A morning at the shore of Sevan Lake
Armenia is a landlocked country. Lying at a mean elevation of 1,800 meters in the heart of the barren Lesser Caucasus Range, hundreds of km separate it from the coasts of the Black and the Caspian Sea.
To its geographic isolation add greatly the country’s belligerent relations with its two principal neighbors—Turkey and Azerbaijan—which, combined, encircle more than 80% of its periphery. These borders have remained pretty much constantly shut since Armenia’s foundation following the collapse of the USSR in 1991. Hardly anyone has ever crossed them—well, at least as a civilian.
In short, this isn’t the country one would associate with a beach holiday. Yet, there we were, on a balmy August morning, aroused by the soul-soothing, rhythmic splashing of waves, viewing smooth, green slopes taking off across the water.
We were situated on the shore of Lake Sevan. Covering a total area of about 5,000 km2, this is by far the largest water body in Armenia. Providing irrigation, electricity, and fish, it is indispensable to this otherwise resourceless country’s economy.
The area’s tourism industry has also been growing rapidly over the past years. But this is concentrated mostly in the northern town of Sevan and a few scattered resorts along the eastern coast.
More idyllically, we were on a tiny grassy beach, below the medieval monastery of Hayravank that so picturesquely overlooked the lake from atop a bluff, where not a single hotel existed within a radius of several miles. After a few picnicking families had departed on the previous evening, we now had the beach entirely to ourselves.
It was our second morning on the spot. Weary of weeks of trekking and hitchhiking throughout the local wilderness, sleeping on whatever even piece of ground we could pitch our tent, we decided we could well do with some rest upon reaching this oneiric place. But now, fully refreshed, we were ready to head up the vast mountains that towered behind.
To the foot of the Ghegam Mountains
The Ghegam Mountain Range, situated in the very center of Armenia, is a chain of extinct volcanoes, separated by gentle, treeless slopes and numerous alpine lakes. The highest of these volcanoes is called Azhdahak and, at 3,597 meters tall, earns the title of the country’s third-highest summit. The range is roughly 70 km long and 48 km wide. It was this width we intended to traverse on foot over the following days, and climbing the volcano on the way, make it to the Ararat plain and the country’s capital city that lay on the other side. But first, we had to reach the foothills.
Public transportation in Armenia is practically nonexistent (there are but a handful of major cities you can reach by sparse minivan routes). However, the locals’ exemplary helpfulness makes up for this inconvenience above and beyond. Drivers will often give you a ride of their own accord, seeing you walking on the roadside. Now that we also raised a thumb, it didn’t take more than a couple of cars until we rolled.
That guy dropped us off at our junction and handed us a copy of the Jehova Witnesses’ Watchtower magazine. We were a little embarrassed to refuse it so we had to bin it soon thereafter (backpacking, one’s got to spare space for more essential articles).
Before he even drove away, another driver stopped voluntarily and took us with him all the way to our destination in Gavar town. This was the last place where we’d find such a thing as a shop. We crammed our bags with food provisions, grabbed a quick dose of caffeine at a cute local cafe, and were ready to relinquish civilization.
The road penetrated for 8 more km into the backcountry to a rudimentary village called Tsaghkashen. Although we would surely hitch a ride thither, showing enough patience, it was getting late and we deemed it better to spend a mere €2 on a taxi. Past midday, we were out striding uphills.
Trekking up into the wild
The sun was searing mercilessly the desolate meadows as Sevan Lake was steadily withdrawing from our rear view. We were drenched in sweat when, 3 km later, we reached the deserted chapel of St. Gevorg. I considered it a waste of effort to build a place of worship in such an inaccessible location, but it added elegantly to the scenery, and we gladly took advantage of this rare shade it offered.
It was slightly cooler when we resumed our way. A couple more km later, we made it to what the map claimed was a much-desired brook, but in reality was a bone-dry gully. This was when I began getting worried. Going dehydrated in the mountains is one of those experiences I have had and never looked forward to having again.
Luckily, we spotted a caravan nearby; patently belonging to one of them nomadic Yazidi families who roam the Armenian mountain pastures with their livestock in the summer. My door knock was answered by a lone woman with her two little boys.
Finding an English speaker in the Armenian countryside is equivalent to winning the lottery jackpot. But she didn’t even know Russian; the language I exclusively used to communicate with the locals. However, we got by just fine with gestures and pantomime. She cordially invited us into her little home and treated us to coffee, grapes, and cookies before filling up our water pouch from her own reserve.
Carrying on for a short additional distance, we reached a little lake. In lack of anything cleaner, its stagnant water would do just fine with some filtering. So we pitched our tent near its shore and chilled for the remaining daylight hours.
A few horseriders passed by with their thirsty herds, greeting us heartily. A little boy, riding a donkey like Sanzo Pancha, hung out with us for some time. He was especially loquacious, indifferent to the fact we couldn’t understand a single one of his words. I think he was asking us to exchange our mountaineering carabiners for his donkey’s rusted bridle bits; a proposition we had to decline, notwithstanding how much we’d have liked to put a smile on his adorable little face.
He only left us by sundown, whereafter we remained alone under the star-flooded firmament.
Deeper into the wild until the volcano
After a soft drizzle that lulled us through the dawn, birds began attacking our tent to arouse us by sunrise. They all dispersed in panic as soon as I came out.
It was a brilliant morning. Walking a short way back downhills to catch signal, I checked the forecast to find out this was arguably to remain so for the rest of the day. Content by the news, we packed and hit the trail.
We went past a few more Yazidi encampments. To our displeasure, some of their shepherd dogs didn’t prove as friendly as their owners, pursuing us viciously, barking and salivating.
It was relieving going past the last one of those settlements. But then a new threat appeared overhead, in the form of black, heavily-charged clouds. Sure enough, they soon annulled the forecast’s optimism.
Sophie was feeling a little ill since yesterday evening. During the morning sunshine already, it was quite a commendable, valiant effort she undertook to get up and moving. Now, additionally dispirited by the rain, she was getting exhausted. I asked her whether she’d rather give up and we head back. But as usual, her willpower proved stronger. So we kept on ascending over the sodden ground and through the humid atmosphere.
We were progressing rather slowly, and I did not like that. Not that we were in any hurry, but the surrounding landscape lacked features, which increased the odds of our heads attracting a discharge of the wandering thunderstorms. At the ready to crouch on tiptoe upon the slightest cue of a tickle, we meandered up and down over the bog the slope had now become. We did not encounter a soul, save a horseman in search of mushrooms.
The storm was reduced to a terminal spray by the time we reached Lake Akna. But it was still cold and windy, and we were soaked to the marrow. We had covered but 8 km, and it was still early afternoon, but we were tired and disheartened. The ineffable beauty of the surroundings and the availability of water made the prospect of a premature conclusion for the day all the more tempting. We ruled to lunch in the impromptu shelter of a kiosk and think about it.
By the time we finished our meal, the sun had shined and the imposing cone of Azhdahak appeared in the distance. It was lovely and warm again, and we were eager to trek.
The gully we followed was brimming with plants but no water. We didn’t have a drop left when we arrived at what I had in vain hoped would be a lake. Not even the cracked bottom mud was moist enough to lick in case of need.
We had to carry on, at times sipping water out of teeny rain puddles on the rocks. If the next lake was also dry, we were prepared to skip the summit and carry on walking down through the whole night if necessary. But as the case often is when you have good karma, this one held a layer of residual water deep enough to submerge a bottle in. This would make a home for tonight.
Up to the crater and down again to civilization
The sky was dark and clear when the alarm went off. The ancient volcano’s outline loomed massive above. We packed everything and set off for its top.
The daybreak kindled a delicate halo around the cone as we walked alongside its western base. The sun had risen behind it when we reached the trailhead to the crater. We left most of our stuff on the spot to pick on the way down and began climbing.
The route was short and fairly smooth. The sun beat us to the top only by a narrow margin. But we got rewarded all the same by a most captivating scenery. The entire wide view was dominated by endless green wilderness and dispersed volcanoes; not a single sign of civilization within sight. And inside the highest of the craters, on whose rim we stood, there was trapped what we so much craved lately: water, in the form of a deep, blue lake.
Back down, we collected our backpacks and began on the long long way further down the west side of the range. New black clouds soon formed over the top and kept expanding to our chase, but never quite reaching us. Afternoon, well out of their reach, we reached the first Yazidi encampments and got invited into one of them. It was getting late and we still had a lot to walk, but it’s not easy to refuse those guys’ amiable hospitality. We could stay for a cup of coffee.
In the end, we had two cups; one before the beers and the vodka and one after. We also feasted on lamb, cheese, bread, vegetables, kefir, and several yields of their labor. Children observed quietly from the side while we talked, laughing and satisfying our curiosities about each other. One of them persisted that we come over to sleep in his encampment behind the next hill, but we chose to walk further and cut down tomorrow’s way.
Slightly staggering, heavy-stomached, and blister-footed, we descended. A long way later, we went past another alleged lake we’d fancied sleeping at. And after some more long way, shortly before sunset, we finally found a lovely, gurgling stream on a slope looking at the great Mount Ararat in the distance and the town of Goght near below. That’s where we reached the road by next morning and worked our way to Yerevan.
Photo Gallery
View (and if you want use) all my photographs from the Ghegam Mountains.
