RUSSIAN REVOLUTION
A PIONEERING ATTEMPT TAE CIRCUMNAVIGATE EUROPE'S MIGHTIEST MOUNTAIN BY BIKE
Snapper Dan Milner and his intrepid team survived glaciers, icy river crossings and brutal rocky terrain in their mission to circumnavigate Europe’s highest peak, Mount Elbrus – so you don’t have to!
AN ANGRY STORM FRONT DRIFTED OVER THE HORIZON AND WE BEAT A HASTY RETREAT DOWN THE TRAIL
MY LEGS TREMBLED AS I STOOD MY GROUND, STRUGGLING TO MAINTAIN A FOOTHOLD ON THE LOOSE ROCKS THAT LITTERED OUR PATH. THE PITCH OF THE MOUNTAINSIDE HAD BECOME MADDENINGLY STEEP AND THE TRAIL ITSELF SEEMED HELL-BENT ON GOING STRAIGHT UPHILL.
With both a heavy backpack and a bike on my shoulders, every morsel of progress was met with an almost equal measure of backsliding as the brittle shale shifted underfoot.
We were barely 30 hours into what we’d hoped would be a world-first mountain bike circumnavigation of southwestern Russia’s Mount Elbrus, and we’d already run the gamut of hardships. The previous day’s climb up Elbrus’s boulder-filled flank had been far more brutal than expected, with lung-busting hike-a-bikes up a seemingly endless succession of scree slopes. What we’d estimated would be 1,300m of elevation gain had turned out to be more than 1,900m, and the descent from our first major pass had demanded more mountaineering skills than bike-handling prowess. Relentless rain had ushered us into the mountains and by the time we’d reached our first night’s campsite we were nearly hypothermic.
BETWEEN THE STORMS
Today, we’d had a promising start, with blue skies and a trail we could pedal up for the first couple of hours. But conditions eventually deteriorated and we were starting to question our endeavour. We’d planned a circuit along a rambling string of trekking paths, but even cross-referencing online satellite plots with topographic maps proved to be an imprecise art. While contour lines are a good gauge of steepness and general elevation gain, such rocky, undulating terrain can confound even the most experienced of map readers. Add the variable of carrying bikes into the equation and we had some complex mathematics on our hands.
The most complicating factor, however, was our decision to use support to carry our overnight gear. This required us to descend into the valleys at night, meaning much greater changes of elevation. Each day, we’d climb out of a canyon, traverse a series of passes, drop into another hollow and ride out to flatter plains to meet the supply vehicle – a four-wheel-drive, UAZ-452 passenger van known in Russia as a buhanka (bread loaf). As we inched our way up the treacherous slopes, the vehicle seemed a lifetime away. “This really is ‘two steps forward, one step back,’” I told my nearest teammate, Australian Dennis Beare, as he fumbled his way above me. “I was hoping we’d get a break today.” As the words left my mouth, I heard ecstatic whoops from my other two teammates – English photographer Dan Milner and French adventure rider Fred Horny – who’d apparently reached the top.
When Beare and I finally set foot atop the 3,250m-high Kyrtykaush Pass, we were met with views of the Greater Caucasus mountain range, the snow-capped stretch of tectonic uplift that forms an impregnable border between Europe and Asia. Soaring above all else was Elbrus, the undisputed king of the Caucasus. The glaciated stratovolcano even looked like royalty, with the dormant domes of its two summits jutting through a thin halo of clouds resembling a crown. After yesterday’s rain-sodden misery, it seemed too good to be true. We exchanged high-fives, marvelling over how quickly our luck had changed. No one was more excited than Milner. “Can you believe it?” he yelled. “What a difference a day makes!” As if in response, an angry storm front drifted over the horizon and we beat a hasty retreat down the trail. Though highly technical, this strip of decomposed volcanic debris retained just enough flow to get us off the mountain before the clouds unleashed their fury.
The track ran into a verdant valley and we descended to a river before cutting upwards on a series of ridgelines that led to Elbrus’s northern fringe. Here, a vast plateau rises to the snow line, where many climbers begin their ascent of the 5,642m summit. The tallest in Europe, its height makes it one of the Seven Summits – the highest peaks on each of the earth’s seven continents. This makes it popular with mountaineers, who stage ascents from a small base camp of wooden buildings, which we used to get a few hours’ sleep.
epic shale
Long before the sun had risen the next morning, we were pedalling along a trail that skirted Elbrus’s northern reaches along the grassy Bechassyn Plateau. Rays of soft light refracted off purple cloud, bringing a golden glow to the tall grass around us. Between pockets of mist, the mountain’s majestic face came into view as we rode in mesmerised silence. This was the main reason we’d come here. Our
moment of reflection was shortlived – the plateau suddenly dipped into a narrow gorge bisected by a fast-flowing river. This stream was prominent on our map so we wanted to tackle it early, before the day’s glacial melt had begun. It was swift and deep, but we managed to cross it without using the rope we’d brought along for the worst-case scenario.
Keen to avoid more such rivers, we chose a higher route through a monstrous slate field leading to the trip’s highest pass. The arduous route provided unobstructed views of Elbrus’s north face, from its towering massif to the yawning, three-pronged glacier that fed the rivers we’d mostly avoided. I felt honoured to tread in its shadow, but such a shadow bears a heavy toll – which must be paid in sweat equity. The wasteland of pastel-hued stones made for a slow climb. Navigating this labyrinth of geologic giants was tedious, every hard-fought step a strategic decision with immediate consequences. Me, a protoplasmic blip in the earth’s recent history, versus this army of post-Pleistocene goliaths, mocking my foibles with stony indifference.
Finally topping the 3,720m-high South Balkbashi Pass, we discovered our next descent was hideously steep and chunky. Undaunted, Horny and Beare led the charge through burly rock gardens with speed and agility. Milner and I followed them to a grassy meadow, where we’d arranged to meet our Russian fixer, Svetlana Kouznetsova, and Tambi Islam, the buhanka’s proud driver. Buoyed by our success, we set out the next morning in high spirits, shouldering our bikes and making short order of the long slog up to the 3,350m Koltsevoy Pass. Cresting the apex, we gazed across an expansive, barren plain, where an azure lake mirrored Elbrus’s snowy visage. It was tempting to linger, but the tightly-spaced contours on our map had warned us that the descent ahead would be the mission’s most dangerous. A few hundred metres in, the trail spilled into a precipitous chute of skull-sized stones. Worse yet, there was no run-out, just a massive pile of boulders. Hemmed in by cliffs, this was the only way down. A crash here could mean serious injury, even death. Unfazed, Horny plowed headlong into the funnel, setting off a mini rockslide that chased him all the way down. Once he’d ridden beyond the impact zone, Beare dropped in, further dredging the flume as he fishtailed to the bottom. As the expedition’s elder statesmen, Milner and I decided to act our age and floundered down on foot.
Plunging into another shale-choked ravine, we had to get to a lower elevation before the daylight ran out. The race was on as we pinned it through rolling pastures and birch forests in search of the buhanka. As the sun slipped behind the mountains, we heard a whistle from across the river. It was Kouznetsova and Islam, who motioned us towards a makeshift bridge downstream. As thrilled as we were to have found our camp before dark, lying between us and the end of our expedition was the route’s second-highest pass and the huge Azaubashi Glacier. Both had to be crossed in a day for us to reach our endpoint, the ski town of Terskol. It was going to be a long day.
TOUCHING THE VOID
The next morning, we were already partway up the last major climb before the sun rose. To our chagrin, the trail petered out into a confusing jumble of rubble that covered the entire mountainside. The only way forward was to squeeze between boulders with the bikes on our shoulders. We made our way to the pinnacle, hooting in exhilaration at the 360-degree panorama of the high Khotjutau Pass. “Now we just have to get across that,” I remarked, pointing to the sea of ice below. “There are loads of crevasses, but at least we can see them.” Just looking at the expanse of elephant-skin striations made me shudder. We clambered to the glacier’s edge and stepped onto the ice. Cautiously riding to the crevasses, and finding them narrow enough to jump across, we spent the next few hours playing leapfrog over a succession of deep, blue slits. My heart began to pound. Some fissures were unnervingly wide, requiring a running start to clear them. One by one, we hurled ourselves over them, landing safely on the other side.
As we neared the end, the icepack tapered into dirt and an inviting ribbon of singletrack wound out of the mountains. I turned for one last look at Elbrus, its emotionless summits benignly indifferent to our very existence. We’d survived. I breathed a sigh of relief, acknowledged its supremacy, and humbly rode away.
navigating this labyrinth of geologic giants was tedious, every step a strategic decision with immediate consequences