Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
A day later, the four of us were standing in the evening sun on the banks of the
river Chuya, waving goodbye as a convoy of coal trucks - our lift - rumbled off
down the road. They disappeared and we were left with bulging, heavy packs and
the prospect of two weeks in the Altai. It would undoubtedly be a spectacular time,
but somehow, like most of our journey, it was largely unplanned. All we'd man-
aged to agree on was that we would walk for a day and a half up to a little lake in
what looked to be a nice alpine valley. We'd see how that went, and take it from
there.
Our first afternoon went well. We walked a few kilometres up a dry creek bed
found a place where we could stretch a large groundsheet over the top of two adja-
cent boulders to form a sort of long, narrow sleeping cave. The following morning
Tim and I got up bright and fresh and ready to go. Brendan and Ray were still fast
asleep. As we waited, we started to realise what we might be in for. I became im-
patient and some of my frustration started to spill over onto Tim. By the time they
woke - 11 a.m. - we were bickering, and by the time everyone was finally ready to
go - 1 p.m. - I'd just about gone round the bend.
We climbed upwards along the steep banks of the creek and later found an over-
grown vehicle track, which made progress easier.
Towards the top of the climb, we began to get a view. Behind us, as we climbed
up and out of the river valley, a panorama of craggy ridges and slowly diminishing
foothills stretched away into the distance. We climbed further and the vegetation
thinned out, becoming twisted and alpine. When we neared the top, the views were
spectacular, but nothing had prepared us for what came next.
Due to our carry-over cycling fitness, Tim and I were a fair way ahead of the
other two. We climbed enthusiastically up the last pinch, looking back down on the
river where we'd started - 1200 metres below - then raced each other, laughing,
to the crest. Tim got there first and I crashed head-first into the bum of his back-
pack as he came to an abrupt halt. I climbed to my feet, chiding him, but stopped in
mid-expletive as the panorama caught my eye and I turned to gawk open-mouthed
at the view.
A broad grassy valley, ringed by trees and with a few silvery creeks trickling
down the sides, stretched out just a little way below. Halfway down, I could make
out a tiny hut with a thin tendril of smoke climbing steadily from the chimney, and
spread out across the slopes, a herd of wild horses raced each other through the rich
green grass. At the bottom of the valley, several kilometres off to our right, an oval-
