The original plan was to drive 3-4 hours north by northeast on the R5 highway, past a military checkpoint, and park near a village named Pskom (or Pskem) and hike to Urungach Lake, located in the Ugam-Chatkal National Park. Google photos of the lake seemed so blue and fresh, and more importantly, peaceful. I was giddy to get away from work and enjoy some silence that only mountain life can provide. Mountains that on the other side, Mark wildly loves to point out, lead to Kazakhstan.
We left behind untypical 60 degree, sunny February weather and ended up in boggy ice-mud, fog, and an impassible road. Granted, we tried. Locked into 4WD, we made it only 1/4 mile before we got stuck. I got out in a hurry to guide while Mark backed the car down to safety. I chased the car in a pair of ill begotten Chuck Taylors and no jacket, regretting many clothing decisions I had made that morning.
Parking on a less icy side of the road, we thought we would start the hike there instead. Until, my daughter announced she forgot her boots and a local farmer named Johnny, wearing knee high rubber boots approached, urging us to change our plans. He insisted that avalanche danger was legit and that we would be better off trying again in May. He had a valid point, exemplified by wet clumps of snow falling off the trees around us. Having driven all morning, we opted to hike along the road, away from the snowpack. I couldn't decide what was more fun, slip-walking in the ice-mud where shadows still ruled winter, or trip-walking in mud-mud, the kind that makes your footprint larger than the one before it. The calming sound of the running creek put my crabapple mood in check. Uzbekistan is double landlocked plus it has a huge, dried out portion of the Aral Sea, so any sight of water is, honestly, deeply appreciated by everyone. It's hard to be a jerk when you are around water in these parts.
We hiked into the village, catching up with Johnny along the way as he walked to his father's house. Johnny studied agriculture at one of the universities in Tashkent. While he speaks Russian and is an Uzbek citizen, his heritage is Tajik. In fact, most people in the village speak Tajik as their preferred language. Pskom farmers grow an assortment of fruits and vegetables, but particularly love their sour cherries and potatoes. They cultivate walnut orchards, keep bees, and herd cows and goats - producing fantastic yogurt, cheese, and butter to go with traditional Tajik naan. Their loaves are bigger and flatter than Uzbek naan, like a large sized pizza crust. Johnny told us about his wife who teaches school in Gazelkent, and his children who study at university. Johnny is 40, by the way, and he laughed at Mark when he admitted he was 43 with kids still in elementary school.
It wasn't the cerulean lake hike we'd hoped for, but we did walk away feeling peaceful and refreshed in a different way - the kind of peace that comes with meeting wonderfully kind, new people in a foreign country we are only starting to get to know. We parted ways with Johnny, who insisted he'd take us on an even better hike than the one we'd planned, the next time we return to Pskom. I hope he does.
NE on the R5 past the checkpoint where
piles of blasted mountain lines much of the road.
The point where we realized we'd need to
drive backward to get ourselves out.
Winter bees
Mountain runoff draining into the Pskom River
Walking with our new friend Johnny
Traffic
"Welcome to Pskom" in Tajik
Credit: Mark
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