Baragoi is a mixed Turkana and Samburu settlement situated on the heat blasted Elbarta Plain some 25 km from the southern ramparts of the Nyiru mountain range. It has the air of an embattled town, seemingly in constant conflict with the natural elements that threaten to envelope it, surviving only, it would appear, because of its role as an administrative outpost. The situation is not helped by the fact that it straddles the border separating Samburu and Turkana tribal lands, tribes between whom no love is lost. During the extended periods of no rain, deep holes have to be sunk in the few dried river courses that snake their way past. From these Baragoi is dependent on for its sole supply of water.

It is to one of the watering holes you go to fill your containers with the muddied water it offers up, before loading the donkeys and setting out on your journey. With a vast expanse of scorched scrubland spread out ahead, you experience a mixed sense of relief and trepidation on bidding farewell to Baragoi. Heading in a due north direction your trek takes you over undulating ground with grey-white sun bleached thorn bushes scattered randomly giving the impression of flocks of sheep grazing on boundless fields of brown granite and dust. As the outline of Mount Nyiru looms larger with your steady progression north, the vegetation becomes increasingly sparse, eventually giving way to semi desert. Now just a few stunted shrubs give evidence of life on an otherwise barren landscape.

Skirting to the west gradually dropping down into a shallow valley, a scattering of mud huts can be discerned in the distance. This is the Turkana settlement of Cowap, a small community that established itself as the result of an initiative by the Kenyan government to sink a borehole in the valley in order to provide water as relief to the numerous herds of cattle and goats that pass by on their endless search for pasture. Advantage is taken of this on arrival at the settlement to water the now dehydrated donkeys and replenish your own supplies. With the evening now setting in you consult with the village elders, whom, in exchange for a quantity of chewing tobacco (the common form of currency in this region) provide quarters for your party and browse for the donkeys. So ensconced, with a mud hut roof over your head, protection is provided during the night from the prowling hyenas endemic in this area, and as a result, a good nights sleep before tomorrows push towards the western flank of Nyiru.

From what is left of the day, resting your weary feet next to an open fire upon which skewered goat meat is roasting, you are able to get a taste of village life as it unfolds in front of you, allowing an insight into the customs of your hosts and also an appreciation of the austere conditions under which they live. The Turkana are fabled for their stoicism and also for their generosity to fellow travellers. Resting here in their compound, sharing their food, this trait is very apparent and becomes more so, you find, as the journey progresses.

The night air is cool. You awake to see the sun rise as a great red ball above the flat horizon to the east, casting long shadows amongst the clusters of huts and dosing cattle corralled within the compound. Gradually the bold black outline of Mount Nyiru comes to life as the light gives form to its valleys and ridges. It appears a lot closer now than the night before. Loading the donkeys you make haste before the heat sets in. Following a well beaten path away from the village you head towards the southern flank to Nyiru. Soon in the shadow of the mountain, the trail turns north following its western wall. Continuing in this direction, at intervals you stop to exchange greetings with passing tribesmen. Sometimes whole families are in tow with laden donkeys taking grain to trade at outlying settlements. The walk becomes a pleasant stroll as you are able to reflect on these shared experiences along the way, the sun having not yet managed to rise above the jagged peaks of Nyiru. However this does not last. When the sun makes its appearance you are embraced again by an intense heat, with little or no vegetation to offer any shade, your stroll transforms into a slog. Eventually respite can be found on arrival at Tuum, the sun now making its descent towards the western horizon. Tuum, a larger settlement than Cowap, is nestled between the two main western buttresses of Mount Nyiru. It is fed by spring water piped down from high up, its source found in the mountain's forest belt. The town has a tranquil air and thus offers the temptation for a day of rest, giving the donkeys an opportunity to fill their stomachs on the plentiful vegetation before their next arduous leg.

Feeling much replenished you take leave of Tuum and continue your march north, still following the long sweep of Nyiru. After a couple of days the western flank of the mountain finally begins to recede. Passing traffic has now all but ceased. A solitary tribesman makes his way south along a faraway ridge, his spear glinting in the morning sun making it possible to discern his presence in an otherwise uninhabited landscape. Further on, the distant clatter of rocks draws you attention to the black shape of an oryx as it clambers up from a ledge and over the brow of a hill, panicked most likely by your unfamiliar scent. The remoteness of this setting is stark and these few interruptions give comfort that you are not alone.

The terrain takes on an altogether different appearance as the Kangohenyang range comes into the fore. The range, which in effect acts as a natural damn/barrier separating the vast expanse of water (Lake Turkana) directly to the north from the intensely dry, arid Suguta Valley to the immediate west, is characterised by a tangle of ancient lava flows and deep cut canyons making navigation extremely difficult. Initially, as you gain in elevation over an almost lunar landscape of stratified rock formations, small gorges become apparent running across your line of progress. Further on these scars become more prominent and soon you find yourself dropping down into boulder strewn canyons and then rising up only to drop down again into another and so on. The going becomes particularly hard on the donkeys as they forge ahead along precipitous paths, loosing their footing every now and again, their packs twisting and ripping against the heat splintered rock. With every ridge surmounted your anticipation is heightened with the expectation of looking down on the vast expanse of water ahead, only for it to be dashed on seeing another ridge and yet another. Finally, with the light of day fading and frustration mounting, you top the final crest and there she is, stretching to the far horizon in all her magnificence; Lake Turkana the fabled desert lake.

To describe the emotions you feel at this point is difficult to put to paper. Suffice the following passage borrowed from Von Hohnel's account of his epic journey to the lake in 1888 as the first European to set eyes on it. (Little, I doubt has changed from what he witnessed then to this present day):

"We hurried as fast as we could to the top of our ridge, the scene gradually developing itself as we advanced, until an entirely new world was spread out before our astonished eyes. The void down into the depths beneath became filled as if by magic with picturesque mountains and rugged slopes, with a medley of ravines and valleys, which appeared to be closing up from every side to form a fitting frame for the dark blue gleaming surface of the lake stretching away as far as the eye could reach.

For a long time we gazed in speechless delight, spellbound by the beauty of the scene before us, whilst our men, equally silent, stared into the distance for a few minutes presently to break into shouts of astonishment at the sight of the glittering expanse of the great lake which melted on the horizon into the blue of the sky … Heaven could present no fairer view."

The vantage point from which Von Hohnel made this observation (like you he approached the lake from the south by passing the flank of Mount Nyiru) is in all probability not far from where you now stand.

The descent down to the lake shore is not quite as simple as it first appears. The rock underfoot, you discover, crumbles on impact, giving away mini landslides every time you step forward. As a consequence your walk becomes more of a scramble. Progress is slowed down however by the donkeys in their dignified struggle to remain upright. At intervals their obstinance in moving forward at all for fear of loosing their balance becomes tiring and for the first time thus far since leaving Baragoi a stick has to be brandished.

Five hours on from first sighting the lake from that now distant vantage point, its shore line is finally within reach. Immediately stripping off salt encrusted clothes you make a dash for the blue expanse and at last luxuriate in the feeling of cool water lapping around your body after so many days exposed to the relentless sun. So immersed, the donkeys straddle up to their thighs and with tails frisking wildly from side to side they take long satisfying draughts of the water until finally after 15 minutes, with stomachs fully bloated, their thirst is quenched. You however, undertake this ritual with a modicum of restraint knowing that the water is partially saline and that overdoing it can induce serious vomiting. The donkeys, none the less, seem unaffected.

Two spectacular volcanic cones lie to the west. A days trek along the southern shore will take you to 'Von Hohnel Bay' where they are located, should you be able to summon the energy. For the moment however, having not yet absorbed the immensity of this new landscape, you find it difficult to extract yourself from the comfort of your watery throne, with the lapping waves inducing such a pleasant rejuvenating effect on your body making it hard to leave. In the opposite direction following the eastern rim of the lake lies Loyangalani, some three days away, your final destination. You resolve the next day to follow this course instead of taking a detour to Von Hohnel Bay aware that the saline water, however pleasant it may appear now, will not sustain your body for too long now that the fresh water supplies have run dry.

The only living creatures (apart from a variety of birds) you encounter for the next two days march along the shore are, during daylight hours; crocodiles, whole families of them basking in the sun, some raising a belligerent eye as you pass them by, others scuttling off briskly back into the water (maybe next time on reaching the lake you won't be so impulsive to find respite in that same water!) Then at night, hyenas, making their presence known emitting loud howling and whining sounds characteristic only to them. Keeping a fire stoked up throughout the dark hours keeps them at bay.

Finally, on nearing Loyangalani you encounter the first signs of human life; a large herd of camels drinking along the waters edge, their herdsmen keeping an intent eye for any lurking crocodiles, throwing rocks every now and again to keep the camels bunched. A solitary fisherman walking in the shallows with wicker net in one hand and spear in the other, stalking his quarry with such precise, measured movements you are reminded of a large wading bird posturing itself ready for the strike. Further on another fisherman greets you as he sits up from beneath a rack upon which an array of fish have been cut open and splayed to dry in the sun. You negotiate an exchange of two large specimens for two weeks supply of chewing tobacco. A feast can now be looked forward to on arrival at Loyangalani as reward for completing the journey.

Reaching Loyangalani itself, an oasis settlement with dome palm trees and acacia scattered amongst clusters of reed huts, you discover is reward enough. Fresh cool water bubbles out from beneath some rocks within its vicinity taking the form of a small stream that meanders through the village and out towards the lake. Sitting on bended knees at these rocks as though at an altar, you accept this offering from nature, ladling the precious liquid with cupped hands and holding it up to your sun-blistered lips. Such a pleasant contrast to the stagnant muddied water carried from Baragoi and the bitter saline water endured since reaching the lake. While slowly sipping the water you ponder this as the sun gradually slips below the horizon on the far side of the lake, its afterglow tinting the surface with flecks of orange and red that dance amongst gentle ripples before slowly fading away, leaving only the distant outline of a faraway horizon visible. A fitting end to your journey.