Kyrgyzstan Expedition Diary

Day 3

The alarm went off at 6.30 and it felt like surfacing from a free dive. I had stayed up far too late, tying off loose ends on the laptop and calling Lois one last time before we lost signal. The shock of waking was immediate, my body reluctant to move, but there was no choice. Today was the day we were finally heading into the mountains.

I packed my bags and went down to breakfast, most of the team already tucking into porridge and tea. Then came a low, mechanical rumble outside. I wandered to the door and froze. A giant truck was reversing into the hotel car park, an impressive beast that looked as if it had just returned from the Eastern Front. The doors swung open and two men climbed down the wheels with practised ease, both removing cigarettes from their mouths in perfect synchrony. They gave the tyres a solid kick and exchanged a satisfied nod. Ade appeared beside me, smiling. “That is our ride,” he said. A GAZ 66. Ex Russian military. Built to go anywhere. I wanted one immediately.

After breakfast we hauled our bags into the back and clambered aboard. Not long after, I noticed we had a companion, a smaller version of the same truck, trailing behind us, thick clouds of cigarette smoke curling out of its windows. This one carried our kit for base camp, tents, stoves, fuel, food for a month. Where we were heading there were no shops. In fact, no infrastructure at all.

As the trucks rumbled down the tree lined road, I stared out of the window towards the enormous mountain range running parallel to us. The expedition had truly begun. We followed a broad valley filled with farms and fields. The land down here is incredibly fertile, a patchwork of crops and lush meadows rolling for miles before giving way to the steeper foothills of the mountains. To the west, a range marking the Kazakh border. To the east, the Tien Shan climbing into the sky, the remote kingdom we were disappearing into for the next few weeks.

Ian sat beside William, describing the scenery so he could build the picture in his mind. Watching Will take it in was emotional. To be in one of the most beautiful countries on earth and not see it, and yet to watch awe wash over his face as Ian described every detail, was powerful. I found myself wondering what pictures he was forming in his head, and hoped they were as beautiful as reality.

We had an eight hour journey ahead, but first we were stopping to visit a climbing project run by CDI, the Kyrgyz charity we were supporting. A short detour up a narrow valley brought us to a small dam. Dave leaned out of the truck’s window and bellowed to the drivers to stop. Shouting was the only way to communicate with the cab from the body of the truck. We rolled to a halt and looked up to see someone dangling in a harness on the opposite cliff, fixing a top rope.

CDI supports young people across Kyrgyzstan, particularly those with disabilities, improving access and opportunities. It felt important to visit, given how closely aligned their mission was with M2M. This particular climbing project had been set up the previous year by a group of young American volunteers.

We climbed a gate, crossed the dam and were met by three of CDI’s team. Their beaming smiles were mixed with looks of concern as I limped towards them, Hannah followed in her full leg brace, and Will was led by Ian. They quickly relaxed once they realised we were not their responsibility. We had three professional guides with us in Ade, Paul and Dave. Our guides unpacked ropes and harnesses and immediately began kitting up Hannah and Will. Concern shifted to intrigue, then to awe.

Hannah, who had suffered nerve damage in a climbing fall years before and now could not use her right leg, is a two time para climbing world champion. They watched, open mouthed, as she gracefully lead climbed the toughest route on the wall, moving with such confidence it made you wonder why anyone bothers using four limbs. Will too impressed them. Guided by voices from below, he felt his way steadily up the rock, never giving up. Pride swelled in me as I watched.

We all had a go, sharing laughter and encouragement, before gifting the CDI team some equipment as thanks. Their passion was inspiring, young volunteers giving time and energy to create opportunities for others.

Back on the road, the trucks climbed steadily into the foothills. Civilisation thinned to the occasional yurt camp, herds of horses, sheep and yak grazing around them. Shepherds rode with dogs at their heels, keeping wolves at bay. It was like stepping back in time, and part of me envied their way of life.

As the valleys narrowed, tree lined slopes gave way to rock, jagged peaks appearing behind them, some crowned with snow. Dave sat opposite me, wide eyed, staring out the window. Every five minutes he muttered “woooow” in his thick Dales accent. A passionate climber who had never been on an expedition, his excitement was infectious.

Eventually the trucks began to grind up a high pass. At 3800 metres, even sitting still we felt the altitude, an extra breath here, a slight light headedness there. Cresting the top, the view opened into an endless panorama of valleys and peaks. No towns, no people, just wilderness. Descending, we swung into the mouth of a huge valley, the track hugging the river. The GAZ made short work of the terrain, but at times the wheels were inches from tumbling into the torrent below. The drivers barely blinked. Then suddenly we stopped. A landslide had swept away the track.

We climbed out to assess. The path was impassable. Ferrying the loads by hand would take a week, and we did not have the time. Heads were scratched, cigarettes smoked, much pointing and muttering done. At last the drivers nodded. The smaller truck was given a chance to squeeze through. Watching it lurch up the bank at an impossible angle, sideways and forward at once, I was sure it would tip. But it made it, rumbling across as if nothing had happened. The driver climbed out as if he had just parked at Tesco, probably to buy more cigarettes.

The real challenge, though, lay a few hundred metres ahead. A river crossing with a makeshift bridge of old railway sleepers and half washed logs. Ade had warned it was the crux of the journey. If the smaller truck could not make it, we would face days of hauling. The first task was reinforcement. We shifted planks, piled rocks, tried to shore up the entry and exit. The truck had to be empty for the attempt, so bags were ferried across by hand while we worked. Will, fortunately, could not see the chaos unfolding. Hannah moved gamely with her brace, and everyone mucked in. It felt like the expedition had truly begun.

Two attempts failed, boards creaking and wheels slipping. The torrent roared beneath, ready to swallow anything unlucky enough to fall. The Russians seemed unfazed, but even Ade admitted this was serious. Rain began to spit from low clouds. Time was running short.

Ade told the rest of the team to push ahead to a grassy plateau and pitch tents, while he and I stayed back to help finish the bridge. After another forty minutes of hauling wood and rock, the drivers nodded. It was time. The doors of the cab were opened for a quick escape, and the truck rolled forward. The boards groaned under the weight. Halfway across, a wheel slipped, nearly dropping clean off the side. A rapid correction, a burst of acceleration, and the truck surged safely onto the far bank.

The driver leapt out cheering, running over to high five Ade and me, his face alive with adrenaline. We all roared with relief.

Rain lashed down as we reloaded and rumbled the final kilometre into camp. By the time we arrived, the others had tents up and were sheltering. An hour later the clouds cleared, and we stepped out into a world that felt like the end of the earth. The valley was immense, cliffs rising like walls, snow capped peaks beyond. It was worth every moment of chaos. We finished setting up, cook tent and mess tent in place, then boiled water and sat together with mugs of tea.

We had made it. And if there had been any doubt before, today proved it: we were on expedition now, in one of the most remote corners of the world.

Day 4

Considering it was the first night in a tent and we were at 3200 metres, I slept really well. There was the obligatory deflating sleep mat and the five wake ups for the bladder, but I would be wondering what was wrong if that had not happened. I could hear our two Russian drivers chatting outside, coffee and cigarettes no doubt. They had slept in the truck, since even they were not going back over that bridge in the dark. As I sat up and unhooked my night bag I felt the warm glow of the sun through the orange tent walls. A bit more shuffling and I crawled bleary eyed out onto the frosty grass.

It took a while to adjust to what we had driven into. Because of last night’s weather I had not appreciated the scale of the place. Our camp was perched at the very head of the valley we had followed for hours, and now in daylight it was enormous. For anyone who knows it, bigger than the Chamonix valley, and not a house, not a lift, not a soul in sight. I exhaled and felt stress slip away.

In every direction giant peaks pushed into a sky so clean it looked scrubbed. Far off, a herd of yak grazed a lush patch of pasture. I grabbed my poles and headed for a grassy plateau about a hundred metres above camp to sit and drink it in. The short walk had my heart pounding and my breathing deepening. The thin air was obvious. I felt a flicker of concern. We had big goals on this expedition and a small hill was already having words with me. I reminded myself that acclimatisation takes time and blamed my red blood cell count rather than my fitness, at least for the moment.

The aches from a night on a roll mat made themselves known, so after basking in the light I stretched and headed down for coffee to greet the others as they emerged. Aisha, our camp cook, and her son Uzbek were already busy at the stoves. When I stepped into the mess tent, Rose and Paul were sorting teas and coffees. Today was for finishing the set up. Since we would be here for weeks, it was worth making it comfortable. We had actually got a lot done yesterday. Nothing like an incoming storm to focus the mind.

After breakfast we split into teams. I went with Paul, Dave and Ian to dig the pit for the toilet tent while the others finished pitching and unpacking. We were spoiled this trip. Ade had brought a plastic toilet frame to place over the long drop, and the tent was larger than usual. Being able to sit down was essential for a few of us, especially for Hannah and me, both essentially on one leg. Holding a squat is not easy. These little luxuries were possible because we could drive all the way to base camp, just, so the extra weight of a proper toilet, big stoves and a generator did not need to be carried. We tucked the toilet tent away from camp and angled the door down the valley, which meant the morning routine would be scenic.

When we finished, we found the local nomad family had come down to say hello. Two young girls charged about giggling as Aisha handed them crumpets. Big smiles and handshakes from their parents followed. They do not often get guests out here, and they seemed pleased for the company. Ade chatted with the father while Uzbek translated, and soon it was clear this was more than a greeting. Ade had sorted horses from them for a river crossing we would need later in the week, and he had also bought a sheep so we could have fresh meat.

That part did not take long to materialise. One of the men rode off toward the herd, jumped down, picked up a sheep, and swung back into the saddle with it to ride over. Impossible in theory, effortless in practice, proof of generations of skill and strength. The sheep was checked, nods exchanged, and Aisha appeared with a knife. A quick blessing, then one of the shepherds cut the throat, and it was done in seconds. It is not something I would usually choose to watch, but the authenticity and care of the whole process brought a strange calm. They skinned and gutted it with precision, and without going into detail it was clear nothing would be wasted. The meals to come would prove it. Next up was water. Until now Uzbek had been shuttling to a spring with a big jerry can. He is about fifteen, and his strength is something to see. We had large drums with us and decided if we could fill one and get it back, it would save him a lot of effort. There was no way even three of us could carry a full drum, so we scratched our heads until Hannah suggested her wheelchair. Genius. The sight of a giant drum riding across a remote Kyrgyz plain on a wheelchair was adaptation at its finest.

Camp sorted, we ate a lovely lunch of fresh tomatoes and lamb and potato stew, then headed up the hill behind camp to look into the next valley. This was potentially our route to the glacier for advanced base camp and to reach the higher mountains. We needed to check it was passable. The family had corralled their sheep partway up, but no one went beyond. My drone would tell us if a gorge tightened around the river.

We crested the rise and the valley opened ahead. Five miles or so away the floor ended in a great glacier spilling out from between two snowy giants. My heart skipped. Beautiful and intimidating in equal measure. The scale of what might come later landed with a thud. One of those peaks could be our mountain. Seeing them up close made it plain that this would be a huge undertaking.

I sent up the drone and flew it along the river and the sheep track. The gorge deepened, walls rising high, the torrent roaring, but it looked passable all the way to the head. On the way back I scouted a couple of closer peaks as possible first ascent options for the M2M team. One looked promising. That is the magic of coming to unexplored places. Real adventure lives in the not knowing what is around the next corner.

We then climbed together another couple of hundred metres for acclimatisation. Everyone felt the altitude, but soon the red blood cells would catch up and this place would feel like home.

That evening we sat in the mess tent, laughing and shaking our heads at how unbelievable this valley was, excitement rising for the missions ahead. We had a comfortable base, a group that was bonding, and food that was excellent by any standard. I lay in my tent and smiled. We were experiencing something special.

Day 5

Today we headed down the valley to check a set of crags that looked good for rock climbing. Ade, Paul and Dave are experienced guides and had brought gear to fix lines, which made Hannah very happy.

The crag was only about a kilometre from camp, but on the far side of the valley, and first we had to cross a river. When it is low it is ankle deep. As the day warms and the glacier melts, it becomes a torrent. We scoffed breakfast, kitted up and walked to the water. It was 9 in the morning and already moving with purpose. Hannah’s brace cannot get wet, so she planned to strap her heel to her bum and hop across on crutches. Will cannot see, so caution was essential. The water is straight off the ice, only a few degrees above freezing. This stream also feeds the bigger river a few hundred metres away, the one we crossed on the rebuilt bridge. You do not want to end up in that one.

It is one thing to cross in the morning. A few hours later the level is higher. Ade made the call that getting everyone back would be risky, and that he, Paul and I should recce the crag and fix some lines, then tomorrow we would take the team over early and return before the river rose. The others headed out for a hike with Dave while we waded across. The pull was already strong, the cold making me grateful for limited sensation in my left leg. Out here it is hard to judge scale. When we reached the crag we realised it was far bigger than it had looked. Most of the rock we had seen was too loose to climb, but this slab was different. Ade and Paul racked up and scrambled around the side to find a top entrance, while I flew the drone to scan the face. An hour later they had rigged a two pitch line, a full hundred metres.

Ade shouted down for me to rope in and start from the bottom. I was not expecting that. A first attempt on a wall no one had climbed. It looked possible, but we would not know until I tried. I am not the strongest climber. My grip is not what it was and I cannot lift my left leg, but if I could get up it, the rest of the group would have a good route for tomorrow. The rock was sound, the first ten metres went well, then a ledge demanded a swing with my left leg to straddle it, which was an issue. My left hand was on a fair hold, but I could feel the strength going. I scanned for options and shouted to Ade for a tight pull to give me a boost. It worked. Thirty minutes later I topped out, adrenaline buzzing. I fist bumped Paul and took in the view back to base camp and beyond. I had just done something no one had done before. If I had not been on a rope I would have peeled off at one point, so I cannot call it a true first ascent, but it still felt incredible.

We left the rigging in place for the morning and headed back. We were a hundred metres from the river when we heard boulders knocking along the riverbed. The passable flow of earlier had become a raging torrent, the water now a dark grey with silt.

Ade looked at us calmly. Time to talk options. First we walked upstream in case there was a safer crossing. It was obvious there was not. The risk was too high. I was not worried. I was with two of the best, and I was almost excited by the problem solving. When things do not go to plan, that is when it gets interesting. It is also where Ade’s experience matters. The options were clear. One, head about five kilometres down valley to a yurt camp and hope the shepherd was home. Two, walk about ten miles up toward the glacier to find a safe crossing. Three, find a way for the team to get tents and supplies to us.

We saw Dave and the others on the far side returning from their hike and waved them over. Earlier we had looked at rigging a line higher up for people, but the anchors were not strong enough for a human load. For bags though, it could work. The team moved fast. Soon we were hauling tents, food, water, a medical kit, even a bottle of warm peach water Aisha had made. Dave slipped a little rum in there for good measure. We thanked them and walked off to pitch for the night. Before long we were set up and comfortable. We ate, chatted, and had a tot of rum, then turned in early.

Two days down and two good predicaments already solved. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Day 6

I woke with the sunrise at 5.30 and heard Paul rustling in his tent. The rain had been heavy as I fell asleep and I hoped it had not continued all night. If it had, the river would still be high.

I crawled out into a grey morning. Ade was already up. I said, with a grin, that it had not been too uncomfortable. He smiled back and said maybe we should just stay where we were. We packed quickly and walked to the river. It was down to about a third of last night’s level. It was still definitely as cold.

Aisha was up when we reached camp, steam spilling from the kitchen tent. We thanked her for sending food over the rope the night before and poured tea, then moved to the mess tent to wait for the others. Ade had messaged across that breakfast would be at 6.30 so we would have time to reach the climb we had rigged and get back before the afternoon rise.

Rain began to patter on the roof. You could see Ade thinking. Wet rock would make the route no fun and probably too hard for everyone, so the plan changed. The rest joined us and the decision to take a rest day went down well. Their hike had been tough. Hannah’s leg was sore and Will was still dealing with a dodgy stomach. They did report, with delight, that they had walked up a hill that probably had never been named. Will claimed it as a first ascent and christened it, in perfect deadpan, Je suis fuck. He said it summed up how he felt when he reached the top. First ascent in the bag, we settled into the day. Ade and Dave went to retrieve ropes from the rock, leaving some gear in place with the hope of returning if the weather played ball. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

I opened the laptop to catch up on the diary. So much had happened I had fallen behind. At one point it was just Will and me at the table. We chatted for a bit, then I put my head down again. Ten minutes later Will said, is anyone still here. Yes mate, I am here, just trying to catch up on the chaos of the last few days. All good, just checking, he replied with a smile. I asked if he needed anything. No, all good. That tiny exchange lodged itself in me. To hold that attitude while living in continual darkness is beyond me. Spending time with Will is a gift. He is a walking dose of perspective, and great company.

I had been filming bits for days and decided to cut an update for home. We have Starlink out here which we run with the generator in the evening. It gives us a small window of contact when we are far from any signal. I had mixed feelings about it. Disconnection is one of the best parts of trips like this. But we would only use it briefly for family check ins and, in my case, updates for fundraising. Aisha and her son Uzbek loved being able to video call home, which helped me feel better about the whole thing.

Editing took me all day because I am slow and there was so much to fit in. Others took short walks, read, or grabbed a wash. At five Ade came in to brief us. Tomorrow we would head up the drone scouted valley to set an advanced base camp for a couple of nights, to reach the glacier and some more peaks. The sun broke through and we laid out the kit we would need, crampons, axes, the lot. Ade had arranged help from the shepherd, Rizpick, and his horses to carry tents and food. Working with local people is one of my favourite parts of these adventures, and in a place like this it is not a choice, it is essential.

Once I had my things sorted I walked up the hill alone to shake the screen out of my head. I climbed to the col at the head of the valley we would take tomorrow. The view that had struck me yesterday hit even harder now. The evening light ran deep orange across the slopes, long shadows reaching like fingers over the last carpets of sun. In the distance the huge mountain we had marvelled at was now bathed in warm light, almost calling us toward it.

That is where we will be heading tomorrow. I cannot wait.

Day 7

I have fully adjusted to mountain time now, so I was up early again. There is something beautiful about waking with the light. It feels closer to how we are meant to live, and the body seems to thank you for it.

Wash day. I grabbed a foam pad that lathers with a splash of water, my towel, and headed for the river. What I failed to notice, as I rolled out of the tent, was the frost that still laced the grass. Too late to turn back. I filled a bucket behind the mess tent and got on with it. You can never overestimate the power of a proper wash out here. They do not come often, and when they do, you feel new again.

As I came back round the corner I heard voices in the mess tent. Dave was hunched over the table, and opposite him sat Aisha, our camp cook and very quickly our camp mum. Between them was a bottle of vodka. Dave looked up, a little worse for wear, while Aisha wore the broadest grin. They were not having a drinking competition. If they had been, Aisha was winning. Dave had been up all night being sick and Aisha had gone full Kyrgyz mum. The cure for everything, apparently, is vodka. Dave had tried a couple of shots and realised it was not helping, so Aisha did the honourable thing and drank them for him. That is love.

Dave shuffled off to his tent to rest, after Aisha had moved half her blankets and pillows in for him. It was clear he would not be with us on the push up the valley. He would make his way up to meet us later, once he felt better. Or once the vodka wore off.

The morning was glorious. We ate porridge outside, sun warming our backs, then finished gathering our kit into shared holdalls for the horses. They were due at half past eight. By nine, Aisha said to Ade, I go check, and strode off toward the shepherd’s yurt up the valley. Minutes later she came galloping back on a very surprised horse. I am not sure if that counts as drunk driving, but it did not look like her first time behind the reins after a couple of vodkas. So far the Kyrgyz people have made a strong impression on me. They get things done. They are kind, friendly, resourceful, and incredibly tough. Aisha is all of that.

He come now, she said, sliding off the horse and disappearing into the kitchen tent.

Five minutes later, Rizpick appeared on a beautiful horse. Everything out here is in fine condition. The stock is well looked after and the horses are bigger than I expected. His two dogs padded along behind him, large, shaggy, Alsatian types, built for the cold. One had pure puppy energy, so I was on the ground in seconds giving bum scratches. They were wary for about a heartbeat, then fully committed.

I shook hands with Rizpick as he studied the bags that needed loading. He had assumed we would be riding as well as the kit, so when he realised there were no passengers he smiled and said, easy.

Ade fetched rope and stayed with Rose to help with the loading. The rest of us waved a sorry goodbye to Dave and set off with Paul leading. There was no obvious path. Only faint tracks where the yak had passed. The drone recce had suggested it was passable, but really we would have to feel our way.

We crested the first rise and dropped toward the river, a rocky torrent that curled away toward the giant glacier and the snowy peaks eight kilometres ahead. The grassy banks gave way to boulders and we picked our steps carefully. Uneven ground and I are not natural friends, but I have had practice. Hannah’s brace made it even trickier. She is a two time para climbing world champion, strong and coordinated in a way that lets her do things most would think impossible, but even for her this terrain asked a lot.

Will and Ian have become a remarkable team. They move through problems with patience and precision. Watching them is humbling. Will’s coordination and sense of his body in space is something to envy. Our pace was naturally slow. This whole riverbed felt designed to unpick every single one of our mobility challenges.

I looked left and saw the horses, dogs, and our bags on the far side of the valley. Uzbek’s son, Orisbeck, was leading one horse with four bags on its back, while Ricepick rode the other with two bags, the dogs trotting ahead with tails high. They could cross the river easily, and the easier ground lay over there.

The gorge narrowed. Boulders grew. Our progress slowed. I tried to imagine navigating this with no sight. I could have closed my eyes to simulate it, but we all know how that would end. Up ahead, Ricepick had stripped the bags from his horse and was riding down a steep slope from the plateau he had been following to the water.

His horsemanship is something to see. He and the animal move like one. The nomadic peoples of this region are famed for it. For thousands of years the bond between person and horse has let them live well in this landscape, and their reputation as fierce warriors is not a myth. It was a joy to watch. My own view of horses is coloured by too much time on spinal injury units with riders. I would rather take my chances on a mountain than in a saddle, but I can still appreciate the skill.

He pulled up on the far bank and signalled to Ade. Hands to his eyes, then a point to the back of the horse. We all knew what he meant, apart from Will, for obvious reasons. Ade is in charge on this trip and his word is final, but if there is one person he will defer to in this terrain, it is Ricepick. No one knows these rivers like he does. Our goal was to get all our kit and people to an advanced base camp before dark. If this was the way, this was the way.

Ricepick squeezed his legs and the horse stepped straight into the torrent. He threaded between boulders like it was flat ground, and moments later stopped in front of us. Only then did I clock that both dogs had launched into the water right behind him. They clambered over rocks, ducked under a rapid, popped up on the bank and shook themselves off, tails going like mad. The animals here are as tough as the people. Given what dogs enjoy, these two have a dream job.

Ian explained to Will what would happen. There was a short look of surprise, then a nod. The horse came alongside, Ian positioned Will’s foot on top of Ricepick’s boot, and with one swift movement Will was up. He gripped tight, and they set off back across. Seconds later they were safe on the other side. Ricepick helped him down, turned, and rode back for Ian. The dogs, now fully aware of the plan, sat and waited politely to follow this time.

With Will and Ian across, the rest of us continued on our side of the river, then climbed away from the water to pick up a yak trail. Hannah was pushing hard and I could see the pain on her face. Three hours had passed. The sun was strong. We stopped for a break. We could no longer see the others across the water, and there was no way to communicate. The river was still rising. Ade took off ahead to try to spot them. I put up the drone to get a better lay of the land.

As the drone climbed, the scale of the place pressed down. I followed the river. Far away the dots of our team and the horses reappeared, now down at the water and moving upstream. They looked tiny in a landscape built for giants. Perspective is impossible here until you have a person or an animal to measure against. Only then do you realise how big it all is.

It was clear that Ricepick was seeking the best ford to bring the kit back across. I saw Ade on the opposite bank, waving them further upstream. We shouldered packs and picked our way through a huge boulder field to close the gap.

Hannah spotted movement and said Dave was coming up the valley behind us. Sure enough, way off in the heat shimmer, Dave’s orange T shirt bobbed along. Lazarus rises. A quick roll call. I was with the two Hannahs and Paul, halfway through the boulders. Ian and Will were with Orisbeck and Ricepick on the far side. Ade and Rose were up ahead. By the time we reached the flat area we had marked as a potential camp, Hannah B had headphones in and head down. Beyoncé always means business. From the air it had looked good, but on the ground the grass hid car sized boulders, and a badly placed tent would disappear into a marmot hole.

Dave arrived, still a shade green. She would not stop trying to give me vodka, he said. I had to run away when she was not looking. He was up and moving though, which gave me the chance to say Aisha had been right and the vodka did work. We agreed that Hannah should stay put while we checked ahead. Dave would scout forward. I stayed in the middle to relay messages. We underestimated the scale again. He vanished behind a bus sized block in seconds. I launched the drone again. We were only a couple of hundred metres from the end of the grass and the boulders. Beyond lay a vast glacial valley of rock and scree, crossed with cold blue braids of water that ran from a huge icefall at the head. It was enormous. Just as the boulders ended I saw Ade and Rose approaching from above, and with them the whole party from the far side, horses and bags included. A deep breath left me. I was very glad Lois could not see what Will had just been up to.

I shouted to the others and signalled to carry on. We weaved through the last blocks and stepped into a view that stopped us. Towers of rock shot up from the valley floor. Ahead, a great amphitheatre of snow peaks framed the skyline, each one draped with icefalls that fed the glacier below. I turned to see Hannah in tears, which is not like her. I knew her brace was biting and the ground had been brutal, but when I asked if she was alright she said, we are supposed to be dead, and we are here. I hugged her and smiled. I knew that feeling. These places unlock old emotions. I do not think she was crying because she had walked from base camp to here. I think the mountains opened the door to everything she has been through to get to this point. For Hannah that is a lot. She wiped her eyes and said, Lois is going to love that I cried. I laughed. I knew exactly what she meant.

Where we stood was a perfect camp. A shelf of hard silt set back from one of the glacial streams, sheltered by the boulders. We thanked Ricepick and Orisbeck and watched them ride back through the icy water like it was nothing, dogs at their heels, heading down toward base camp. I lay in the tent with the door rolled wide, watching the last light brush the peaks. Today was a good day. We were in unknown country now. Tomorrow could be even better.

Day 8

Since we arrived my roll mat has been deflating in the night and I cannot find the leak. It means I wake every few minutes to shuffle. Strangely, last night was my best sleep so far. The sandy ground under the tent was soft enough to forgive the mat, which saved my hips and shoulders. I do not have enough core activation now to reposition in my sleep, so I often wake with a numb leg or arm and have to roll myself over. I had been taking advantage of the lack of feeling on my right side by sleeping on it, probably not what a doctor would advise, but needs must.

I crawled out and was smacked again by the majesty of the place. The sun was just touching the peaks at the head of the valley, painting them a pale gold. Everyone else was still in their tents, so I walked to a rock and sat to watch the light rise. These moments are special, and knowing that perhaps only our group and a handful of hunters have looked at this view made it settle even deeper. Gratitude arrived in a rush. Proud of the team, grateful to be here. The others emerged. Paul collected water from the stream while Dave got the burners going for coffee and porridge. The plan was to walk to the head of the glacier and see if there was a way to get onto it. Will’s stomach was still not right, so he and Ian stayed in camp.

The glacier looked close. It was not. After an hour of steady walking it still loomed away in front of us. Scale plays tricks here. When we finally stood below the wall of ice the feeling of smallness was back. Not a bad feeling. A humbling one. The river fired out from a huge cave at the base, all power and cold air. Ade scanned the ice and it was obvious there was no line from here. We turned to the moraine on the left and started up the ridge.

Hannah had swapped poles for crutches and moved better for it. Her strength and balance from climbing make a huge difference on ground like this. At the top of the moraine we found more walls of rock and ice. So the plan changed. We would try for a high point on the steep scree to our right.

We all knew this would be hard. Scree is punishing even when your balance is perfect. When it is not, or when you do not have the use of both legs, it becomes as type two as it gets. We worked our way up, leaning on the experience of Ade, Paul and Dave to read the ground. There are no paths up here. Every corner is unknown.

After five hours we spotted a ridge that stuck out over the valley and made that our goal. The clock mattered now. Five hours up means at least three and a half to return the same way, probably the only safe option with no mapped routes. Heads down, onward. Hannah put Beyoncé in her ears and locked in. Thirty minutes later we stood on the ridge and it felt like the entire Tien Shan surrounded us. We could see back over the ridge behind to more snow peaks that ran to the horizon. Hannah was crying and still bopping to Beyoncé. It was a magical moment. She named the point Freedom Ridge at 4180 metres, after the song. Photos, hugs, big grins, and then down the scree we went, surfing our way back toward camp.

When we arrived we learned that Ian had spent most of the day in his pants. For once, I think Will was glad he could not see. We settled round the stoves and let the last evening in that place roll over us. What an adventure.

Day 9

We woke and packed the tents and heavier kit into holdalls for Ricepick and Orisbeck, who would return with the horses to collect them. It was about three hours back to base, and the descent was punishing on tired legs. Aisha had a big lunch waiting, and we fell on it. The food has been superb. Fresh tasting every meal, a week in, and no fridge for a hundred miles. The skill and resourcefulness of the people here is something to behold.

Not long after lunch, two horses came over the rise, bags swaying, with Ricepick and Orisbeck aboard. We helped unload and before we knew it, Ricepick was encouraging people to ride. Hannah, Ian and Ade clearly knew what they were doing. I think he noticed I was less keen, which made it his mission to get me up there. He was right. I was not keen. I have spent too long on spinal units with riders who had fallen. If there is a time to try though, it is here. Mounting was interesting, but the strength of a Kyrgyz nomad behind me solved that, and soon Hannah was leading me around while I tried to look like I belonged in a saddle. This still was not enough for Ricepick. He hopped onto the other horse, pulled up beside me, tied a rope to my reins and set off up the valley. Being towed through the mountains by a nomad was surreal in the best way. I was very glad he was in charge because I would not have trusted myself for a second.

We drifted into an easy afternoon. Ricepick’s children arrived and Ian made the mistake of starting a game of catch. That lasted an hour. Those kids have stamina. The people here are wonderful. Friendly, open, generous with everything. I am very glad we still have two weeks to get to know them better.

Day 10

I even beat Aisha to it this morning. I pulled on my down jacket, grabbed the laptop, and climbed the hill behind camp to a little hollow the marmots had kindly dug out. It made a perfect natural seat to watch the sunrise and try to catch up on my writing. It is hard to picture anywhere better to begin a day.

Below me Paul emerged from his tent and wandered off for his morning pee, turning back with a grin and a salute. He and I had been the first ones up most mornings. We knew we needed more water before the spring got swallowed by the river, so we walked down with the drums. We had been using Hannah’s wheelchair as a cart, which was a brilliant bit of improvisation. Watching a water drum strapped into a chair trundling across the grass felt like a symbol of how this group worked: adapt, make do, find a way.

By the time we got back, Ade was up. Today was technically a rest day, but the plan was to set up a proper tyrolean line across the river so we could finally get safe access to the far side of the valley. The old rig had been fine for bags but nowhere near solid enough to carry people. The water levels had risen again with the heat, so it felt like a race against time.

Paul went across to scout one bank while I scrambled up the other side of the gorge. Ten metres below us the torrent thundered. From my ledge I could see he had found two solid boulders. I was lucky enough to be standing beside one the size of a bus. He slung his anchors, then launched the rope across. I caught it without having to lean too far, fixed it tight, and soon we were heading back for coffee.

After lunch the team gathered to test it. Helmets clipped on, carabiners checked, and then one by one we clipped in and zipped across the gap. I am by far the heaviest, so I let others go first. Standing back, watching people sliding over the frothing river on a rope we had just rigged, I realised this was not just a bit of fun. This was essential. Without it, half the valley was closed to us. With it, new doors had opened.

By late afternoon the ropes were secure, so we left them rigged, knowing they would unlock the lower valley and the bigger mountains beyond. Ade wandered back into camp around six o’clock, a grin spread across his face. He had gone exploring and found sport routes bolted on some giant boulders near the new bridge. He wasted no time securing a line on a tough section, and before dinner we all headed across for a climb.

The backdrop was pure magic. Huge blocks scattered in the grass, snowy peaks high above, the river rushing below. Hannah stepped up first and moved beautifully, strength and balance on show as she logged the first ascent of Ade’s new line. Watching her climb with one leg and a brace was extraordinary. There was nothing forced or awkward about it, just pure flow. A reminder that ability comes in many forms.

Will roped in next, and with Ade and Paul calling instructions from below he started to feel his way up the rock. His hands explored every edge and crack, his body inching higher, refusing to give up. The sight of him moving blind across the rockface, steady and calm, was unforgettable.

The rest of us joined in, clambering over the surrounding problems, laughing, cheering each other on. By the time we headed back to camp for dinner the air was buzzing.

We sat together in the mess tent that evening, tired but glowing. Food tasted better, conversation flowed easier, laughter felt bigger. It struck me how lucky we were. A day that had started with marmot holes, toilet duties, and water runs had ended with first ascents under a sky that felt like the edge of the world.

What a magical place.

Day 11

Today was the final push for a summit. Everyone was feeling the benefit of yesterday’s rest day, and Will was back on fine form. We ate breakfast at six, porridge steaming in the mess tent, keen to give ourselves as much time as possible. Our target was a 4000 metre peak that had loomed behind base camp all week, inviting us up. We had spotted a possible line on our way back from advanced base camp a few days earlier — a gully that looked climbable in theory, but only by going up would we really know. Nine hundred metres of ascent stood between us and the top, most of it on scree. The pressure was off, in truth. We had already achieved more than we could have hoped. That gave the morning a lightness.

We set off up the valley and after an hour reached the foot of the gully. The ground steepened quickly, loose and uneven. Will moved with Ian at his side, the rope clipped to Paul for security. Hannah had fire in her eyes, that look she gets when she has decided nothing will stop her. Ade, of course, was already thinking three moves ahead. Years of experience mean he keeps invisible checkpoints in his head, knowing exactly how fast we must move to stay safe. Most accidents happen on the descent. He was watching the time and the clouds as closely as our steps.

Higher up, Ade called for helmets. The terrain above was loose, rocks shifting under our feet, every step unsettling the ones below. This was ground that had rarely, if ever, seen people. For Will, who could not see at all, it was another level of challenge. We paused on a grassy knoll to eat and wait for Will, Ian and Dave to catch up. I saw Ade speaking quietly to Paul, and I knew what was coming. When Will arrived, Ade sat down beside him, eyes already wet. He explained gently that this would be Will’s high point. The ground ahead was too loose, the risk too great, and the clock was already ticking. Ade and Rose would turn back with him while the rest of us carried on.

It was a hard moment. Will listened, then reached into his bag and pulled out his Scottish flag. We all crowded around, shouting “Freedom!” as the fabric snapped in the mountain wind. Cameras clicked, arms wrapped around shoulders. He had reached 3700 metres on a mountain that no blind person had stood on before. The pride on his face said everything. It was a moment to carry with us.

We hugged him, then turned up into the gully. The scree was relentless, sliding back half a step for every one gained. Hannah and I found ourselves in the bin together, heads down, pushing on through the burn. It was a strange kind of joy, that type two fun where pain becomes laughter, and being broken side by side forges something unspoken. Every few steps one of us would mutter encouragement.

At one point I saw her slip her headphones in. Beyoncé. That always means business. She moved with absolute determination, gritting through every metre. The guides were brilliant. Paul and Dave shifted constantly to help pick lines and give encouragement. Ade was not with us now, but you could still feel his hand in the way we moved. His call to turn back with Will had been the right one. This mountain, like any, was about more than the summit. Safety first, always.

Eventually the ridge came into view. One last grind and we were standing on top, the whole range spilling out around us. Peaks stretched away in every direction, glaciers twisting below, a storm brewing on the horizon. We hugged, laughed, took photos. Hannah stood beside me on the summit, tears mixing with smiles, and for a long while we just stared at the beauty beyond words. The descent was no easier. In places the scree was so loose it was like skiing, boots sliding metres at a time, arms pinwheeling for balance. Legs burned, but spirits stayed high. By the time we stumbled back into camp, the storm clouds were breaking, rain spitting at our backs.

What followed was the only possible response: beers cracked, music playing, and everyone dancing, embracing Will when he returned. The mood was pure joy. Then, as if scripted, the GAZ 66 rolled into camp with Jake and Toby arriving, carrying cameras, bags, and wide grins. They would be part of the team for the first ascent stage of the expedition, joining Ade, Paul and me. Their energy lifted the camp again, and soon drones were flying, laughter echoing, and the whole place buzzing.

That night we sat in a circle, reminiscing about what we had seen and felt, knowing the M2M team would leave in the morning. It was beautiful and sad all at once. We had come here together, shared these valleys, these peaks, these moments that would never leave us. Tomorrow the team would change, but tonight we belonged to each other, and to this wild, unforgiving, unforgettable place.

Day 12

The morning began heavy with emotion. Today the M2M team were leaving. We gathered early, hugging, swapping stories from the week, trying to stretch out the final minutes together. There was laughter, but it came with a lump in the throat. It is hard to explain how quickly bonds form in the mountains, how fast strangers become family when you share discomfort, fear, and joy together. Watching them walk away down the valley left a hollow feeling in camp, as if the heart of it had just gone with them.

The rest of the day felt quieter, more deliberate. We set about reorganising base camp. Tents were shifted, barrels re stacked, ropes coiled neatly, the kitchen restocked. Without the usual bustle of the full team the camp suddenly felt vast, almost too open, as if the mountains themselves noticed the drop in noise.

I felt drained, both physically and emotionally. The high of the summit was still there in memory, but the comedown was steep. I spent much of the afternoon sitting outside the mess tent with a mug of tea, catching up on writing and trying to find words for what had just unfolded. The pen struggled to keep pace with the feelings. Meanwhile Toby and Jake were in their absolute element. They had arrived with kit spilling out of every bag, case after case of cameras, batteries, tripods, gimbals and drones. Out here, with endless valleys and ice capped peaks, it was Disneyland for videographers. Every hour another drone lifted into the sky, buzzing off towards the glaciers or swooping low over the river. I would look up to see one spiralling gracefully above camp while the two of them grinned like kids on a fairground ride.

It was fun watching them work. They saw the landscape differently, through frames and compositions, chasing the perfect angle of light or the sweep of a valley wall. In a way it reminded me that each of us has our own part to play. Some climb, some cook, some capture the story so others can share it. Together it makes the expedition whole.

By evening the valley settled into stillness. The sun dropped behind the ridges, shadows climbing the slopes as the last glow lingered on the highest peaks. Camp felt calmer now, quieter, as if it too had taken a breath after a week of intensity. Tomorrow the focus would shift toward the next phase, but tonight I sat with my notebook, grateful for the people who had been here, and readying myself for whatever the mountains would ask of us next.

Day 13

This morning we clipped across the tyrolean again, the ropes thrumming above the river as the glacier-fed torrent roared below. On the far bank the air felt crisp, sharp with that high mountain stillness, and we made our way back to the crag we had been working on earlier in the trip. My legs were heavy now, the steady toll of the last days catching up with me, but the sight of the wall pulled me upright.

It was the same two pitch, one hundred metre line we had bolted and tested before. Last time I had stumbled early, stuck on the awkward opening moves and needing a tug to get over the first ledge. Today I wanted to climb it clean, no pauses, no sitting back, just me against the rock.

Ade was waiting above on the first ledge and Paul at the top, both ready to belay in sequence. It felt good to know they were there, calm voices carrying down, decades of experience in every word. I tied in and stepped up to the wall. The first section that had stopped me before now felt less intimidating. My body remembered the moves, my balance steadier, my left leg dragging but not holding me back. Inch by inch the rock gave way, and when I reached Ade on the ledge, lungs heaving, he gave me a quiet nod and smile. That small gesture meant a lot.

The second pitch soared into the sky, the valley spreading wider with every metre gained. Paul’s encouragement drifted down, steady and measured. My arms trembled but I found a rhythm, my body working harder than it wanted to, solving problems one after the other. Finally I reached him, pulled over the lip, and stood upright with the whole valley rolling out below. It was a first ascent, and this time it was clean. No rope hauls, no slips, just effort and persistence. A small achievement maybe, but up here it meant everything.

Back at camp Aisha had produced yet another meal that seemed impossibly fresh. Plates of steaming stew, potatoes, herbs, tomatoes. I could not believe how she managed it at 3000 metres, with no fridge in sight, yet everything tasted as if it had been picked that morning. It is a reminder of how resourceful and skilled people are in these mountains, and how much we take for granted at home. As the sun dropped, we checked over the solar panels and switched on the Starlink. It still amazes me that in a valley this remote we could power laptops, send messages, even FaceTime family. The contrast was almost surreal; horses grazing in the distance, the pure silence of nature, and satellites connecting us to the other side of the world.

By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag, legs aching from the climb, the satisfaction was deeper than the tiredness. Today had been a step forward, both on the rock and in spirit.

Day 14

The morning routine has become second nature now. Coffee, porridge, a stretch in the cold air, and a slow gathering of kit. After breakfast we headed up to Rizpick’s place, perched further up the valley. He was away with his yak for a few days, but his wife and children welcomed us in with wide smiles and open hands.

They invited us to sit and immediately brought out bowls of fresh yak yoghurt, thick and sharp, the kind of flavour that wakes you up more than coffee. Aisha had taken some dough up with her and began preparing bread alongside them. The smell of it rising in the small kitchen was heavenly. Simple food, but when the ingredients are this pure and fresh it feels like eating straight from the land.

One of the jobs for the day was collecting water. To save endless trips with jerry cans we had borrowed a donkey, who I quickly named Dave. He was strong, stubborn, and not overly impressed with me. There was a definite sense we were trying to work each other out, him pretending to ignore me while I pretended I knew what I was doing. By the second trip we had reached an uneasy truce, and the water made it safely back to camp.

Rizpick’s wife showed us their home, a more solid building than the yurts we had seen, though still very simple. Their young son toddled about, clearly the pride of the family, while the older children darted between us, curious and playful. Even without Rizpick there, we felt welcomed like old friends.

Walking back down the valley, bread still warm in our packs, I thought about how natural it felt to be learning and sharing in their daily rhythm. It was not just a case of passing through or watching from a distance. Slowly we were being invited in. That sense of immersion made everything richer. This expedition was not only about climbing peaks. It was about understanding the place, the people, and the way of life that has shaped these valleys for centuries.

By evening, camp felt different again. More connected, more rooted. The mountains give the grandeur, but it is the people here who give it meaning.

Day 15

Today was about moving higher and setting up our advanced base camp. The morning broke damp and grey, the air heavy with the smell of rain, and Rizpick arrived right on time with his horses. Ade and Paul helped with the rigging, their climbers’ hands quick and sure on the ropes, though in truth Rizpick needed no assistance. The knots he tied were as solid as anything I have seen on a mountain, passed down through generations, and interestingly they mirrored the techniques Ade and Paul had learned elsewhere. Different worlds, the same solutions.

The horses themselves were fine specimens. Broad backed, calm, and incredibly strong. Rizpick took great pleasure in loading one of them with what felt like half the camp’s kit, smiling as the animal did not even flinch under the weight. There was no fuss, just quiet power. We had two river crossings ahead. The water was glacial cold and fast, but on horseback it felt almost effortless, though I will admit Rizpick took far too much pleasure in my obvious discomfort in the saddle. Each time I climbed up, stiff and uncertain, he grinned. I was slowly getting more confident, but I could tell he enjoyed watching me squirm.

Midway through the day we stopped at his brother’s house, a more solid structure than the yurts we had seen, though still very simple. His wife welcomed us in with tea and fresh bread, their young son bouncing happily on her hip while two older boys peeked shyly from the doorway. Rizpick beamed as he showed off his nephew, pride written all over his face. His brother was away up the valley with stock, but the warmth of the family made us feel instantly at home.

The rain began soon after, steady and cold, but Rizpick had predicted it with complete accuracy. No satellite app could have told us as precisely as his instincts did. Watching him work, reading the sky and the valley, made it clear just how deep his knowledge of this land ran. By late afternoon we had reached the wide plateau we had marked by drone. Grassy, flat, and perched a few hundred feet above the river, it was perfect. Ahead, for the first time, we could see the glacier that would mark the start of our climb. Snowy peaks rose in a wall, daunting and beautiful. We set about pitching tents and went in search of the small water source Rizpick had promised. Sure enough, tucked away among rocks, it flowed clear and cold.

As evening fell, we set up the solar panels and fired up the Starlink, the first chance in days to call home. I FaceTimed Lois and then Ronnie separately, both calls filled with laughter and the small jokes that mean everything when you are far away. Ronnie, as always, brought the gags and lifted the mood.

Dinner was dehydrated food perched on rocks — surprisingly decent, all things considered. No mess tent here, just us and the mountains. Afterward we sat with Toby and Jake, watching the drones arc up into the dusk, tracing the face of the mountain we hoped to climb. It was quiet, reflective, one of those evenings that settles into you.

Eventually we crawled into our tents. The sound of the river below and the rain on canvas was the last thing I heard before sleep came. Tomorrow, the real approach would begin.

Day 16

I woke to droplets clinging to the canvas of my tent, reminders of the heavy rain that had hammered down through the night. Crawling out, I was met by a moody sky. The rain had eased for now, but thick clouds pressed low, grey and angry, wrapping the valley in a kind of restless silence. Every now and then, in moments like this, the reality of how far we are from help hits home. Yesterday we waved goodbye to Rizpick and Oris as they rode off with their horses and dogs, promising to return in four days’ time. Until then, we are on our own. That isolation is hard to describe. It could easily feel daunting, but to me it is empowering. Peaceful, even. There is plenty of experience in this group, so I do not feel exposed, but I do feel a deep sense of belonging. Perhaps it is no surprise. For the vast majority of human history this is how life was lived, self-sufficient, surrounded by wilderness, fully present in the moment. Maybe it makes perfect sense that something inside me responds so strongly to it.

I grabbed my poles and climbed a little above camp to stretch and record a video diary. I have been writing throughout this journey, but I have also tried to capture certain pieces on film. For the first half of the expedition that meant shaky, unpolished clips on my phone. Now with Jake and Toby here, the storytelling has shifted. They are like kids in a sweet shop with the scenery, pulling cameras from bags, launching drones into the sky, sprinting between boulders to find angles. They have also brought a custom-built solar setup, and with the Starlink we can keep people back home following the journey live. It is a fine balance knowing when to switch it on. One of the best things about being here is the disconnection, but fundraising for the causes we are supporting is a massive part of this trip, and connectivity helps.

The rest of the camp began to stir behind me. Soon we were all gathered round the stoves with mugs of coffee and bowls of freeze-dried oats, steam curling into the morning chill. The plan for today was to push further up the valley, find a way onto the glacier, and hopefully locate a site for Camp One. We would then return to ABC to sleep, shuttling gear between the two over the next couple of days.

Packs were heavier with extra kit, and the going was tough. Sleet started falling, slicking the boulders and making every step a calculation. A misplaced pole or a loose rock here could end the expedition in a heartbeat, and I was conscious of that with every movement. After an hour we turned up a gully we had identified on the drone the day before. The landscape closed in around us, an amphitheatre of jagged cliffs vanishing into cloud. A glacial stream gushed down the centre, leading us higher.

After two hours, through the mist, a great wall of white appeared. We had reached the glacier.

Up close it was magnificent. At its base, a huge ice cave gaped, the river pouring from its mouth. Above, the glacier rose steep and endless, disappearing into the horizon. To stand there, knowing we were almost certainly the first humans ever to see it, was awe-inspiring. Even better, one of the three streams flowing from the ice was running clear. We had drinking water. I stepped forward, laid a hand against the ice, and looked up. A calmness washed over me. This untouched piece of the planet, revealed for the first time, and we were here. What a privilege. At the same time, the weight of the task ahead pressed in. We were about to attempt to climb a mountain higher than Mont Blanc, with no marked path, no certainty, and no idea of what waited above. Trepidation and excitement rose together. This was the essence of adventure.

Three scree slopes to the right of the glacier had settled into natural plateaux, flat enough for tents. With that, the essentials were in place: a site for Camp One, fresh water, and direct access to the glacier. Mission accomplished. We dropped the extra gear, wrapped it in a tarp, and stashed it for tomorrow. Then we sat together and celebrated with cheese and boiled potatoes, the simplest of feasts tasting like a banquet.

Camp One sat at exactly 4000 metres. That left us looking at a summit day of around 1000 vertical metres. Brutal, yes, but achievable if the weather held and there were no nasty surprises.

By the time we returned to ABC the sun had broken through, transforming the valley. The afternoon passed in what felt like the most beautiful office in the world. I sat on a rock writing, Toby and Jake hunched over laptops editing footage, Ade and Paul reclining with their audiobooks, all of us warmed by the late light. Spirits were high. The challenge ahead loomed larger than ever, but so did the excitement.

Day 17

Last night was the coldest so far. Frost clung to the tents when I crawled out this morning, but above us the sky was a perfect blue. It seemed the high pressure had arrived early, and for us the timing could not have been better. We had a summit window. The plan for the day was simple in theory: a two and a half hour hike back up to Camp One with the rest of our kit. Camp One sits at 4000 metres, which meant 500 metres of ascent from where we were. Add the weight of our loads, and at this altitude it was anything but a casual stroll.

There was a buzz in camp as everyone emerged, the kind of lightness that comes when weather, mood, and momentum line up. I like to think the coffee helped. I had taken my time grinding beans that morning and the smell alone lifted spirits. Soon Jake had produced a tennis ball, and before long we were caffeinated and playing catch in the frost, laughter echoing across the valley. It is amazing how quickly people bond in these environments. Granted I had known Ade and Toby for years, but already the whole group felt as if we had been together for months. You can always tell when that comfort arrives: the humour darkens.

We packed down camp, leaving two tents behind. Up until now we had each had our own space, a rare luxury once you move beyond base camp, but that had been made possible thanks to Rizpick and his horses. From here the weight would be carried on our backs. I crammed every inch of my rucksack full. When I went to lift it, I could barely get it off the ground. I immediately tipped out one of my two litres of water, but it hardly made a difference. The thought of the steep boulder field ahead sat heavy in my mind. The weakness from my spinal cord injury does not stop at my leg. It runs up through my body, leaving me unable to properly activate the left side of my core. It makes me unbalanced, which is why I rely so heavily on poles. One slip, after two years of preparation, could end it all.

We moved across the grass bank and into the moraine, beginning the climb. With every step the weight shifted me off balance, swinging me from side to side. As soon as we hit the scree the effort multiplied. My right leg was doing all the work, dragging both me and the load. I found myself stopping more often, heart hammering, legs burning. For the first time out here, doubt crept in. Was I actually capable of this? Until now I had felt fitter than ever, but this was something different. Out here there are no porters. Every kilo has to be carried. I pushed the thought down and kept moving. Two hours later, lungs ragged and legs blown, we topped out by the waterfall and made the final approach to the glacier.

That is when we saw it. The river surging from beneath the ice was bigger than the day before, swollen with meltwater. The bag we had dropped and the terraces we had scouted for camp were on the far side. We weighed our options. Climbing through the ice cave above the torrent was out of the question, one loose chunk and it would be over. There was only one way. We stripped off boots, socks, trousers, and waded in.

The water was glacial in the truest sense, blasting from under the ice, silty and opaque. You could not see your feet, only feel for purchase with toes and poles. The pressure hammered at our legs, every step threatening to sweep us downstream. It was shaky, cold enough to make bones ache, but one by one we made it across. The terraces of silt on the far side were perfect, almost purpose-built for tents. We set camp quickly, dropping loads, rolling our waterproof bags in a tarp to stash what we would need for tomorrow.

Yesterday cloud had cloaked the view, but today clarity stretched forever. We could see the glacier rising up towards the ridge we would follow, the summit still hidden, but the sheer scale of the place laid bare. To know we would sleep here at 4000 metres — the highest yet — and attempt another 1000 vertical metres tomorrow was daunting, but the acclimatisation of the past weeks gave us confidence.

We put the boilers on for hot drinks and then sprawled out on the ground together, staring at the sky. For two hours we lay there, pointing out shapes in the clouds, letting our thoughts go. It was one of the most present moments of my life. No worries, no outside world, just us and the mountains in harmony.

Later, after some stretching to release my quad, I took a fruit tea and wandered up the scree slope behind camp. At the top, the sight stopped me in my tracks. The Tien Shan range spread out like an endless white fortress, snow capped peaks fading into the horizon in every direction. Below, nothing. No villages, no roads, no pylons. Just raw wilderness, broken only by the occasional smudge of a nomad’s yurt. A lump rose in my throat and tears came. The beauty was overwhelming, but so too was the gratitude. To be here at all, after everything, felt like the greatest gift.

I called the others up and we sat together, watching the sun drop behind the peaks, our dehydrated meals warm in our hands. Nobody needed to say it, but we all felt the same truth. Whatever tomorrow brought, we had already won.

Day 18

The alarm rang at 4:30am. By mountain standards I had slept well — five hours of broken rest is a gift at this height. No doubt the beauty of last night had calmed my mind enough to allow it. The effort of hauling ourselves to Camp One probably helped too. I unzipped my bag, pulled on my mountaineering trousers, strapped on my headlamp, and stepped out into a starlit sky. The clarity was staggering. The moon was only a sliver, but I could see the whole sphere behind it, something I had never witnessed before, not even in the Himalaya. There is something about summit mornings — your body knows immediately. The tiredness evaporates. You are awake, alert, ready.

Head torches gathered around Ade’s tent. He already had the stoves hissing and the AeroPress working through its first coffee. Nods were exchanged under the sky, quiet acknowledgement of the day ahead. Coffee and porridge went down quickly, then we shouldered pre-packed bags and moved towards the edge of the glacier. This would be my first time stepping on ice during this expedition, and the first real test of my adapted foot splint, modified to take a mountain boot and crampon. Cold fingers slowed me down, my left hand clumsy from nerve damage, but with Ade’s help the crampons finally locked in. We roped up, Ade and I together, Paul with Toby, and Jake moving freely on his own, comfortable in this terrain.

The sky brightened as we climbed. The first slope was steep, but the ice was firm, no deep snow, and I was able to swing my leg through. Adrenaline carried me upwards. Reaching the first plateau, I felt the excitement of not knowing what was ahead. The maps were vague. Beyond this point no one had been.

Ade studied the ground. Our original plan to go straight up the right ridge was abandoned, the gradient was too severe, and crevasses gaped at its base. We angled left instead, following the glacier’s contour towards another ridge.

The sun touched us just as we topped the next rise. The warmth flooded in like fuel. But with it came the first crevasse field. The glacier was dry, so most of the openings were visible, but the snow bridges that remained demanded respect. I peered into one of the chasms, no bottom in sight. Twenty, fifty, a hundred metres deep? Who knows. Ade moved carefully, probing with his axe, finding a line.

Then came the barrier: a crevasse running parallel to the ridge, blocking the way. Ade tested and edged right, until finally he judged it narrow enough. He asked me to brace the rope, then stepped across. Safe. He fixed an ice screw, creating security for me to follow. Even with my height, these strides are not easy now. My weak leg makes me fear the pause in the middle, the thought of being stranded over the void. Ade timed a pull on the rope to give me momentum, and I shuffled over, probing carefully with my axe. No hesitation. Just go.

On the far side the view exploded open. The ridge dropped sharply to the north — sheer exposure — but beyond it lay a sweep of untouched mountains. For a breath I let it soak in, then snapped back into focus. This was a high-consequence zone. A slip here was not a bruise or a sprain. It was the end.

We moved slowly up the ridge. The gradient steepened, and soon I was on all fours, front points of my crampons biting into the ice, axe driving in for purchase. The mountain was making us earn it. I loved that.

After another hour we reached the summit ridge. Ahead stood a line of rocky pinnacles. The true top. There was no guarantee we could climb them, but there was only one way to find out. We edged along the knife-edge ridge, exposure falling away thousands of feet on either side. My heart hammered, but my focus stayed sharp.

At the base of the pinnacle Ade looked at me. “I think we can climb it,” he said.

It was my lead. He fixed the rope around anchors, and I pulled myself upward, one heave at a time, until at last I scrambled onto a platform no larger than a dining table. The whole world seemed to fall away beneath me. We had done it — a first ascent. Something I would not even have dared to dream of a few years ago.

Overcome, I dropped to my knees, hugging the rock, sobbing. Gratitude surged through me with such force it left me shaking. Ade followed, tears streaming down his face as he hauled himself up beside me. He pointed skywards. A golden eagle carved slow arcs above us, wings spread wide, as if blessing the moment. We embraced. I owe this man more than I can say. When others would not take the risk, he committed. For years he has shared his knowledge, his patience, his belief in me. Without him, this would never have been possible. Together we had shouldered all the risks, and here we were.

Soon Toby, Paul, and Jake joined us. We stood together in silence, drinking in a view no human had ever seen. Photos were taken, messages recorded, but mostly we just looked, grateful beyond words.

The descent demanded discipline. I had nearly died on a Himalayan descent once before, and that memory stayed sharp in my mind. Focus first, emotion later. We retraced the ridge, careful and deliberate, then threaded our way back through the crevasses. Down is always easier for me, and now with our own tracks to follow, progress came quickly.

Two hours later we stepped off the glacier and back into the safety of high camp. The stoves hissed to life, mugs of hot drink passed around, steam rising in the cold air. We sat together, letting the reality sink in.

We had done it.

Days 20–23

The following days blurred into a slow, steady descent back towards the valley and base camp. Rizpick reappeared with his horses, grinning as always, his dogs padding faithfully at his side. He seemed just as pleased as we were when we showed him the photos from the summit, leaning in with pride as if the mountains themselves had been his doing. On the way down he took us to his brother’s house, where we were welcomed with steaming bread, lamb, and endless cups of tea. It felt celebratory and homely all at once.

I know I will miss the people here as much as the mountains. Over the past month we had grown close to Rizpick and his family, almost like we had been adopted into the valley. The way they live — resilient, resourceful, endlessly welcoming — has been as inspiring as the peaks themselves. Watching them work, watching them thrive in this wild landscape, has been a privilege I will not forget. I am already looking forward to returning one day, just to see them again.

Back at base camp we had a couple of days before our pick up, time to let everything sink in. There was no rush anymore. We cooked, talked, laughed, and wandered the valley, soaking up every detail. It felt like a soft landing, the kind of gentle step down that most expeditions do not allow. Usually you are snapped straight back to reality without pause, but here we had a chance to reflect and breathe before the inevitable bump of returning to everyday life.

Two mornings later, on the horizon, the huge GAZ-66 appeared, growling its way towards camp like a beast returning from the past. We packed down what had been our home, loaded the vehicles, and climbed on board. Saying goodbye was emotional. The canvas of our lives for the past month was now being folded away. What a privilege this journey had been. But it was not over yet. There was still one final part to complete before we could return home to our loved ones.

Day 25

Whenever I travel on an expedition to another country, I try to find a local charity to support. I have always believed that if you visit somewhere as a guest, you should leave that place in a better position than when you arrived. In the lead-up to this trip I found CDI’s Children at Risk project, which supports disabled orphans across Kyrgyzstan. From the outset I had planned that if we managed to climb a first ascent, I would ask the children of the charity to name the mountain. Now, standing here at the end of our journey, we were about to do exactly that.

Kyle and the team from CDI met us and took us to Belovodsk Orphanage, home to around 250 children with special needs. I knew it would be emotional, but I did not know what shape that emotion would take.

The first impression through the gates surprised me. The grounds were large and well kept, with a rose garden blooming in the front courtyard and brightly painted buildings laid out around the site. The architecture was unmistakably Soviet, bold and heavy, yet softened by the colours and flowers.

Inside, we were welcomed by the director of the orphanage. Kyle translated as we explained our purpose for visiting and what we hoped to offer. He listened intently, his face warming into a smile as he realised this was not the usual fleeting visit. His gratitude was quiet but unmistakable.

We were then guided around the site. Children appeared from doorways and corridors, shy at first but quickly opening up, many of them running straight to Kyle with hugs. It was obvious how much they adored him. The ages varied, as did the disabilities — some physical, some psychological, many both. The stories behind why they were here were often heartbreaking. In Kyrgyzstan, families with disabled children are given no support, and too often parents simply cannot cope. Many of these children end up here as a result.

The ultimate aim of Children at Risk is to give them skills, therapy, and confidence that might one day allow them to return home. For some, that is possible. For most, it is not, and the alternative — transfer to adult orphanages — is something too bleak to dwell on for long. We visited the physiotherapy room, where a group of children were playing together, most in wheelchairs or on the floor, legs unable to support them. Yet their faces shone with joy. They were laughing, teasing each other, playing games with the staff. We joined in, starting a lively match of seated baseball. For a few minutes there was no disability, just a group of children and adults playing, laughing, and competing.

Afterwards we gathered them around a laptop to show images and videos from the expedition. Their eyes widened as glaciers and peaks filled the screen. Kyle translated as I explained what we had done, why we were here, and then I asked the question I had been waiting to ask since we arrived in Kyrgyzstan: would they give our mountain its name?

For a moment the room was still, every child transfixed on the screen. Then one boy, Biel, spoke softly: “Nadeytsya.”

Kyle turned to me. “Hope,” he said. “It means hope.”

I asked the other children if they agreed, and a wave of nods and smiles spread around the room. It was unanimous. And so, the mountain had a name. Not one chosen by climbers, nor by guidebooks, but by the children of Belovodsk. Hope. I could not have chosen better myself.

Day 27

Somewhere over Europe, with the steady drone of the engines and the low glow of the cabin lights, I finally had the space to reflect. The last month already feels dreamlike. Images keep replaying: the crunch of crampons on ice, the sting of sleet, laughter around the stove, Rizpick’s daughter darting barefoot across the steppe, Aisha dishing out tea (and the occasional vodka), and the children at Belovodsk Orphanage choosing a name for the peak we climbed. Hope.

Flights home from expeditions have a rhythm of their own. On the mountain every decision feels urgent, where to place your foot, how to tie a knot, which way the weather is turning. But once you step onto a plane, the urgency drops away and perspective returns. What remains are the people and the moments that made it all matter.

The summit was unforgettable, but it isn’t the memory that defines this journey. What I’ll carry longest is Hannah digging deep with Beyoncé in her ears, Will feeling his way over terrain most of us would struggle with even with full sight, Ade’s calm voice as he led us through the crevasse field, and Toby and Jake racing each other to launch their drones at every new view. It’s those bonds, the mix of grit, humour, and trust, that made the climb possible. Then there are the people who call this place home. Aisha, somehow producing incredible meals with limited supplies, laughing even when she must have been exhausted. Rizpick, guiding horses across torrents with a grace and confidence that only comes from generations of living this way. His family, welcoming us as if we had always belonged. Their resilience and generosity left just as deep an impression as the mountains themselves.

And the children at Belovodsk. Many of them are there because their families simply couldn’t cope, not through lack of love, but because there’s no support. Yet they welcomed us in with smiles and laughter. When we showed them photos from the climb and asked if they would give the peak a name, a boy called Biel quietly said “Nadeytsya.” Hope. Everyone nodded. It felt perfect.

That moment crystallised something I’d felt all along: adventure is about far more than reaching summits. It is about immersion. About sitting down for bread and tea in a shepherd’s hut, about learning from people whose knowledge of the land is deeper than any map, about supporting those whose lives are far tougher than your own. Mountains provide the stage, but it is people who give them meaning.

As the plane tilts westwards, I feel the usual mix: sadness to leave, gratitude for every moment, and excitement to be heading home. Above all I feel thankful. Thankful for second chances, for the lessons hidden in discomfort, for the bonds forged in remote valleys, and for the reminder that even in the harshest places, hope always finds a way to rise.