Northeast Turkey, 6/14 – 6/15/17
6-14
The first hour or so of the drive northwest from Kars traversed a plain remarkable only for its bleakness. Even the sheep by the roadside looked depressed. The topography got more interesting as I entered the foothills of the Pontic Alps, the range separating the Anatolian Plateau from the lowlands along the Black Sea coast. Rosy cliffs started up, pine forests bristled, mountain streams rushed.
Deep in the foothills, having parked on a dirt road near an anonymous village, I hiked out to one of the most spectacular ruins in Turkey. The Cathedral of Bana, constructed by an Armenian king in the seventh century, was originally a massive circular building nearly 100 feet tall. Virtually destroyed in the late nineteenth century, it survives as a Stonehenge-like ring of piers and arches, stark against a backdrop of dull red cliffs.
Continuing west through the mountains, I snaked my way up to the village clustered around Osk Vank, an imposing monastery church built by a medieval Georgian king. Just as I reached the ruins, a storm boiled over the adjacent ridge. The sky darkened; thunder rolled and echoed; and rain began to hiss on the grass growing in the roofless nave. Taking shelter under the partially-intact dome, I watched with amusement as three village boys, using the downpour as cover, furtively broke their Ramadan fast with a bag of Doritos.
The winding road I drove for the next hour was beautiful – though my enthusiasm was dampened by a series of passing thunderstorms.
My next stop was another medieval Georgian church. Tires slipping on rain-slicked mud, I white-knuckled my way up the winding one-lane road to Ishan village, pausing along the way for a few photos of the contorted stone hills on either side.
The village of Ishan was nearly deserted; but the church, to my astonishment, was in the process of being reconstructed. My guess is that some local politician with connections in Ankara is trying to lure Georgian tourists to this remote corner of Turkey. Good luck.
Yusufeli, an ugly town in a splendid landscape, was my final destination. I went through my usual routine of missing hotel, getting profoundly lost in a web of one-way streets, and nearly killing half the town’s pedestrians. I am ready to return my rental car.
6-15
From the little village of Tekkale, I followed a heavily-rutted track to the ruined monastery of Dortkilise. After pushing my way through the romantically overgrown remains of the refectory and dormitories, I paused to admire the main church, whose stone roof was blanketed by thick layers of moss and waving grass. The interior, as usual, had suffered from the attention of treasure hunters. But here and there, above the reach of vandals, fragmentary frescoes brightened the damp walls.
My guidebook had enticed me with references to another Georgian church high on the mountainside overlooking Dortkilise, and described the 5 km jeep track leading up to it. The track, unfortunately, proved to have all but vanished beneath surging undergrowth. The climate in this part of Turkey resembles that of the Pacific Northwest, and supports what might best be described as temperate rainforest. Everything was lush, vibrant – and damn near impenetrable. I lost the track after the first kilometer, and blindly fought my way uphill in what I assumed to be the right direction. It wasn’t. I never found the church, but I did get some spectacular pictures of the mountain landscape around Dortkilise – and a healthy crop of thorns in my arms.
My last drive in Turkey was one of the most difficult in the entire trip. The first thirty kilometers of highway were one-lane. When not playing a running game of chicken with oncoming traffic, I had to watch the road itself, which featured wheel-swallowing potholes, abundant livestock, and – on one memorable occasion – a foot-deep river. At a point where the road had been re-routed around a new dam, I accidentally followed the former highway into a security checkpoint, where my car was surrounded by vicious guard dogs.
Eventually, the road acquired a second lane – but then it charged over the crest of the Pontic Alps. The southern side presented a beautiful panorama of clouds drifting over mountain meadows still streaked with winter snow.
The north side, however, was shrouded in impenetrable fog and enlivened by hairpin turns. Once below the cloud, I drove through pouring rain past unadvertised roadwork in the best Turkish tradition: at one point, I had to swerve into the other lane to avoid the scoop of a caterpillar. And then, finally, I came into sight of the Black Sea, and an actual four-lane highway. The rest of the ride to traffic-choked Trabzon was simple. Just before dropping the car off at the airport, I dished out two lira for a carwash, and watched rather wistfully as the grit of four weeks and 6000 kilometers fell away.