we progressed further. We had failed to zoom in on the elevation map to see how many punchy little climbs there were. By the end of the day, we had climbed more than 1,000 metres on a day that was supposed to be just downhill.

Up one of the many climbs, we passed a small yurt camp. Duane and I pedalled past, but Britt got enticed in by the kids, who then brought out some fresh kumis for us to try. Kumis is fermented horse milk that has a very sour taste and was not great for our soft stomachs. We had a few sips to please the kids and swiftly made our way on before they topped us up. More and more hills came and went, along with some lovely flowing declines, before we made it out of the gorge and down to Naryn. 

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Our journey out of Naryn was an eventful one. The morning started with us attempting to get a taxi from Naryn to the bottom of the climb. We thought we’d secured a van, but a tiny hatchback arrived. Then the cab company sent a slightly bigger car with an enthusiastic driver who thought he could strap all three bikes to the roof—it was like a comedy sketch. Eventually, we hit the road and pedalled for the first 10 kilometres before hitching a ride to miss the highway section. It was grey and dreary, so we didn’t miss much. The climb began with some drizzle, but as we reached the top of the first ascent, the sun started to emerge, and we could see the route meandering through the valley in the distance.

At the bottom of 33 Parrots Pass, we met a lovely German family in their adventure wagon. They first kindly provided us with some water for the climb, and as we started heading up, they passed us and asked if we liked beer. It was the day before my birthday, so this seemed almost too good to be true. “Of course, yes, please!” we said as we panted up the hill. The pass was a piece of art; it wiggled its way up to the top like someone had laid down a piece of string. At first, it seemed like it would take forever, but slowly we made it to the top, and to our amazement, three beers and a little more waited for us there. We were thrilled. We gazed at the pass beneath us and headed to set up camp and to enjoy the well-earned drinks.

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My 32nd birthday. What a way to see in another year. We packed up camp and set off for a lap around Song-Kul Lake, which sits at 3,016 metres and is the largest freshwater lake in Kyrgyzstan. The vastness was awe-inspiring; it felt like we were barely moving as the horizon wasn’t getting any closer, or maybe the beers the night before were having an effect. The coastline of the lake felt like we weren’t in the most landlocked country in the world. There were coves and small sandy beaches, with the wind calm and the sun shining, we could have stopped and sunbathed, imagining we were by the sea. Later in the day, storms began to form above the mountains circling the lake, and clouds exploded into the sky. We swiftly made our way to a yurt camp before the skies unloaded. It was warm and cosy, and the textures and patterns inside the yurts were beautiful. It was a little touristy but a great experience nonetheless. 

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The ride from the lake was stunning. As we climbed, we could see the entire lake and the surrounding peaks. We jumped from jeep track to jeep track as we aimed our wheels up to the top. Over the crest was a new valley to explore. The ever-changing scenery surprised us across Kyrgyzstan; the landscape is so diverse. It’s not just rolling green hills and snow-capped mountains. The lower valleys get super hot and dry in the summer, even though they’re still around 1,000 metres above sea level. As we would drop down from the higher plateaus and passes, we would roll through dusty, orange and red-toned valley walls, with bright blue rivers running beneath. Kyzyl-Oi was one of these unexpected, unique locations. In Kyrgyz, its name means “the red bowl,” referencing the colour of the mountains surrounding the village. It felt like a different planet.

Camping was a dream in Kyrgyzstan. Every day, we would get excited about where we would pitch our tent that night and see what stunning new view we would have from the door in the morning. Our favorite spot was along the Karakol Valley. We found a lovely area by the river with its own little beach, perfect for a much-needed scrub. As we pitched up, we couldn’t believe our eyes, as not one, but two families of bikepackers rolled down the hill. They had seen this location earlier in the day, and they were making a beeline for it. The more the merrier.

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We shared stories of our travels whilst watching the locals put out fishing lines down the riverbank. One family was on a year-long trip, and the other was out for a few months. It was so inspiring to hear about their journeys and to see such young children having an awesome time riding. The boys were sent off for firewood wood, and the parents put up the tents. As the sun dipped down, the fire was raging, and we were all toasting marshmallows over the fire. It was a proper good evening. We fell asleep quickly with the river running alongside us. 

In the morning, the local shepherd returned to collect his catch and kindly made his way over the river to say hello and invite us to have a ride on his horse. We couldn’t believe our luck, even if he wasn’t too impressed with our riding skills. He headed home to prepare his fresh fish, and we headed further up the Karakol Valley with Kegety Pass in our sights. The weather wasn’t on our side; it started to drizzle and then poured down for a couple of hours, until we reached close to the top. As we made our way closer, the clouds cleared, and we had some great views of the snow-capped peaks around. The clouds came in as we topped out, and we got another good soaking. We made it down to the turn-off for Kegety and called it a day. We whipped up the tent, got warm and dry, and put our dinner on. 

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What a last day! The storm the night before had passed through, and we woke to the most stunning light catching the peaks of the valley below Kegety Pass. We dried the rest of our clothes and ate a ton of our last rations to make the bikes lighter and give us as much energy as possible to get over the pass. Typically, we aimed to leave early and ended up leaving around 9:30 a.m. as it was starting to get warm. The climb was gradual to start, and we thought we were flying as the kilometers started to ticking by.

Our excitement was cut short as we made our way to the top of the valley and saw the wall we would have to push our bikes up and over. The last 300 metres were a mix of landslides and goat tracks weaving their way up. The views were well worth the two hours of effort, though, with the clouds creating a patchwork effect over the hills, as beams of light and shadows rolled through. The wind was cold, so we swiftly set off to enjoy the last descent of the trip, stoked that the last climb was done and dusted.

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All our coats were on at the top, and they gradually came off as we made our way down. The temperature back in Bishkek was nearly 40°C, and part of us wanted to stay up high instead of getting down to the smoky, hot valley floor. Either way, we loved every minute of the ride down. The rivers were flowing fast as the snow had melted, and there were numerous herds moving up the valley. We had to stop many times to let hundreds of goats come on past. 

We felt sad to be leaving the mountains and coming to the end of the Tian Shan Traverse. Kyrgyzstan really is a special place. It feels like there’s so much more to see and so many more nice people to meet. I’m sure the pull to go back one day will win.

If you have a favorite memory or photo from the Tian Shan Traverse or another journey around Kryzystan, we hope you’ll share it in the conversation below!

Further Reading

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