Son Kol Lake, Kyrgyzstan

Cass writes…

'Central Asia. A vast tract of land, a medley of gruelling deserts, fabled walled cities and lonely mountain passes. A land layered with turbulent history and complex identities, of nomadic traditions shadowed by a Soviet system. Like all long journeys, ours has been a spectrum of encounters, hospitality, challenges and emotions. Yet as we near the conclusion to our ride, I begin to realise the real motivation that has driven me across Turkestan: Son Kol

Set at 3000 metres and wrapped by mountains, Son Kol is a lake whose shores are home to a scattering of 'bosuy' - settlements of shepherds who pitch their yurts, graze their livestock and unwind after the hard winter months. It's a region with which I am already familiar, for it was here that I first sensed the deep-rooted traditions of this country over the summer of last year. Invited into a yurt, I rested on a sheepskin blanket, watching horsemen gallop across the plains, their long coats flapping in the wind. Gamely working my way through a sheep's head banquet, this one night in Central Asia embodied everything that I hoped to find in my travels, fuelling a desire to return.

So, as hard as this final climb must be, I know a little of what awaits. Leaving the riverside village of Kortka, I'm impatient as we wind through a series of interlocking valleys, looking up to rocky outcrops patched with alpine forests. Via a trail of ascending switchbacks etched into the mountainside, we flit from on end of the valley to the other, higher and higher. Cresting the pass at 3200 metres, way above the tree line, an old Russian truck pulls over and a gang of bawdy Kyrgyz invite us to 'kumys', an intoxicating local brew of fermented mare's milk. Served into a generous bowl from an oil drum, we gulp it down with chunks of fresh bread. Again, I'm taken by the rough handed hospitality of these people. It seems an appropriately Kyrgyz reward for our hours of toil, as storms swirl across the sky, blotting out the light and soaking up the clouds.

Plummeting down the other side, it's colder now so we ease to a stop, hiking away from the track towards a huge, rolling hill that affords a view of the lake in the distance, reflecting the last light like a giant mirror. It's not long before three curious kids from a nearby yurt scamper over, oblivious to the biting wind in their makeshift woollens, eager to help us pitch tent; camping is in their blood. But we don't have long. The skies of Kyrgyzstan forever churn with action and drama. As the shadow of rain draws closer, tingeing the light like a filter, hurriedly we boil up a few bags of instant noodles and retreat to the comfort of our sleeping bags.

By morning, the plains are coated beneath a layer of snow, the tent crackling with frozen ice. Motioned over by our friendly neighbours, we stoop through the doorway of their yurt. There, a feast of fresh apricot jam, thick cream and warm bread are laid out before us, as water bubbles over the 'kazan', the traditional iron stove that resides at the entrance of every home. I look around me. The architecture and furnishings are mesmerising. Supported by a willow frame, layers of felt and sheep fat, bountiful and natural resourses, provide walls for these mushroom shaped dwellings. Tasselled ropes adjust the 'tyndyk', the central roof that slides across like a natural skylight, letting shafts of light in and plumes of smoke out. Decorative hangings and thick 'shyrdaks', multicoloured felt carpets, add warmth and personality. Hauled up the mountainside by tractors each year, the bosuy is the true home of the Kyrgyz, perfectly evolved with its surroundings.

Travelling can be hard. Yet it seems as if the hardest travelling evokes the strongest impressions, as if discomfort and change reawakens the senses. Sitting cross-legged, the whole family pile in, clad in kalpaks, wool coats and patched up over-trousers. More than ever, I feel aware of where I am, what I am doing and perhaps most importantly, why. I watch as a collection of faces tuck into breakfast, filling the yurt with smiles and laughter, a beautiful meld of Asiatic and Mongol features. Beside me, a miniature two month baby is snugly wrapped in bundles of fur. Three generations living under one roof. It's a simple life: no electricity and the trappings that go with it, a life ruled by day and night. Yet undoubtedly there's a harmony within the family that seems missing so often in the West today, and I feel fortunate to be sharing it.

That day, there's little to see as we ride our way around Son Kol's muddy shores. Blizzard like conditions throw a scattering of yurts into muffled silhouette; wild horses appear and disappear out of the mist. Occasional glimpses of craggy mountains heavy with snow remind us of the ranges that surround us. Russian Ladas amble by, stopping regularly for engine tinkering as small fleets of tourist Niva jeeps bounce past, faces pressed to steamy windows. Then it's just us, the cold and the few metres of road ahead. We push on, until finally the sight we've long waited comes into view - two yurts pitched by the lake. Home to the Osmons, a family I stayed with as part of an eco-tourist project last year, these enclaves of warmth and hospitality seem all the more alluring to our weary eyes.

And sure enough, the moment we haul back the heavy protective felt flap of their yurt and gaze inside, all the discomforts of these last few days seem worthwhile, even necessary. Shrugging off our water-logged clothes, we collapse on thick shyrdaks and sheep skin rugs, gratefully slurping the hot cups of tea that are placed in our frozen hands. Pulling out photos from last year, we watch the family pour over them. Grandpa Osmon seems particularly delighted. An 82 year old Tajik in riding breeches, with a splendid marine blue kalpak and pin prick eyes, he peers intently at his portrait in the flickering light of a candle. A radiant smile creeps over his face. Offering me a spirited handshake, he mutters a stream of Kyrgyz before proudly showing it off to the others.

Warming up on a bowl of soup, we bed down in the yurt with the family. Like a sleepover, blankets, cover and pillows are everywhere. As we all curl up and say our goodnights, a wonderful feeling of warmth seeps through my body. We've made it back to Kyrgyzstan on our own steam, in keeping with the surrounding contours of the Kyrgyz' own lifestyle. At times, travelling can seem too much about movement. On a journey that has been all about arriving, it's a wonderful feeling to have returned.