A Humbling Reminder, from Ella Wright

When Jack first floated the idea of a Kyrgyzstan trip, I was keen — no hesitation. But if I’m honest, I had no real idea what I was signing up for. It wasn’t until day one, standing under those massive peaks, that it hit me: this place was bigger, wilder, and more demanding than I ever imagined.

The first week was tough. I came down with the flu almost immediately, and to be honest, I don’t think I ever fully shook it. Nathan got sick too, but his approach was smarter — he rested, let his body heal, and bounced back stronger. I, on the other hand, kept trying to push through. A few half-hearted missions left me feeling worse, not better.

We still got out for a few day hits — the little Russian Tower was a proper challenge for me, both mentally and physically. Later, we went for a bigger day on the Pamir Pyramid (15 pitches), which was massive. But by the end of the first week, my confidence had taken a serious knock.

It was a mix of things, I think — the lingering flu, the altitude, and just how remote and serious everything felt out there. It’s confronting, pushing your limits when your body isn’t firing, and knowing that if something goes wrong, help isn’t exactly close by.

Finding Space to Stop

Halfway through the trip, I took some time away from the rock. I ended up spending five days reading, bouldering, and — maybe most importantly — just stopping for once. Slowing down. That felt hard to do when you feel like there is this expectation that you put on yourself to be out there climbing. 

During this time most of the team went off to try the Perestroika Crack — the route I had actually been the most psyched to do before the trip. But in the end, I decided not to go for it. It looked hard, long, and honestly, I just didn’t have the mental bandwidth to take it on. I was also scared I wouldn’t be able to contribute enough to the team. That feeling — of not wanting to let others down — weighed heavier than I expected.

Still, it was inspiring to watch the others climb it through a pair of binoculars from camp. Knowing what it took, how deep they had to dig… it was pretty special to witness, even from a distance.

With eight of us on the trip, the energy was always high. We got on incredibly well — and more than anything, we were all just genuinely psyched for each other. We knew how much every route took, mentally and physically. No ego, just support. That was rare, and it meant a lot.

I didn’t know many of the group very well before Kyrgyzstan, but I’m so grateful I got to spend four weeks with such an amazing bunch of people.

The Final Push

With just four days left in the trip, I’d spent a lot of time watching others climb the Southeast Ridge of “1000 Years of Russian Christianity” — Peak Kichilka, 4,500m.

It had been on most of our radars since the beginning. A seriously cool line: 35 pitches, with the crux 6c right at the top. It’s been called one of the longest — and best — alpine rock routes in the world. The kind of thing that’s hard to ignore, even when you’re tired.

At camp, I’d made friends with three Austrian guides — strong, humble, and super psyched. When they mentioned they were keen to give the ridge a go, it lit a fire. Me and Monk looked at each other and said, Why not? Let’s give it a crack.

Then, of course, Jack came off Perestroika Crack — running on just 12 hours of rest — and said he was in too.

So, that was it. The three of us were going.

We didn’t know exactly what we were in for — just that it was big, remote, and real. And somehow, despite the exhaustion, the altitude, and the doubts, we were psyched.

And this was where the biggest adventure was about to start. 

The South East Ridge – 1000 Years of Russian Christianity, Kichika (4500m)

Our plan was simple: ascend the South East Ridge in two days, sleep at the halfway bivvy (supposedly comfy for three), then bivvy just shy of the summit and descend on day three. That was the plan anyway…

Day 1: A Wall That Never Eased

We climbed 25 pitches on the first day, moving efficiently with lots of tractions between us. But don’t let that make it sound easy—the ground was never straightforward. In fact, I don’t think the grade ever dipped below 6a+ with hard route finding. Every pitch had its own bite.

Monk and Jack led the first 12 pitches while I followed with a heavy bag—12kg of gear pulling at my shoulders. When it was my turn to lead, I managed two pitches but was noticeably slower. After 12 pitches and serious height gain, my energy was running low. We needed a new strategy, and the straegy was, “move fast”.

That’s when we switched things up: Monk and Jack would block lead the rest of the climb, and I would second with “the pig”—our heavier bag. That way, the leader could climb with a light pack, saving precious mental and physical energy. It was a smart move, and honestly, I’d absolutely use this strategy again. 

I climbed every pitch that day, but by the time we reached the halfway bivvy, I was wrecked. My arms and legs spasmed through the night from sheer exhaustion.

But our morale? Sky high.

The three of us sat at that halfway ledge, music playing from someone’s speaker, sharing a sneaky cigarette, and watching the sun disappear behind jagged peaks. It felt like a moment stolen from another world—wild, peaceful, and impossibly remote.

Day 2: The Headwall Hits Back

This was to be the tougher day. Fewer pitches, but more technical. The headwall loomed above us, and the route was about to get serious.

We all felt a bit rough in the morning—altitude headaches, that slightly sick, hollow feeling. But hey, nothing a 6b crack pitch can’t sort out, right?

Then came the meat of the climb: four consecutive 6c pitches.

Jack led all four. Clean.

You don’t fully understand Jack’s strength until you’re on a rope with him.

He had just come off three days climbing the Perestoika Crack, 10hours later was on this route with me an Monk and before that had been bedridden with the shits. 

But somehow, he just kept going—carrying us forward, physically and mentally. Watching him climb that day was one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen. I can’t describe how proud I was of him… especially considering what came next.

Those 6c pitches were the only ones safe enough to jumar, so I ascended them as quickly as I could. I was utterly spent, but we had to keep moving. Everywhere else, the terrain was too sketchy—risk of rockfall, or ropes rubbing on sharp rock. No room for error.

We reached the final bivvy around 7 PM—after nearly ten hours of climbing to complete just 13 pitches. When we finally stopped and dropped our gear, I cried. Not from pain, but from pure relief. We had done it.

Or so I thought.

Reflection

When your own mind is your biggest obstacle, finishing something like this feels like a silent victory. It’s hard to explain the depth of that feeling to anyone who hasn’t fought their own thoughts halfway up a mountain. But in that moment—perched high on a ledge with my friend and partner, battered by fatigue and altitude and fear—I felt something close to peace.

And that made all the pain worth it.

Day 3: The Descent

Oh, how I wish the final day had been straightforward.

We began with some simul-climbing to the summit—some of the most exposed scrambling I’ve ever done. Gripping the knife edge Ridge, fingers on the West side and body dangling on the East side with 2500m of space beneath. When we reached the top, we sat for a moment. It should have felt incredible.

And it was… sort of. It was cool to be up there, sure—but I didn’t feel that magical sense of relief people write about. For me, that moment usually comes later—when I’m off the mountain, not still clinging to its sides.

We grabbed a summit photo and began the descent. We knew it was going to be complex, but we had a plan.

The night before, we had intentionally run out of water. Information from previous teams had mentioned a small patch of ice just above the first abseil anchor, so we gambled on melting it in the morning. By the time we reached it, we were already dehydrated. Jack and I took turns hacking at the ice, managing to extract about 2 liters—for all three of us.

At the time, we thought it would be enough.

Hindsight’s a cruel teacher. I wish we’d spent another 20 minutes getting just one more liter.

We began abseiling. Three pitches down, maybe 35 still to go.

And then we heard it—the unmistakable, horrifying crack and whistle of falling rock.

I looked up.

It was coming straight for me.

I braced, hoping it would glance off my helmet. But then—Jack threw his arm over my head, shielding me.

The rock hit him instead.

His arm was broken.

The pain hit him fast, and hard. But I couldn’t see any blood—at least it wasn’t an open fracture. I looked over at Monk and quietly said, “It’s broken.” Monk just looked at me, calm as ever, and replied, “OK, Ella.”

That calmness between us was everything. It’s what made the rest of the day possible.

Then, as if things weren’t already bad enough, the ropes jammed in a crack on the next abseil.

Five minutes later—another rockfall.

This time, Monk took the hit—right on the leg.

Still, we stayed calm. I passed Jack some tramadol. I made a dumb joke to Monk. And when I saw them both crack a smile, even a small one, I knew we could keep going.

We had no other choice.

I sent messages on the inReach garmin to Connor, Sally, and Ben—Sally being back in the UK. We needed our capable team back at base to start coordinating a rescue plan and, at the very least, get eyes on us with binoculars.

We were facing a long, dangerous descent—Jack with a broken arm, Monk limping, all of us severely dehydrated and running on one Snickers bar each.

We were now riding the line between adventure and survival.

The Final Hours

The next eight hours were long—physically and mentally grueling. We each fell into our roles and stuck to them without question.

I knew the route vaguely, enough to recognize key features and guide us forward. Monk was incredible at managing the ropes, expertly keeping them clear of cracks and snag points. He would find the abseil anchors while I focused on getting Jack on and off the rope, pulling the ropes carefully behind us. Pulling ropes for 1300m does your hands some damage! 

At around 7 PM, relief finally came in the form of our team.

Ali Rose, Al Docerty, and Nathan White were waiting for us at the bottom of the steep abseils. They had fixed the last few abseils to the ground and were ready with water, food, and a Sam splint. They immediately took over, their calm and competence instantly lifting the weight from our shoulders.

I gave Ali Rose a hug, and in that moment, my whole body just switched off—exhaustion washing over me like a wave. Getting Jack to that point where we could finally relax felt like a massive burden lifted.

Monk was still struggling to hand Jack over. I think he hadn’t fully realized how “on it” our team was going to be. Eventually, he relaxed.

Once we were on the ground, Connor and Neil were there to help us navigate some tricky scrambling terrain and a terrifying bridge crossing.

The way our team each had a clear job, conducting themselves with efficiency and calm, was nothing short of impressive. I was overwhelmed by gratitude for every one of them.

There’s a lot I want to pass on—for anyone thinking of coming to this place—and as a team, we’ll compile all the route info and insights to share with the relevant organizations.

But right now? Right now, my main priority is just coming home and getting Jack comfortable.

Thank you to everyone who supported us on this trip,  The Neil Mackenzie trust, The BMC, Alpine Club, Rick Allen Memorial fund and Fenix lights for giving us some headtorches to test.  A truly unforgettable experience.