148 - Return to Kazbegi (Kazbegi, Georgia)
I RARELY RETURN. SO MUCH TO SEE. SO LITTLE TIME. I view this as a vice, not a virtue, a neurotic fear-of-missing-out syndrome. Spend more time in places that speak to you. See less. Do more. I succumbed to FOMO on occasion, but, overall, I lingered where visa permissions allowed.
One day in Kazbegi was wholly insufficient, so when I had a chance to return, I carpéd my diem. The weather in Tbilisi was mildly oppressive. Cool, fresh air was a welcome temptation. I hitched a ride with folks I met online (Couchsurfing.com), hoping to burn at least a week with them, but altered the plan when I realized they only intended to stay one night. Not again. We parted ways after the first night. So much for the Iranian-Spanish-American Joint Operation. Such is life…
I retraced my steps to the Gergeti Trinity Church on the lower slopes of Mt. Kazbek. The stunning storybook setting can’t be overstated, but it didn’t justify the 1.2 billion shots I snapped of the church and its surroundings. Or maybe it did. Without time constraints I was free to pause, meander, and soak up the vistas, a glorious way to spend a day.
I met three Belgium gents interested in a partial hike up Kazbek (5047 m, 16655 ft). Our destination was the glacier’s edge or, weather permitting, Betlemi Hut, a former meteorological station. I would’ve preferred a full assault on the summit, but it’s a three or four-day affair, requiring ropes. I contented myself with half-assing it.
The myths and legends associated with this extinct volcano are as thick as the mist we encountered on the way up. A cave near Betlemi Hut was the prison of choice for Amirani (Georgia's version of Prometheus), the insolent son of a goddess who dared to share fire with mortals. The cave is also reputed to have housed Christ's manger, Abraham's tent, a golden cradle, a monkey paw, Merlin's cap, and Excalibur. (I may have added the last three out of a childish sense of blasphemy.) Only the pure of heart may view these objects. All others perish or go blind. I had no desire to do either, so I postponed my visit until I could purify my sins.
For many years, it was taboo to climb or hunt on Kazbek’s slopes. The London Alpine Club, having no respect for local traditions and customs, made the first ascent in 1868, blazing a trail for all the asshole foreigners to follow. I assumed taboos no longer exist, as it’s possible to book guided expeditions in the village. Then again…
Mother Nature didn’t cooperate. Mist shrouded the peak for most of the trip, while an icy drizzle soaked us on the descent. We passed a few groups who’d made unsuccessful summit attempts. Morale was low. Some appeared on the brink of snarling. I supposed if I'd dropped a couple hundred dollars and didn’t make it to the top, I'd be a bit truculent as well. We failed to reach Betlemi Hut but did forge a fair clip up the glacier. We were hazy on time and distance, so we played it safe. The view would’ve been negligible. So, we returned to Kazbegi.
The morning after my hike, the weather took a turn, raining most of the day. I was forced to retreat into an extended hibernation, though I did manage to rise long enough for lunch. A constant rain soundtrack and the cool temperature were a lullaby I was powerless to resist. My homestay was run by a woman and her younger daughter. Both were warm and friendly. Smiles were abundant.
The next day, I explored the area behind the village to the east. From afar, it resembled an ideal place to frolic my balls off. My instincts were correct. As I climbed the hill closer to the sheer rock face towering over the scene, I entered a light forest, picturesque in the extreme, intermixed with seas of grass and wildflowers. Dare I say, smurfy? It made me want to do my Little House On the Prairie a la Laura Ingalls impression. Yodeling would not have been out of the question.
Courtesy of Alexander Isakh.