A flock of sheep crosses a snowy mountainside in Kyrgyzstan. Photo/Collin McCloud

The steadfast steed took deep breaths as it lumbered forward through thick white powder, climbing the frozen mountain that reached toward the endless blue heavens.

With every deep inhalation of icy, cold, thin air, the beast exhaled a loud steady breath of relief. Hours prior, the sound became a symphony, synchronized with every well-placed, heavy hoof step. Missing a single beat might collapse the four-legged barbarian, sending him and the man tumbling down from whence they climbed.

His long, thick, muscular legs straddled the horse’s sides as it trudged through the depths of the snowy mountains. The bottoms of his massive, Kenetrek hunting boots grazed the snow that reached 3 feet deep, leaving proof of the mountain of a man's legs dangling from the steed.

He wore no watch, so time was meaningless; he had no cell reception, so time was irrelevant; and he had nowhere to be, so time was pointless. He and the beast trudged forward.

He had spent the last 6 days repeating the same day over and over, climbing mountain upon mountain of snow-covered landscape in silence. 

It had been nearly a week since he had heard a sentence spoken in English other than the lyrics of "Like a Virgin" and "Beat It." His guides sang the long-forgotten songs together over and over throughout their days trudging through the Kyrgyzstani terrain. He heard them singing about "making it through the wilderness and being touched for the very first time." It would start with one guide breaking the silence, only to be quickly joined by the other.

The more they sang Madonna, the funnier it became. They didn't know the words to the song they sang, which added hilarity. The man renamed his guides—Michael and Madonna. Both guides bellowed with laughter each time he called them by their new names and soon started referring to each other as Michael and Madonna.

“Michael” and “Madonna,” the singing hunting guides, pose in front of a mountain in Kyrgyzstan. Photo/Collin McCloud

Collin McCloud with his Chinese antelope in the Kyrgyzstan mountains. Photo/Collin McCloud

The rare shrieks and warnings of birds flying overhead occasionally broke the silence of hours of nothing but the burdened inhale and relieved exhale of the horse as it laboriously climbed mountain after mountain, repeating the never-ending frozen landscape. From valley to hill to mountain, the bleak, terrain swallowed the man, his beast, and two companions.

With no radio service to guide the hunting party and no help in an emergency, there were no heroes to save them from misdirection. The unanticipated, rapid October blizzard left the trio and their steeds in a storm that threatened their survival. The whiteout was so severe they couldn't see 50 feet ahead, and the perimeter was closing quickly with the snow veil.

The unforgiving terrain, the precarious howl of nearby wolves, and the escalating chance of their horses plunging to their deaths from misplaced steps forced their emergency retreat to seek immediate shelter.

The trio and their beasts relied solely on their experiences, intuition, and compasses. They slowly walked alongside a mountain, slightly protected from the swirling snow.

With each breath, the stranger invited frigid air to chill his own straining lungs hidden beneath the Sitka snow jacket covering his broad chest. The blowing snow and long ice crystals that decorated his thick beard and solemn face would’ve rendered him unrecognizable to those who knew him. His tanned skin was now a hostile red from the wind and arctic temperatures burning across his cheeks. His bright blue eyes—the color of the cloudless sky earlier in the day—were the only feature untouched.

With heads downturned, the men and horses slogged forward through the storm until they found shelter in a cave. With no blankets or sleeping bags, the group settled in for the night. The sound of the howling wind and wolves was quieted only by the few bottles of Lipton iced tea, canteens of water, and canned horse meat.

As he listened, Madonna was touched for the very first time...again.

On day 10, he made a mental note to introduce the duo to “Material Girl.”

Trying to coax himself to sleep, the man’s mind wandered to the night before. He longed for the relaxing bath in the bathhouse—a shepherd’s wagon that had been converted into a steam room. Every third night, he used the wooden wagon to decompress and wash off the sweat, day, and dirt. The fire started outside the wagon to boil his bucket of water an hour before his ritual began. He was given a ladle, a washcloth, and a bar of handmade soap.

In the bracing cold of the cave, he longed for the heat and comfort of the water he ladled over his head and down his neck, warming his shoulders and muscular arms. He craved the next bath, and the anticipation of its heat helped him drift to sleep. He surrendered body, mind, and soul to the cold, and he slept.

He awoke to his guides’ serenades of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” While the morning had not come quickly enough, it brought with it clear skies and a reprieve from the blizzard that stranded them in their cave. They packed their belongings and saddled their hooved companions in preparation for day 7.

The quiet stillness was interrupted by the sounds of the horses, the kestrels hunting overhead, and of course, Michael and Madonna singing once again. He and the three horses exhaled, shaking their heads in surrender to the musical duo.

As he listened, Madonna was touched for the very first time...again. On day 10, they would take him back to Bishkek for his flight home. He made a mental note to introduce the duo to “Material Girl.”