Alamedin Valley—A Camping Tale in the midst of an Epidemic (June 1, 2020)

We woke early for us on a weekend—around 7 am—and had breakfast, made some coffee to go, and finished some last-minute packing of our bags. Then we loaded up the car and headed out for the Alamedin Valley. This time we had our tent, overnight packs, trekking poles—everything we would need for a night out in the fresh air, a night under the stars.

Alamedin Valley is located about a 45-minute drive to the south of Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Since we live on the southern outskirts of the city, the drive is generally easy for us—we avoid most of the city traffic—and a nice quick trip to get out to the mountains. Alamedin Valley is in the Ala-Too Mountains, a chain of mountains in the north of Kyrgyzstan that, if followed through the various connecting ridgelines, will eventually lead you all the way to the Tian Shan and Western China. As such, the mountains are tall, towering, craggy peaks—the tallest peaks approaching 5000 meters—a beautiful backdrop visible from almost anywhere in the city.

Keeping in mind this was early on a Sunday morning, we were surprised driving up by the sheer numbers of people about. Cars parked in long lines along the side of the road. Pulling up to the parking lot by the trailhead, the lot was already half-full in the early morning. The dirt road leading up to the trail thronged with people and cars, moving slowly, directionless; large families carried picnic supplies looking for a good place to set up.

We parked and heaved our bags onto our backs, leaning over to strap in. We put on our cloth facemasks to make our way through the people, always trying to keep as much distance as possible when passing by. As Kyrgyzstan returns to normal fewer and fewer people are wearing masks—there were very few if any in Alamedin this day. People are congregating—mostly outside, at least, but still getting together in larger groups. And for me, it still feels awkward to get out after being locked at home for over two months. And I felt awkward as we passed people along the trail. This is the new reality—I always feel awkward.

It was not easy to breathe walking up the hill with the heavy pack on my back and wearing the mask. But we made it, and eventually we escaped from the crowds and were released into the valley and views of the snow-crested, jagged mountain peaks farther along. We passed the crowds and kept walking, following a path that skirted the ridge along the river, straining under the heavy packs and breathing heavy in the early morning. Our hiking legs yet waking up moved sluggishly. To our left, a magpie played in the meadow. Horses grazed in the field and laid lazily in the grass; while some, full of sudden energy, took off in a galloping frolic. Long legged young foals stood close to their mothers. They eyed us wearily.

The river ran high and fast, much higher than just the last week, and its roar was somehow soothing to me now. The glaciers are melting, feeding the streams and rivers, and irrigating the country. The wildflowers in the meadows were in full-bloom—whites and yellows and blues like a pointillist painting dotted the landscape.

The water and the birds and the bees were our soundtrack, the flies buzzing past. With aching shoulders, we took a break for a moment to rest—warmed by the sun—and take it all in.


We kept walking. That’s what you do when you head out into the mountains. Eventually the question arises—usually from me (always, as they say, thinking of my stomach).

“When should we stop for lunch?”

And the typical reply, “Can we go a little bit farther?” This said in a way that makes me feel just a little judged, for sure. Like the little boy in the car, always asking, "How much farther?"

So we continued a little farther, along one last rise slanting up across a slope along the valley, before finally stopping for a break in a shadowed glen. The pack came off and landed with a heavy thud. My backside was not far behind; and seated on a damp clump of grass, I surveyed our lunch choices. Peanut butter sandwiches (on home-made bread); a peanut kozinak bar (basically peanut brittle); some trail mix (of peanuts and raisins). There were other choices, as well; but we somehow settled for a peanut-centric lunch. We dawdled for a little while—my shoulders were aching from the bag and we tried to take a break every hour or so—before continuing. We were making good time.

As we enjoyed our repast, lying prone on the grassy hillside and propped on an elbow, a couple small groups passed us by. They all had the same question as they passed—Куда вы идете? Куда собираетесь?—“Where are you going?” I guess we were a bit of a curiosity with our heavy packs with sleeping bags visible, strapped on the outside. Still, their question confused me.

We pointed further along, down the valley. “A little farther.” There was only one direction to go—it’s a narrow valley with steep cliffs on either side. Where else could we possibly be going?

The second group went by on horseback—three riders at a trot. “Куда вы идете?”

Again—Подальше. “A little farther.”

And where would they be going, I wanted to know. We hadn’t thought to ask—they continued on up the path along the valley. But we never saw them again, and we set up camp along that path. Perhaps they had a herd farther along or were riding through to the next valley. They didn’t seem to have any supplies with them. We’ll never know because we never thought to ask: “Where are you going?”

We found a nice campsite along a stream at the foot of a tall mountain we’d been tracking from the start of our hike, all the way from the mouth of the valley. It was a peaceful spot of earth, with the sound of moving water soothing to the ears, the twittering of birds. We set up our tent so the door opened on the view of the mountain; and, by leaving the mesh window open we were able to look out at the snow-capped peak illuminated in the moonlight all through the night.

To the left of our campsite, high up along the rocky ridgeline, a waterfall trickled down the rockface leaving behind a trail of mist. We re-filled our bottles with filtered stream water and scoped out the best place to set up our food area before a light misting rain sent us to the shelter of our tent. I read a Hemingway short story, which seemed appropriate to the setting (I read “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” not one of his Nick Adams stories, but still: man v. nature and man v. himself in nature, classic Hemingway).

The rain cleared quickly. I looked forward to a night out in nature, hoping for clear skies and a bright canopy of twinkling stars overhead. Having grown up in the country, I remember fondly staring at the stars in the night sky—it seemed like almost any night—rapt in wonder. It is tragic how rarely we see the stars in the modern world. I’ve spent too many years since in cities, cocooned in their artificial light: streetlights and lighted signs and the blinding headlights of passing cars on constantly thrumming streets.

Nature had other plans for our night, though; and very soon—before we were even able to prepare our dinner—another storm blew in. This one was accompanied by booming thunder that echoed down the valley, and we were again forced to shelter in our tent. No misting rain now, we watched the water running down the sides in sheets and wondered if we would manage any dinner tonight, let alone see the stars overhead.

The rain lasted for half-an-hour, maybe more, before passing on. The campsite was left a little wet, but otherwise fine. The breeze reduced to a stillness. The clouds cleared, and we set about making our dinner and finished setting up camp.

After dinner, we hiked a little further down the trail to where we could see a pass that continued, between peaks and glaciers, to the next valley over—Ala-Archa—where we’ve done a lot of hiking in the past. The trail was on the other side of the river and led up a steep slope into the mountains. A temptation that will likely always elude us—I’m not sure about the distance or difficulty, but imagine some mountaineering experience is a must—but fun to fantasize about, nonetheless. It was like looking through a doorway on another world.


The stars were dim that night; and I slept, as I always do when camping, fitfully. When I woke, I would sit up and look through our window on the mountain. The stars looked brighter in the middle of the night, but I wasn’t about to get up, search out my shoes, and leave the comforts of the tent. I must have slept at some point.


We woke late and started on breakfast, and watched as the rising sun crested the eastern ridge and lit up the snow-crowned peak of our mountain. After spending the night at its base, I had started claiming ownership rights. The thought of our return journey loomed in our minds and we were silent and contemplative. I made coffee in a travel French press while slowly eating a bowl of bland instant oatmeal. We filtered more water and began the tiring task of breaking down camp: folding and rolling the tent back into its bag, sorting through the food, repacking bags.

There is something post-climactic about the return journey. Re-covering ground you have already covered. Seeing again the sights you have already seen (from another direction, but still). The real-world beckoning, the world you made all that effort coming out here to get away from. No, there is a reason that fantasy epics never spend much time describing the return journey.

We loaded back up, felt the weight back on our hips and shoulders, and set out, once again, on the trail. The sun blazed overhead, and we saw not a thing—not a person or animal (save for some variety of marmot that darted back in its hole)—for two hours. Over rock falls and through meadows we trekked. I imagined my hiking poles like a horse’s forelocks at times, leaping and galivanting through the meadows; at other times, through difficult terrain, like an insect’s proboscis, probing the ground ahead for the best footing.

Clouds gathered in the valley behind us, pushing us forward. Thoughts of the storm the night before. We hurried our pace.

A horse appeared on a promontory ahead, the first sign of civilization. Then a herd of cattle. Voices drifted on the breeze from overhead. Suddenly there were people walking on the other bank, close by. It was strange how strange it felt to be near people after just one night away. We saw cars parked on the road ahead. Children running about in packs and groups of teenagers playing games on their phones.

We put our masks back on.


We were back.