The first time I heard about climbing in Kyrgyzstan was many years ago in a climbing magazine about the Beth Rodden and Tommy Caldwell saga. The second time was in The Brothers pub in Sheffield, from Sam Harvie, who said a few climbers were thinking of planning a trip to the area next summer.
I floated the idea to Alice Thompson. We had just returned from an incredible trip to Taghia [Morocco] and were buzzing for another adventure. And it is safe to say that Kyrgyzstan gave us one. Alice and I have known each other for about 12 years. I first met Alice in Siurana 2012 which feels like a lifetime ago now. We had both just left school as wide eyed, psyched 18-year-olds wanting freedom and climbing adventures. Alice is a curly haired, incredibly chilled, kind and enthusiastic Kiwi, and is a great person to be stuck on the middle of a big wall with. We always have a good laugh, and I trust Alice completely to make solid decisions, move quickly, and keep us safe. Over the past few years we’ve done a few great multi-pitch trips together in the Alps and Taghia, but this was our first proper expedition.
We hesitated at first since it was going to be expensive, but we knew opportunities like this don’t come around often, so we committed. Maddie Cope handled a lot of the logistics, but we still had our fair share of organising, sorting gear (thank you DMM), translating random topos (often in Russian), and generally figuring things out as we went. We met up a couple of times to practice hauling at Horseshoe Quarry, though I wouldn’t say our planning was the most meticulous.
At the end of July 2024, myself, Alice and 14 other keen folk from Sheffield arrived in Osh. We had just over a month for our trip and planned to have two weeks in the Kara-Su Valley and two weeks in the Ak-Su Valley which is in the Karavashin region. We had a night in a guesthouse and then took 4x4s to the start of our trek into the Kara-Su valley. The approach by foot takes about half-a-day, but we Brits struggled to keep pace with the horses carrying our gear. We ended up losing them and arrived at base camp in the dark, completely knackered. Waking up the next morning, though, was breathtaking, the scenery was unreal.
Kara-Su Valley
During our first week in the Kara-Su valley, we climbed our ‘warm-up route,’ Little Assan (approximately 400m, E1). Despite being the shortest and easiest route in the valley, it still turned into a 12-hour day, finishing in the dark. We also climbed the first 10 pitches of Rocket Donkey on Silver Walls, a fantastic route, though slightly marred by the fact that my stomach was not feeling top notch. But we pressed on, even if I wasn’t in the best state, well done Alice. By the time we reached pitch 10, I was feeling rough. Whether it was the altitude or my stomach, I wasn’t sure, but I was definitely ready to head down.
With only a week left in Kara-Su before moving to Ak-Su, we had one major route on our list: Alperien Route on Asan Peak (4230m), an imposing 900m wall of granite rock, one of the most impressive in the valley. Gwen Lancashire and Sam Marks were keen too which was confidence boosting so we all hiked to the base in the afternoon, carrying heavy rucksacks. I was battling a cold but knew this was our last shot before the weather changed. We found a decent boulder to bivy under, but a storm rolled in, and our sleeping bags were getting wet. Luckily, we later found a better cave, had a dehydrated meal, played cards, and got some sleep, setting the alarm for 5 a.m.
The scramble to the base, which we thought would take 30 minutes, took over an hour. We finally started climbing around 7 a.m. The topo described the route as 14 pitches, which, in hindsight, was wildly unrealistic for a 900m face. Our plan was to climb the route in one push, bivy at the top, and abseil down the north side the next day. We packed just enough food and water for two days.
We were slow. The haul bag was a nightmare. Most pitches were slabby or followed awkward features like off-widths and chimneys, which meant the second had to either free the haul bag or push it up. It was physically brutal, seconding was often harder than leading, and I was feeling rough. Some of the 60m off-width pitches were terrifying and exhausting. By nightfall, we were only on pitch 7, nowhere near the summit.
Gwen and Sam found a small ledge to sleep on, but there wasn’t enough space for all of us. Alice and I reached them, had a dehydrated meal, and then did a short abseil into a chimney, where we found a perfectly flat chockstone just big enough for both of us to lie on.
We set our alarm for 6 a.m, and managed to get some solid sleep. The next morning, we were optimistic, thinking we had finished the hardest pitches and would reach the summit by midday, giving us plenty of time to descend the north face. We should have known better given our snail-like pace from the day before.
The remaining pitches, (probably another 10, not seven) involved tricky route-finding, haul bag pushing, and choss-a-neering. One pitch from the summit, it was dark again. We climbed the final scramble in the dark, finally joining Gwen and Sam at the top, exhausted and with no food or water. By luck, we found some water stashed under a rock. We found some flat ground to lay our mats, and passed out immediately under the stars. Waking up on the summit was surreal. The view of the surrounding mountains made it one of the most special moments of my climbing life.
The descent the next day was long and serious, many diagonal abseils off sketchy pegs, plus plenty of downwards route-finding. We took it slow, aware of how easy it would be to abseil into the abyss. Amazingly, we met two crazy Russian aid climbers who had climbed an aid route up the north face. Their gear looked straight out of the 1980s, massive and definitely not lightweight. It was reassuring to meet fellow climbers, even if they did look a bit scary and they told us where there was a spring once we reached the base. Touching solid ground, the walk back on the scree was comforting. We could hear running water, and when Sam scrambled under some boulders and found the source, it was incredible. I could literally feel my body coming back to life as I drank.
By the time we reached base camp, I had a weird hero-like euphoria and for a moment, I thought, is this what Joe Simpson felt like in Touching the Void. Obviously, our ordeal was not on that level, but it had felt epic to me, Alice, Gwen, and Sam. Now, writing this from the comfort of an Airbnb in sunny Spain, I can confidently say: that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’m proud of us a tackling it as a team.
After a few days of rest and some comically puffy faces. The exertion and dehydration had caused us to puff up. We then climbed Kyrgyz Smile (7b)—which was still a tough challenge—before making our way to Ak-Su for the final two weeks of our trip.
Ak-Su Valley
The Ak-Su valley is more well-traveled than Kara-Su. As we walked in, we saw giant golf balls in the distance which turned out to be futuristic-tents that were home to Scandinavian climbers. Maybe it was because the only other climbers we’d met in the last two weeks were crazy Russian alpinists, or maybe it was just the way these climbers looked but I felt out of place. Everyone seemed hardcore, experienced, and in their element. I felt intimidated and a bit judged, especially when I asked a large, clean-cut Swedish man if the peak in front of us was the Russian Tower (the most famous mountain in the valley). It wasn’t.
Ak-Su didn’t feel as remote as Kara-Su, but it was still breathtaking. We pitched our tents a bit further up the valley away from the crowds (approximately 30 climbers), near the river, which as we figured out later, was part of the river bed. A storm later in the trip nearly washed a couple of tents away, luckily we saved them.
In the first couple of days in Ak-Su we attempted Perestroika Crack (7b) on the Russian Tower (4240m) but retreated due to bad weather. We then had a great few relatively ‘stress free’ days climbing La Petite Tour Russe (350m, 6b+), amazing climbing, perfect rock and a nice length. We also climbed the first seven pitches of Vivere la Vita (up to about 7a). However, now, with only a couple of days left we had a niggling feeling that we should give Perestroika Crack a second go.
Perestroika Crack is what draws people to the Ak-Su Valley. It’s an incredible sheer granite face 800m long, with pitches 5-12 following a single diagonal crack, perfect rock, ranging from finger-sized cracks to hands, fists, and off-widths. By this point in the trip, we were tired, big days, poor sleep, and general trip fatigue were hitting hard. Setting our alarms for 4 a.m. felt brutal. The approach started with a steep scree slope leading to an active gully. To muster motivation in the dark, we put on our headphones and listened to music. Further up the gully, singing along to ‘Like a Prayer’ by Madonna, I suddenly felt Alice grab my arm and yank me to the side. Rocks came thundering down the gully. She’d been shouting at me, but I hadn’t heard, your fault Madonna. “That was scary”, we both stated. For the final stretch of the walk-in, Madonna played in one ear, while the other stayed alert for flying rocks.
The first four pitches are the worst on the route, poor rock quality and scrappy climbing. On our previous attempt, we’d tried hauling the bag here, which was a complete nightmare. This time, Alice led while I seconded with the haul bag on my back. I’m not sure exactly how much it weighed, but I’d guess around 20kg. Climbing with it felt like doing weighted one-legged squats over and over, while someone constantly tried to push me over.
We reached the base of pitch five, where the real climbing begins, in good time. From there, everything flowed smoothly. The climbing here is truly exceptional. You follow a diagonal crack that cuts across the granite face for about five pitches. The face is slightly slabby, allowing you to use your feet in the crack for most of the climb while relying on your hands for balance. We moved efficiently, avoiding any major hauling mishaps, and we felt like we were flowing. By 6 p.m., we reached the bivy ledge. We still had some energy, so we decided to fix the next pitch, a 6b chimney.
Settling in for the night, we unrolled our mats (half-a-bit of foam each) and felt satisfied with the day’s efforts. It was freezing and windy, we comfort-ate a bag of Haribo between us and soaked up the surroundings whilst trying to stay warm. Three French climbers arrived, but conversation was difficult over the roar of the wind. We boiled water for our dehydrated meals; which tasted bloody good. The French team’s stove wouldn’t light in the cold, so they borrowed ours. It felt good to be helpful. Since Alice and I had arrived first, we got the best sleeping spots. The French climbers had to make do with tilted rock ledges. We set our alarm for 5 a.m. and tried to sleep.
I got absolutely no sleep, it was just too cold. I curled into a ball for warmth, but after a while my legs cramped, forcing me to stretch them out. Then I’d get too cold and curl up again. Meanwhile, the wind resulted in one of the French climber’s bivy bags flapping loudly against my face all night. By the time the alarm went off, I felt like I’d just spent eight hours lying down, cold and miserable. We sat up, made coffee, and ate massive peanut butter and jam sandwiches. My plan was to save half for lunch, but whether I was just procrastinating or just reluctant to leave my sleeping bag, I ate the whole thing, which made me feel sick.
Alice started jugging up the fixed line in the dark. When it was my turn, I was hit by the full force of the cold. The line was slightly overhung, so I was dangling, getting tossed around by the wind. Halfway up, I had to take a break, staring down at the French climbers below. What are we doing? I thought. My stomach churned. I thought I was going to throw up my peanut butter and jam sandwich. Luckily, only some sicky burps came up. Phew. No calories lost.
The following pitches were hard work. Neither of us had ever been that cold. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. Leading was terrifying, and belaying only made things worse, standing still and getting colder. The climbing here involved some impressive cracks, corners. I would like to be able to write a bit more here about how brilliant the pitches were, however with numb hands and feet, the ‘french free’ was fully deployed and I didn’t really get to enjoy the climbing as much as I would have liked to. I was hoping the French climbers would be behind us soon, for a bit of reassurance, but then I spotted them abseiling down. I had mixed feelings seeing the French team retreat, pride that Alice and I were still pushing on, but also doubt. Should we have gone down too?
We decided to at least try a few more pitches. When the sun finally hit the rock, around midday our energy and positivity returned. Now only six pitches from the top, I thought we may get to the summit. Alice put in an incredible lead on a runout 6b, which had a stream of flowing water from melting snow above. Blimey, Alice really impresses me sometimes. I took over for the next pitch.
Then the sun disappeared. Alice followed me up, looking rough. The temperature plummeted. There were snowflakes floating in the air, even though we were just four pitches from the summit, that still meant 200 metres of climbing, then 20 abseils back down before hiking out the next day. We had to be back at base camp by 9 a.m. for the horses to pick us up. It was time to call it. I haven’t done much in the mountains, so for me, turning around felt like the right decision. It’s always hard to know when to bail. Over the years we have both gradually expanded our comfort zones but we were reaching our physical and mental limits, freezing, fatigued, and we only had a couple of hours of light left. it would be good at least to do a few abseils in the light.
The abseils commenced. On the way down, we passed Maddie, Oli, Gwen, and Sam, which was reassuring, they were also struggling with the grim conditions. At first, our descent went smoothly. Then, after the bivy ledge, our ropes kept getting stuck in the cracks. We had borrowed a spare rope as our haul line because our original skinny haul line had been trashed earlier in the trip. However we were now rappelling on two thick ropes, perfect for jamming in cracks. Alice made a heroic effort re-climbing an offwidth pitch in the dark to free the rope. Later, I had to climb back up another stuck section. We chopped the rope twice.
By the time we stumbled back to base camp at 2 a.m., I felt wrecked. Sitting in the cooking tent, eating cold borscht soup, I was just relieved to be back safely. The next day, we hiked out of the valley.
Looking back, I feel incredibly grateful to have experienced such a wild place with good friends. Right now, I’m happy to enjoy some type 1 fun with a bit of sport climbing. But I know a craving for more of an adventure will come along at some point.
Words by Anna Gilyeat
