One summer day, armed with a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches, I set off on my quest. At first, everything went smoothly. I took a marshrutka to the right spot, following the driver's instructions. The kishlak wasn't right by the road; it was further in, deeper into the gorge. By the highway, there were recreation areas, country clubs, and enormous dachas belonging to the local nouveau riche. After passing all that "estate," a couple of kilometers later I finally entered the kishlak of Gusgarf.
Inside the village, I stopped the first passerby.
"How do I get to the waterfall?"
He explained, "Go straight along the road, up you go, cross the pass, go down, and there's your waterfall."
"A pass?" I thought. "Nobody mentioned a pass. This is getting more complicated." But there was nothing for it, so I marched on. A little later, I decided to double-check with another local, but he only muddied the waters even more.
"You can go that way," he said, "or you can turn left and go up along the river."
I thanked him and kept walking, thinking to myself, "Now there's a left turn too... But if I can go straight, I'm going straight."
The kishlak was spread out on the slope, so the climb started right away. Past the outskirts, it got steeper, and the road turned into a well-trodden path. "Can't go wrong here," I cheered myself, and confidently strode forward. Especially since the path wound along a river — just stick close to it and I'd be sure to find the waterfall. Earlier, I'd asked several people how long the hike would take. Their answers varied, but it averaged out to about three hours. But after two hours of climbing, I started to get worried: the river was getting smaller and smaller.
"And they mentioned some kind of pass..." I muttered as I walked. "Something's not right here." But the path was excellent, so I kept encouraging myself: "It'll lead somewhere." Soon enough, the river vanished completely, but the path just went on and on. That's when it finally hit me: my earlier confidence was gone without a trace. I decided to take a break and find a spot for coffee. Nearby, I found a little clearing — one of those places where locals chop and stack firewood before tying it into bundles to haul away on donkeys.
So I'm sitting there, drinking my coffee, and slowly it dawns on me: this great path was made by woodcutters. It wasn't going to lead me to any waterfall. I checked my watch — I'd been climbing for four hours, and there was still no sign of the falls. Then that inner voice, "Captain Obvious," chimed in smugly: "Something went wrong." I found a higher, open spot where I could see the whole route I'd taken from the kishlak. The view that unfolded before me cleared up any confusion and showed me just how deeply I'd gone astray.
I was on a mountainside, about two-thirds of the way up. If I kept going, I'd just end up on the summit, which wasn't what I needed at all. To the left of that summit, across three couloirs, stretched a huge ridge — all the way back down to the kishlak. And now I could clearly see that from below, by the stream, another path led up to this ridge, crossing right over it. That meant the waterfall wasn't on this stream at all, but on the one behind that ridge! I even remembered the spot: I'd taken a short break there before starting the climb, but I hadn't noticed the path. I'd been absolutely convinced I had to go straight ahead.
Now I had two choices: the sensible one — to go back down to the start of the correct path; or to try and cut across the slope without losing altitude. I was already higher than the pass I needed to cross — that's what had fooled me. "By the time I go down and then back up, the whole day will be gone," I thought, dismissing the reasonable option. I decided to go straight across. I even imagined I saw some kind of trail heading in the right direction. But it was just wishful thinking; I really didn't want to lose that hard-earned height. There were no trails there, of course.
And then there was another factor. For once in my life, I'd gone on a hike in shorts. I usually never do that, but it was like some kind of blackout. When I was deciding what to wear, I thought, "I'll wear shorts, I'll only be on trails." When I started scrambling up the slope, that little detail conveniently slipped my mind. At first it was okay, but then I hit the thickets between the rocks, where there weren't any paths at all. I got scratched up everywhere possible. Plus, I was climbing in the hottest part of the day, with no shade — my calves and shins got sunburned. And on the really steep sections, I even had to remember my rock-climbing skills.
Angry, scratched, and sunburned, I finally made it to the pass. I later learned that the pass, like the waterfall, is also called Pionersky. Why "Pioneer"? I couldn't even begin to guess. Beyond the pass, down below, maybe a few dozen meters away, a river roared. It seemed likely that this was where my waterfall was supposed to be. I went down to the water and faced a new dilemma: go upstream or downstream? That day, I was the champion of bad decisions. I went up. To be safe, I decided to scramble right along the riverbed, since the path seemed to veer away. And that's when something unexpected happened.
Scrambling along a mountain river is quite the pleasure: you jump from rock to rock, sometimes on shore, sometimes in the water. I had just entered a dark, shady gorge, jumped onto another boulder, and... between the rocks, I saw a snake. A big snake trying to swallow a frog. It's not that I'm afraid of snakes, but like any normal person, I'm wary of them. And here I landed within half a meter of this scene. It was horrifying: the frog was bigger than the snake, the predator's head was grotesquely stretched, and the victim was still alive.
From the shock and the gruesome sight, my sunburned legs felt like they'd turned to ice. I'd met snakes before, but I was always in high boots and thick pants — you feel much more confident. But here, in shorts and trekking sneakers, I felt completely naked. I immediately jumped to another rock, further away, and stared from there. Turned out, the snake wasn't all that big — fear really does have big eyes. But its bloody, bloated face was still disgustingly frightening. With a heavy feeling in my gut, I continued on.
I'd gone just a few more meters when the waterfall revealed itself. I got closer, sat down on a comfortable rock, and contentedly admired the view. But when the initial euphoria faded, I took a good look at its height. The waterfall had two sections. First a drop of about three or four meters, then a cascade with a small pool, and another drop — maybe five meters tops. You couldn't get thirty meters out of this if you tried. "Yep, something definitely went wrong," my inner "Captain Obvious" quipped again. But I wasn't in the mood for jokes. On top of the exhaustion came the despair of realizing that I probably wasn't going to find the right waterfall today.
I sat there, rested, pulled myself together, and decided to go further upstream — maybe all was not lost? I climbed up the rocks beside the waterfall, went a bit further, and found a path. It branched away from the river, probably to bypass the waterfall, which, by the way, you couldn't see from the path at all (I only realized this on the way back). The stream was getting smaller again. To my left, little trails led up the slope, so I took them to get a better view. I made it up to some sort of shack with a garden, but I couldn't see any waterfall ahead.
Suddenly, a shout came from the opposite slope. Some guy was waving at me. I listened: he was asking where I was going.
"To the waterfall!" I yelled back.
He waved his hand downwards. "Waterfall down there! Nothing up above!"
At least I had some info. I turned back. And then again, for the umpteenth time that day, I made a terrible decision. The whole slope was crisscrossed with animal trails. Instead of going down to the proper path along the river, I took one of these trails. "I'll go down lower," I thought, "and enjoy the views from up here for now." But the slope kept getting steeper, and before I knew it, I found myself on a "sheep's forehead" (roche moutonnée).
A "sheep's forehead" is a bare, rocky, crumbling part of a slope that's almost impossible for a person to cross. The trails crisscrossing the slope were made by herds of domestic animals walking single file. With their small hooves, these places are passable for them, but a human has nowhere to put their feet. I was walking on just such an animal trail and ended up at a spot where I couldn't go forward or up. And, worst of all, I couldn't go back either. I steadied myself as best I could and started looking around for a way out.
The only way was down. The trail below was only about twenty meters away — not far, but if I fell, it would be more than enough for disastrous results. There was no choice. I started to descend, using my rear end as my main anchor. Halfway down, I thought to toss my backpack (I was going that way anyway), but it didn't help much — it was light. I slipped a couple of times, barely grabbing onto the rocks in time. After half an hour of agony, with skinned palms and slightly torn shorts, I finally made it down to the path, utterly enraged. What made it worse was that the same guy on the opposite slope had been watching my whole acrobatic performance the entire time. The bastard just sat there and watched. Probably laughing. "Man, these tourists... so dumb..."
At that moment, I decided I'd had enough adventure for one day. I turned around and, without straying from the path, headed for home. The walk back was trouble-free — by then, I knew exactly which way not to go. When people get into situations like this, they usually say a wood goblin led them astray, or blame some other evil spirit. But I think we have enough inner demons of our own. Stupidity, multiplied by stubbornness and misplaced overconfidence, leads to exactly these kinds of results. Though there was one positive outcome: at least I now knew exactly where not to go.
I decided I'd find the Gusgarf Waterfall next time — maybe in a week, when I'd "licked my wounds," so to speak. But things turned out differently, and the next trip didn't happen until autumn. That had its advantages: it wasn't so hot. This time, I decided to take the other route — the one the second guy mentioned on my first visit: turn left in the kishlak and go around the ridge from the other side. While walking through the village, I caught up with a group of tourists heading to another waterfall in the same area. They were experienced hikers, clearly knew where they were going, so I decided to join them and ask for detailed directions to my Gusgarf Falls.
Hiking with knowledgeable people was an absolute pleasure. We made it safely to the "Echo" waterfall (also known as "Eagle's Nests") — a beautiful spot, good company, and I found out everything I needed to know.
A week later, knowing the route for sure, I finally found the big Gusgarf Waterfall without a single wrong turn. I sat in front of it, drinking coffee from my thermos, listening to the water crashing down from a height of thirty meters, and thought: moments like this were worth all the effort. And all the misadventures of that first attempt I now recall with humor. Or maybe even with gratitude — for the experience I gained in abundance.
P.S. This story is based on a hike with a photo review:
Hiking-Quest - Waterfall in Gusgarf, Varzob Gorge, Mountains of Tajikistan
