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Crossing the Kharkiraa with Three Horses and a Camel
Article courtesy of Tim Cope – www.timcopejourneys.com
Reintroduction to the Wild
Morning came biting and fresh, and soon the camel was packed and we were moving gradually upwards. The river made a turn and we entered a deep valley from which peaks rose almost vertically. The snow line was just visible, and every now and then the glaciers above came into sight. The valley itself was largely abandoned but a few gers still remained. Herds of woolly yaks could be seen grazing, dwarfed by the scale of the environment. Every now and then I would also notice black dots in the distance, sometimes half way up a mountain on a precarious ledge: hunters. They would lie in wait for hours with their spyglasses and Russian rifles. These hardened looking men would sometimes come galloping over the rise, marmot tied to their saddle, gun slung over their back, dele flapping like a sail in the wind.
Despite making it only a short distance, Dashnim was keen to stay at the last ger we passed by. He greeted the elder of the family with the traditional swapping of Tibetan-style snuff bottles, and sharing of a long oriental tobacco pipe. I was grateful for a large chunk of dried Yak yoghurt, the bitter taste satisfying after a day in the saddle. Their daughter, a lady with a kind face and endless smile was my age, and I soon understood that she was blind. I watched the way she still managed to cook over the fire, feel her way around the ger, and even gather dried animal dung outside for firewood. In the evening she was lead out to the yaks where she did the milking. She loved to listen to everything, and sometimes I watched her sitting outside with a smile, listening to the animals, the wind, and of course my strange accent. She was curious just to touch my tent, and saddle. For her sounds and feel were everything and I had the impression that she was far more aware of the rhythms and beauty of this place than us.
The valley turned more to the west again the next morning and gradually the high range of the Kharkiraa seemed to slide into view. Glaciers paused in mid tumble shone a brilliant white in the light. A cloud of wind-whipped snow hovered above. I was surprised by the sheer drama of this landscape that had been largely hidden until now. Soon we came across some hunters that blended in with the dirt after several nights out in the mountains. We paused to share some black tea. They lay alongside the discarded innards of marmots and fresh skins.
Then we began to rise abruptly. Below us the lower end of a glacier twisted its way down a valley. The climb became very steep and the sounds of slipping rocks and cries of the camel cut through the mountain air. A fox darted out from a hole in front of us, soon consumed by the detail of the land. To both the north and the south these mountains rose riddled with ice-choked gullies and glaciers. Some peaks were razor sharp, while others were snow-capped domes. The Kharkirra rise to about 4100m and are actually part of the greater Altai range. The Altai are geographically at the very heart of Asia and are split between Russia, Mongolia, China, and Kazakstan. It was from these mountains that nomads are thought to originate from. The Turks, Mongols, Kazaks, Hungarians, and even Iranians trace their history to a people who came out of these mountains a few thousand years ago and at some stage tamed wild horses, yaks, and camels.
Our route lay ahead via a high pass between the main peaks. After a couple of hours we arrived as if into the clouds, suddenly above the many valleys and looking straight on at the peaks. The saddle was more of a wide, open alpine plain squeezed between these mountains at about 3000m. As we crested the highest point the distant Sayan mountains in Russia could just be seen to the west beyond a myriad of glittering lakes. I was struck by the image of Dashnim on his horse, leading the camel. I had never associated camels with such mountains, yet here we were plodding on with glaciers that almost seemed to be tumbling down upon us.
PHOTO TIM ON HIGH PASS HERE
We made camp just to the western edge of the saddle and rested in the glow of sunset. The mountains were a peach orange and revealing many of the details that were washed out in the harsh daylight. I shared tea with Dashnim who I was beginning to come to know better. He couldn’t stop telling me how good the grass was up here for the animals, and how I was good for not smoking. He said he had picked up the habit of smoking 15 years earlier. In the Mongol fashion he often rolled a cigarette in old newspaper, and spent half the time spitting out the pieces of paper and tobacco that made it into his mouth.
All day I had been gazing up at the peaks, and the various ridges that angled towards the alluring ice. A plan had been brewing to spend a day climbing to the northern side. Dashnim agreed that it was a good spot to give the animals a rest and so after dinner I packed my things.
By morning I was sure my plan had been crushed. Snow had been falling for several hours, and with it came a terribly cold wind rushing down from the mountains. However by the time I had boiled some water and warmed my hands the clouds were parting. I shouldered my backpack and gave Dashnim my spyglass, instructing him to check on me each hour.
I felt a shiver of excitement to finally be alone. The wind cut through my thermals like a knife, but the effort of pushing up the rock made my skin a tingly warm. Loose rock skittled away from under my boots, and I drew in deep, cold breaths. With each step I rose above the pass and the mountains to the south came clearly into view. By the time I had reached about 3700m a series of crystal blue lakes appeared, sunken into the rock just beneath the tongue of glaciers. I aimed for the sliver of white at the top of the rise before me, and passed the tongue of a small glacier with freshly formed icicles dangling over the edge of crevasses. The wind blew colder, and up here the clouds seemed to race. The campsite below was now just another spec, almost impossible to find. On the hour I paused and waved down, knowing that Dashnim would be looking up with a grin on his face, probably muttering something like: ‘Ahaaa!’ He always said this when something positive was happening- like when I gave him a cup of tea, a piece of bread, or some horse blankets at night to keep him warm. Funnily enough he used this same expression when telling the camel to stop.
At last I reached the sliver of snow, expecting it to be a false summit. As I stepped into the crusty white however there suddenly came blue sky. A little further, and like in a dream a rugged skyline of peaks suddenly appeared. A little further and I was standing on a saddle. Dropping down in front of me and from all the peaks were glaciers, forming a spectacular ice bowl below. The wind roared, yet nothing as much as shivered, all frozen into place. It was a view that I had never expected and I couldn’t help but throw my hands into the air and giggle. I spun around to see the southern range, and Kharkirra peak itself. Below the steppe panned out in a murky brown sea, dotted with lakes. I spent a couple of hours making my way along this high ridge, reaching a mini summit. In every direction there was a mountain or horizon that intoxicated my senses. I forgot about the pain in my legs and began to imagine the original peoples of the Altai migrating down from its many valleys, eventually becoming the nomads who would rule the steppe for millennia. By late afternoon it was time to head down and after a few hours I found Dashnim cooking up some tea over a fire of dried animal dung. He met me with his partly toothless grin. I smiled and put my thumb into the air. It was enough for him to understand.
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