Returning to my other HOME

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Three years after Covid forced me out and a major heart surgery threw a wrench in my travel plans, I finally made it back to Armenia last weekend. It was amazing how quickly the warmth of Armenians and reconnecting with old friends melted away the anxiousness I had about travelling to the southern Caucasus region. My worries were never of the normal kind, i.e., would people and places still be as I remembered? Would there still be a connection to, and love for, the communities where I trained and worked. I was more concerned about being fit enough for the journey.  

My current adventure began with new target destinations: to see parts of the country I had not yet visited; and this thanks to having a good rental car at my disposal.  Of course, driving also made me a little anxious but having a great, funny, supportive team of fellow travellers (Jesus and Ani from Peace Corps’ A27 cohort and our new friend Marietta) made my first trip to the Vayots Dzor region perfectly enjoyable. Our journey took us to the spa town of Jermuk, or what I call Armenian Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad for German or English speakers). This small, unassuming town nestled in between cliffs and canyon made for a nice respite from the stress of air travel. It also filled me with hope for all that tourism can, and hopefully will one day, offer local and regional businesses in Armenia. Although the dominant buildings in Jermuk are large therapy and rehabilitation facilities as well as a couple of resort hotels, the town’s charm, at least for me, derives from the nature that envelops it. There are the cliffs west of the town centre formed from volcanic activity and “tubes” of basalt. These geographic features always make me think of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Then, as you meander to the north end of Jermuk’s “Main Street”, you will find a sign pointing you to stairs that take you down to a beautiful, breath-taking gorge or canyon and the gurgling river that soothes even the most exhausted traveller’s nerves. 

As you walk along the canyon path, you are surrounded by beautiful flora – wild roses greet you at every turn along with other colourful flowering plants (I couldn’t tell you their names for the life of me) that jump out in shades of pink, blue, yellow and purple. The trail also offers a break from the intense summer sun that warms all of southern Armenia. Cliff overhangs and large boulders (even a rock arch) cool the canyon and make the hike all the more pleasant. Finally, when you reach the river’s edge, it only takes a few more steps before you hear that a wonderful surprise awaits. The sound of rushing water shushing eager hikers soon reveals itself to be an amazing waterfall towering from the hilltop above. It carries the cool, refreshing Jermuk waters down to the river so they can travel further south to Armenia’s Syunik region.

Many travellers will journey to Jermuk to enjoy the curative spring waters, to relax or to seek rehabilitation. Odd traveller that I am, I went there to be hugged by the hillsides, calmed by the canyon river and streams and to listen to nature telling me to slow down. There is so much energy bursting in this beautiful landscape that I can’t wait to return one day: to hike more in the sun-drenched golden mountains; to watch local beekeepers as they gather their honey; to observe the farmers as they cut, mow and rake their hay into small bales; and mainly to enjoy the serenity that is, and always has been, the mountains, gorges and canyons of Armenia.

It felt good to be back in those Armenian mountains; it felt good to be back in, and embraced by, one of the lands I now call home.  

Following the clouds across Denmark

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Could it be six? Or perhaps it was eight years? Memories came flooding back as the familiar forest of wind turbines that populate the sea of Denmark’s southern coast announced our approach to the Kastrup district and Copenhagen’s airport. So many years of recollections returned along with the apprehension of comparison: how would the present compare to the joy of all the special times from past visits?

However, slowly but surely, the days would unfold just as they were meant to be. Throngs of cyclists accompanied us as we headed to the house – the garden, upon arrival, still full of spring fragrances: lilacs, mock orange, rose blossoms, bridal wreath spirea and more. After a big welcome hug, the conversation began right where it had left off so many years ago. We shared news of what had changed in our lives and thoughts on the state of the world. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air as we sat in the garden and filled in the gaps of that half-decade.

The beauty of Copenhagen, and Denmark for that matter, lies in the warm welcome of its familiar serenity. Decades ago we would have been on our bikes whizzing into the city centre or headed out along the coastline to ride through the nature preserve. But habits have changed and health and aging have introduced limitations. The absence of riding was replaced by the careful steps of daily walks and thoughtful conversation. The neighbourhood beach had come alive with skateboarders, surfers, paddleboarders and joggers. Strolling along the shore, we watched kids at play and the more daring cranes and herons high-stepping it through the rivulets.

In between walks we enjoyed familiar culinary treats that had also remained unchanged over the years. The hearty open-faced sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower (hyldeblomst) soda pop here and there. Also, the rich cakes and tartes that quickly satisfied one’s sweet tooth; my only regret being new restrictions on how much rhubarb I could consume. The wonderful flavours of local baked goods quickly reminded me that I would need to raid the local store to hoard up my favourite Den Gamle Fabrik jams: hyben (rose hip) and raspberry. Both of which have added pizzazz to my morning porridge since my return to Prague. 

Memories continued to replenish my soul as we moved north to Nykøbing and the Rørvig area. The road to the summer house had been repaved with a mix of tar and gravel. Not sure that was a good idea. But the excess saplings in the front yard and been cleared and the rhododendrons moved to form a beautiful floral wall at the back of the property. The ever-changing Danish weather did us a solid by allowing the sun to shine and accompany us on our walk along the north shore beach that looks out on the Kattegat. We were lucky to have the coastline almost all to ourselves with the exception of an intrepid family that wanted to test the possibility of swimming in the still chilly spring waters and a sole windsurfer who was preparing to try his luck in taming the less than threatening waves. The walk seemed at times overwhelming as it brought with it mental images of past rainy Saturdays in the cottage and cycling adventures along the windy levee and through flooded fields. Or the surprise sight of a windmill on the horizon.

The pleasure of Denmark is that it is easy. No matter how long the gap between visits, each new arrival brings the same warm welcome. And each departure has a sadness of things left unsaid. Still I know I will return, because in København I feel loved.

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 2)

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In my last post, I spoke of my holiday hiking with friends met in Prague who now live in Lausanne. We decided that in today’s Covid-impacted world the best spiritual rejuvenation would come from getting out of the city and back to nature. Luckily, some of Switzerland’s most interesting and intriguing natural sites are to be found at the foot of the Jura mountains: not far from our home base in Lausanne. Our preferred destination is Les Clées (reached easily by car). Our first hike this season, a new one to me, was a footpath heading west of Les Clées village: in direction of the French border. 

I have to admit that his hike was not full-on serene for me. The nature was amazing and beautiful, but the precarious path and the threat of a possible fall off a steep incline down into the Orbe River had me a bit ill-at-ease at times. Initially, the route is wider and you focus more on questioning why you had such a big breakfast OR you wish you’d had more to eat. You need a good store of energy to push yourself up the constantly ascending path. However, quickly the route narrows and you look at the rushing Orbe below and wonder how rapidly you might plummet down to the water.

As with all things Swiss, this path is impeccably organized. Should you happen on an outshoot of rock: no worries. The locals long ago carved a tunnel into the grey-white rock so that hikers can easily navigate through the mountainside when need be. Likewise, this section of the Orbe River Path also has ample swells of fresh-water springs that trickle slowly to the rapids down below. In the winter season, these water flows offer an additional, amazing spectacle: icicle cascades. Passages through the rock tunnels along the route have an almost 2m tall person like myself dodging a number of frozen-water daggers: a) so as not to hit my head, b) in order to preserve the beauty the icicles contribute to this magical, wintertime, natural kingdom.

The hike provides ample amounts of calm and solace, with the only creatures interrupting our thoughts being Izzi our Vizsla canine companion (she’s afraid of the icy footbridges) and our Jack Russell named Poppy, who shoots up and down the path and sometimes along the icy cliffside without thought for potential consequences. Ultimately though, there is an incredible reward toward the end of the trail. These are the Le Day waterfalls (the Saut du Day) which tower over you as you reach a broadening of the Orbe River where it shallows out and serves up rocky sandbars that are perfect for a picnic. It was at the waterfalls that we went crazy with our cameras and took multiple pics of our beautiful surroundings. We let the dogs test the icy waters and run to their hearts’ content. Plus, it was there that we came across our first humans: other locals on holiday, who also apparently needed to escape their isolating in place for just an hour or two.

I am thankful to have spent a part of my holidays admiring the Orbe River and the gorge through which it passes. It is a calming, fascinating place where I never cease to be in awe of how the water swiftly flows, sharing its gurgles with the random hikers who pass alongside it. I give thanks to the Swiss people who look after the nearby paths and make such wonderful views of nature accessible to all who journey to the area for a walk. As I sit here in Day 4 of my post-holiday quarantine, I can still hear the river calling me. Come back one day. I’ll be waiting. And surely I will return: for a future dose of much needed and appreciated serenity.       

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 1)

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Thanks to a friend’s accidental click-and-point approach to trail searches on a map of Switzerland, I was fortunate enough to come to know the peaceful beauty of the Orbe River this past year. I first hiked the river trails in June 2020, during an escape to Switzerland once Europe’s borders opened up after Round 1 of the Covid pandemic.

The Orbe is a meandering, bubbly, mountain river-stream deep in the Vaud region of Switzerland. It touches upon the base of the Jura Mountains some 40 or so kilometers north of Lausanne. My entry point to the river hiking routes has always been the quaint, little village of Les Clées, with its picturesque tower, church and stone bridges. From Les Clées, one can follow hiking and cycling routes east down to the town of Orbe or take the narrow hill paths to the West over to the waterfalls hidden next to the village of Le Day.

The best qualities of both paths include the calmness, the embrace of forest silence, and the soothing whispers of the Orbe as it gurgles to you from the sometimes scary drop below. The walk toward the town of Orbe begins as most of us imagine a Swiss hike should. The hiker trapses through meadows that hug the village of Les Clées. Soon, you approach the forest line, after passing a cow or two, and you walk along a sandy-rock path high above the mountain stream. The path offers tiny bits of natural wonder as you gaze at the stunning emerald moss that covers many of the trees and listen to the trickles of water from springs flowing from the hillsides. At times, wooden bridges help you over sections of the path, where the abundant water sources make the route too muddy to pass. Then a fork in the trail gives you the option to descend down to the bubbling, gurgling Orbe.

The descent can be daunting when the path is snowy or muddy. But with patience and care, you can make it down to the water safely. Plus, a slow downward walk affords the opportunity to notice the handiwork that has gone into developing forest staircases and root-formed guard rails that keep hikers from sliding directly down to the stream. At the bottom, the blue metal bridge gives a moment of respite and as the water lulls walkers into reflection. The blue of the bridge, the deep greens of the fluffy moss, the brown-grey-green-blue hues of the water and rocks offer a color harmony that overwhelm even a colorblind hiker like myself. My judgment of the various tones and hues is not that of the majority, yet still the natural color symphony takes my breath away. 

After several minutes of absorbing the sounds of the Orbe and its calming rush through the mountain rocks, I head upward along the what I call the southern bank, making my way back to Les Clées. That side of the stream offers vistas of the springs and waterfalls on the northern side; particularly, when hiking in late fall or winter after the leaves have fallen from the trees. Walkers have better views of the water as the hiking path rises above it and the mind quickly becomes overwhelmed by still more natural beauty. Part of you wants to sit and take in the river or, on a hot day, jump into the cool, soothing waters. Another part of you wants to indulge in the escape offered by these seemingly ancient forests in which you imagine Roman soldiers must have marched or where you feel like you may have been transported to the green moon of Endor as described in George Lucas’ Star Wars movies.

As you near the end of what I call the “East to Orbe” circuit (by returning to Les Clées), you catch glimpses cross-river of the green fields where the cows you saw earlier continue to graze or you notice from afar the village’s unmistakable tower. It lets you know that your car, and some well-earned rest, is not far away. This path has become a staple activity during my visits to friends in Lausanne. It puts my spirit at peace and makes me grateful for the simplicity of nature. The opportunities the Orbe offers for quiet hiking, smiles of non-speak with friends, and the curious meandering of our canine companions (specifically memories of my dear Mica) are priceless. In a restless world of Covid angst, the Orbe River surges with serenity.

Wandering Lužnice (Pt. 1)

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It was a couple weeks ago that two friends and I went hiking along the Lužnice River in southern Bohemia. The Lužnice (called the Lainsitz in German) originates in Austria and we decided to walk the stretch from Planá nad Lužnicí to Běchyně. This portion features serene, mildly-flowing waters that attract swimmers, cyclists, rafters, and hikers like ourselves.

Our first afternoon, a roughly 17km trek, had us walking through various towns and villages just south of the larger town/city, Tábor. It’s an area full of small cottages and well-kept gardens, where local residents use the path along the river to make their trips to visit friends or to their local grocers more pleasant. The first part of the route was rendered more enjoyable by the cool breeze flowing up off the water and the views of gardens that townsfolk seemingly attend to with great care. The river path is brightened with the radiant yellow of sunflowers, the blazing reds of dahlias and cosmos, and the regal purply-blues of late-summer asters.

As we neared the first crossing to head up into the forests south of Tábor, my friends decided to take a dip in the river and to enjoy the refreshing chill of the water. Such a treat was much needed in the sweltering heat of that Friday’s 36-37°C sun. After taking some time to rest and dry off, we stopped for a quick beer in Sezimovo Ústí and then crossed the pedestrian bridge into the forests and glades on the opposite side. The welcome shade cooled us off as we made our way to the Tábor Zoo in the village, Větrovy. By the time we neared the village, the forest had given way and the late afternoon sun was punishing. As we neared the center of the village, we quickly acquiesced to the bidding of a local ice cream salesman, whose wares we hadn’t realized we so sorely needed. It would be his vanilla/pistachio soft-serve that sustained us all the way down the hill into Tábor. In roughly an hour, we descended into the city; via the quiet villages of Horky and Čelkovice. That night the beers served with dinner never tasted better. Then we capped of the evening with a brief tasting of Romanian wines that my friends would later bring back to Prague in ample supply.

The second day, after a night of troubled sleep in a mistakenly-booked B&B that turned out to be a hostel, saw us up early to get a quick start at the 20+ km that lie before us. This was admittedly the most beautiful part of our hike as we set out from Tábor with riverside views of First Republic villas and once active mills that had previously ground grain for nearby villagers and Tábor residents. It was during this portion of our hike that we met our first rafters and kayakers who had chosen to spend their weekend “taming” the Lužnice. Our path and the terrain along it varied repeatedly: with different segments of asphalt road amendable to cyclists interspersed with muddy marshlands and sometimes precariously placed boulders. Here, the river twists and turns until you get to the highly anticipated points that the Toulavá Lužnice website describes in its path highlights: the cliff tunnel after the Breda path intersection and the hanging boardwalk that takes you around the bend right to the Příběnice camping area. It was in Příběnice where a belated lunch (coupled with slower-than-average service and a missing Wi-Fi connection) sent one of my friends into a panic.

But luckily abundant beer would soothe his nerves. Once again, the Czech tradition of generously placing pubs along bike routes and hiking paths did not disappoint. And soon we were fortified with the golden treasure that is Pilsner beer. A second pitstop at the nearby campsite close to the Lužničanka settlement would fortify us even more. Soon we would be nearing the Empire-style bridge below Stadlec after braving the muddy, uneven path that would become slightly more treacherous as we ceded way to families of cyclists who hadn’t anticipated the difficult terrain. Many of them would find themselves faced with the repeated choice: ride and risk flying into the water or just carry their bicycles a good part of the way. It was under the Stadlec Bridge where we would take some extra time to rest our weary feet and enjoy the coolness of the Lužnice’s now rapid-flowing waters. Swimming and soaking our sore limbs, we admired the rafters as they worked to negotiate the sluices below the bridge.

Soon, we reluctantly shoed back up and embarked on the last part of our journey for that day: heading to our accommodation in Dobronice. It was that early evening segment of the Lužnice path that tested our mettle. With the final few kilometers making the whole day’s pedestrian (meant here in the hiking sense) efforts all worthwhile. We pushed our way up the final ascent just before Dobronice where we got our first views of the winding waterway from up above. We took a short pause at the Chapel of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin to get some glimpses of the sunset and to admire the mills along the river below, near which we would soon be having dinner and getting a good night’s sleep.

The (Swiss) hills are alive …

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It’s been awhile since I’ve added to this blog. That’s mainly because the past few months have been about readjusting to life in Central Europe and trying to get things organized in my business. However, I recently had the good fortune, once Europe re-opened its borders, to go spend two weeks hiding out with some very special friends, Pete and Laura, at their home in St. Sulpice, Switzerland.  It’s a cute little town/village/suburb on the outskirts of Lausanne, and it must be said … they have an awesome view of Lac Léman (Lake Geneva). 

One of my favorite take-aways from my time there was all the gorgeous vistas around the lake; with mountains on every side and the confusing geography that always has you wondering: am I looking at France? Or am I looking at Switzerland.  In any case, there was so much beautiful nature to take in; including the calm waters of Lac Léman, the moody storm clouds rolling in from the Alps or creeping in from the Jura. There was also the morning songs (and sometimes cackles) from the birds who lived near the lake.  When I think back on my visit, I reckon these are some of my favorite memories…

The incessant ringing of the mountains

When we took a Sunday hike in the mountains north of Gland/Arzier, it became immediately apparent that each cow/bull has a bell. And those bells clang non-stop as the animals graze in their alpine pastures and wander to find new meadows unexplored. The sounds give the hills an almost church-like atmosphere where the carillons of cow bells call you to nature’s cathedral and invite you to commune in the lush fields and enjoy the soothing, warm winds that pass through the forests. 

The tangy taste of Gruyère cheese

This was one of my favorite moments during my visit. Parking just below the medieval village of Gruyères and walking through the old gate into this fortified settlement made me feel like I had travelled back in time. As you walk over the cobblestone-paved square and admire the shops and cafés that hark back to a time long ago, you can quickly imagine horse carts and wagons as they must have once brought in wares and crops from the surrounding area. Or vendors as they traded goods from shops and stalls in this hamlet that is home to one of my favorite cheeses. Just down the hill from Gruyères, in the town of Pringy, you can visit the Maison du Gruyère museum and buy all the delicious cheese you want. That coupled with the exquisite views of Le Moléson mountain gives you a sense of serenity and contentment that is worth they journey.

The markets of Évian

Just across Lac Léman from the port at Ouchy lies the peaceful village of Évian les Bains. The town famous for its freshwater springs and its spa hotels makes a nice day trip for visitors from Lausanne, Geneva or the surrounding areas. I travelled there with Laura to explore the Friday farmers’ markets and enjoy the promenade along the waterfront. The animated vendors as they hawk their meats, cheeses and vegetables are a wonderfully intriguing sight to observe. Or sipping a rich cup of coffee while eating a pain au chocolat is just the right treat for starting a holiday weekend.  Plus, there’s the added benefit of looking back at your holiday home on the Swiss side of the lake and taking in the serene Vaudois shores.

I am so grateful to my friends for allowing me to “disappear” at their home for the past couple of weeks. Switzerland and its captivating, hospitable and welcoming countryside was just the right antidote to this spring’s long periods of isolation mandated by the Covid world. If you get the chance to wander through the Swiss mountains and explore the paths that lead you to breathtaking views of the country’s many lakes, definitely seize that opportunity. It’s well worth it.

Go to Prčice …

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Do Prčic … it’s a funny phrase you learn when you first explore the Czech language. It essentially works out to mean “Oh crap”, “gosh darn it”, or “F*(k” in English. But it literally means “go to Prčice” a small village in the southeastern part of Central Bohemia. Besides being the namesake of a crazy, fun, torturous hike from Prague that takes place about this time in May every year, the area around Prčice is fun for day-walking and exploring.

I was just there last weekend and got to wear out my legs and take in springtime in the rolling hills of this area. It offers everything from sweet-smelling apple groves, to overabundant fields of rapeseed plants, on to nonplussed herds of cattle (Herefords, Charolais and Simmentals) grazing in newly vernal pastures. I love the area because it offers quiet, beautiful walks through fields and forests that are interspersed with ponds and lakes and sometimes the occasional horse farm.

The area is also beautiful because of the varied sites the villages have to offer: the colorful facades of homes and farms decorated in the village baroque (selské baroko) style or the animals, usually chickens, ducks or geese, who come to greet you as you pass the gates to their yards. Oftentimes tourist paths lead you alongside cool, babbling streams where frogs sing and make their homes or where ducks have recently begun to raise their young.

In the fields near Prčice, Javorová skála and Vojkov/Podolí, you can sometimes catch sight of deer as they make their way to the fields to seek food at dusk. Or, if you walk quietly, in the adjacent forests, you might happen across a random doe or buck, as they return to their herds in the nearby fields. Other times, you come across discoveries that can be less pleasant for certain hikers: like a mother garter snake protecting her nest of babies.

My favorite sites in the Prčice area include the climb up to Javorová skála to see the old post office that someone transplanted from the Czech Republic’s highest peak Sněžka to this random hilltop in Central Bohemia. Of, if you go a little farther, you can climb on top of Čertovo břemeno (which translates as the devil’s burden/load) which is rumored to be a huge boulder that that devil had been carrying to drop atop, and destroy, a newly-built village church before it’s consecration. Luckily, the devil was late in his mission and the church was consecrated before he could destroy it. So, he dropped the boulder in shock (or perhaps disappointment), leaving it perched atop a nearby hill.

Most recently, I took time during a hike to enjoy the teaching trail (naučná stezka in Czech) that is named after Sidonie Nadherná of Borotín, a Bohemian baroness who is famous for hosting literary salons and is known to have corresponded with German poet Rainer Rilke. The trail takes you through a newly-restored horse farm and riding school in another village called Podolí. It’s such a beautiful area, I took the opportunity to each my lunch under a lovely oak grove while I watched the farm’s owners lead their horses to and from the fields and exercise them. There are so many hidden gems in villages of Central Bohemia, so I as close this text, I can definitely advise … go to Prčice (or any of the villages nearby).

Finding peace and gratitude along the Vltava

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I realized after writing my last blog entry that perhaps my words had been too aggressive. Most likely in a time of crisis few readers cared to hear my complaints about being lost in the quarantined world of Prague after leaving the Peace Corps. Those words did not come from a place of anger though: more of frustration because I had not yet been able to see friends I was missing for over a year. So that’s why I put my butt on a train and headed up the Vltava River.

It’s hard to explain the Vltava. It’s like the spinal cord of Bohemia or the Czech lands. It was on the hills above the river that Libuše had her vision of a city whose glory and light would shine for thousands of years. That city being Prague of course. It is where, per local legend, Horymír, atop his horse Šemík, jumped the waterway and fled en route to Neumětely. Along this river vagabond-hikers set up camps and spent their weekends in nature, or southern Bohemians first brewed the original Budvar (today’s Budweiser) in České Budějovice. But for me, the Vltava River represents calm. It represents continuity and simple beauty. It’s a river that runs from an unassuming source in the mountains and hills of the Šumava and carries its natural sustenance and history all the way to the Czech capital and beyond.

During the past week, I took a couple of short trips along the river, south of Prague (just under an hour away by car or train). Once at my destination, I either hiked my way back toward the city or did a forest circuit. My Tuesday hike was a celebration of spring. As I tromped up the hill away from the banks of the Vltava, I reveled in the embrace of fruit trees’ hugging branches as they shadowed the forest paths and ancient roads. The melodious hum of bees and wasps busy at work accompanied me along rows of cherry, apple and apricot trees in full bloom. As the sun shone and warmed the road, for the first time since returning home, I felt at peace. It was the peace at spring: of the healing sun and nature’s rebirth. Because of current restrictions, I was one of few people in the forest. Still, that made me all the more aware of how grateful I should be. I advanced along the path to reach the tops of bluffs along the river. There, I found the remains of campfires local villagers had enjoyed and later extinguished; I saw the view of the railroad bridge over the Vltava that I had travelled across only moments before. In a brisk wind looking down at Bohemia’s natural life source, I imagined all those who had come before me. How emperors and kings had traveled that river in the age of the Holy Roman Empire or Austria-Hungary. Or how the labors of loggers in the southern forests had sent wood down elaborate canal systems and into the river so that it could float to Prague for use on major construction projects of the day.

And on my trip yesterday, I saw a river full of hope. It was a Vltava that was enjoying a break from the busy swarms of Prague residents who rush to its banks as soon as warm weather allows. The river was calm, but it was ready… for people to return. That’s when I felt the most gratitude: as I watched random boats laze on the water floating around the area stilled by the Slapy dam. I was grateful for the river and the stories she knows: the stories she tells. I was grateful for the sustenance she brings in nourishment for the fruit trees and berry bushes along her banks. I was thankful for the livelihoods she supports as tourists and locals visit her to swim in her refreshing waters and relax over a half-liter of Bohemia’s most famous golden lagers. Yes, the river is my constant – a source of relaxation, beauty, learning and life. As long as she flows, I will live happily and delight in returning to hear her tales and will remain forever grateful for them.

Solace in the hills (how I fell in love with northern Armenia)

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I became enamored with the mostly barren mountains of Armenia’s Lori region the first time my marshutni (minibus used for public transport) crossed over the mountain pass that enters the area just south of Spitak.  After a half-hour of travelling the road that lies in the shadow of Mt. Aragats northern side, the winding descent into Lori left my mouth gaping.

It’s hard to describe. There are the colors: the multiple shades of tan, brown and gray that make up the hillsides; tones which juxtapose nicely with the blotches of alabaster snow scattered on the mountaintops and the various shades of pale blue that tint the local skies.

The mountains of the Lori region are like a mother’s embrace. They fold over on you and welcome you each time you venture out to explore them.  Plus, there is a certain mysticism you feel as you climb each hill and arrive at increasingly better vantage points from which to look at nearby cities and villages.  The peaks of Lori offer a bird’s eye view of Armenia’s third-largest city Vanadzor or further west you can look down and take in the sprawl of Spitak, the town at the epicenter of the earthquake that hit Armenia in 1988.

Yet what’s even more special about the mountains of northern Armenia is the solitude they offer.  So many conversations I’ve had with local city-dwellers or even villagers begin with the question: why do you need to climb a mountain?  And my response, which is invariably the same, goes like this: to see if I can.  Each time I embark on a hike through the hills of Lori, I gain so much more than just a good workout. There is an opportunity to take in the silence, to revel in the ancientness of the land and to surmise what nomads or tradesman might have wandered these peaks and valley centuries ago as they made their way from Asia to Europe.

Perhaps my biggest joy derived from running to the hills nearby my beloved Vanadzor is knowing that, most likely, the journey will involve just me, my thoughts and the random shepherds I happen upon during my walk.  I recall a funny conversation I had with a shepherd one Saturday as plodded my way up Karmirsar (Red Mountain).  “Why are you here?”, the shepherd asked.  I shrugged and replied, “To enjoy the mountains and to imagine their history.” He offered a confused look and went on guiding his cattle down the hillside.  To be honest, I didn’t really know why I was there, except perhaps to enjoy the beautiful views and to soak in the warmth of the autumn sun.  But the truth is the hills of the Lori region have a very specific energy.  So, maybe I was just there to recharge.