Climbing Ağrı Dağı - Part 2

As I turned ahead, something lay just off the side of the trail.  A black speck, growing features the closer I got.  A carcass.  A goat, stomach splayed upon, harvested, left for the flies.  It seemed it had lost its herd and fell victim to wolves that roam the lower slopes of the mountain, our guide Metin explained.  Perhaps it foreshadowed the teamwork we would all need to reach the summit and return.

Hiking over grassy hills and ever inclining, the first day's hike to base camp 1 proved fairly straightforward.  Metin led us over hills as he saw fit with only the fragments of path to guide us, him stopping every few minutes to look back and let us catch our breath.  Before long, we saw blue dots on the mountain above us: tents.  It looked as if we were close to our first stop - though it would prove to be deceptively farther away, always a few hundred metres above where we were.  When we finally reached the village, Metin made the introductions.  It was a Kurdish village, without roads, electricity or running water.  Ağrı Dağı was home to the 50 or so inhabitants of the village and herding goats and sheep seemed to be their livelihood.  We were invited into a tent for tea by the grandmother of the village, and from there the slope of the mountain dropped away to a spectacular view of the valley below.  The lights and buildings of Doğubeyazıt just in view below. Just in time for a sheep shearing or three.

Back on the trail, we had a few more hours of trekking to get in before the late afternoon sun would disappear and leave us to the colder mountain climate.   When we did finally approach the first camp, we spotted a glimpse of snow melting in the afternoon sun.  At 3200 metres altitude, the air felt crisp and clear, keeping us on constant alert for the tiniest symptom of altitude sickness.  Tea and dinner in the kitchen tent plus some time for admiring the view before retreating to our tents was all we could muster that night.

Our first morning on the mountain, we waited with teeth chattering for the sun to rise and blanket us with heat.  We ate breakfast then packed our gear on the horse, a mare with a filly for company, then began our trek to base camp 2.  The trees began to disappear, giving way to loose rock, scree and boulder and one hell of a never-ending incline.  The path weaved, criss-crossing its way up the mountain's slope.  The exertion and altitude began to take its toll in the form of a slight headache and a growing fatigue.  Greg, Kevin and I managed to keep a steady pace behind our guide, with the attainable goal of the second camp high above us.  Before long, the nimble horses had passed us, leaving us in their dust (literally!).

Base camp 2 was unrecognizable to the comparative comforts of the first camp.  It looked as if the camp had been carved out of the side of a mountain: two kitchen tents on the edge of a sharp drop, revealing a landscape hundreds of metres below, with car sized boulders all around and just enough space for a few tents dug out of the rock pile.  Surveying our home for the night, my first brush with altitude sickness in the form of a whopping headache, slight nausea followed by a dash of fatigue.  First, a massive dinner.  Then, we were all asleep by 7pm, wrapped in our winter weather gear to combat the cold and ready to wake up at 1 am for our summit push.

Summit Day

Waking up and shaking the frost off my face, and stumbling down to the kitchen tent, it was the early morning of July 7th.  It was time to push for the top of the mountain, and a giddy excitement was evident inside the warmth of the kitchen tent.  I was strapped and bundled up: wool socks, alpine climbing boots, thermal underwear covered by waterproof winter pants, a thermal base layer underneath a thin sweater, then a thicker sweater and a water/wind proof outer shell, neck warmer and winter hat buttressed by the hood of my outer shell and waterproof ski mittens on my hands.  Metin had been approached by another guide, asking if he could follow us because he "wasn't sure," and sure enough, as we began the careful ascent under cover of darkness, the second group of climbers were a few hundred metres behind and below us.

The first 3-4 hours of early morning as we climbed forced us to go slowly using hands and feet to grasp rock, with our headlamps revealing the path just a few feet in front.  Suddenly, Kevin's headlamp faltered.  His lamp only managed a dull beam, forcing Greg and I to turn around and shine back so Kevin could see his steps.  The bitter cold on our faces began to disappear as the sun rose.  The sky brightened but the sun was still hidden behind the domineering mountain's peak, casting a long shadow over the territory of Iran and Turkey behind us.  The triangular shadow seemed small from our perspective but must have covered hundreds of kilometers on the ground below.

The climbing challenge was just beginning.  The trail at this point was either loose rock, constantly threatening to give way, or a packed icy snow that had been cut by the footprints of someone before.  The fear of a slip or misplaced step was constant and the mental concentration exhausting as I made sure I had somewhere to grab with every step.  The collapsed trekking pole in my right hand worked as a makeshift ice-axe in case I slipped as a quick downward jab would halt my slide.  When Metin didn't like the look of a previous path across the snow, we would cut our own, digging our heels into the icy snow one step at a time.  By this point, trees were long gone and only ice, snow and rock remained, prompting the persistent thought: how did I get here?!

By the time we had reached 4500 metres, we were all hurting from exhaustion, cold and altitude.  I had totally lost the feeling in my feet below the ankles, from a combination of low circulation and cold, and a jack-hammering in my temples reminded me constantly of the altitude.  Greg was facing total exhaustion, as the altitude sapped his strength and caused his concentration to slip.  Kevin was now facing his fear of heights (by climbing a mountain!) and only Metin seemed to be fine, although he was growing concerned over our pace.

At 4800 metres, the summit beckoned to us, shimmering under the sun and a blanket of permanent snow.  We conferred with Metin, and decided that in his condition, Greg would have to go down - it was too dangerous to slog on to the summit.  Kevin and I pushed ahead, leaving Metin with Greg to head back.  I'll not soon forget the feeling of walking across the snowscape with the wind whipping over the summit approach, the intense brightness from the reflecting sunlight on the pure white snow.  Kevin and I pushed onward at a steady walking pace, yet the extreme altitude meant that my lungs were working at a sprinter's pace.  I was unable to catch my breath while slowly walking, triggering borderline panic and draining all my mental energy to remain calm.  I looked at Kevin, unable to say much but the look on his face told me he felt the same.  We wordlessly decided to sit down and - quickly - put on our crampons.  As we strapped the metal braces onto the soles of our boots, we saw Metin a hundred metres below still pushing on.  Momentary rage shot through me: how could this idiot leave Greg waiting at such an altitude, with the risk of frostbite or worse?!

Suddenly there was Greg, limp head angled down but refusing to give up, pushing for every meter up the mountain.  Kevin and I waited for them to catch up, and together we pushed up the final steep slope.  Kevin and Metin on either side of Greg and I ten feet in front shouting encouragement, we were steps away from the summit.  When I reached the top plateau a woman I'd never met before, part of a Persian climbing team that had just summited, hugged me while others offered high-fives.  Everyone shared in the same physical struggle to get up and now all shared the same mental exuberance.  As Greg, Kevin and Metin reached just seconds later, we all realized what had happened: we had made it!

Climbing Ağrı Dağı - Part 1

 

July 3rd, 2013

By the time our heavy climbing boots hit the dusty tarmac in Van, with two months of preparation under our belts, we were ready.  A heavy, scorching heat made the aquamarine water of nearby Lake Van beckon, but this was no beach vacation after all: we were here to climb a 5165 meter mountain of biblical proportions.

I was there solely for a mountain, as were Kevin and Greg, two friends of mine from Istanbul.  Kevin, an American my age full of positive energy, had never climbed a mountain like this.  Greg, a British guy with enough wisdom to sink a ship, had never climbed a mountain.  My only "mountain" had been the 890 meter peak of Mt. Carleton, New Brunswick climbed with my brother a few years back.  It was time for us to get our new climbing boots dirty, I suppose.

There we were in Van, a city in eastern Turkey. Van is a city that requires a wide angle lens to picture.  One of the largest Kurdish cities in Turkey, it seems to run parallel to Turkey and has seen its fair share of tragedy throughout history, the most recent being a devastating earthquake in 2011.  Historically significant though it is, Van was not where we needed to be.  We needed to get to Doğubeyazıt, a tiny city near the intersection of Turkey, Armenia and Iran. It was time to fill up on hot food - something we would get less of in the coming days - so a soup, lamb and chicken stock up was on the menu at a small street corner eatery.

A two hour bus ride through the sparse eastern province of Ağrı, with idyllic fields, poppies pocking up from the dusty roadside and the occasional shepherd and his flock as our scenery, kept us giddy.  But it wasn't the remote beauty that had us on lookout, it was the possibility of seeing our mountain around every corner.  As signs for Doğubeyazıt began to appear, we knew it would be mere moments before we first glimpsed the mountain that we had all mentally and physically prepared ourselves for.

Suddenly, reaching from behind the horizon and stretching into the clouds: Ağrı Dağı (Mt. Ararat).  In a flash of realization, I could suddenly see how it inspired the setting for the final resting of Noah's Ark.  Its wide base seemed to steadily rise until it narrowed into a monstrous point of snow and ice and rock.  The towering megalith could surely be the only thing left under the waters of a great flood.

Stepping off the bus in Doğubeyazıt, we met our guide Metin and quickly set up in our hotel room.  From our balcony, Ağrı Dağı beckoned, its slopes rising ever steadily into the clouds.  We waited, hoping for the clouds to part to give us a glimpse of even a sliver of the summit.  When they did, we couldn't have known that what we saw was not yet the summit, but only the approach to the top.  At dusk, we walked the dusty streets looking for an internet cafe to send out an update or two before we left internet, electricity, showers and everything else behind.    

At an elevation of 1625 meters and in Turkey's most eastern district, Doğubeyazıt certainly felt a long way from Istanbul.  A Kurdish city just 35 km from the Iranian border, Doğubeyazıt has a long history of owners: the Ancient Armenian Kingdom of Urartu, the Persians, Romans, Arabs, Byzantines and Ottomans. However, like much of Kurdish Turkey, its prosperity has waned as the Turkish state has left it to get on as it pleased.  It seemed Doğubeyazıt had been left to stagnant, with dusty broken roads and half built buildings throughout the city.  Cab drivers were quick to - vehemently - point out that they were not Turkish, but Kurdish, and that their language was Kurdish, not Turkish.  The red of the Turkish flag certainly did not fly anywhere in this town.

Waking up the next morning we gathered our gear and met our guide and van.  On a tight budget, the three of us had spent the prior few weeks in Istanbul frantically searching for all the gear we needed.  We all played a part in getting what we needed, borrowing gear from friends, having visiting parents bring some, buying second hand and as a last resort, buying full cost.  The only thing we all bought at full price were our climbing boots and trekking poles - though Greg's stellar Turkish and smile got us a discount.

On the melting hot morning of July 11th, we headed down to the hotel lobby to meet with our guide, Metin. Throwing our gear in the back of the old van, it was time to go.  We headed on down the road in the direction of Iran before veering onto a dirt road leading towards the base of the mountain.  Our van began to slow down and weave to avoid the massive cracks and the potentially axle snapping potholes in the road.  Spirits were high amongst the three of us as we got to know the fourth climber in our team, Jason, an American living in Pakistan.  Kevin passed over some multi-vitamin cocktails and supplements.  As we got comfortable in the bouncing van, we downed plenty of water to keep away the slight elevation headaches.

Small talk filled the silences and kept us from thinking about the fears in the back of all of our minds. A sharply inclining and winding road lead us to a small stretch of flat ground where we abruptly stopped.  Our pack horse, camp supplies and cook were waiting for us.  Looking up, one hell of a mountain beckoned.  Large boulders, sparse grass and dust.  The summit of Ağrı Dağı was 3000 meters above.  We were 2200 meters from sea level and this was it.  This was the start.

The Last Few Days in Kadıköy...

I am an expat living in Istanbul on the Asian side of the city.  My neighborhood is Kadıköy, the major focal point for transportation from Asia to the European side.  Protesters gathered here throughout the day, marching towards the ferry terminals to board boats towards Beşiktaş, and then to march on to Taksim Square.

Every group of protesters we saw were peaceful.  That is not to say they were not loud and vociferous in their chants directed at the Turkish Prime Minister, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.  Shouts of TAYYIP ISTIFA (Resign Erdoğan!) had been periodically ringing out from Kadıköy throughout the day and night, accompanied by the constant bleating of car horns and the pangs of pots and pans.

In conjunction with Erdoğan's decision on Saturday to remove police from Taksim, police barricades along Kadıköy's main thoroughfares were removed.  A sense of uneasy calm spread through the area, although protesters continued to board the ferries to head to Taksim.  Just after midnight, early Sunday morning, we saw a massive crowd of a few thousand marching towards the ferry terminal.  It was symbolic only - the ferries had stopped running for the night - but in solidarity the protesters were showing that it is not just Taksim and Beşiktaş that are up in arms, it is Turkey.  And in Turkey, from the news we can piece together through Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter, things flip from peaceful to violent when the police get involved.

I am baffled when I read that the Turkish government is calling the protesters "marginal" groups; in contrast, we saw a well balanced crowd of young women and men, fathers and mothers, children and grandmothers, all waving Turkish flags and chanting to win back the Republic they feel is being threatened.  Fancy cars and old minibuses, young and old: from my perspective the protest is a unifying force among Turks of many different colours.  And judging by the hundreds of waving Turkish flags, if Erdoğan means marginal groups, then he is referring to those who actually support the Turkish Republic.  

For news on the ground from the side of the protesters:
http://occupygezipics.tumblr.com/
http://resistaksim.tumblr.com/

In our neighborhood.

May, 2011: Jeju-do (제주도)

Two years ago this week I found myself with some time off thanks to one famous fat man's reputed birthday, Labour Day and Children's Day all coming together in one brilliant weekend stretch.  A four day weekend meant we couldn't go too far, but a four day weekend meant we had to go somewhere!  So my friends Pauline and Oliver and I decided to take a run down to Jeju-do, or "The Hawaii of Korea."  

Honeymooners, deep-sea diving grandmothers, volcanic mountains, empty beaches, a glass castle, penis statues and warm weather were all waiting to greet us on Jeju.  This motley crew of attractions - both natural and not - could go on and on; Jeju markets itself as Korea's number one travel destination.  A circular-shaped volcanic island south of the Korean mainland, Jeju is dominated by Hallasan in the middle.  Hallasan (Mt. Halla) is a volcanic mountain and the highest point in all of South Korea.  Climbers come by the bus-load and beautiful beaches and coastline ring the island with the mountain in the middle.  Though it's temperate climate and unique ecology have drawn travelers for decades, it hasn't been until recently that Jeju has taken off as Korea's top holiday spot.  In tow, bizarre museums and attractions have appeared: there is Loveland, a sculpture park depicting the, ahem, "behind closed doors" activity in lucid detail, Kimyoung Maze, a massive evergreen labyrinth, the Teddy Bear Museum and the Green Tea Museum.  Clearly we would have to make some tough choices on our 4 day itinerary!  

We decided to circle the island, landing at the northern city of Jeju-si and heading west.  Oliver had just dislocated his shoulder so Pauline and I were carrying our gear and half of his on our backs, freeing up Oliver to become our unofficial photographer (full disclosure: all of these pictures are his).  On the second day we had made it to Seogwipo-si, Jeju's other city on the southern coast.  Seogwipo was the home of some of Pauline's friends who were willing to host us, and with their help and their wheels, we got to cross off most of the southern half of the island.  

On our second day, we walked out to a small town looking for a ferry boat.  There wasn't much to read about, but apparently there was a boat that would take us to Mara-do, a tiny volcanic rock in the middle of the East China Sea, and the southernmost point of South Korea.  And what a boat ride it was!  Massive dips and drops in the churning sea had passengers wailing and sprays of cold sea water over the deck had everyone on the lookout for the next splash.  When we finally reached little Mara-do, everyone felt like imminently ralphing (and some did!). 

It took about thirty minutes to walk around the stone path that circled Mara-do, taking in the lonely lighthouse and the few restaurants catering to day-trippers like us.  I even had a chance to play keep-up on possibly the most remote football pitch I've ever seen.  When it was time to leave the spectacular black cliffs of volcanic rock behind, we made our way to the ferry.  There, floating in the water next to the ferry, was a gaggle of grandmothers!  Grandmothers!  Jeju-do has a matriarchal family structure with one unique detail: as the breadwinners of the family, women known as Haenyo (해녀) earn their living by diving for seafood.  Free diving in cold water with no scuba gear, purportedly to depths of 20 meters, to find conch and abalone.  Oh, and they can hold their breath for up to two minutes.  Picture your grandmother.  Now picture her 20 meters deep sawing off shellfish with a rusty knife!

Dinners of island pork from black haired pigs and snacks of Jeju's prize fruit, the clementine's cousin Hallabong, helped keep our energy up and pack our days full.  A night spent at Gecko's, an out-of-place western bar on the island gave us a chance to eat pizza - a rarity in my corner of Korea - and a free quart of tequila (but that's a story for another day...).  With our host's help and advice, we were able to move through southern Jeju, checking off all the sites.

It felt like there was something beautiful to see for every hour of the day.  We stopped at Ju-moon beach and Cheonjiyeon waterfall, both beautiful examples of Jeju's rugged range of sights.  We rented ATV's on another small island just off the coast of Jeju. Rampaging around, tearing through farmland and quiet country lanes, there was something in it that captured Jeju's scene.  A beautiful island with a grab-bag of touristy experiences scattered around, not yet over-crowded with kitschy attractions but getting close.

We spent one afternoon at Yakcheonsa Temple (약천사), just outside of Seogwipo.  An elegant temple with sprawling grounds and beautiful palms, Yakcheonsa was in full regalia for the approaching anniversary of Buddha's birthday.  Colourful lanterns decorated the temple complex and spring flowers livened up the grounds.  Though it seemed busy from afar, the temple was quiet and serene as we ambled through, with no one to stop and barely a sound.

On our final morning, we woke up in a minbak (민박) on the east coast of Jeju near the famous Seongsan-Ilchulbong.  Seongsan-Ilchulbong, or "Sunrise Peak," is a massive volcanic tuff cone that rises out of the sea like an ancient citadel.  It is a mountainous plateau with a crater on the top that is blanketed with lush green meadows, making it one of the crown jewels of Jeju's tourist industry.  We rose with the dawn and climbed the pulse-pounding 182 meters to the top to take in the beautiful sight... ...of grey fog.  We kept thinking that it would lift at the top, but it just never did.  I'll have to keep wondering what is in that crater!        

Looking back on Jeju, it has to be one of my favorite weekend trips that I've taken.  Foggy crater aside, it was great friends and great memories: we managed to hike cliffs and mountains, see caves and waterfalls, explore three islands and a lava tube, amble through beautifully decorated temples and of course, eat great food.  

Miss you guys!