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FOREWORD:
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"Hey y'all. We, at Great Goat, have thought very long about posting this. This is, in some ways, quite a personal story for us. Furthermore, talking about near-death in a country where one also professionally guides clients in? Not exactly a great marketing strategy. So, to be clear: this was a trip we undertook as private people, on our own dime. We would never have brought clients on anything like this, and never will. This trek, we knew, would be unvetted, unknowable, by definition, unsafe. But we're mountain people, and this is where our hearts are at, in these unknown, far-off places. And the Yazgulom? That is about as far out there as it gets.
This is not exactly a happy story. But in some ways, it's a story that we think tells a lot about why we keep coming back to these mountains and our fascination with them. We hope, by the end of this read, you will have come to understand these landscapes we have dedicated a lot of our lives to exploring a bit better."
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Authors: Johanna, Co-Founder and Mountain Guide, with editing and input from Ian, Co-Founder and Mountain Guide, written in Fall 2024
The trekking the Pamir has to offer is some of the most remote but also most spectacular out there
Part 1: "We're gonna have to press the button"
I don’t remember whether it was Ian or I who said it first. What I remember is the silence, that followed. The oppressive, suffocating silence of an abandoned valley deep within the Pamir Mountains. The silence of a place too huge, and old, and untouched to care about the two tiny figures in its heart, indifferent to their increasingly desperate struggle to survive. It had been three days since we had dropped far into the deep back end of the Yazgulom valley. Three days of awe and wonder and amazement mixed with the most consistent, sustained terror either of us had ever experienced in a combined almost 7000km of trekking through the most remote regions of the world.
But let’s go back to the start. It’s the summer of 2024. We’re in Khorog, the capital of the Pamir, Tajikistan. It is swelteringly hot. Ian and I have just come back from scouting the The Great Pamir Circuit, a beautiful, impressive, but relaxed piece of trekking, that across a bit more than 100km had dropped us via a 5000m pass into the beautiful Wakhan corridor. And yet, spectacular as it had been, scouting the Great Pamir Circuit was, in truth, only something of a warm-up for things to come: establishing some odd 500 new kilometers of route on the Snow Leopard Track. Of the almost 10’000km that make up the SLT, creating a continuous hikeable route that would cross the Pamir from Tajikistan’s southern to northern borders had remained an unsolved mystery. One that, in a fit of ambition or of folly, we were set on solving in our 5 weeks here. (Note: The Pamir Trail, a separate project to the SLT, had not completed their cross-Pamir trail either yet in 2024. In fact, they ended up re-routing their planned route by several hundred kilometers after hearing off our experience here).
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Scouting The Great Pamir Circuit
When trying to come up with a continuous route across Tajikistan, one issue in particular kept coming up: connecting the southern reaches of the Bartang valley, with the mountain ranges around the Vanj valley further north. Our research on this issue had started months ago. We scoured the internet, forums, social media, blogpost, anything we could find. Ian locates decades-old Russian expedition reports, feeding them through Google Translate and parsing through for information. He obsesses over maps, satellite pictures, and more maps. Eventually, we come across the linking piece that may just solve the puzzle: it’s called Khurjin, an unknown, high-alpine pass, deep in the rugged mountain encircling the furthermost stretches of the Bartang valley. Khurjins approach is protected by morain, glacier and steep headwalls, its name largely forgotten since the last Russian expeditions made their way there decades ago. It seems preposterous. But the more we look at it, the more we think it will go. It’s no more technical than other things we have done before. We have the equipment and a lot of experience with technical Central Asian mountain passes. But there is one snatch. Khurjin will put us deep into the farthest reaches of the Yazgulom. Once inhabited by shepherds before Stalin’s forced removals in the 1950s, the Yazgulom has lain silent for more than 70 years, its ruins and glaciers unsullied and unseen by visitors. It’s an utterly wild, utterly unknowable place. Not even the Russians, as far as we can tell, have ventured there.
We deliberate over it a long time. We consult maps and brood over satellite imagery. We contact locals, and ask for advice amongst the small group of foreigners well versed in the Pamirs trekking routes. We find support there, agreement. There’s been speculation on using Khurjin and the Yazgulom as a connecting piece between these rangers before; other people mulling over its potential. But nobody has made a successful passage yet. If we do, we will be the first.
So we decide to try. Some days after returning from the Great Pamir Circuit, we set off again from Khorog to a remote village near the infamous M41 Pamir Highway. Laden with two weeks’ worth of supplies and alpine gear, some 30kg each, we begin the first leg of our journey toward Khurjin and the Yazgulom. Six days it takes us, days that are in equal parts awe, wonder, and challenge. Our trek is marred by bogs, lost sandals, and ridiculous mishaps—a mix of the adventure and the serene, camping by a deep blue alpine lake one day, only to spend an unexpected night at an old Russian meteorological station next. We stumble into the fenced-off area of that meteorological station in the dark, dirty, and dishevelled after an exceedingly difficult 30km day. The kindly warden finds us there, wide-eyed, hiding behind a fence from his dog that has taken to our intrusion with a healthy dose of skepticism. The warden gives us fried fish, tea, and a metal cot to sleep on. We cross Sarez, the highest natural dam in the world, the next morning.
Two days later, we arrive at the uppermost stretch of the Bartang valley. We settle down for the night in a small village called Rushinov, where a local teacher hosts us in his half-finished house. It’s comfortable, and we sleep well.
Day 3 of the trek
Part 2: "This feels like a national geographics expedition"
On our 7th day, as dawn breaks, anxiety starts to mingle with surrealism. In less than 24 hours we will attempt Khurjin, the pass we have spent so long talking about. That morning, we set off on a long march deep into the jagged, teeth like mountains encircling the Bartangs northern end. Eventually, we climb a moraine until we reach a small plateau where the terrain turns to dry ice. We bivouack there in the chilly dusk, setting an early alarm for a 3am alpine start.
Moraine camp below the pass, Khurjin
When my alarm goes off I feel like I’ve barely slept. I groan indistinctly and burrow as deep as my sleeping bag will let me. Ian, as usual, is quicker to get going. I procrastinate, peeking out behind layers of down to watch stars twinkle in the pitch-black sky. The glacier above us, cracking and moaning during the daytime, is ominously silent.
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Eventually, it is the thought of coffee that convinces me to sit up. It’s one of our non-negotiables, brewing coffee, even on mornings like this.
Packing up the camp after is quick and efficient, a set of tasks well practiced. We start moving by headlamp. Glaciers hang from the steep, unforgiving walls ahead of us, many many times to tall and sharp to climb. But there, almost behind a corner, the red, loose grain of the mountainside crumbles into a broad chute free of ice. At the top of this, still hidden behind another peak, lies Khurjin. We start to ascend, every step nerve-wracking, as loose rock crumbles beneath us like a thin sand dune over hard-backed mud. It takes us 4 grueling hours to reach the top of Khurjin. But when we do, we are elated. This was by no means easy. This was fucking hard. But we’d done well, and the glaciers proved much less challenging than expected. We marvel at the view and bask in a victory well earned. Reality presses back in soon, though, and we don’t linger long. We need to descend another three glaciers, and then walk many more kilometers before we reach a viable campsite. The Yazgulom awaits.
On top of Khurjin. This is the last we'll be happy for a while.
The glaciers turn out to be tricky, and difficult to descend, and by the time we leave the moraine of the last one behind, it’s been more than 13h since we’d set off that morning. Still, we press on. Night approaches, and we still have some distance to go. It is here, on those first kilometers after the glaciers, that we are starting to get a first inkling of difficulties to come. We are at the far end of an upper tributary of the Yazgulom valley. A broad, unforgivable river, Raghvoz, runs to our left, draining the water from the surrounding glaciers and peaks. In around 25km, the tributary will run into the main Yazgulom river. We need to cross the Raghvoz there, via a permanent snow bridge, making our way onto the true left bank of the main valley. Once we are in the main valley, our maps and the information we’ve been given indicate leftover trails and good going. It’s only 25km. We look ahead. The terrain looks, as we will learn later, deceptively easy.
On glaciers
It turns out to be anything but easy. We expected steeply slanted valley walls, fields of boulders, and bushwhacking. We did not see the mud cliffs coming. Neither of us anticipated the damage that 70 years of climate change have done to the Yazgulom. Increasingly warmer temperatures in long, dry summers have poured millions and millions of liters of meltwater down from the surrounding peaks toward the main Raghvoz river, cutting through the dry, crumbling valley sides like a hot knife through butter. The water has eroded stone, and sand, and gravel. What used to be small indentures with trickles running through them are now wide, gaping wounds in the hillsides. Small streams have turned into muddy, angry flows, cutting river cliffs onto the bottom of otherwise gentle gorges. The incisions left behind by the unending masses of water coming down are near vertical, with sides made of hard-backed mud and loose gravel, offering no handholds and tenuous footholds at most. These incisions are so sharp and so sudden, they are almost impossible to spot until we stand right at their edge, the earth dropping away beneath our feet. They cut through our path in an infuriatingly nonchalant way, so unassuming and unspectacular, it is hard to grasp at first the formidable challenge they pose. The are No-Fall-Zones – the kind of terrain where slipping is not an option.
Each mud cliff forces us to down-climb carefully, or circumvent by climbing up high onto the valley wall, or downclimb back to the appearing and disappearing shore of the Raghvoz river. Our progress becomes agonizingly slow. We pause after passing through the first section of cliffs, uncertain. We discuss our options. But looking forward, the terrain looks doable. And it is only 25km to the junction with the main valley. We decide to give moving forward another shot. If it turns out to be impassable, we can still turn back tomorrow.
Looking down the Yazgulom tributary, Raghvoz to our left. The terrain looks deceptively easy
Our trek that day is halted about 30 minutes before sunset when a fast-flowing side river blocks our path. We set camp atop a river cliff, scrambling down to fetch muddy, sediment-laden water. It’s been more than 14 hours since we started moving, and I’m exhausted. The emptiness and immensity of the space around us seem to press in on our tent. It’s not that we aren’t used to big, empty spaces. But there is something different about the place we are in, about a place as untouched as this, as utterly abandoned by the human race. The fact that we are possibly the first people in more than half a century to step on those grounds, to lay eyes on this valley, and these peaks, feels like intruding on something sacred. “This is so surreal,” I tell Ian. “This feels like something I’d see a documentary about on TV. You know, a proper full-on national geographic thing. But it’s just us.”
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Eventually, our thoughts turn to the next day. “Tomorrow. We’ll reach the snow bridge tomorrow,”, clinging to the promise of easier, trailed terrain beyond.
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We rise early the next morning. My nerves churn as I think about the previous days 14-hour trek, and then with dread of the long day of strenuous hiking ahead. I steel myself with stubbornness and determination, and get ready to push on.
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We decide to keep our hiking boots on for the river crossing—barefoot isn’t an option, and we’ve lost our sandals in another river crossing days ago. Ian, who knows rivers better than I do, takes the lead, reading the water, studying its eddies and ripples, carefully testing the depth and flow with his poles. I watch him intently as he moves into the water, memorizing his every step.
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After what feels like an eternity, he comes across what seems like a feasible spot. He crosses first. I follow slowly. The cold water prickles and burns, and my skin goes numb. I leverage my weight and strength against the stream, straining to move against the masses of water pushing at my legs and my hips. Reaching the shallower end, I sigh in relief; we have cleared the first major hurdle of the day.
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But it is by far not the last, and things do not get easier. Every step now is a battle through mud-cliffs and ravines and thick, thorn-covered brush as the relentless pressure of time—needing to reach the snow bridge before sunset—gnaws at our nerves. We struggle, and fight, and claw our way through. Only rarely is our struggle interrupted by the serenity of our surroundings, but when it is, it is absolute. One of these times, we have just crested a hill. On the grassy plateau below, we spot the old ruins of what must have been seasonal shepherd homes long, long ago. Wandering among the broken foundations of this place, these ruins that used to house life so long ago, I find myself trying to imagine the families that once lived here. Kids would have run on these paths, here between where the houses used to be. Their mothers would have been down at the river, fetching water or washing clothes, their husbands out on the hillside with the cattle, or going about their work around the pastures. I wonder what became of them after they were forced to abandon this place. I wonder if any of them are still alive.
Looking back on the terrain we just passed to our left
As we move on, there is a part of us that dares to hope. This sign of life, even a past life, seems good to us. So you’ll understand when I say that when we came across “The Big One”, we truly did not see it coming —it is a near-invisible, steep gorge stretching 50 meters deep, with a narrow, unremarkable river below. We set down our packs and survey the edge. “There is no way we can climb back out of that one”. Ian points out, gesticulating to the vertical mud slaps that make up the opposite wall. “Get down, follow the river out, then climb back up once the main river cliffs flatten”. We agree.
We pick a route, and start to descend. I go first. Eventually, I reach the hardest section. It’s only about 4 meters long, but it’s near vertical, dicey, and nauseatingly exposed, high above the river. My heart is thumping with fear as I gingerly make my way across. I take a step. And another step. Then I feel my stomach rush into my head as the clump of mud that I’ve trusted my foot to breaks away, gravity mercilessly propelling me down. I instinctively thrust the shortened end of the hiking pole I’m holding into the wall, pushing down, pressing my body into stone and gravel to create friction. My fall slows, and eventually, breaks. My heart races as I gingerly pull myself back up toward safety. When I finally get back across the lip of the wall, onto the firm, safe place where Ian stands, it is with immense relief. Ians shoulders sack. “Jesus Christ”, he breathes. Then he turns around on his heels and stomps off. I follow slowly, feeling slightly numb. I’m not upset with him. I’d be pissed too. But my mind is still grappling with the adrenaline that is rushing through my body.
We go back up to the ledge. Eventually, we find another way, far far up the gorge toward the valley wall, where vegetation offers sturdy branches and trees to hold onto as we make our way down. Eventually, we end up on a ledge, above a spot where the river collects into a shallow pool several meters below us. We toss our backpacks first, then cautiously lower ourselves down as far as our shoulders will let us, and then let go, dropping several meters down to the bottom. It’s an exercise in nerves, the letting go, but our fall is short, and underbrush breaks our momentum before harsher stone can.
With 90 minutes lost, barely a kilometer covered, and night fast approaching, we press on.
Fighting our way down along the Raghvoz toward the main Yazgulom river
As the afternoon starts to wane, we find ourselves forced to climb back up on the valley wall, where the terrain becomes a series of steep ravines and dry, sandy slopes. Thirst and exhaustion are gnawing at us. We’ve run out of water a while ago, and there is nothing but grey, sun-bleached valley wall extending ahead of us. Every step is becoming a fight against gravity, exhaustion, and our fraying nerves. Finally, we crest a hill and pause at a vantage point where we can see the juncture at which the Raghvoz runs into the Yazgulom river. We can see the snow bridge reaching across the Raghvoz to the safety of the true left side of the valley. The emotions settle on me with a horrible, penetrating slowness, seeping through every single cell in my body. I feel chilled to the bone.
The snow bridge is not passable. There is no way, for us, to cross this river.
For one, there’s no safe way down to the permanent ice bridge. And even if there was, there’s no way off that doesn’t force us into the raging river. And even if we could get off the ice bridge, there’s no way back up the river cliff on the other side. It is not passable. I feel like a knife is lodged in my chest. When Ian speaks, I already know what he is going to say.
“We have to go back over Khurjin.”
I think of all the terrain we’ve come through today, all the times I felt like my feet nearly slipped, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I think of the terror of watching Ian cling to crumbling walls tenuously. I think of us talking one evening in hushed and guilty voices, about our families at home. I think of my apartment. I can see it in my mind, the books, the cups. I can't help it. I start to cry.
Ian sits beside me. He nudges my shoulder softly. “Hey, we’re not gonna die here.” I pull myself together with a deep hiccupy breath . “I know“ I say, and I mean it. I know what he is thinking of. The bright, red, prominent SOS button that both of the Garmin Satellite Phones Ian and I carry are equipped with. We haven’t talked about it yet, we don’t need to. There’s an unspoken understanding between us that we aren’t going to press that button until we truly do not have another choice. And right now, no matter how horrible the prospect is, we still have a choice. I look back down the valley we’ve spent the last 11 hours fighting and clawing and scratching our way through. Nothing moves in the vastness of its walls. Nothing has changed with our passing, and nothing will. The sides of the valley will continue to crumble and fall in on itself. Hot dry summers will scorch the earth until even the most tenuous bits of vegetation have browned and faded away. The Raghvoz will grow, fueled by the glaciers melting and melting off the surrounding peaks, tearing and gnawing and breaking at the valley walls. This valley will continue to decay and erode under the weight of climate change, a last bastion to true wilderness and majesty falling apart. And here we are, witnessing what time has done to a place that once used to house generations of life. The Yazgulom is crumbling, and it feels like it’s trying to bury us beneath it.
The evening of our second day in the Yazgulom, out of water, severly dehydrated, looking back the tributary we've just come down
“We need water, and the sun is gonna set soon.", I say, eventually. "Let's set up camp first. Then we'll decide.” We decide to set up camp on a nearby plateau at the junction of the two rivers, where yet more former settlements used to be.
By the time we get there, we’ve been out of water for a while, and our thirst is severe and palpable. The river runs far below us, and we start looking for access to water. It is here that relief comes unexpectedly. Ian spots it first: a makeshift bridge—a few meters of logs spanning a violently converging gorge, leading to the true left of the valley. It's rickety and old, but it is there. An actual, honest to God bridge. We can make it to the left valleyside. There are trails there, the maps say, trails that should bring us all the way out. We're gonna make it. We don't have to go back.
This time it is Ian, who bursts into tears.
The bridge that allows us to cross the Raghvoz
The following morning, with anxious anticipation, we pack up camp and belay each other across the bridge. Our ordeal is not quite over yet. The trails the map shows, the trails we had been told should exist, are not there. It's nothing but bush, and sand, and more of the same horror as the day before.
However, not even the Yazguloms' terror can last, and though it’s not until long and truly dark hours have passed, eventually, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the terrain improves. The Yazgulom curves around a bend and starts to become wider, ever more frequently stretching into flat plateaus. Intermittent, clear, albeit old, trails start to appear. Occasional valleys and gorges still interrupt our path, but the stretches of easy walking—sometimes a kilometer in one go—are invigorating.
The main Yazgulom. It is beautiful, despite the terror
There is one more obstacle that remains – one that for once, we’ve known of in advance. A side river is coming up, broad and swift. Not impossible, we think – but challenging for sure. We fasten our pace, eager to leave this last big obstacle behind.
By early afternoon, we reach the river at the base of a broad, grassy gorge. We descend easily to study its fast, wide, and deep flow. Though daunting, it's not the kind of river that would kill us, if we are swept up. It doesn't have eddies, or waterfalls, nor is it deep enough to hide large boulders. It's a river we can safely give a try.
We attempt several crossing points. At the lower end, the current is too deep and strong. Further upstream, where the river flows around boulders, Ian tests a spot. I watch in horror as the water assaults him, as he struggles to stay upright and keep his balance. The last two meters are the hardest. He falters, then leaps, his momentum carrying him forward even as the water picks him up. His feet and poles find solid ground. He emerges from the stream dripping like a wet cat, but with a broad grin. He gives a thumbs-up. I gesture in disbelief. What about me? He waves me on, and then positions himself as deep back into the current as he can whilst keeping a solid stance. You can do it. I’ll catch you.
I take a deep breath and start my crossing with deliberate, careful steps, making sure to anchor each pole and each foot as firmly to the ground as I can before moving on to the next step. My muscles strain with effort as water reaches above my waist, but I push on. By the time I make it to the last meters, I’m barely holding on. I, like Ian, know that this is where the current will take me. I lunge. There is a horrifying second where I am weightless as the stream grabs me. Then feet and poles scrape against rock. I emerge from the water drenched to the chest. But I’ve made it.
The river truly feels like the last, real obstacle, the last test before the Yazgulom lets us go. After we cross, trails and signs of habitation become more frequent. A massive, once impassable side valley is now accessible by a clear footpath. The next river, a couple of kilometers later, even has a rickety, log-built bridge. We pass by another abandoned old home on a broad plateau. We decide to peek in. The ceiling has crumbled, and what is left of the door is old and rotten. Cyrillic carvings litter the wooden boom that used to prop up the roof, listing names of bygone inhabitants. Nomadic tea bowls and moth-eaten cloth are neatly placed on the elevated floor on the inside, covered in dust and the debris of time, yet they seem oddly expectant, like they are waiting for somebody to come home and brew a cup of tea. Suddenly, standing here feels strangely like intruding on something private, and we don't linger.
Old settlement. There are still ceramics and falling-apart blankets inside.
We press on along intermittent trails, until, eventually, we sit down for a break. It’s late afternoon, and we’re both exhausted. We’ve been moving from sunup to sunset for days. We consult the map. In a bit, we’ll reach a bridge crossing over the main Yazgulom river. We can camp there, on the other side. It’ll be a straight shot, 25km, from there to civilization. We move on. I remember that the bridge is difficult to find —hidden by overhanging vegetation. An interweaving net of sheep and ibex trails confuse our way. We overshoot and have to backtrack. Finally, from a steep, overgrown cliff, we see it.
There is nothing to dampen the blow. Most of the bridge – the bridge that we had seen, sturdy and intact on satellite pictures, that we never even had considered might be an issue – is gone. Washed away in a recent storm, landslide, or flood. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the expanses of deep, cold, furious water between us, and our way out.
We don’t give up easily. But this riddle will not be solved. The bridge can’t be repaired. It can’t be circumvented. It can’t be belayed. We walk down the shores of the raging water as far as we can before it turns and runs into river cliffs to the left. We even wade into the stream, trying to gauge a crossing. We don’t make it further than a couple of steps. There is no fording this one. We’ve seen many rivers in Central Asia. This Yazgulom, ice-cold, murky, and fast, with its merciless surges and meter-high boulders barely breaking the surface, this river is the type that will kill you.
We don’t need to discuss turning back. By now, we no longer have enough food to make it. Sitting on the riverbed, watching the furious water, I feel an unexpected calm. After days of battle, we face an obstacle beyond brute strength or daring. This, in the end, is something we cannot fight.
“We are going to have to press The Button.”
Part 3: Epilogue
Help takes nearly 48 hours to arrive. Neither Ian, I, nor even Garmin, our communication link, knows exactly when or how help will come. When a ragtag group finally appears on the second afternoon, we take what feels like our first full breath in days. Their youthful energy and comical, makeshift appearance contrast with our ordeal, breathing fresh air into the air of terror that had been suffocating us, even as we were waiting for them on that shore. Made up of military youngsters, an overweight, track-suited officer and a local villager with a donkey carrying a leaky raft, they make for a refreshingly light picture within the seriousness of the past days. They raft us across, and then start escorting us out.
They move slowly, and leisurely. They sing songs that evening over their campfire, and raucous laughter fills the trail as they shout stories and jokes and insults at each other. By the next day, as we pass shepherd huts and villages, another thing becomes clear: we are expected. The military team’s story of going to rescue two strangers who have, for all intents and purposes, magically appeared in a valley that has remained abandoned for more than half a century has spread, igniting fascination amongst the local population. The villagers prepare lavish feasts of countless dishes, tea, and kompot, our rescuers parading us around, proud and preening with their adventure. We, these strange foreigners on leave from a far more privileged place, who have come here at our own will, and are set to return to our lives of relative luxury, are piled with food and drink in each of the far-off, and far more simple living places. The sincere kindness with which the food and drink are impressed upon us, the pride they take in feeding us, is equally humbling and embarrassing.
Eventually, we cram into a UVZ military van for a bumpy five-hour ride back to Khorog. It’s 2am by the time we stand in front of our hotel. The reality is hard to grasp. We’ve made it back.
In the van with our rescuers, on the way back to Khorog
The remainder of our time in Tajikistan is uneventful. Soon after our return to Khorog, we both get horribly sick. By the time we recover, our departure looms. We fly to Kazakhstan together, where our paths are set to part: mine takes me to the snowy Altai Mountains in Mongolia and then home, where my PhD awaits. Ian heads to Nepal to continue his work on the Snow Leopard Track, stringing together a epic traverse in the eastern part of the country together with Sam. Yet even to this day, the Yazgulom has remained a heavy memory, and we speak of it often. It is a place we’ve seen at its turning point - a monument to the beauty and dangers of a decaying world, a place shaped by forces humans have created, but can no longer control. It’s a world we strive to see and explore and safeguard, even as we are already mourning its passing.
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