The cold air stung my face the momet I stood outside and the bouncing black mutt that had greeted u slast night was around my feet. Across the roof tops of the low white washed buildings, I cold see the jagged peaks of the heavily glaciated Pamir Alay Range. “This is it” I said to myself “this is the Alay Valley. I’d been reading about this wide expanse of valley and of it’s beauty for years. We’d always known that this was one of our few choices for entering Tajikistan from the North. Now that I was actually here the location was suddenly quite over whelming. Daft as it sounds, the solitude and beauty of this place realy hit me full force. I walked for a 20 minutes towards this wall of vertical rock, all the while looking for any signs of a track or a road through and over them. My hands were numb with cold as I fiddled with the camera. My lungs took in a full measure of the cold air. I could feel the smile I wore. The Alay range is a 500km long seam of mountains that separate Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan and apart from a few nutty bikers is normally the exclusice turf of trekkers and mountaineers. Getting to here is a feat, let alone mountaineering in this giants playground.

I took as many photos as I could, changing the settings from time to time and hoping that just one of them would do this incredible sight justice, but in truth I knew none would.

I tried to lye on the ground and shoot the golden grass as a forefront to the mountains, the black dog thought it was a game and strted biting my arms and trying to play. I spent as much time trying to push the playful mutt off me as I did take photos. Great fun and 10 minutes I’ll treasure for a while to come.

Back at the homestay Lisa was already deep in conversation with the two guys from Isreal. The warm tea and friued eggs a great way to start whyat we knew was going to be a long day.

With the bikes loaded up we headed back up the track we’d ridden last night and filled up both bikes with as much fuel as we could. The bikes felt heavy as we trundled the 3 km down to the easily seen left hand turn, that would lead us to theKyrgyzstan immigration compound. We were literally riding towards the Pamirs, the 90 degree angle making our route seem utterly impossible. The route vanishing into rock and thin air. Inisde the compound we easily found the porta cabins and dealt with the exit stamps in the passports and the usual custom nonsense.

The thick covering of ground snow had me concerned. We had the Taldyk pass ahead to cross at 3,651metres (14,000 feet plus) and we stil had to clear Tajikistan immigration that was somewhere ahead and at altitude. We read countless stories of the severe weather in the region even in summer, and here we are with winter closing in around us, literally. Traffic is scarse along this route and year round the track can be closed down due to snow or heavy rain storms, which can appear without warning. You can tell that we were giving this range the full respect it’s due. Two tired brits without cell or Sat’ phones could easily get in trouble up here. I’d read the the lonely Planet chapter on this region last night after typing the diary. Now as we rode higher one paragraph kept coming back to me. “The Pamir Alay Range is one of the most remote and rugged parts of central Asia – this is one place where you can’t just head off with a 1970’s soviet map and a handful of snickers bars.

The Tajikistan compound came into sight as did half a dozen young bored soldiers. Not my personal favourite, they’re unpredicatable. Each of them with the mandatory Kalashnikov slung over the backs. I couldn’t feel my hands as I dismounted the bikes and searched for my papers. Two large oval fuel containers had been re-welded and were now in active duty as the passport offices. A rusting metal containers, this time the usual oblong shape acted as the customs office. We were beckoned inside the cramped quarters. A small tv hissed and buzzed in the corner. The roof was 8 foot tall and they’d somehow squeezed a set of bunk beds and a desk in here. These guys work and live in this tiny space for 8-months of the year and are then cycled out to active duty somewhere else. The small iron furnace was belting out heat from beind the door. This was weird. I was sat on the lower bunk bed with one fo the customs guys who was still wearing just his thermals…”OK… god! They’re going to cavity search us I thought”. We trapped in here and we can’t get out. I couldn’t help but stare at the longest set of yellow toe nails I’d ever seen. They belonged to the soldier who was siting on the bed and to my right and sticking out of the holes in his woolen socks. “Don’t stare, don’t stare” I told myself. It was too late.

All in all it took us 2-hours to clear the border. As usual a waive of excitement over took us both at the prospect of a new country. Round a long low set of mountains in late afternoon, the view ahead had left us dumb struck. The scene, a ‘white-out’ except for the vast icey blue lake lay before us: Lake Kaorkol.. Our route was ahead but how could it be? As far as we could see the land was covered in snow. Check out the photo and you’ll see what I mean.

We skirted lake Karokal (the highest lake in Central Asia ) as the afternoon came to an end. Unbelievably the tar road had stayed clear of snow. As we approached the town of Karokal I knew I needed to stop, even with all the heated gear we have on full bast we were freezing and our concentration was now suspect.

The sight of a lone cyclist coming towards us was reason enough to stop. Ben from the UK looked as sorry for himself and cold as we felt and after a brief chat about the conditions ahead we called it a day. With the conditions ahead described by Ben, we knew we weren’t going to cross the pass before night fall.

A quick scan of the small dusty town revealed a hand painted sign, which simply read ‘home stay’, and 20 minutes later we were parked up in the yard having slipped our way across deep snow and hard packed ice.

The rest of the evening was spent in the main room, with easy conversation we sat crossed legged around alow table and swapped information about each others upcomg journey.

The home stay cost us $12 and you can find it at GPS: N39 00.650 E73 33.57

The temperature inside our room according to Ben’s thermometer it was -2 in the room. We got dressed quickly. With a few good mornngs exchanged with our host we headed outside only to be face slapped by the frozen air. Within seconds bare skin was icey cold, it was -10. The visit to the public loo was an unpleasant experience, not good at the best of times but when you’re that cold getting sensitive body parts out, whilst you fight the gag reflex which is working over time due to the acrid stench of ammonia and piss.

A thick layer of frost covered both bikes making them glisten in the pristine morning air. We headed back inside and took our places at the low wooden table, our legs crossed underneath us. Steamng bowls of ‘shir chai’, were served, (salty soupy brew of tea with goats milk, salt and butter). After the first sip I knew I couldn’t finish it. Lisa did her best but didn’t fair much better, whilst Ben forced it down with thick bread. He simply needs the body fuel.

With a few cups of normal tea downed we all headed outside and down to edge of lake Kara-kul, the highest lake in Central Asia. A glistening lake of icey blues, the waters lapped the shores. Farther out the perfect relection of the snow covered peaks are easily seen. Even with layers of gore tex, and thermals, gloves and hats, we knew we had to be quick if we wanted to get some photos. Apart from our hands freezing up, at these temperatures the cameras weren’t going to last log either. We managed to shoot for about 20 minutes before being forced back inside. Shit it’s going to be a cold ride today and ahead of us the Ak-Baital pass (which means white horse) at 4,655 metres (15,300 feet).

Bens was already getting packed up when we tried to start the bikes. The 1100 protested a little but then sparked to life. Lisa’s 650 was going to be a different story and after 40-minutes of key turning, push starting and finally jump started with jumper cables we got her machine started. It was now gone 12:00pm. We paid $25 for the night which included dinner and breakfast, which sounds expensive but saved us from a low of -22 last night.

To our left tall snowy mountains rose steeper and steeper, the snow coming right up to the broken tar for which we’re so greatful for. 50 feet to our left a seemingly endless fence of wooden post and barbed wire marked the Chinese border, well, actually it doesn’t; the border a few miles away and it’s a sneeky land grab by the Chinese. It’s the closest we’ll get to China on this trip. So close we could literally touch it. To our right the aquamarine blue water of Lake Karokal glisten, we’ve been on the road for 15-minutes and already our eyes are straining to take in the the surreal beauty of this incredible landscape.

We both feel uneasy with the sheer amount of layering we’ve had to use. Two sets of thermal leggings, a t-shirt, a heated Jacket (on full) and then our ridig suits. We’ve brought out our winter BMW riding gloves and even the BMW balaclavers to cover our faces. The wind chill is indescribable.

Higher into the moutanis the switchback require all our concentration, the tar finshed 30-minutes ago and now we’re up on the pegs and riding rough over ice encrusted muddy shallow streams and loose rock. The snow is now drifting onto the track and we’re doing our best ot avoid it. The whole landscape seems overwhelming. This is truly a giant’s playground and we really are just specks passing through. Where the snow has slid from the steeper mountain faces or melted the earth it’s a delicious mix of caramels and coffees, the shadows deep mauve not black. Even with sun glasses and dark visor the glare from the snow is painfull.

Three kilometers from the summit of the pass our progress is halted, the track covered in compressed icey snow. To the left thicker virgin snow. Lisa’s feeling worse and a mistake here, a moment’s los of concentration could see her over the edge. I haven’t told her but her lips are now a scary blue and all I want to do is get her over this pass and down in elevation. I waive down a passing Russina 4X4 and explain my wife is unwell and ask if they can give her a lift to the top. With Lisa inside and heading up the track I ride one bike at a time a 500 metres and then return for the other. Short of the summit, the track is clearer and Lisa’s stood waiting. My lungs are fit to burst, god know how far I walked back and forth to ride one bike and then the next. The taste of blood in the back of my throat was pretty unpleasant and more than a little concerning

We stop for the briefest of moments at the top the pass as much to take the view as video the gps screen which read 15,309 feet. We desperately wanted to take a dozen phots but we were just to cold.

The Chinese border fence kept us company to the left and all around the mountains demanded our attention. The road a mixture of broken tar and gravel washboard that jarred us to the core. We were both thinking the same thing – what if we just stuck our hands over the fence….then we could say our hands had been in China – the thing is – there might be a distinct possibility that our hands would remain in China if we stuck them over the fence cos you never know whos watching – with guns!

By late afternoon we had entered the outskirts of Murgab at 13,576 feet and with a few directions asked easily found the Ibragim guest house. Ben had stayed a couple of nights ago and recommended it.

With the bikes parked up in the small dusty compound we headed down to the sad little bizarre in search of water and somewhere to exchange dollars for someone. Dozens of small stalls, line a single street, some wooden but are old shipping containers or the backs of 4X4’s, basically anything kind of ‘shell’ that can be used to sell from. A ramshackle mix of old cloths, twix and snickers bar with the occasional bottle of shampoo make up the bazare. The gusting wind that had picked up was blowing thick street dust over everytig and making already sore eyes worse. Back the the gueshouse we handed Anaja (guest house gril) our passports which she promptly returned with the registrations stamps now inserted.

I’m typing fast as the laptop is running low on power and I’m recharging from an ancient looking generator, which I’m sure will stop any second.
I spent some time this evening reading to Simon the history of Tajikistan. Amazing to think that it has had such terrible stuggles so recently. The inhabitants of the Pamirs have had a hard time – their lives are really really tough. It has been a great eye-opener staying at home-stays over the last couple of nights. Not something that we would normally do – but quite literally they are life-savers with the temperatures getting so low.

In the freezing wind I did my best to help funnel the precious liquid into the bike, whilst Lisa played with and entertained a group of youngsters who’d come to see the tourists. Smiles and the sounds of innocent laughter make a nice sound track to the morning. Lisa takes photos of them and then they all take turns to look at the screen, shrieking and giggling.

Paid up and on the road, we’re brought to stop just a mile later on the outskirts of town. The large red and white metal barrier across the road seems pretty emphatic. The low mud wall either side of the barrier making it impossible for us to skirt around it. Three men appear from the low brick building to our right and waive me inside. “What now” I was thinking. Nothing in our books or research had mentioned this stop. Inside I was feeling uneasy as 4 more men looked up at me from a low table as they each dipped into a communal bowl of rice and mutton. I can’t put my finger on why, but I was feeling uncomfortable and more than a little vulnerable. I counter my nerves my launching into a full on round of handshaking, making sure to look each of them in the eye and shake their hands more vigorously than I would normally. I threw myself back onto the dirty bed in the corner of the room and acted as nonchalant and carefree as I could. 3 of the men were looking unsure. Good that’s what I wanted. As the boss looked through my papers I could see that 3 of the men were whispering conversations between mouth full’s of food and breaths of air. The occasional snatched glance towards me suggested I’m the topic of conversation. Standing, I made a move closer to the door, only to have it shut before I reached it. One of the men had me by the arm and firmly, in English suggested I sit and have some food with them.

Everything I’d experienced in the last few years was telling me “something is wrong”! They’d not asked for anything, my papers seemed of little interest to them and they’d not asked a single question about the bikes. Everyone asks about the bikes.

I’d declined their offer of food and standing over them explained that I was the scout for 8 tourists who were following closely behind me. I could see they understood. A murmur of conversation passed between them and then the man that had originally led me inside 15 minutes earlier stood and demanded that I pay the ‘eco tax’. Feeling I’d got the upper hand I did my best to protest, but it was clear that I was going to pay something. I handed over $16 and to my astonishment even got a stamped receipt. Outside, I explained to Lisa what had gone on.

Now on reflection I may have simply been having an attack of cynicism or paranoia but I don’t think so. After all this time on the road we’ve come to trust our gut instinct and I knew something was off. I just can’t tell you exactly what! We rode away feeling that we’d got away from a situation that could have ended badly. You be the judge.

Any negative thoughts were soon forgotten as we sped into the rode into the wide and vast Madiyan valley, the patchy tar snaking around the lower caramel hills to our west. Down to our right a fast flowing creek carves its swollen path.

The sky was a creamy blue and in the distance only the patchy cloud gave any hint of the true scale and size of the taller peaks. The cold air was making the light seem a little crisper. The M41 was the ambitious and official name of this thin line of broken tar and rough rock track that we were now following. History and legend know it better as the cross-roads where the ‘Silk Road’ and Bam-i-Dunya (roof of the world) meet.

The soviet military had carved this insane route between 1931-34 to facilitate troops, transport and provisioning to this very remote outpost of the Soviet Empire. This whole area had been off limits to travelers until recently. After all the research and reading it was now sinking in; we were actually riding the extremely remote high altitude road we’d first heard of as legend.

We were in the Pamir proper, riding Tibetan-style high plateaus and then wide remote valleys. Bolivia, almost 4-years earlier had been the last time we’d ridden this high and felt this utterly separated from the rest of the world. Lisa had read that the Chinese called the mountains the Congling Shan or ‘Onion Mountains’, now I could see why. We weren’t riding a single mountain range but rather a complex series of ranges separated by high altitude valleys. Again, Lisa words from last night came ringing home, “most of the Pamir’s are too high for human settlement”. Riding here was hard enough, living here was unimaginable to me.

By mid-afternoon we’d raced a snow storm across the Alichur Plain that had pushed in from the south. A wall of freezing air and heavy snow that had threatened to catch us before our route had taken a westerly course. We’d stopped by the roadside as we needed to warm our hands and take a few photos at least. The heated grips and thick gloves had felt like they were having little effect and our surroundings so over-whelming that we’d simply forgotten to take photos. Checking the LP guide book had confirmed we were on the shores of Tuz-Kul (Salt Lake), we’d passed Sassyk-Kul (stinking Lake) earlier, the fact that there’s no smell just makes the name all the more strange. The absolutely still waters of the lake had mirrored the mountains perfectly. The lower chocolate smudge hills fading back into flanks of pink and then dark grey peaks. The photos will do the view more justice than my words.

We needed to push on if we’d hoped to reach Khorog by nightfall. We’d passed several huge Chinese trucks all barreling in the opposite direction. The large statue of the Marco Polo sheep should have been reason to stop again for more photos, but like so many times in the last few weeks we knew that the fading daylight was against us. “How much farther”, Lisa yelled over the noise of the bikes. Too be honest I wasn’t even sure where we were. A snatched glance at the GPS confirmed we were at the half way point and in the Pamir Plateau. The grey and light coffee coloured lunar landscape unlike anything we’d seen or ridden before and that’s saying something. Cliché as it sounds it felt like we could touch heaven if we just reached out our arms in this high altitude desert. I wanted to grin but my face was now aching from the cold. It was going to get colder. Under heavy clouds the patchy tar had contorted into a wave of undulating and twisted tar before completely disappearing into a mud and rock track. As the afternoon disappeared we rode the switchbacks to the top of the Koi-Tezek Pass at 4,272 metres (14,097 feet). As beguiling as the landscape had been we were now painfully focused on just how cold we’d become. Much like our time in Norway we could feel our concentration wander and wane as our blood internalized to protect important organs. My hands had been numb for too long, my heated grips had stopped working some weeks earlier.

As if on cue the dark clouds cleared and white bright light illuminated the downward track. We’d crested the pass and not even known it and were heading down at last. In the distance we could see the impressive vertical peaks of the Gunt Valley. We’d upped our speed now racing the daylight. As twighlight set in we knew we were close, we’d passed a dozen small villages in the fertile valley, a fast wide flowing river keeping us on track to our right. 6-miles from Khorog we breathed a sigh of relief, we’d made it. The relief was short lived. At the passport and GBAO permit check point an officer had stood in front of the low barrier and ordered us to stop. Pulling up to him, I’d applied the brakes and stopped by his side, much to his great offence. He immediately launched into ‘one’ - a full on hissy fit that had taken me completely by surprise. He’d not liked the way I’d stopped!? and I’d no idea as to why. He was demanding I follow him with all the documents into his brick office. I was gutted, 20-minutes later and it was pitch black outside and the 3 officers were now yelling at me to pay the fine. All the while I was trying to smile through my anger and protest that I’d done nothing wrong, caused no offense. The officer had told me to stop and so I’d stopped. The friggin barrier was down, what other choice did I have, stopping was mandatory. After almost an hour we were no farther along and I was close to losing my rag. The idiot cop outside kept opening and closing the swinging barrier and banging it into Lisa’s stationary bike, with her still sat on it. We’d stopped on a decline so pushing it back wasn’t an option. From inside the tatty office I could hear Lisa shout. “ Will you stop hitting my bloody bike, or I’ll hit you….God”! They’d now given up any pretence of a fine and resorted to simply…”you give money”. We were now so tired and cold that for a split second I even considered it. Out of the blue they got bored and in disgust dismissed us. Lisa deliberately farted her bike in disgust and protest as she belted out into the blackness. I’d not even managed to get my helmet on yet.

It was another hour before we’d managed to negotiate the steep turns of the Khorog valley, getting lost twice, asking directions 4 times until finally finding the Pamir Lodge with the help of an escort.

We’d parked up and hauled our bags into a room. I was so tired I could barely remember my own name. We’d not eaten all day and the police nonsense was the last thing we needed. We’d been up since 6am this morning and on the road for 14 hours it feel like we’ve ridden 1000 miles in reality we’ve only covered 200.

Ah well, tomorrows views will be a nice surprise.

It’s not all been lying around though, there have been a few jobs we’ve need to attend to; not least of these was seeing to the tent. It took us 4-hours to erect it and wash it down thoroughly inside and out with water. The accumulated dust and dirt from Mongolia and the Stans’ was beginning to show. I checked over both the bikes and of course have sat and written up this diary from the daily notes we now make into the Dictaphone (thanks Danny).

With the basic stuff done we also needed to sort out the registration duties. All travelers are required to register with the Kizmat-i-Amniyat (National Security Service, generally referred to as the KGB)

Today we’ve simply walked the bazzare picking up odds and ends that we’ve needed to replenish our stock. Canned food, batteries and rice; the usual. Niether of us had realized how tired we were. It’s been great to just chill for a day or two. We know we’ve got a few more tough rides before Dushanbe.