Mt. Aragats

During the first three days of being in Yerevan I went from being weary of drinking tap water to filling my water bottle from a pipe sticking out of the side of Mount Aragats.

It was a bold move, and a necessary one and I don’t regret it. I anticipate needing to make several such adjustments in the coming months.

Every day we have been here has been full of adventure and intrigue. This is often due to a combination of my mother’s extremely impressive international connections and our general fortuitous nature as a pair of world travelers.

Hiking Mt. Aragats was an excellent, if exhausting way to be introduced to the land, climate and people of Armenia. It is the highest point in Armenia at somewhere around 4000 meters elevation. We began at 3200 meters and made our way to the top from there. This might not seem very impressive but mountains are probably the last thing you should underestimate.

Our guide started us at a pace which I would describe as meandering. If you have ever walked with me you will know that this is not my style but I did not complain as I was acutely aware of how thin the air felt at only the beginning of our hike. It was at least a solid ten degrees cooler here than in the city and I knew that if I pushed myself too hard I might burn out before making it to the top.

And so we meandered.

Our guide had told us that it would take three hours to reach the peak and two to return.

No trees grow on Aragats, indeed nothing taller than a few bunches of flowers could be found in the way of plant life and so there was nothing to block my view of the top of the mountain from where we started. I was skeptical as I could see our destination clearly before me and could not understand why it would take so long to get there. I didn’t voice this feeling and kept it moving.

Soon I was sucking air in through my mouth and my heart was beating twice as fast as usual despite our sluggish pace. The sun beat down on us though I couldn’t feel the heat for the cool breeze that actually was giving me goose bumps. This would later give way to a nasty sun burn on my arms which I left uncovered, like a fool.

The mountain, like much of the surrounding landscape, is made of varying types of rock. Volcanic rocks, specifically, and in places where lava once flowed there are rocks that have been broken up and lie stacked upon one another which makes for very hard climbing. Every step you take could result in an avalanche of shards of rock.

Through the rocks poke the heads of dandelions that insist on growing despite the harsh circumstances. They are fed by snow melt, of which there are two dirty spits left on the mountain. The older flowers have petals peeled back, cowering beneath the relentless sun.

The peak, which looked so close at the beginning of our hike, does not seem any closer as I stop to drink water. I put my head down and hike farther, look up, and it still isn’t any closer.

The mountain is not to be underestimated.

In my mind I repeat the same refrain:

I’m a goat, I’m a goat, I’m a goat...

If they can do it, I can. The mountains and hills in Armenia are full of mainly sheep, but I prefer the random goats. They seem more resilient to me.

And all of a sudden I’m at the top.

I can see for miles in every direction and if I had any breath left, the view would take it. From this height everything is cloaked in a haze that gives the earth a surreal and dreamy appearance. The valley where we began is a spread of muted yellows and greens, the colors of the scrubby brush that covers the ground. Lower peaks seem like gigantic waves, frozen at the crest and ready to submerge everything below. Mountains in the distance are a misty blue that melt into the sky.

At the top of Aragats there is a silence so complete that when I close my eyes I feel like I’m in space. The air is clean and sharp and I breath it in deeply as I try to focus on the heat of the sun contrasting with the now cold wind.

This sensation lasts for about three minutes until our fellow hikers burst out into Armenian folk songs. I am then coerced into a circle where I mumble along to the national anthem, having forgotten half of the words.

The descent is almost more challenging than the climb as I have to fight the urge to just let all my muscles relax and tumble down the boulder garden that slopes down to our car.

I take my boots off as soon as we arrive at the car and struggle to regain feeling in my toes. I settle in for the hour drive back to Yerevan and am horrified when, after having driven only 20 meters we pull to the side of the road. I’m afraid I’m going to be made to walk again when I realize we’ve just come to fill up our water bottles at the aforementioned pipe sticking out of the mountain.

Once we rehydrate we are back on the road and I relax into my seat.

It isn’t far before we’re stopping again, this time for something much more vital than water. A boulder on the side of the road is painted with the word ‘honey’ in Armenian, French and Russian.

I find myself staring at a trailer parked next to twenty beehives, all humming with production. There are no other buildings anywhere in sight. The woman who ushers us into the trailer has blue eyes and blond hair, a combination I have never associated with Armenians but she is undeniably Armenian. If not from her language, then from the way she herds us like sheep, the way she insists that we sit around her table and eat, eat, eat and do we want tea? No tea? Oghi, then. And she brings out shot glasses and fills them with clear, mulberry liquor that she made herself, 61% alcohol, and you have to shoot it, and why are you sipping? Is something wrong? No need to sip...my blood, still rushing from the altitude and the hike is now saturated in oghi and I can do nothing but chew on some honeycomb and wait to be dismissed.

We left Aragats and the trailor with several kilos of honey and a nice little buzz.