What exactly made the meadow "powerful," I didn't know, but all the trappings were there: stone cairns, ribbons tied to branches. Even the trees were peculiar—their trunks were strangely twisted, as if frozen in a silent struggle against the avalanches and mudslides that had swept down the slopes for centuries.
As planned, I reached the meadow by midday and quickly found a good spot to rest. While eating, my eyes were drawn to the eastern slope, where I noticed the dark opening of a small cave. I decided to climb up and explore it after my break. From below, the cave looked close and small, almost like a toy. But a direct ascent was dangerous: the steep slope was a loose rubble field. At the base lay giant boulders, which higher up gave way to smaller stones and, in places, fine, shifting sand. I started veering right, toward the cliffs, to bypass the most treacherous part of the scree. The climb took about an hour, and the last stretch to the cave was the hardest: my feet sank and slid, and there was nothing to grab hold of.
Then, about ten meters from my goal, something strange began to happen. First, my breathing just got uneven, then it became shallow and rapid, as if I'd been sprinting instead of slowly crawling uphill. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat, its heavy beats throbbing in my temples. A cold sweat ran down my back, instantly chilling on my skin in the wind. But the strangest thing was the fatigue—not the muscular, familiar, bearable kind, but something else, something total. My legs felt like lead, as if an invisible weight was hanging from my belt, trying to pull me back. I'm used to long treks and knew I wasn't near my limit. Usually, exhaustion creeps up on you gradually, but here it struck all at once, replaced by a vague but persistent anxiety. Unpleasant images crept from the depths of my mind: me approaching the cave, and a bear resting in its cool shadows... or worse, a she-bear with cubs. Brrr... "What am I thinking?" I snapped at myself. "Bears? Now I'll be imagining snow leopards here, too."
I stopped to catch my breath, and suddenly it hit me: this sudden fear wasn't for nothing. Someone was obviously there, and they didn't like my presence. Unexpectedly, a scene from the comedy "Gentlemen of Fortune" came to mind, where the fake professor, breaking into his own apartment, instructs his accomplices: "Politeness is a thief's main weapon." And acting on this impulse, clearly, almost whispering, I addressed the invisible master: "I just want to look. I don't mean any harm. I'll take a few pictures and leave."
I stood there for another minute or two. I don't know if my words worked like a magic spell, or if the short rest simply helped, but the oppressive veil lifted. The fatigue receded, my mind cleared, and the anxiety was replaced by calm and a quiet joy. And the most amazing thing—those final meters, where my feet had treacherously slipped before, I now covered steadily and confidently.
What had looked like a modest indentation from below was actually a majestic arch, about five meters high. Behind it opened a stone chamber, about six meters deep and equally high. The first breath of air from the cave hit my nose, smelling of dampness and dust, of old stone and wet clay. Deep inside, a thin trickle of water seeped from a crevice in the rock. Someone had carefully built a small dam of pebbles to collect the water. Beside it stood a stone cairn—a sign that people were not uncommon visitors here. The cave itself narrowed into a tight cleft, disappearing deeper into the rock. Outside, the stone had a rusty, ochre tint; inside, the walls were mottled—reddish patches next to dirty grey ones, crisscrossed with white veins. I instinctively touched the wall—the stone was cold and rough, like the hide of some ancient animal. The slope continued gently upwards from the entrance towards the back wall. To the left huddled the spring, the cairn, and the cleft leading inward. To the right loomed a wall, riddled with cracks, its layers of rock delaminated and precariously balanced, ready to collapse at any moment. In the profound silence within, the echo of my footsteps and the slow, time-keeping drip of water from the spring were clearly audible.
After examining the cave and taking a few shots, I finally sat down to rest and admire the view framed by the arch. It was breathtaking. Directly before me rose Mount Arckh; to the left, the massive bulk of Dudandon loomed, its summit hidden. The entire meadow lay spread out below like a map. You couldn't ask for a better observation point. I remembered that from below, the cave's interior was invisible—blocked by the distance and the bushes near the entrance. But from here, inside, every detail was clear. The arch worked like a giant cinema screen. "I wonder," a thought flashed through my mind, "who's watching this movie in here?"
I sat for a few more minutes, then mentally prepared to leave. "Why the rush?" I immediately countered myself. And at that moment, a deafening crash rang out. I was sitting on my haunches and fell backward in surprise, instinctively covering my head with my arms. A jumble of images flashed through my mind: the ceiling collapsing, a giant slab shearing off the right wall... Coming to my senses, I realized it was birds, whose nests were somewhere high up under the arch. In my fright, I'd imagined some huge eagles, but it was just two crows. Still, the feeling that I was being politely but firmly shown the door was unmistakable.
This time, I didn't push my luck and left the cave. Just in case, I offered a silent thank you for the hospitality—you never know. I descended straight down the scree; going down was infinitely easier. The climb that had taken an hour took about fifteen minutes to descend. My stiff-soled hiking boots gripped well: I dug my heels into the scree, taking long steps, and even slid a couple of times like I was on skis. And as I slid down over the sun-warmed stone, a simple, clear understanding formed in my mind on its own. I drew one conclusion for myself: politeness and respect are not just abstract concepts. In unfamiliar places, whether it's a forest, mountains, or another person's life, they become a vital necessity. And it doesn't matter who you're extending them to—a person, an animal, or something for which we don't even have a name.
Closer to the base, where the larger rocks began, I got good traction and covered the last section easily. After wandering around the meadow for a bit, I packed up camp and headed back.
Everything that happened in the cave could, of course, be chalked up to fatigue and an overactive imagination, fueled by the mystical aura of the "meadow of power." But that interactivity, that dialogue with an unseen presence, still lingers. Anything can happen, after all.
P.S. The story is based on a hiking trip, and there is a photo review available:
Hike in the Arg gorge, near Lake Iskanderkul, Fann Mountains, Tajikistan
