Jonny Bealby's books
Silk Dreams, Troubled Road:
Chapter 10: Having just crossed the frontier between China and Kyrgyzstan, Jonny & Sarah ride on to the ancient Silk Road caravanserai of Tash Rabat…
Beside the lake the ground was damp and marshy. Reeds and wild flowers grew at its edge. White birds with wiry legs and pointed beaks paddled in the shallows. Further away the earth turned red, became dry and brittle, covered in rough green weeds, and cracked under the horses’ hooves. Dens of marmots blighted our route and forced us to travel slowly: a hoof down one of their deep holes and a horse’s leg would snap as easily as a brittle twig.
Within an hour we were out of sight of the camp, closing in on the low green hills. No trees or bushes punctuated the rough grasslands, only cold grey rocks, veined with granite, rising at random from the wild earth. Without a breath of wind it was eerily quiet, the only sounds the jangling stirrup irons, the panting dogs and the horses’ hooves as they shuffled across the dirt.
On the mountain trail between Kashgar and Osh, we were now on one of the main arteries of the old Silk Road. Nearly 2,000 years earlier Zhang Qian himself had come this way, like us, travelling to Ferghana, in search of the Heavenly Horses. How good it felt to be on his trail. Once again the excitement of riding the ancient trading route churned within me. Hypnotised by the lazy rhythm of the horses’ hooves, my mind began to wander. Squinting my eyes at the horses in front I imagined caravans of old, laden with fine fabrics, spices, precious stones and jewels bound for the markets of Byzantium and Rome; I pictured the hired escorts armed with swords and spears, bows and arrows; the merchants and the bandits; I saw the evening camp and heard the stories round the fires. For a long time I’d wanted to ride the old Silk Road, and now at last I was.
It wasn’t long, however, before my romantic reverie was broken by more immediate concerns as we reached a steep ridge of shale and rock that led to the wind-swept pass. The climb was terrible. Cutting a route along a narrow shelf of splintered slate, the perilous path zigzagged towards the distant summit. Bringing up the rear I had to dismount and literally drag my horse, Kara, after me.
With the sun gone, snuffed out by clouds, the wind picked up and snow began to fall. Within moments we were climbing into a mounting blizzard. At 3,500 metres the air was thin and raw and I found myself struggling on the loose rocks, gulping desperately for oxygen. My legs became weak, my arms limp, my mouth as dry as paper. Alone, it would have been hard enough, with Kara it was a nightmare. With freezing hands, I checked my pockets for my leather gloves and discovered that I’d lost them.
But eventually we reached the crest of the pass and there, tumbling away before us, range after range of mellow smoky-green valleys and blue-tinged peaks cascaded into a pastel distance. Crystal waterfalls crashed from dark ravines to emerge as silver ribbons far below. Wreaths of mist slipped between the folds of neighbouring cliffs before falling into some dark abyss. And high above a lonely ridge an eagle hung in the vast expanse of sky, his wings motionless, as if made of rock. The snow stopped falling, the storm clouds parted and the sun burst through to strike the hills with golden rays. It truly was a perfect spot.
