Great Journeys in Kazakhstan in XIXth Century

“Of course, this trip, made with the speed forced upon me by the dangers and hardships that surrounded me, can only have the character of scientific reconnaissance, and not of scientific research; but even in this form it will not remain without results for the geography of Asia.”

Pyotr Petrovich Semenov-Tyan-Shansky.

Trip from Ayaguz to Dzungarskiy Alatau.

Smoky feather grass flowed in all directions, kites hung in the sky, colorless from the heat, and some violet shadows loomed in the southeast. And it was impossible to take in with a glance either the feather grass streams, or the violet shadows, or the colorless sky with motionless kites.
The Kirghiz steppe stretched for almost one and a half thousand miles from the banks of the Irtysh to the Celestial Mountains, and Semenov had to cross it in a wicker tarantass, accompanied by four Siberian Cossacks. On August 6, 1856, the journey began, for which Semenov had prepared so long and passionately.
Biting his black, sharp moustache, he looked at the pouring haze, the smells of herbs tickled his nostrils. The driver harnessed the horses again, packed the hay in the tarantass, and patted it with his meaty palms.
- Get in, your honor, and let's get going.
- The Cossack crossed himself widely and casually.
- Well, with God, shaggy beasts!
Semenov was thrown up, the clatter of horses' hooves and the ringing of bells struck his ears. He closed his eyelids and immediately plunged into a warm, pinkish semi-darkness, not perceiving anything except movement. Next to the tarantass, caps with red bands flashed, rifles behind broad shoulders, horses' muzzles were thrown up...
A strong jolt forced Pyotr Petrovich to open his eyes. The steppe was still flowing in a sultry haze, but something had already begun to change in its monotony. The waves of feather grass parted, revealing bare salt marshes with patterned cracks, distant violet shadows acquired the outlines of a low mountain range.
- We'll ride to these hills, and beyond them is the Arkat picket. We'll spend the night there. I don't know about your place for the night, sir, but for us - nothing. The Cossack sleeps on his belly, covering himself with his back. A few hours later, the tarantass entered a spacious mountain valley.
The diabase rocks shimmered greenish in the slanting rays of the sun. A gray golden eagle sat alone on a cliff. The bird's round, motionless eyes stared unblinkingly at the evening sun. "Only eagles can look at the sun with impunity," thought Semenov.
The sunset was already decaying when Pyotr Petrovich rode through the valley. The bitter smell of wormwood wafted in, the Kirghiz steppe again drove gray grassy waves to new ridges.
- Arkat and Burkat. They stopped for the night at the Arkat picket.
Pyotr Petrovich settled down to sleep in the tarantass, putting his feet on the box. He could not sleep. He looked at the black sky, strewn with stars. The stars shone evenly, dryly, and seemed very small. An equally dry moon was rising from the steppe grass.
"It seemed so small on the horizon, as if it were at its zenith, its disk was sharply outlined, its light was bright: all this revealed the unusual dryness of the air; there was not a trace of dew." The flat steppe lay in the chalky glow of the moon, covered by a black sky.
The ugly clay huts of the Arkat picket loomed white nearby. The Cossacks accompanying Semenov slept on the ground, their saddles at the head of the bed. The driver smacked his lips and moaned in his sleep. A long howl broke the silence of the night. Semenov jumped out of the tarantass, the horses shied to the side.
The wolf howled again, even more disgustingly, even more mournfully. The wolf howl did not let him sleep. Semenov sat down on the box of the tarantass, listened to the frightened snoring of the horses. Again he looked around the dark steppe expanse, flooded with moonlight. His thoughts involuntarily focused on the Kirghiz steppe.
He had already traveled almost a hundred miles across it. His ideas about the steppes were enriched and expanded. Until now he had been "accustomed to understanding by the name of steppe vast treeless plains covered with black soil and exclusively herbaceous vegetation." Such are the Don and Volga steppes.
lack lands intersected by deep ravines, at the bottom of which trees grow. Tall, lush, human-sized grasses. The so-called mountains of the southern Russian expanses "have a negative relief, that is, they do not consist of elevations above the steppe level, but on the contrary - of depressions."
Beyond the Urals, he encountered a new type of steppe. The Great Siberian Plain looks somewhat different. It is interspersed with groves of birch and aspen. And these groves do not grow in hollows, but on the steppe surface. Majestic rivers break through only shallow channels in the Siberian Plain.
Its soil cannot be classified as black soil. The new steppe type is expressed in the relief of the Baraba Plain. The Baraba steppe differs from the first two types by its numerous lakes and a small number of rivers. Now it faces a fourth, completely unexpected steppe type.
“The most striking difference between the Kirghiz steppe and our southern Russian ones is that on its horizon very often rise mountain-stone elevations, which consist of dome-shaped porphyry hills, or sharply outlined granite ridges". There are many salt lakes in the Kirghiz steppe, springs gush out in the mountains. And the beautiful grasses and shrubs belong to purely Asian forms.
What, after all, should be understood under the general name "steppe"? He asks himself this question, comparing and contrasting all four types of steppes. And he answers himself: "Apparently, vast plains, rich in grassy vegetation and not yet touched by culture. Irrigation is a necessary condition for the existence of the steppe: a waterless steppe ceases to be a steppe and becomes a desert."
He thinks that the concept of "steppe" does not contradict either mountain groups, or birch groves, or salt or fresh lakes. The steppe may not have rivers or springs at all, but in winter it must be covered with snow. Without snow, there is no vegetation in it, and grass is the main characteristic of any steppe.
The early dawn found Semenov cheerful and vigorous. And although he did not sleep that August night, he nevertheless set off on foot to the Burkat Ridge and determined its height with a hypsothermometer: 800 meters. The Arkat mountain group turned out to be of the same height.
After examining Arkat and Burkat, Semenov headed further. On the way, low, sharply outlined peaks of new mountains were still visible: the Cossacks called them Ingrekey. Beyond Ingrekey, Pyotr Petrovich crossed the bed of the dried-up Gorkaya River.
The Kyrgyz steppe, which only yesterday had been in a luxurious riot of grass and flowers, was now burning out from the heat. He saw only hilly terrain - red, sad, with drooping feather grass. This monotonous landscape was tiring. All day Semenov rode between the hills, along scorched valleys, past shallow salt lakes.
By evening, exhausted by the heat and dust, he reached Ayaguz. "It was so pitiful and insignificant that I had never seen any Russian city... The city itself consisted of one wide street with such low adobe houses that you had to bend down to talk to the residents standing near these houses...
There were no shops in the city at all. The only shop that existed for a short time closed because, as the ruined shopkeeper assured us, no one paid money for the goods, and everyone demanded to sell them for free. On the other side of the river rose rocky hills, on which wolves howled in the evenings and you could even see their eyes sparkling in the dark."
Semenov lived in Ayaguz for two days. He made a short excursion to the neighboring hills. The locals pleased Pyotr Petrovich with an unexpected gift: they brought samples of magnificent graphite and coal. Both graphite and coal were located almost on the surface, not far from Ayaguz.
On August 9, Pyotr Petrovich left the steppe town. The road meandered for a long time along the valley of the Ayaguz River until it turned into a narrow, gloomy gorge. The bleak appearance of the gorge was enhanced by heavy rocks of black siliceous slate.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the gorge, another Argantinsky picket was hidden. At this picket, a hunting trail branched off from the steppe road to Lake Balkhash, about which Pyotr Petrovich had a vague idea. He wanted to take at least a quick look at one of the greatest lakes on earth.
The steppe sky, smoky from the haze, was covered with ash clouds. The calmly hovering kites disappeared, the gophers hid in their holes. A stifling silence fell - a harbinger of a steppe thunderstorm. The thunderstorm broke out when they had already reached the Argantinsky picket.
Pyotr Petrovich had a good rest and went to Balkhash. High, impassable reed thickets covered the low Balkhash shore; wild boar tracks were visible in the greasy mud, and long-legged herons were walking along the shallows. The hunting trail dissolved in the reed jungle.
Pyotr Petrovich decided to penetrate to the lake, but it began to rain again. Rotten fumes began to billow above the reeds, and dense clouds covered the sky. The excursion to the shore of Balkhash was a failure. Pyotr Petrovich left the Argentine picket.
That same day, he reached Lepsy, the first significant river in Semirechye. Beyond Lepsy, the steppe had already acquired the outlines of a semi-desert: the sand drifts were shiny and faded, and brown dust was thickening in the air. Camel skulls showed white along the sides of the road, and wild chickens hid in them.
The heavy bustards lazily retreated from the tarantass and, stretching out their necks, looked contemptuously at the travelers. Steppe hazel grouse bathed in the sand: frightened by the shots, they took off, throwing light ribbons of dust from their wings. Small turtles crunched under the wheels of the tarantass, like flat round stones.
Sometimes herds of saigas emerged from the ashen haze: turning their heads towards the tarantass, they followed it with black sad eyes. It was in vain to sneak up on them or pursue them - the saigas disappeared instantly and silently - elusive shadows of the semi-desert.
Semenov crossed two more rivers of Semirechye - Baskan and Aksu. Like the Leps, they originated on the slopes of the Semirechye Alatau. Its snowy peaks in all their grandeur spread out to the southeast. Pyotr Petrovich admired them incessantly.
And the peaks grew ever higher, approached and seemed especially high on the flat steppe plain. Somewhere there, in the gorges of the Semirechensky Alatau, is Kopal – to clay shale guarded the top of the wild pass. After a long bare plateau and a seven-mile descent, Semenov saw the silver ribbon of the Bien River.
The river meandered, played, glittering with foam in the valley. In it, yellow wheat fields turned yellow, patches of gardens turned green. Wheat fields from the Bien Valley rose to the Dzhunke plateau. They belonged to the Kopal Cossacks, who founded their agricultural colony only fifteen years ago. Late in the evening, Semenov arrived in Kopal.
The driver drove up to the inn. Pyotr Petrovich spent the night on fresh fragrant hay. He woke up early, when the sky was still slowly turning green. The morning coolness caressed his cheeks, large dew rolled across the blanket. The head of the Kopal District, Colonel Abakumov, greeted the unexpected guest with boisterous gaiety. His plump face lit up with pleasure when Semenov introduced himself. 
- Member of the Imperial Geographical Society.
Here is an order from Governor-General Mr. Gasfort to assist me, - said Pyotr Petrovich, holding out his documents.
- To hell with orders, even the governor's! I am receiving you on the orders of my own heart,
- Abakumov shook Semenov's hand for a long time with his thick, strong palms.
- Make yourself at home.
Semenov had heard about Abakumov in Omsk as an extraordinary man who loved science.
- Before we get down to business, - the colonel continued,
- I ask you to have a bite to eat. Such is the law of steppe hospitality, - he spoke loudly, in a bass voice, smacking his thick lips.
The spacious room of the log house smelled strongly of herbs; dry bunches of them hung on the walls, under the mat. Glass eyes of stuffed birds looked at Pyotr Petrovich from all sides. On the windowsills stood boxes with collections of butterflies and beetles, under the chairs lay multi-colored specimens of rocks.
The colonel's steppe hospitality was both abundant and varied. On the table were served glistening fat hams of Balkhash wild boar, fried partridges from the Dzhunke plateau, fish soup from graylings caught in Biene. Karatal carp and bream from Lepsy towered on trays.
Caspian caviar gleamed like an anthracite hill on a painted porcelain dish, bek-pak - Dali kumys - bubbled in bowls. Ruddy apples and yellow dried apricots caressed the eye with the mountain freshness of the wild gardens of the Tien Shan. Abakumov sat at the table, his collar wide open, exposing his chest, and tirelessly told:
- I was a desperate lover of nature. All this, - he pointed to the grass and stones, - is the pitiful remains of my passion.
I was once infected with this passion by the highly talented naturalist Karelin. Have you heard?
- Who doesn't know Mr. Karelin!
- As a young officer, I accompanied Karelin in the Balkhash steppes and along the Semirechye Alatau. I collected herbs for him, stuffed birds. I even discovered a new bug, unknown to science. They named it "Abakumov's dorkodon" in my honor, so to speak...
After dinner, the colonel showed Pyotr Petrovich the town he founded in 1846. With a businesslike air, he praised the solid buildings of the Cossacks and the first Russian settlers, surrounded by pyramidal poplars. In the front gardens, young apple and apricot trees were gaining strength, and bunches of grapes were filling out in the sun.
An unfinished fortress church towered over a wide green square. Abakumov proudly noted that the church was being built according to his design. The square housed garrison barracks, warehouses, and the district commander's office. The earthen rampart surrounding the entire Kopal began here.
Copper cannons extended their barrels toward the Kirghiz steppe. Kopal was created as a military fortification to protect the Kirghiz of the Great Horde, who had become Russian subjects. The town had seven hundred houses, in which, in addition to soldiers and Russian settlers, lived the pacified Kirghiz tribes of the Dulats and Atbans.
The barracks housed the Cossacks of the Siberian Army, soldiers of the line battalion. 
The colonel said:
- They ordered our brother the soldier: go to the steppe, sit down there, dig in and live. The soldier went, sat down, and dug in. The Russian peasant hates military service - he is a plowman. The peasant does not like to break and destroy - the land calls him.
Kopal has been around for a long time, but look, we are already sowing wheat, millet, barley. The harvest from a dessiatine is twenty-one. Pumpkins - you can't tear them off the ground, watermelons are like bells ... The next day, accompanied by local Cossacks, Pyotr Petrovich began to climb the Semirechensky Alatau.
The snow-covered domes and peaks shone powerfully and freshly. Pyotr Petrovich involuntarily thought: beauty generates strength. He wanted to enter these peaks blinding with light, dissolve in the blue pouring air, become an integral part of this wild world and at the same time live and think independently, and touch and feel the beauty of the earth. He took the colt in his legs, the guides could barely keep up with him.
Pyotr Petrovich rode out onto the plateau and saw the valley of the Kora River. In the valley, the Kora River, a tributary of the Karatal, was steaming with morning fumes. Struck by the mighty beauty of the Semirechye Alatau, Pyotr Petrovich immediately wrote down his impressions in his diary:
“The view of the Kora River valley was delightful… The height of the ridge I was following seemed to me to be at least 1,500 meters higher than the Kopal plateau, but it towered even higher above the deep Kora valley. The wide and full-flowing river, which, as they said, was very difficult, and sometimes completely impossible to ford, seemed from above like a narrow silver ribbon, which, however, despite its distance, filled the air with the wild roar of its foamy waves jumping over the rocks.
The foam and spray of this river had that especially milky color that is characteristic of rivers generated by glaciers… Beyond the river rose mountains, at first covered with Siberian fir, then with bushes, then naked and covered with alpine grasses, finally disappearing under a mantle of snow.
Here and there, horizontal and vertical paths were visible in the snow. Upon examination through a telescope, the horizontal paths turned out to be deep cracks, and the vertical ones were traces of un-erupted avalanches. No matter how enticing the charming valley was, it was impossible to even think about descending into it, and I decided to follow the ridge, moving from one elevation to another and trying to reach the limit of eternal snow. We followed on horseback until granite rocks, wildly piled one on top of the other, blocked our path…
” With great difficulty, Pyotr Petrovich reached the border of eternal snow. A frightened flock of wild goats, stamping their hooves on the rocks, rushed past, a golden eagle rustled with its shaggy wings overhead, the firs went down, as if they were being pulled together by an invisible force.
Semenov decided to measure the height of the ridge with a hypsothermometer. It was necessary to heat the water, he took a bottle of alcohol from the hands of a young guide, but the alcohol did not ignite. The height of the ridge had to be determined by eye.
Pyotr Petrovich collected a collection of plants along the slopes of the Kopal ridge. Some of them were already known to him from the alpine flora, but most belonged to the Altai and Central Asian species. They returned to Kopal late in the evening. Exhausted but satisfied, Semenov told the colonel:
- Everything was wonderful, except for the hypsothermometer. For some reason, the alcohol did not burn.
- Who brought the alcohol? - Abakumov asked gloomily. - Proshka? Call Proshka to me!
Prokhor appeared, black as a May beetle. The colonel took out a bottle and dripped some alcohol into a glass.
- What is this, Prokhor? - he asked.
- I cannot know, your Excellency, - Prokhor answered uncertainly, but from the tone of his answer Semenov understood that he knew.
The colonel went out onto the porch, called the mangy dog, who greedily lapped up the alcohol. A minute later the dog was writhing in death throes.
- So what is it, Prokhor?
- Poison, your honor…
- Strychnine, - the colonel clarified, smacking his thick lips.
- Proshka emptied the bottle on the way and diluted it with water. He guzzled scientific alcohol, the brute! Mr. Karelin and I always mixed strychnine into alcohol. We did these manipulations in front of the Cossacks. And imagine: no one touched a drop.
The difficult ascent to the Semirechensky Alatau did not go unpunished. Semenov took to his bed. The caring Abakumov looked after his guest, treated him with medicinal herbs and fragrant mountain honey. But the colonel was busy from morning till night, and Pyotr Petrovich spent hours alone.
He lay on the sofa, looking at the stuffed huge white vulture, inhaling the subtle scents of dried herbs, and shadows of memories flashed before his eyes. He recalled his childhood, his native village of Urusovo, Moscow, St. Petersburg, the Geographical Society dear to his heart.
He lay in the colonel's house for three days. On the fourth, he got out of bed with difficulty and, on Abakumov's advice, went to the Arasan mineral springs, located in the vicinity of Kopala. The warm waters of the spring relieved his excruciating pain. He visited the spring for several days.
At the same time, he made short excursions along the Biena River, to the fertile fields of Kopala. And on August 24, he began to get ready for the journey. Colonel Abakumov whipped up a quick supper. With a full glass of liqueur, he made a farewell speech:
- Dear Pyotr Petrovich! May God protect you from the sharp knife of the Sarybagish, from mountain avalanches, from the claws of a tiger and the most common dysentery. I wish you success...
A troika jingled its bells in the yard. Further on, Semenov was already accompanied by the Kopal Cossacks. He said goodbye to the hospitable colonel, to the Semipalatinsk Cossacks, and got into the tarantass. The driver pulled the reins, the horses quickly took off, Semenov turned around.
On the porch stood the colonel, his legs wide apart, his robe open, sad from parting and intoxication.
- Drop in to see Chubar-mullah! You won't regret it! - his sonorous voice reached Semenov.

Authority:
Author Andrey Aldan-Semenov, book "Semenov-Tyan-Shansky", series The Life of Remarkable People. 1965.