Dive into an adrenaline-filled desert trek through a military zone in search of a notorious hangar. Today’s exciting Christmas adventure comes from adventurer and TV personality Morten Kirckhoff, who, together with Jan Elhøj, inspires and entertains adventurous Danes in the show Nul Stjerner and the project Verdens Forladte Steder (Abandoned Places of the World).
Morten Kirckhoff swears by LOOW when embarking on his adventures. Especially during expeditions in Nul Stjerner, lightweight and practical clothing is a necessity.
Years ago, we heard a rumor that for nearly 30 years, an abandoned hangar housing a deserted space shuttle had been left in a restricted area in Kazakhstan. With little information about the site, the only way to uncover the truth was to embark on the long journey ourselves.
In Kazakhstan, we drive 1,600 kilometers eastward toward Baikonur. The area surrounding Baikonur spans 90 square kilometers and is designated as a military zone. Fortunately, the zone borders a vast desert that is flat and navigable with a four-wheel-drive vehicle. However, it takes considerable effort to find a place willing to rent us a car—eventually, we end up with a gleaming white Toyota.
We decide to venture deep into the desert to enter and exit undetected. We are also prepared to turn back if faced with too many obstacles, such as barricades or military patrols.
Driving for hours through the desert, we encounter nothing and no one, relying solely on our GPS for navigation through the sand. By midday, the outside temperature climbs to 40 degrees Celsius. We pause occasionally, either to marvel at herds of camels or to examine pieces of space debris scattered across the desert—massive chunks of metal and fiberglass weighing several tons, remnants of launch rockets sent up over the years.
We spend a long time deliberating where to park our gleaming white Toyota. With few hiding places in the flat desert, leaving the car for more than two days risks drawing unwanted attention. As we abandon the car in the middle of nowhere, we regret not bringing a camouflage net.
By late afternoon, the temperature drops to 30 degrees. We pack our backpacks with sleeping gear, cameras, tripods, food, and water for 48 hours. Knowing about the desert snakes, we also wrap our shins in army gaiters.
Setting our first waypoint on the GPS, we begin walking. After an hour, we can still turn around and see the car. As darkness falls, we grow increasingly excited. The temperature drops, and we maintain a steady pace, marking our route and setting waypoints every 500 meters. Stars begin to light up the sky, and on the horizon, we glimpse a sea of lights from the Baikonur Cosmodrome. The brightly lit launchpads and beams cutting through the night sky give us both direction and motivation for our trek.
After about three hours of walking, we come across tire tracks, making the journey easier—until we realize the tracks are studded with 10 cm long, reinforced metal spikes, designed to puncture both tires and shoe soles. Forced back into the sand, we slow our pace.
Several hours later, we stop about two kilometers from the Baikonur Cosmodrome. We pause to assess our next steps and because we spot a car near the base’s perimeter. Hearing a car door slam and what sounds like three gunshots, we drop to the ground and wait. The car drives off. To this day, we have no idea what happened.
The last two kilometers are an obstacle course of barbed wire, trenches, and concrete walls that we slowly traverse. Once inside the zone, we take advantage of the darkness to sneak past the lit launchpads. The large hangar looms in the distance, silhouetted against the dim light.
The ground floor is sealed off, but we find a gap on the first floor that Jan manages to reach. With some difficulty—and noise—we hoist ourselves and our backpacks up. Inside, it’s pitch dark. The only thing we discern is a long corridor. It’s nearly midnight, and though fatigue sets in, we feel a buzz of excitement. Are we in the right building? Are the Buran shuttles here? Can we find our way around?
With faint beams from our flashlights, we move through the corridors and into what feels like an enormous factory hall. It’s impossible to grasp the scale, but there, in the middle, something massive comes into view. Two intact spacecraft, the size of jumbo jets—two Burans.
We have a quick dinner, unroll our sleeping bags amid peeling paint, and say goodnight. At 6 a.m., we wake to the sound of cooing pigeons echoing in the hangar, as morning light filters in through the roof and lower-floor windows. Feeling safe, we spend the day exploring and photographing the hangar and its contents.
For 30 years, these shuttles have remained here—relics of another era, another world. The costliest and most ambitious space program, a milestone of the Cold War arms race, built on espionage from the U.S. Now, we sit in the cosmonauts’ seats, examining displays, electronic gadgets, and books filled with old drawings. The weight of history surrounds us.
24 hours later, we retrace our steps through the desert, thrilled at our success. The walk back goes smoothly, and the car is still there. The following morning, we leave the desert.
A week later, as we prepare to fly out of Kazakhstan, a border officer asks us, “Did you enjoy your stay?” With a smile, we both reply, “You bet!”
Morten Kirckhoff is a Danish adventurer, author, entrepreneur, public speaker, and member of the Adventurers’ Club. He has traveled to more than half of the world’s countries and inspires Danes through the popular program Nul Stjerner (Zero Stars), the project Verdens Forladte Steder (The World’s Abandoned Places), and most recently with his book Hvad er det bedste der kan ske (What’s the Best That Could Happen), which encourages readers to overcome the fear of failure, take more chances, and make bold choices. https://kirckhoff.com
