Iran | Vahur Wanders

Prologue. Agony on Chaukhi
Tbilisi-Yerevan-Tabriz
Sabalan

Thought of going to Damavand had been in my mind since I climbed Ararat back in 2009. Having considerable vertigo problem, I was looking for non-technical but high peaks and this beautiful volcanic cone looked just perfect for me. Now, living in Georgia it was all of a sudden really close and doable.

First came Valdo with his triple-summit plan – Aragats-Kazbek-Damavand. Then Lina introduced me to Ali from Tehran, who was also ready to take me to the summit. When Valdo kept silence and his project seemed to fail I messaged Ali. Soon we had a deal – I would be in Tehran on August 1, then we would do Tochal for acclimatisation, then go straight to Damavand, then I would wander around the country and enjoy well-earned rest. For a while I even had a perfect companion for that trip, but as it seems to become an annoying tradition, I managed to fuck it up in the last moment and once again I was heading to my Trip of the Year solo. Oh well, I could have really used a communicative extrovert there.

Prologue. Agony on Chaukhi.

Every soldier knows saying that no plan survives the contact with the enemy. My plan did not even make it to the Georgian border. Just weeks before leaving for Iran my tango partner Marina introduced me to Nadja. She was from Moscow and wanted to go hiking. Cool. Juta-Chaukhi-Roshka with an overnight by Abudelauri lakes seemed like a perfect warmup for a big trip, nothing too hard, max altitude just over 3000, beautiful campsite. Oh boy, was I wrong. Tbilisi was hit by a proper heat wave. And one night something happened. Headache, temperature, my own bet was mild heatstroke. Hiking higher up felt like a two-edged sword now. Physical exertion might be dangerous, but then it would be also cooler and better up there. Of course, I went.

As we set off from Juta things went immediately south. No air, no power, heart rate through the roof. I decided that I am out of form due to heat and just need push on, albeit slower. Much slower. Luckily Nadja was pretty much perfect hiking companion, calm, patient, humorous and not too talkative. If she was in any way bothered that her “experienced local super hiker guide” can barely keep pace, it did not show. I would not have noticed either, as I was more and more forced to concentrate on pushing myself forward every time the slope got steeper.

Majestic Chaukhi massif in front of us. Pass is still somewhere left, around the corner

Everyone becomes a passionate photographer here

Trail from Juta to Chaukhi pass takes you from about 2200 metres to 3300. Not too hard, but still serious exercise. And we (or I) were slow. By the time we saw the pass it was late enough and far away enough from Juta, that turning back was not an option either. And I was probably not very coherent anymore. Seeing a saddle and trail zigzag up there I did not bother to check GPS and headed this way. Last few hundred metres were hell. I was losing balance, head was hazy, so I concentrated boneheadedly on making a one step at a time, supporting myself with poles, just to avoid falling. Nadja went in front, I remember her calling me from above and telling I should not play hero. It was way too late, Abudelauri campsite on the other side was already closer than any other and this is where my muddled brain had now decided to go.

Last metres to the pass. Looks like somewhere in this haze I have managed to take a picture…

Chaukhi pass

We made a long break on a pass. I got better. We made photos. And then found that there is no trail down. I checked the GPS. Fuck. Wrong path. Correct one was few hundred metres to our left, along the jagged ridge. I looked at that ridge. Normally yes, but today no way, not in my condition. Something vaguely pathlike was snaking down and Nadja went to check. Soon she shouted that it seems to continue. First it was slippery. Then it was narrow edge along the rocks, almost scrambling. Slope was damn steep and seemed to get even steeper below us. But then we got to big path, descending improved my condition and then we were down.

Abudelauri lakes. White is right. Blue and Green with their campsites are tiny specks further down the valley. Unholy mess of stones and bush between us

One more hour was spent on looking for the lost trail to lakeside campsite, but finally we tottered to the lakeside. Nadja was dead tired but I was completely out of it. Tent up somehow. German girl comes and offers to brew us some tea, seeing our pathetic shape. Nadja still has energy to go and bring the tea. Cooking some food and washing feet in the lake. Sleep. There was not much of it, as temperature jumped up and I was swimming in sweat all night. There have been better mornings. We took our time, walked to Roshka and Nadja hired a (bloody expensive) ride to Zhinvali. Guess I am now finally pro, getting paid for it 😉 In the evening, back in Tbilisi, I fired a message to Ali: August 1 is out of question, there is no way I would recover in time.

Chaukhi pass, next morning. Main trail comes along the left side of the green hill. Our path descends further left, then traverses the slope to main path.

To the top

Tbilisi-Yerevan-Tabriz

The thing is, I had a problem now. I had told all my clients that for the August they can forget about me. They promptly did, so I would have no work. Should I go? Should I stay? Can I climb? If I can’t, what the hell I am going to do in Iran in goddamn August with its scorching temperatures? And if I don’t go, will I survive in equally scorching Tbilisi?

Fuck it. In one of the last days of July I packed my stuff, took metro to Avlabari and by the late afternoon was in Yerevan. With all the planning in ruins I had no place to stay. Got a kebab in bus station, found a wifi, located more or less decent hostel and to my big fat surprise it even had a free place. Had I known what’s waiting for me I would have skipped the kebab.

Suspicious-looking dudes in the bus station had told me that marshrutkas to Meghri and Agarak (towns/villages on the Iran border) would go from there in the morning. If there is one thing I have learned from a year in Caucasus, it’s that locals usually do not know anything. And in general they do not give a flying duck. Main thing is to give you some good and soothing news. Fortunately the guy in the hostel knew better. In the morning I took taxi to railway station and behind it, on a well-hidden square is the right place. Marshrutka ride to the border is long as Daredevils of Sassoun. First you get hot, then you get cold. Pain in the arse is most certainly not figurative expression. But finally you are in Meghri, marshrutka driver promises to take you to border for a little extra. I was lucky. Noisy and excitedly talkative fella who did not speak much of useful English, appeared to be Iranian. He did all the trading, then herded me friendly but firmly through Armenian border point. I barely managed to grab a last beer. I had weeks of dry spell ahead, after all.

In Iranian border point it took a bit more time. Mongolian Rally was crossing at the same time. When I finally got through, the Iranian was gone. Damn. I had already hoped we could share a taxi. First lesson about Iranian life came fast. Do not change 300 USD in one go. You’ll need another backpack for that. “Swimming in money” problem solved, I went and hired the only taxi standing on the parking lot. Expensive but not prohibitively so. It is more that 100 km after all. On the way out we picked up my grumpy Iranian companion who seemed to be annoyed that it had took me so long.

Road along the border is gorgeous, but turns into a boring desert soon. Second lesson of Iranian life: they always help. Grumpy guy decided I need a lunch (I did), told the taxi driver to stop and wait in an unnamed small town and got me a kebab. Thanks. Of course I did not have any idea where to stay overnight in Tabriz – for some reason there were zero reactions in CouchSurfing. So he then spent better part of an evening, commandeering our taxi around the city and trying to locate a hotel that would be cheap AND with AC. We did it. Tabriz in the evening is beautiful. I went out, found a place to eat, menu was farsi only so I just ordered a kebab. Everyone was so nice and friendly, saying hello, asking where I am from, offering help. Yay!

Next day I made a tour on the marketplace. Tabriz bazaar is a sight to behold, maybe not as big as in Tehran, but all the more beautiful. I just love how those those Oriental bazaars attack all your senses with colour, smell, taste, texture and sound. And being covered, they offer an escape from heat of the streets. I had a long talk with an old junkshop owner who spoke decent English and asked me to come and have an evening tea in something that sounded like a cross between a club and a restaurant. Plan did sound really good but it was not meant to happen. Tired of bazaar I decided to take a look at museums. In an Iron Age archaeological site lovely girl offered her help. It took about 5 minutes and I was sold. We changed contacts while suspicious or curious (or jealous) male armed guard almost poked his nose into our phones. She would finish in the museum at 3. Then we take a tour to Kandovan. Deal. Hijab or not, girls have a killer smile in Iran. Kandovan village, Shahgoli park, Roshdiye with its ropeway. Old trader and his tea did not stand a chance, sorry man. I had some problems with concentrating, though. There was some excitement, too. I got my first taste of Iranian traffic, when the husband (and driver) of my beautiful guide forgot himself into a smartphone for a second too long. On a highway. It cost him a side mirror, but it was a close call that could have ended way worse. Like, fly-on-a-windshield worse. Honest, Tbilisi traffic is chaotic and crazy, but I (or any experienced European driver) would survive in Georgia. On Iranian streets I would be dead meat soon. And smartphones cause half of the chaos.

Kandovan. Yes, they actually live there, got electricity and all. AC not needed, rooms are nicely cool.

Every door goes to a separate apartment. How they actually fit, remained a topological mystery to me

From the other side of the valley

Tabriz is adorable for a city as big as it is. I was rather surprised to find that high 30ies on thermometer were quite tolerable here, something I would have considered unthinkable in my previous life. City and its surroundings would probably take full week to explore even just superficially. But now I felt myself surprisingly well, Sabalan was calling and next morning I headed for Ardabil. I might be too weak to climb Damavand. My form might me too shitty for now to climb with guys barely more than half my age. But if I do things the way I like, slow and steady, we’ll see where it gets me. Yeah, right. Slow and steady…

Evening above Tabriz

To the top

Sabalan

Sabalan. Our route went along the left side ridge. There are actually other and probably way less crowded routes from the West

I had plenty of time in Tabriz bus station, which I used well and restored the nice shiny baldness of my head. Barber was at first nowhere to be seen, but the owner of a tourist agency next door to it made a quick call and fed me with cookies and tea until the young guy arrived. As usual they all knew bare minimum of English words. “Veeraarjuufrom?” – “Estonia” – “E-eslovenia?!” (puzzled look). This dialog was going to be a standard for weeks to come.

During the bus ride a fella came and started to talk. Hearing I am planning Sabalan his hospitability kicked in and most of the ride he spent, trying to call various friends over bad phone coverage in the middle of the desert. The end result was that he found a group for me who would take me to Sabalan. All my weak protests were suppressed with a wide smile and a sudden loss of English comprehension. There goes my “slow and careful”, I thought. These guys were way younger than me – and group was supposed to be “advanced”. Bloody hell.

I also sent a message to Payadi who was my Couchsurfing contact in Ardabil. He picked me up and took to a small hotel right in the center. When I explained that I am going to Sabalan he immediately declared that he knows exactly the right man who goes there often and has lots of mountaineering experience. It started to dawn to me that when the battering ram of Iranian hospitability hits you, the resistance is futile. In the evening we met in a small shop, where Mortezar, my new guide, sells cold drinks and icecream. He was definitely great, easygoing guy with one fairly obvious minus – he did not speak a single word of English. Oh well.

Then Mortezar reavealed his grand plan. We would start in the morning from Ardabil with his car and drive to northern camp. From there we would climb straight to the top, camp there and descend in the morning. Wait a fucking minute. I took out my maps. Ardabil is at 1400 metres, northern camp at 2700. Meaning that for starters we would gain 1300 metres just by car. Sabalan is 4800. Meaning we would do 2100 metres straight in a day and camp up there. Total daily altitude gain 3400. That’s headache the size of a small planet. OK, I had been on 3200 just a little over week before. That would mitigate things. Maybe.

Well, don’t get me wrong. The plan was totally badass. In fact it was so badass it was irresistible. Sabalan is a freestanding volcano rising alone over the West Azerbaijan plain, with just gorgeous crater lake at the top. It would be once in a lifetime view. But after Chaukhi disaster I was pretty sure I cannot pull it off physically. I told them. I warned them. They responded with wide smiles. Fuck it, it’s a go. I have done my best.

Morning drive was mostly silent. Our helpless attempts to launch any kind of dialogue just failed. Mortezar parked the car and we started, first target being a hut 1000 metres higher at 3700m. Feeling was good. Some 50 meters above the parking lot he made a stop and started to stretch and exercise. I tried few stretches as well, in the name of solidarity.

Actual climb confirmed my fears. The guy was fast. We did easily 300-350 vertical meters per hour, which for me is a lot. At least his walking rhythm – hour of walk, 5-10 minutes break, was suitable. So to my surprise I could handle it, except when on one downhill segment he broke into run. I jogged stubbornly along, but breathing rhythm was totally broken. We made it to the hut in little over 3 hours and I was still feeling just fine. No exhaustion, no headache. Mortezar found friends here, we had dry lunch, then he disappeared to talk with others, I laid down. 1100 metres more. I am fine. I will rest and I can do it.

Girls love to climb in Iran. Less stupid types with stupid rules, I was told…

…but then Sabalan hut has, that’s right, a mosque. And you can drive up here. Most do. But we are not sissies, right?

Lunch break took a bit more than an hour, then Mortezar read a quick prayer and we were on our way again. From here the climb was much steeper. It took a while until muscles started to work again, but I was still surprised when Mortezar demanded a break. We had been moving 45 minutes and gained 200 metres. Barely 30 minutes and 100 metres later he wanted another break. And then another. Pretty soon it was clear than man is spent and at that speed we won’t make it to the top. In the end we camped at about 4400 metres. And I had plenty of power left. I could have made it. Before the sleep minor headache appeared, I took a painkiller and by the morning I was still in good form.

Rock is nasty hear. Lots of sharp edges.

Camp. Not a bad one at all, actually.

Night is falling

After midnight we heard people. By the morning they were passing us in endless rows, it was weekends and hundreds were now making it to the summit. Mortezar had mostly recovered and soon we were moving faster than the masses around us. Summit plateau with a lake was gorgeous indeed, but crowds spoiled it a bit. maybe August is not actually the best time for Iranian mountains. Iranians love them a lot.

What mattered most for me now was that I was again in form. Damavand, here we come!