People, like great novels, have themes.
Blog and Vlog
Urfa is a different town by day.
The night before, when we filed though Urfa’s bazar and dergah, it was a cacophony. Buyers and sellers haggled. Families socialized and ate. Hollering, honking, munching, braying and wailing filled the sultry air. Every space was contested. Tanner was wide-eyed. “Welcome to the Middle East,” I had shouted. Dir balak! “Be careful!”
The steel pole impales the ice. But it too suffers, leaning hard to one side. That the wind is responsible for this awkward state of affairs is obvious enough, though the flags do not show it. Their fabric is all knotted and stiff; frayed ends alone are permitted to dance in this spacious arena. The colors of these standards-of-triumphs-past are are warm, even when frozen. They are a welcome contrast to the palette of blues visible in every direction, including down.
We assemble outside the mess tent at High Camp. Uraz wants to have a look at our ice gear before dinner.
So far on Ağrı Dağı, the challenge (apart from my perverse need for more air!) has been to stay upright while scampering up steep slopes of broken scree. The gravel is thick and ubiquitous. At times, even the sturdiest trailmaster can (for reasons that I cannot yet predict) spontaneously break into a furious dance: he runs in place, feet at times on the mountain, at times in the sky. Gravel sprays in all directions. It is cartoonesque. Such displays are always entertaining when others do it; less so, of course, when it happens to me.
Tents are pitched on the graveled slope of High Camp. Tommy sorts out the arrangements: I will bunk with Greg; Brad with Keith; Tanner with Tommy. Wilkerson, who continues to struggle, will have his own tent. We bend the poles, stretch the nylon, and lasso the rain-fly to large boulders. In the process, we discuss domestic strategy.
