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.
Ararat in the Hebrew Bible
Do-rags and Do-overs
“Guys, lit’s gooo.” Celîl’s lilting voice sends us into motion.
Tommy and I are on the same wave length. We eye our alpinist and mimic his every move. When he pulls on a fleece, we rummage for ours. When he twitches, we jump. When he zips a flap, we look to see if we have one. While in Doğubeyazıt we discovered that our new Turkish friend has climbed many peaks.
Sips and Trickles
I awake in the Low Camp to the sound of rain. The droplets collect, trickle down the fly of the dome and drip where a zippered door should to be. The clothespin fix that I had hoped would secure the door has failed. The door flaps freely in the wind, occasionally brushing me with a sloppy kiss. I look up. My socks sway from the overhead pole. I, and everything I own, am soaking wet.
Inauspicious
The sun is warm on the morning we set foot on Ağrı Dağı. Now I realize it was a fooler.
We ascend past the camps of nomadic herders, past the children begging for our chocolate bars, and past the occasional shepherd with his flock. The trail, which had been cut with heavy equipment at some point in the past, quickly shook off all memory of the experience. Deep ruts demand a jump or even a full detour. Boulders litter the path. Serious water has torn the ground to pieces.
A Vertical Life(way)
The rutted road that climbs up from Çevirme demands a shift from wheels to legs. Leaving the comforts of settled life behind, we pick our way into Ağrı Dağı’s foothills. I look right and contemplate a flat-roofed structure of stone and mud. Two women eyeball our group as we follow Celîl around the corner. I make note of the moment; this is the edge of the permanent. We enter the world of the mobile. Bones and ankles take the place of brakes and axles. Before me is the summer grazing ground of Kurdish pastoralists.
Where the Road Ends
The place where the road ends is the place where the trail begins. For us, that place is called Çevirme. Our top-heavy transport has not traveled far from Doğubeyazıt. I look at my watch. It has been less than an hour since leaving the soldiers of the gendarmerie and the security of the asphalt surface. In that time, we skirted the east side of the Şeyhli Marsh on a road of packed earth and rock. Uraz told us that we were fortunate this day to have a dry run. Rain can reduce this road to an impassable mudhole. No one doubted him.
The One Lasts
Doğubayazıt, our cowboy town, is the launch point for those who attempt the summit of Ağrı Dağı. It specializes in essentials: a bed to sleep in, a hot meal, a supply store, and, of course, the gendarmeriewhere climbing permits are issued. Nothing (except maybe Chinese-made shoes and Turkish cotton T-shirts?) is offered in quantity, but it can be found if you know where to look. That is the important part. Forget a wool cap? You can find it in Doğubayazıt. Forget your crampons? You can find them in Doğubayazıt. Forget your beef jerky? Be sure to check the expiration date.
Stone Palaces
Cowboy Town
Fire and Ice
When leaving the city of Van, we were surprised to discover whole streets lined by abandoned buildings. Some had been apartments; others, businesses and factories. Exterior walls of concrete block were awkwardly peeled away, as if by some ridiculous force. With these partitions missing, we were able to peer from our passing vehicle, like voyeurs, into the private lives of people we would never know. Their wires and pipes and curtains danced nakedly in the wind. Only later would we locate the missing inhabitants; new homes were assigned them, homes of thin trailer steel, the kind arranged in tight rows and given by agencies that specialize in humanitarian disasters.