Steve travels #20: Freestyle hike part 4
I stare at the heaving mass of brown water for a few more seconds. It splits: part of it follows the original stream down the hill towards the road. The other part flows along the track, at right angles. Maybe if I just follow the original stream, I can somehow reach the road without crossing it?
It’s a plan long on hope and short on critical thinking. But it’s a plan. To follow the stream I have to clamber over a fence (rare in Kyrgyzstan!) into a field with a stallion who seems displeased with company.
But…no. There’s another stream parallel to the road. As I creep closer to investigate, the field gets wetter and boggier and it’s not long before my unblemished record of dry boots is over and I’m in over my ankles.
The stream is too wide to jump. It’s grey and cloudy (clearly glacial runoff) but perhaps wadeable. I prod with my trekking pole - I can’t even touch the bottom. It’s well over waist height! Eep.
I flounder along the edge of the stream, sometimes up to my knees in bog. The quagmire starts to trigger panic - I have no idea how I’m going to cross this stream, it will be cold and dark in not long, and I’m not even sure how to get out of this marsh.
I take a moment and find some slightly higher and more solid ground to collect my thoughts. There’s a tractor on the road, within shouting distance. I wish I could shout “please come and rescue me” but the gestures and shouting only get us so far. They indicate I have to go upstream, which I was already doing.
I keep floundering along. A couple of spots are possibly narrow enough for a desperate leap across, but with my pack and the squishy terrain it’s a dicey proposition, and the consequences for falling in are pretty dire.
A couple of men are loading wheat onto a trailer on my side of the stream. They gesture for me to come and talk. The man on the ground looks very concerned and tries to explain what I need to do: a big circuit back up the hill, across, and around. The man standing up on the trailer with the pitchfork seems to find it all very amusing.
The man on the ground has a car resembling a blue 1970s Land Rover. It’s charming. I’d love a ride in it right now. But doesn’t seem to be offering. As I slog up the hill he gets in it and drives alongside, but still isn’t offering for me to get in. But he stops and points out the way: go to the horse, jump across this new stream, then, something, follow the trail? to the house? and Bob’s your uncle. He says something about “no cars”, which I interpret as meaning it will be hard to hitch hike if I don’t get there soon. There’s no reception for the translation app, to our mutual disappointment.
I set off. The horse in question immediately clocks that he’s become my landmark and is not at all keen about it, launching into the horse equivalent of the Haka, with aggressive trotting on the spot, mini canters, and all manner of head tossing and tail flicking. Eventually I realise he’s tied up, which is good news for me.
It’s hard work pushing through thigh-high vegetation, and I reluctantly have to find a way through a wheat field. But I’m following instructions, so…
This stream is crossable, but it’s not trivial. It’s swollen well over its banks, so instead of a metre jump from bank to bank, I have to make the jump from mid-calf depth water. It’s awkward and I mess it up and fully dunk a leg but I’m across. Now, how much has it actually helped?
I push on down the hill towards the house and of course there is no sign of any track to follow. But when I hit the main stream again, it is noticeably smaller. But I still can’t find anywhere I’m confident in crossing.
There’s a man standing on the other side, so I make my way closer and gesture helplessly at him. He mimes rolling up my trousers and wading across. I’m still dubious about the depth. He insists. It’s true that right here is the shallowest it has been, and I can see a few rocks through the murky water.
My pants are well and truly soaked so I skip that part of his advice and set across, testing the depth with my poles as I go. Only knee-height and not outrageously strong current, so it’s fairly comfortable.
Once across, the expression on his face is clear: why didn’t I roll up my pants?
We wander up to the road, and I say I’m trying to get back to Bokonbaevo. He’s shaking his head and pointing the other direction - a 2 hour drive instead of 30 minutes. He offers me a place to stay, but I’m not keen - it feels like imposing, and I want to make more progress.
A truck driver arrives, and they have a chat. This guy is much better at the gesture game, and drops a clear bombshell: the road back to Bokonbaevo is cut off. A lot of water. A landslide?
Oh shit.
I’ve just overcome the challenge of my way into the hike being blocked by rising water, and having to find a different way out. And now I have the same problem at a bigger scale: the road I took in is blocked, and I’m going to need the long way home.
He offers to drive me, and we agree on a price of about $35. I’m starving, I’m thirsty, my feet are cold and wet, but I’m moving in the right direction.
Very considerately he asks if I’m hungry, and to my enthusiastic response he nods and indicates we’ll stop for food somewhere.
It’s getting late though, and as I think it through, I realise I’ll get back to the guesthouse close to 10pm - too late to be rocking up without a reservation and hoping.
We have reception now, so I ask if he can take me somewhere I get a room for the night instead. He agrees and takes me…to his house.
