Photo by Katie Kelble.
A Story From the Mountaineering Fellowship Fund Grant by Katie Kelble
Originally Published in Guidebook XIX.
The dust clung to our ankles, its layer thickening with each step. Horses, porters, climbers, and the farmers of the Karayshin Valley had worn this trail before us, winding a path that led us deeper into the heart of the valley. In the distance, we could see the mountains grow, their landscapes becoming steeper and more sinister. My heart began to race, despite our meandering pace. I had only left the States once before, but had dreamed of a trip like this for as long as I could remember. I wanted, even needed, to come here; to try and prove that I was worthy of having such lofty climbing goals. To stand in front of something that didn't care how badly I wanted it, and find out if I had anything to offer in return.
We had started our morning with tea and breakfast at a guesthouse in Aktatyr Village, Kyrgyzstan. Our passports survived scrutiny as we crossed through the military zone, and then we were driving up a steep mountain pass with an eroding road carved into its side. Around noon, we strapped our bags to horses and began to trek into the valley. For hours we walked, following the vague trail. By the afternoon, the mountains in the background had grown from their small outlines to imposing peaks. We were first greeted by Odessa, 1,000 Years of Russian Christianity, and Kotina, three granite towers that shot out of the ground, dividing the Karayshin into its two hearts: the Ak-su and the Kara-su.
Golden hour came and went as we unloaded haulbags and duffels, set up tents, and organized our gear at basecamp. Illuminated by the moonlight, Slesova Peak loomed over us. Straight up its prow was our objective for the trip: The American Way, a 950-meter free route that had become the king line of the val-ley. The weight of expectations soaked deeper with every second I stared at the wall.
Katie Kelble and Colin Baker walking in the Karavshin Valley. Photo by AAC member John Ebers and AAC member Katie Kelble.
I was joined by my longtime climbing partner, John Ebers, and his childhood friend, Colin Baker. The plan had come together on a cold winter day earlier in the year. In a Google Doc filled with names of faraway places begging to be explored and climbs we yearned to try, Kyrgyzstan stood out. A friend of mine, Nik Berry, had raved about the fierce granite monoliths tucked away in the Kyrgyz mountains of the Pamir Alai. The first time I texted him about it, he told me it was "one of the best places" he's ever been. Given Nik's impressive climbing resume, I knew his praise had to be well placed. He particularly emphasized a route he established, The American Way, which he completed in 2019 in a team free ascent with Eric Bissell, David Allfrey, and Brent Barghahn. Since then, the route has seen a few ascents, the most famous being Emily Harrington's first individual free ascent, featured in an HBO series called Edge of the Earth.
Guarding the Karavshin Valley was a complex history of political violence and boundary wars. Borders drawn without regard for the people living within them had left lasting fault lines between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. Since gaining independence in 1991, both countries have borne the scars of clashes over land, roads, and water access. Probably the most well-known expedition to the valley was in 2000, when a group of professional climbers was shot at while on a wall and held captive for days. While the political climate in the area had since quieted, unrest lingered. A few months after booking our trip, we were comforted by the official demarcation of a distinct border between the two countries and a steady decrease in violence in the southwestern parts of Kyrgyzstan, where our basecamp was located.
We made fast friends with the other climbers at basecamp, sharing inReach numbers in case of emergencies, sipping tea, finding the best spots for clean water, and attempting various camping cuisines. I was oddly comfortable with this group of people, whom I otherwise would never have met. I hadn't expected to find that kind of ease here, at the foot of something so large.
Photo by AAC member John Ebers.
Photo by AAC member Katie Kelble.
Our first day on the route was filled with self-doubt and shivers. A biting wind blew up the wall as I stared at the blank granite face. Most of the hard climbing was in the first four pitches, though above that were 16 more. Besides the crux pitch, seven of the pitches were rated 7at or harder, creating a fairly sustained route. The first working day left me with little hope. As I walked back to my tent after dinner that night, l peered up at Slesova, her moonlit face cold and unmoved. She had swallowed my confidence whole and given nothing back. Show me your secrets, I thought. Let me know you. But she only loomed there, ancient and indifferent, as if I were just another small thing that had come to the base of her and broken.
The second working day was a bit warmer. It was just John and me that day, as Colin had come down with a stomach bug that left him horizontal. The first pitch's grade didn't initially intimidate me, but the style was punish-ing. I grunted and slipped all over it, trying to trust credit card edges for feet while hunting for near-invisible handholds. As I reached the anchor, it was all I could do to steady my breath, to keep the tears from coming. If I couldn't do this "easy" pitch, how was I supposed to do the rest of the route? After a quick rest, I calmed my nerves and geared up for the crux pitch, a 45-meter 7ct that weaved its way through a sea of blank granite. From the base, the pitch looked impossible, its surface too sheer. But as I climbed, Slesova slowly revealed herself. I lingered at each rest, truly sinking into her presence, and she'd reward me by revealing a foot chip or a small hold to balance on. As I breathed and settled into each body position, the chaos I was feeling in my chest began to resolve. Sections that had looked completely blank simplified into precise foot moves that flowed into boulder problems.
Over tea that night, we agreed it was time for the send push. The first four pitches seemed within reach. However, our team was not whole; Colin was still sick, and although his condition had improved, he was in no shape for a multi-day big wall. We were torn between waiting for Colin to improve and making the most of our time there and going for the push without him. I had never been one to want a team to split up. For me, climbing is a conduit for friendship. We waited out a few days of bad weather while we prepared our bags. As the sun set the night before we set off, Colin insisted we go without him, that he would be okay and just needed more time to regain strength.
Early the next morning, John and I hiked in silence, both plugged in to our own music, but in reality, not listening at all. We were lost in an endless swirl of thoughts: Doubt and excitement traded places in my mind. The rock was still cool and shaded when we got there; Slesova's face only saw sun in the after-noon, often when clouds came with a threat of thunderstorms. Numb hands carefully brought us to the top of the first pitch, where we peered up at the crux. To maintain a balance between style and efficiency, John and I would both lead the crux pitch and alternate leads from there, ensuring each person freed all the pitches.
I finished tying my knot and took a steadying breath, pressing my forehead to the wall. All I can do is try. I launched into the crux, enveloping myself in its every move. I imagined the pitch as a marathon. While it was long, there were plenty of spots to rest, coupled with plenty of technical moves on small feet. I danced through the sequences, fighting to keep my heart rate down and my breathing slow. Eventually, I came face to face with the last sequence. The anchors were a mere five meters above me, taunting me. The moves guarding the chains shouldn't have been too difficult, but the only way I had found to do it was to swing and kick my leg to the opposing wall, leaving the security of the static climbing that had gotten me up here. I took a deep breath to soothe my nerves and launched, sheer grit keeping me on the wall. At the anchors, I was met with a twinge of satisfaction, but anxiety nearly suffocated me as I looked up. There was so much more ahead of us.
Katie focusing on her footwork while following a pitch on The American Way. AAC member John Ebers.
After John's success on the crux pitch as well, a quick sip of water and an exchange of gear had us moving again. We swung leads, going seamlessly from one pitch to the next. Moves that had felt impossible to execute the first time on the route went with ease now, and I found that suddenly the climb had dissolved into a methodical dance of pulling, pushing, jam-ming, and resting. As the sun neared the hori-zon, we finally reached the small ledge where we would spend the night. We cooked dinner as the sky turned pink and orange. The silence of the valley was interrupted by our laughs as we recounted silly mistakes and moments from our day. With some of the hardest pitches out of the way, my anxious soul felt more at ease, but I knew it was far too early to count it as a win. We still had one 7c downclimbing pitch, and a subconscious race had begun between our success and our fatigue.
The next morning was even colder than the first day. While the difficulty was far less than the day before, I had more than one bleeding fingertip and an aching body. A few pitches later, we found ourselves at a beautiful ledge carved into the wall like a small sanctuary. Before we could crawl into our sleeping bags, though, we had one more challenge. With rain threatening the next day, we needed to move as fast as pos-sible, so we reluctantly made our way to the downclimb pitch. John went first, pulling off an impressive onsight. He jugged back up to the belay, offering encouragement and tips on where to look for the feet. On my first and second attempts, I was stumped at the same move, a long reach down to a foot that stretched me from my toes to the tips of my fingers. I tied in for my third go, determined that I would not let a single long move stand between me and completing this route. By some miracle, I pulled it off, and we rapped back to our ledge with the last of the light. We cooked dinner as the sunset bled out behind the peaks, Odessa and Kotina standing guard on the horizon, enclosing us in a globe of granite. For a moment, the mountain felt like ours.
Day three, we began early, racing to escape the impending rain that would surely drench Slesova. Did she delight in attempting to foil us, in throwing challenge after challenge our way? I needed to prove to her that we could do it; we could beat her timer. We moved fast, and at every anchor a wave of relief came over me that we were one pitch closer to our goal. Around 2 p.m., we finally crested the summit. A sheath of clouds was collecting around the summits across from us, a reminder that we had not made it yet; it was still far too early for a celebration.
One benefit of having climbed with someone since age 14 is that you begin to move as one, with little need for words. In about two hours, we made it from the summit to the base, rapping Slesova's 950-meter face with ease. Rain fell as we finished our raps; a quiet benediction from the mountain. We shoved ropes and gear in bags and got ready to navigate the scree down to camp. Before we left, I paused and looked up, pressing my palm against the granite. Thank you for this experience, for allowing us safe passage. She had watched climbers come and go for decades, and she had watched me, too, with the same cold patience.
We got back just as light gave way to night-fall. We devoured some bread bought from Kamal, the shepherd in the valley, drenching it in Nutella and honey. The momentum from the day carried us, masking the exhaustion exuding from our bones. A short walk across the basecamp brought us to a warm kitchen tent, a cup of Kyrgyz vodka in my hands. Our basecamp friends had certainly become more of a family. We played cards, sang, and told our tale before crawling into sleeping bags, finally safe on the ground. Maybe it wasn't so lofty to have dreams of climbs like The American Way.
The last half of the trip was a fever dream, as l chased sun and climbed easier terrain, buzzing with the glow from our accomplishment. The hike out was like being held in the arms of nostalgia. Maybe a lifetime ago I had walked these trails, but maybe it was yesterday.
After a few days wandering around Osh and one night in Bishkek, we were boarding the flight home. I watched the city shrink as our plane ascended into the clouds, my heart filled with gratitude for this land and its people. I wondered if I would go back, if I would ever again be in sheer wonder staring up at the granite giants of the Ak-su Valley. I wondered whether I would ever have another moonlight conversation with Slesova. It was like closing a book, content in the knowledge that you might get a sequel or that the rest might remain simply a dream in your mind's eye.
