Dear Mom and Dad,
Sometimes the road you end up on is not the one you set out for, wouldn’t you agree? But perhaps this is best. Sometimes the unexpected roots, rocks and pitfalls along the path seem only to cause anguish in the moment, but in hindsight it’s often clear the tribulations took you places you never would have been otherwise; places you’re glad you’ve visited.
…
A few days after out trip to the spa in Tbilisi, Molly and I were nearly two weeks into our trip across the country of Georgia and one night, while flipping through our guidebook, we came across a brief but enticing description. The entry was for Racha – a region in north central Georgia that bordered both Russia and Russian disputed territory. Dotting the Caucasus Mountains, small villages in Racha had changed little over the last 500 years and an extensive network of trails connected them to the surrounding mountain ranges.
At this point in our trip, we had learned to expect such characteristics in the northern regions of Georgia, however, what stood out about Racha was a lack of information in both the guidebook and online. Lack of information usually meant few foreign visitors, so it seemed we had found one of the fabled ‘off the beaten path’ gems we were always searching for.
The plan was simple: hike along one of the out-and-back trails we found on a Georgian trekking blog (https://www.caucasus-trekking.com/). Instead of turning around and hiking back the same day, we would camp for the night at the turn around point. We decided to travel on our own to avoid trekking companies that charged high prices for restrictive itineraries.
After a morning of hitchhiking, we found the start of our hike: Chiora. The town contained two dozen or so wooden houses in the traditional central Caucasus mountain style: two floors and a large porch on the upper level adorned by carvings along the bannisters. Homes ascended the base of a foothill and convened around a stone spring. Pigs and ducks had the run of the place, walking freely on dirt paths, and white smoke rose from steel chimneys. Save for a small sign that read ‘hotel’, there were no road names, house numbers, or written signs of any sort. The smell of manure did little to detract from the charm of the place.
Nearing the edge of town, we passed a group of middle aged women gathered on the front stoop of a house. They paid us little attention beyond waving and flashing some half smiles before returning to chat among themselves. In the fields behind town, a few older men worked the land with hoes while others stood in the shade of a walnut tree smoking.
The road leading away from Chiora was just wide enough for a single jeep. It rose steadily through the foothills. The turnaround point of the hike was an old shepherd’s shack seven miles away and 3,200 feet above the village at a total elevation of 8,200 feet. The shack would give us a bit of shelter from the unpredictable weather and let us slip into the lives of ancient sheep herders who brought their flocks to graze below the high passes in summer.
We wound in and out of wooded patches passing decrepit fencing, an old uninhabited chapel, and a camping spot marked by a sign. Throughout the nearly four hour climb, we saw no one. The pine forest, the valley, the sweet sound of branches in the wind, all of it was ours and ours alone.
When the trail climbed higher, the pine trees disappeared and gave way to smaller bushes. With no trees to obstruct the view, kingdoms of snowy white pinnacles revealed themselves and a lush green bed of forest caressed their feet in the valleys. Despite the darkening clouds, streaks of light hung suspended over the valley and caused rooftops in the village to glow. As I ate lunch and gazed at perhaps the best view of my life, I couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride for having earned it. The view felt like a reward for abstaining from the luxuries of pre-packaged travel.
But as we pressed upwards after lunch, our luck slowly turned. The higher we climbed, the more snow piled up at the road’s edges; the mounds grew larger and larger until finally they overtook the path. Our labored steps now sank ankle deep in frozen slush. Before long, it was clear that our progress was so hampered, we wouldn’t be able to reach the Shepard’s shack before nightfall. No big deal though, there was a grassy patch just below the ridge with a marvelous view.
The tent came together quickly, sleeping bags were unfurled, small lights were hung, and all was looking cozy as we began boiling the water for dinner.
But all around us, the grass bent and swayed, the flaps of the tent whipped like flags and the flame of our stove sputtered. Clouds, which not long ago seemed beautiful and benign, now layered together making a thick black blanket that smothered the tops of mountains across the valley. Molly raised her voice over the wind, “You know, isn’t it camping 101 not to camp on a ridge? Because if a storm comes, we’d be totally exposed here, which is OK if its just rain but bad news if we start seeing lighting, right?”
Of course she was right.
Lights were stripped, sleeping bags disappeared into sacks, and our all too brief home was gone. The would-be camping spot faded behind us in the waning light as we rapidly made our descent towards a new campsite – our third attempted campsite.
By the time we reached tree line it was completely dark and the moon had not yet risen. Our headlamps kept us from tripping over ourselves, but they did little to relieve the feeling of apprehension I had knowing we would set up camp in the dark.
After an hour spent listening to the clacking of trekking poles, we arrived at the campsite we passed on the way up. I set about finding a place to lay down my pack. Around us, a lumpy open field stretched out about fifty yards in all directions. From what I could see, the tent could be set up just about anywhere, and yet something kept me from dropping my pack right away.
I saw it on the edge of the field – a bright point against an otherwise dull background. By moving my light back and forth, I was able to figure out it was reflecting light back at me. I wondered if it may be a trail marker, a metal fence, or perhaps some abandoned camping gear.
Then, as if having grown tired of playing with me, the reflection blinked.
Shit.
It can’t be.
It disappeared; I hadn’t moved my light this time. Seconds later it was ten yards away. Eyes.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Slowly, without turning my head I tapped Molly on the shoulder “Hey, take a look over where my headlight is shining, will ya?”
“Okay,” She paused and looked, “what exactly am I looking at?”
The eyes blinked again.
“Uhhhhhh, what’s that?” Molly mumbled.
“Welp” I said taking a deep breath, “that’s a good question. I got an Idea? I seem to remember reading that there’s wolves in these Georgian mountains and those eyes seem just about wolf-height, don’t they? Or am I being paranoid?”
Just then, the eyes disappeared and were lost for good.
“Okaaaay” said Molly “Well, we’re not camping next to a wolf.”
“But aren’t they one of those animals that’s more scared of us than we are of them?” I protested, “Something like that? And besides, maybe it’s not even a wolf!”
“What else could that possibly be?!”
“Uhhhh, a ferret? There’s gotta be ferrets around here right? Maybe it’s a ferret!”
“A ferret?!? Yeah. Right. Sure. Well if you wanna sleep next to a wolf that’s fine by me, but there’s no way I’m doing that.”
Molly was right again of course. We weren’t camping there.
I sighed and my pack seemed heavier as if it now carried the knowledge that we hiked an hour in the dark away from a perfectly fine campsite just to find a wolf. It was 11PM, and the storm, which not long ago seemed imminent, manifested only as a stiff breeze. In hindsight, that was a very good thing, but in the moment it only added to our frustration which was coming close to a boil. As it turns out, clouds tend to get darker when the sun goes down. I wondered if the local trekking guides knew that.
Three campsites up, three campsites down. I felt like a tin can being kicked down the road. Was this some sort of punishment for thinking we could plan our own camping trip?
The only place left to go was town and so we forced our tired legs to get moving. We figured there would be a spot to camp among the plowed fields outside Chiora, surely wolves wouldn’t venture that close to town right?
We made great time hiking down the rest of the mountain.
The fields came into view, a few street lights glowed within the village and nothing much stirred. Our Legs were wobbly, our backs ached, and our shoulders were rubbed raw. Immediately, I threw off my pack and stretched out my back bending in half and letting my arms go limp. If there was a wolf out there, it could wait a moment.
Out of breath, drained of spirit, and covered in dirt, I dreaded the thought of shining my light across the fields. It was as if I were about to uncover a truth that was better left buried, a truth I wasn’t yet ready to deal with: we couldn’t camp here either. Because even if I didn’t see wolf eyes when I looked up, we weren’t about to sleep soundly with the nagging fear that the furry fiend had followed us down and was now biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
Finally, I mustered the courage to look and in some sick and perverse sense it came as a relief to see a pair of eyes, just about wolf-height, staring back at me not 50 yards away.
No. Way. Despite my expectations, it was still unbelievable.
I couldn’t help but laugh. Molly didn’t laugh. It was 12:30AM.
A long silence followed. Eventually I spoke up “So, what should we do now?”
“I don’t know! I just don’t! Gah!!” After our fourth failed attempt at shelter, Molly, like myself, was exacerbated. “We’ve hiked for almost two hours since we first saw him! I feel like hiking more isn’t gonna help us get away from him.”
“True, but maybe on the other side of town we’d be slightly better off?”
“You think he’d stop following us if we went there?”
“No not really, but there’s that bus station shelter thing we passed on the way in. We could sleep in there. At least it’s got some solid walls.”
“Yeah, but only three of them!!”
“That’s true. I dunno! I really don’t.” I flopped onto my pack and hung my head between my knees. A dog barked somewhere on the other side of town and I imagined that stateside, a vacation booking agent, specializing in “off the beaten path” adventures, had just put down his cup of tea, looked up at me, and with a sly smile said, “Tough, ain’t it?”
I looked at Molly. It was time for a different approach, time to rediscover our faith in the other human beings of this world.
“Well, there was that sign in town” I said.
“What sign?”
“I can’t remember exactly where it was, but I do remember it said ‘hotel’. It’s not like a real sign though, its small, hand painted, and I’m pretty sure it was nailed to a street lamp.”
“Like it wasn’t in front of a hotel-looking building?”
“No, it wasn’t, but if I’m remembering right, there was an arrow below it pointing down a road.”
“Okay. Well, it’s late, something tells me there’s not a 24 hour desk.”
“Yeah, but that’s gotta be better than sleeping on a muddy floor in a bus stop waiting for a wolf to come by and pay us a visit.”
“I guess. Well I don’t really want to stand out here any longer with this wolf, so sure, yeah, let’s see if we can follow that sign.”
Treetops in the village bent and swayed under the wind’s force and soon, we came to a house – no lights glowed within. I hesitated before knocking, not wanting to bring anyone else into the mess we had made for ourselves. And yet, I didn’t want to sleep in the mud either.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nothing. I tried again.
Tap. Tap .Tap.
Still, no signs of movement. We waited a little while longer. The moon was just reaching its high point in the sky and clouds took turns soaking up its light. I had nearly resigned myself to a sleepless night on wolf alert when at last a light on the second floor turned on and suddenly there was a face in the window above us. But it was stern and unflinching. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel his gaze and it felt like I’d just disturbed a bear from his long winter slumber. In that moment, I was a lot more scared of bears than I was of wolves.
He was short and stocky, wore a stained white tank top, steel colored slacks, and now he braced the door with his thick hairy arms as he spoke to us “შემიძლია დაგეხმარო? Чего ты хочешь?” Once again, I tried to explain our situation through a series of hand gestures and once again I failed. He was growing impatient. Was this the moment the hunting rifle came out? Not quite. He called out into the house and from behind a curtain a woman emerged blinking as she got used to the light. She stood stout and stern; there were a few black strands in her short grey hair.
Before she had the chance to speak, I was already fumbling for my phone; a failed first impression here would certainly mean a night of sleeping in the mud. I pulled up the google translate app and quickly typed ‘Hotel?’ into the downloaded word bank. I showed her my screen. Taking the phone close to her eyes, she pinched its corners, squinting. She looked up, inspected us, and then looked back at the phone. She paused. “Ohhhh!” She exclaimed after a few moments “Hotel!”
“Yes, Yes!” I answered.
She laughed and her husband rolled his eyes, shook his head, relaxed his brow, and planted himself on the couch before flipping on the TV.
The woman ushered us into her home as quickly as she could. Upstairs, she turned on a light to reveal a long wide room full of empty beds. My childhood home could not have been more inviting.
In the morning, we packed our things quickly and, expecting to find our hosts irritated, readied our apologies for disturbing them so late at night. Instead, we found the woman spinning about a small kitchen with a smile. She cooked atop a wood fired stove throwing eggs together with thick slices of bacon. As soon as she noticed us slink into the room, her face lit up and she sat us at the table. Farm cheese and a loaf of bread accompanied the morning feast and everything disappeared into our hungry bellies before the small dog at our feet had a chance to beg.
Although a small part of me mourned the loss of a night spent camping in the mountains, I thought forgoing the shepard’s shack was a small price to pay to learn how the kind-hearted residents of Racha prepare their bacon.
Outside, the daylight danced in the yard against a background of peaks so stunning they may well have been hand painted. Pigs, ducks, chickens, and roosters could be heard milling about the roads as the smell of fresh grass and pine hung in the air.
…
As Molly and I travel through Georgia, we often try to get away from the typical hotbeds of tourism and instead seek out “authentic” experiences. At first, we thought that doing so would only require some uncomfortable travel arrangements: lumpy beds, tiny busses, and cold showers. But although giving up the finer things does seem helpful, now I’m not as certain that such hardships are vital for authenticity.
By planning to escape the superficial, Molly and I had only replaced one plan with another; we still had a preconceived idea of what our experience was going to be: a rugged hike to a decrepit shack with some nice scenery and a bit of solitude. If our goal really was “authentic” travel, we would’ve needed to strip away our expectations. And therein lies the real problem; our expectations of a destination attach themselves almost inseparably to the plans we make before traveling.
Yet, you need a plan, don’t you? You can’t just run off to travel without one! At the very minimum visa requirements and entrance vaccinations prompt a trip to the state department’s travel advisory website. So what do you do if you want an authentic travel experience?
That’s a good question. And I’m not sure that I, or anyone, can answer in a way that feels satisfactory. Molly and I got lucky. We did have a plan when we went to the village of Chiora. But the surrounding hills, through their grace, were kind enough to strip that plan away from us piece by piece. All we had to do was suspend the urge to resist the process.
I’ll write again soon.
Love,
Dylan
