Kyrgyzstan's wildest bikepacking route - Part Three
Culminating in a three-day-long headwind finale
We wake to an expanse of frozen, white ground outside our shipping container shelter, and a brilliantly clear sky to set off for Arabel Pass and beyond.
We farewell our host, who’s sitting in the sun outside the yurt alternating between slicing chives and peering at the hills through binoculars, perhaps checking her cowboy husband isn’t taking his smoko break too early.


We swap the short-lived sealed road for a gravel 4WD track, which meanders us through a swampy area and past a picturesque lake, up to Arabel Pass and down a dramatic series of switchbacks which takes us gradually to the valley floor.


The valley is very stark compared to the one we previously pedalled through up to Juuku Pass, with not a tree in sight. A braided river weaves through the centre with grass crosshatching the valley floor and lower slopes, leading up to imposing grey pyramids above with hints of snow.


The lack of vegetation is somewhat made up for visually by the throngs of horses which give the landscape a distinctly Kyrgyz feeling. In a country where over half of all land area is pastureland, herding animals is central to the national economy, society and culture. Horses particularly play a distinct role - we learn from a homestay host that they are treated as assets, as they hold their value.
“You put cash in the bank. For us, we buy an animal. It’s like cash, when I need money I just sell it,” he explains.


It’s down in the valley that we encounter our first headwind of the trip, one that builds in its ferocity in the afternoon, and, unbeknownst to us at this point, is one of the main reasons people ride this route in the opposite direction.
There are countless smaller streams feeding the river which we cross regularly, which combined with the wind do an effective job of slowing our pace. We make lunch of bulgur wheat with olives and carrot and the welcome addition of a loaf of bread our yurt host sold us this morning.
The wind’s strength reaches fever pitch in the late afternoon and we take turns drafting each other, coaxing ourselves along with the lure of lolly breaks at 8 km intervals.
A tiny boy on a donkey appears and shouts to us to “come,” pointing up into the hills where we assume his home is concealed. Tempted by an authentic yurt experience which feeds income into the communities here, but discouraged by the uphill pedalling that following him would require, we reluctantly decline and continue on to a flat space near a clear stream.
As the sun sets the valley is cast all in gold, the bright feathers of cloud transforming from clear white and grey to a pastel tint, until the landscape is all in shadow and the last shards of the day linger at the horizon.
After carrying the parmesan for four days we finally crack into it for a fancy dinner of bulgur wheat, carrot, salami, olives and cucumber, eating as we watch a cowboy drive his horses home in the dusky light.


The next morning we meet the official gravel road to Naryn, but in places it’s actually worse than the rutted track of the previous day, gnawing at our morale with its tedious and unrelenting washboard.
With predictable timing, the wind returns to stifle our pace and enjoyment of the riding, whipping dust into our eyes as we slowly climb out of the valley.
Filling our drink bottles in a river fed by the catchment we’ve been riding through is a decision we quickly re-evaluate - it has the distinct musk of animals.
The final climb that takes us out of this valley and onto the first proper road we’ve seen in days is long and hard with little in the way of interesting scenery as a distraction. Due to the continuous headwind we are reduced to pushing our bikes the couple of kilometres and 300m of elevation.
However, it’s a fun and loose descent down the other side into a small village around which tractors are cutting grass and men baling hay for winter - the first cultivation of the land we’ve seen in a long stretch.
We stop and ask a local woman to please open her shop, which to our immense disappointment is the worst stocked shop we’ve ever seen. We settle on some slightly stale chocolate and a few packets of flavoured croutons.
The wind has not let up at all as we set off again to try and squeeze a few more kilometres out of the day to lessen tomorrow’s load. We slog a few more undulations and as the gorge deepens we spot a bunch of cowboys on the opposite side, their herd scattered perilously across the rocky face.
Ahead of them is the tiniest of goat tracks traversing what seems to be a sheer cliff, and we wonder where on earth they could be leading their animals. Some of the goats and sheep look to be seconds away from plunging to their deaths, while a cow issues distressed moos.


Leaving the cowboys to their bad day at work, we carry on into the gorge, joined at times by horses galloping up a dusty wake in the fading afternoon light. We’re well below the tree line now and pines and moss cling to the ravine’s edges.
My efforts to find a scenic tent site override the practical consideration of shelter from the elements, which is especially poor judgment since the wind fails to adhere to its usual pattern of dying out around 6.30pm.
As we wrestle with the tent behind a small stand of juniper, we realise we’ve forgotten to fill up on water, so we have less than 2L for cooking and drinking. A quick glance at the map shows the closest spring another 4.5km away and uphill - out of the question for our tired bodies - so we opt to make do.
Despite being at a much lower altitude the temperature drops below zero and it’s a chilly night in the tent, though the stars are magnificent.

The absence of water means no tea or porridge for breakfast so after a few handfuls of dried fruit we’re back in the saddle, caught in a traffic jam of what appears to be the same cowboys and their herd from yesterday who, miraculously, have made it off the cliff.
The kilometres flow by as we descend out of the gorge and into the dry and dusty lowlands. Naryn - our first town in six days - is barely 40km away and we can almost taste the first sips of a refrigerated drink.
But this section wasn’t going to let us off that easily, saving us the strongest headwind yet for the final kilometres of unrelenting washboard. I tuck behind Cael, trying to benefit from his slipstream, but it’s impossible to keep a steady pace on the wildly uneven road. Just as we find a rhythm Cael’s front tire would strike a stray rock and my tire would buzz his rear one, stymying our forward progress and testing the limits of our patience.
With barely 10km to go we meet an enthusiastic Dutchman riding the opposite way, whose pep and mention of a good cafe spurs us for the final push.
Over a pizza and 25 chicken wings and soothed by the balm of a litre of ice cold, virgin mojito, we celebrate and begin to scheme the next leg.
Mega cool! This is one of my faves so far. The writing and photos first rate as usual, but what I liked most is the feel of gratification I could sense when you got to the finish line (pizza place) after considerable type 2 fun and celebrated with a feast and a litre of ice-cold drink. You could see all of it in Cael's expression in the photo.
wow, that looks hard on the tires!? And no refuge available from the elements, like sun or wind? I wonder what people use for "firewood"