Dust rises in golden veils behind the cars, swirling up in the wind to form huge clouds. We keep our distance, or we'll be swallowed by a wall of dust. Ahead of us, the Pamir Highway stretches out, a road closer to the sky than to the earth, a lifeline through the wild heart of Central Asia. Our destination is Tulpar Kul, the yurt camp at the foot of Peak Lenin—but even here, the journey itself feels like the destination.
The mountains stand in rows, naked and mighty, colored in the deepest shades of the earth—reds, ochres, copper, and purple—like brushstrokes on an unfinished canvas. The road snakes like a serpent through the high plateau. I have to force myself not to shout "stop!" to the driver; every glance out the window is a moment I long to capture. But I know no camera can truly seize this grandeur and silence. And we are pressed for time, to get over the pass and through the border control to reach the camp before darkness falls.
Birgitte wears our Women's Zip Neck in color Meteor.
At the border with Tajikistan, time stands still. A young soldier patrols in front of the barrier, his radio sputtering with distant commands. The arm slowly raises, the barrier lifts, and we drive through. The driver disappears into the building with our passports in hand, and the minutes stretch on—until he returns with a smile, and we can continue. On the Kyrgyz side, the air lifts; the guard asks, smiles, and welcomes us.
We turn off the main road and onto a small gravel track, heading toward the mountain peaks. The plain opens up, horses graze freely; it seems like a completely different world, magical—like something out of a fairy tale. And then suddenly, between the hills, a turquoise blue lake appears, and there—like a dream—is the yurt camp. The tents stand like white pearls on the shore, and behind them, Peak Lenin rises, snow-white against the deep blue sky. I have to pinch myself: it's like stepping into a fairy tale where reality and dreams merge.
The yurts are more than just tents—they are large and comfortable. Their frame is built of willow, the sides are modular and can be taken apart; there's a wooden floor and stoves fueled by coal. Real beds with proper mattresses and thick, heavy duvets. This is going to be good.
Dinner gathers us all in the large dining tent, where tables are arranged in neat rows, properly set. The soup steams, the bread is dry but softens when dipped in the soup. Rice and yak meat are washed down with hot tea. The atmosphere is quiet, fatigue from the long drive setting in. When we return to our yurt, the stove burns hot, and the temperature is close to a sauna—but we know the night will be icy cold once the embers die. Long woolen pants are put on, and the thin long-sleeved merino wool shirt from Loow is perfect for sleeping in. The headlamp is within reach, just in case I need to go out during the night.
Whether it's the cold air or the exhaustion, I sleep heavily under the blankets and duvets. The morning is cold, but the sun lures the day into action. I put on layer after layer; here the thin merino wool shirt from Loow is brilliant to have under the thick sweater, also from Loow. With my backpack packed with water, a lunch box, and a camera, I am ready for the hike toward Travelers Pass, from where we can enjoy the view of Peak Lenin and the large glacier. A total trip of 6 hours. A steep path leads us down to the river, and on the other side, the ascent begins. The air is thin, and my fitness might not be as good as I thought, because I'm gasping for breath and my steps are getting heavier and heavier. I quickly get warm and take off the thick sweater. The sun's rays skip across the stream, a couple of oxen lie in the grass and look up curiously. We reach the first base camp, where stone circles bear witness to where yurts once stood for the many mountaineers who climb Peak Lenin each year. All the yurts have been packed away and stored in the many containers around the base camp. There are no more climbing teams this year, and the season is over. We are some of the last guests here; it won't be long before the packing of our yurt camp also begins.
I do not reach Travelers Pass. After 2.5 hours of hiking, my body has to give up. I sit on a rock by a small stream and soak in the impressions—closing my eyes and letting my shoulders drop, feeling the silence. When I look down, I see the yurt camp lying like a pearl by the lake, horses grazing along the shore, mountains changing color in the light. Everything is still. Like a painting, in perpetual change. I'm not disappointed; of course, I would have liked to have reached Travelers Pass, but I don't have the strength today. I am filled with the feeling of being small in this vast landscape and feel completely absorbed by the mountains. The way down is faster than the way up, but the muscles in my thighs are tense and working hard. Now I just need to cross the river and then the last ascent before it's almost flat down to the camp. I can feel the fatigue spreading through my body and I gather my last strength.
Back at the camp, I quickly go into the dining tent. The large kettle is boiling on the stove, and I pour myself a well-deserved cup of tea. I loosen my boots and sink into a chair, sheltered from the wind, feeling the sun's rays warm my body. I close my eyes, and the landscape has been imprinted on my retina. I am pulled back to reality by the clatter of pots and know that dinner will be served soon. Later, the tent fills with voices from all over the world—Australian, German, English—different tones, same adventure. The mood is high, and laughter flows freely.
When I step outside late in the evening, the sky is deep and clear, strewn with stars. A single shooting star streaks across the darkness, swift, glittering, like a secret greeting. And I know that this moment will be etched into me, long after the dust from the Pamir Highway has settled.
Birgitte wears our Women's roll neck in color Mahogany
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