Hiking in Georgia’s Breathtaking Caucasus Mountains

Landing back in Amman after a week in Georgia, I am struck by the flatness of the landscape, stretching out endlessly in all directions. The city feels like it has been erected out of paper, like some two-dimensional attempt at reality.

I have ventured high into the Caucasus Mountains, have felt the crisp mountain air, have felt like a speck of dust against towering terrain on all sides, and I am having trouble adjusting back to the lowlands.

I had never really considered myself a ‘mountain person.’ Childhood trips to Snyder Country, Pennsylvania, where my grandmother’s house sat low in a narrow valley, always left me feeling claustrophobic. I was also prone to choking up at unprotected heights. (My mother likes to tell the story of how, as a toddler, I would climb to the top of the slide at the park near our house and then freeze up—afraid to slide down but simultaneously too stubborn to simply give up.) At a certain point, quite early on, I seem to have accepted my place as a flatlander.

But at 36, I am delighted to find that I am still learning new things about myself—discovering new passions, uncovering new strengths, pushing beyond old limitations and apprehensions and fears.

*Alone in an abandoned fortress as rain falls and thunder rings out in the not-so-far-off distance: I have never known joy quite like this*

What I’m saying is that, two weeks after my short little expedition into the Caucasus region, my head is still high up in the foggy mountain air—or, perhaps, vice versa. I am craving the breathtaking majesty of snow-capped peaks, the sensation of rocks and grass and mud beneath my feet, the incomparable joy of being alone in the wilderness.

I spent a mere three nights in Kazbegi—a popular Georgian mountain escape near the border of Russia—and managed to complete two of the most fantastic day hikes I’ve ever undertaken. This time in Kazbegi was bookended by relatively short stays in the capital of Tbilisi, a place I look forward to writing more about in the weeks and months to come.

*Tbilisi’s Gabriadze Theatre offers a delightful taste of the city’s whimsical magic*

After my first couple nights in Tbilisi, I set off for Kazbegi late on Monday morning, having hired a driver through GoTrip (look, I don’t normally do any blatant promotion on this blog, but this service is seriously one of the coolest I’ve encountered in all my travels, allowing you to basically design your own tour with a highly professional driver. If you’re planning to visit Georgia, GoTrip is a must).

Between Tbilisi and Kazbegi, my driver takes me to a huge number of destinations along the route, from ancient churches and monasteries to picturesque natural vistas, to the birthplace of khinkali dumplings, the village of Pasanauri. (Don’t worry, my foray into Georgian food will get a blog post of its own soon enough.)

*The khinkali in Pasanauri is out-of-this-world delicious*

After a full day of sightseeing that gradually climbed higher and higher, we arrive at my hotel in Kazbegi shortly before sunset—just in time to check in and enjoy the breathtaking view afforded from my room.

Once the sun has set, I order a Georgian salad and some lobiani (a savory bread dish filled with mashed kidney beans) from room service, devouring the salad and saving most of the lobiani for the following day.

*Spectacular evening views from my balcony at Rooms Hotel Kazbegi*

Prior to my trip, I had identified two day-hikes that seemed within my capabilities: one that seemed fully doable, and another that, while possible, would push me a bit beyond my previous hiking experiences.

The first of these is Truso Valley; the second is the hike from Kazbegi to Gergeti Glacier.

Truso Valley

Total distance hiked: 21-22 kilometers

Total hiking time (including breaks): 5-6 hours

I wake up around 6:30 on Tuesday morning with a bit of congestion and a sore throat. This is not the most ideal start to my day, but I’m not about to let it hinder my plans. I drink some tea, followed by coffee, as I prepare my pack for the day: a sufficient amount of water (a two-liter bladder and two 0.7-liter bottles, one of which includes an electrolyte tablet), my trusty first-aid kit, a dry bag filled with a bit of cash and my passport, an extra pair of trainers (in case my month-old hiking boots haven’t completely finished breaking in my feet), my leftover lobiani from the night before, and some churchkhela (a local snack made by stringing up nuts and coating them in a concentrated grape juice) that I bought from a small village on the way up to Kazbegi.

The weather report promises thunderstorms in the early afternoon, so I make sure to leave the hotel around 8:00. My driver drops me at the head of the trail just before 9:00 and gives me his phone number before barreling off in his rugged Delica van.

After passing through a tiny village, I head up through a gorge along a rocky dirt road. The path rises steadily above the raging waters below, until it winds back down and the gorge opens up to reveal the verdant valley.

*Nearing the end of the passage through the gorge, which opens up to reveal the verdant Truso Valley*

Across the river, I soon spot Abano Lake, a tiny mineral lake. A group of men on horseback greet me as they pass by. Soon, I am walking through a herd of cows, who look on furtively as I weave between them.

Mineral deposits paint the banks of the river a vibrant wash of yellows, oranges, reds, and rusts. As I walk, a thickening wall of clouds begins to creep its way across the sky.

*Most of the cows seemed wary of my presence; these two were unbothered*

After a while, I come across the first of two villages: Ketrisi. The facades of ancient stone houses are in a state of ruin, and the entire village appears abandoned, until I spot a group of baby turkeys—and then, behind a stone fence, two women engaged in farmwork. They look on with only a hint of curiosity, and then continue with their labor.

At the edge of the village, I cross over a metal bridge just as large, heavy raindrops begin to fall. Up ahead, on my right, there is a monastery set far back from the road. Next to the road, beside the monastery gate, is a small covered area, where I rest momentarily. The rain eases up and I continue onward, toward the village of Abano. At the entrance of the village, an old man stops his work momentarily to wave hello. The ancient stone structures of Abano seem only slightly less dilapidated than those in Ketrisi, and I spot a few more residents going about their days.

Ahead, I finally lay eyes on the end of the path: Zakagori Fortress, situated atop a steep hill, right along the border of South Ossetia. Below the fortress is a small border guard station. I’ve heard rumors of the guards stopping hikers, which is why I’ve brought my passport, but as I approach, they seem uninterested in my presence. A small path forks off to the right and begins to climb. Instead of following it all the way to the entrance of the fortress, I veer off to the right again, up a hill where I find a curious group of cows. The grass is tall and I have to do my best to avoid stepping on the many small frogs that leap around my feet.

*These cows seemed more perplexed by my presence than anything*

As I approach this crumbling fortress from the back, thunder begins to echo out overhead. I wander through the abandoned fortress, which offers spectacular views of the valley below. I sit down in a dilapidated doorway and take a short break, eating my leftover lobiani as a light rain trickles down. An involuntary smile has spread across my entire face. I can’t contain my joy. It is rapturous. I sit and think about every life decision that has led me here: every triumph, every tragedy, every failed relationship, every chance encounter, every hard-won battle, every stumble, every success, and I am grateful for all of it.

I sit for a while, enjoying the rest and the solitude and the gorgeous green vistas and snow-covered peaks and the moody, atmospheric clouds and thunder and rain.

*The ruins of Zakagori Fortress currently mark the border with the breakaway region of South Ossetia—and the end of the Truso Valley hike*

I don’t encounter any other hikers until I’m back down on the main road—but on the way back, with the weather now considerably colder, rainier, and windier, I cross paths with several others. It appears that most hikers here prefer a later start to the day—a shame for them, because my morning start provided me with idyllic weather conditions for the first half of my hike.

Before I enter back into the gorge, I text my driver to let him know that I need about 45 minutes—giving him enough time to drive back to the trailhead from Kazbegi.

*Savoring the last moments of this gorgeous hike*

Back at the hotel, I enjoy an early dinner, a beer, and a deep sense of satisfaction—and just the right amount of confidence I need to tackle the following day’s considerably more challenging hike.

Gergeti Glacier

Total distance hiked: 26-27 kilometers

Total hiking time (including breaks): 12-13 hours

I am up before the sun—around 5:00 the following morning. I drink my coffee and eat a bit of fruit I’d ordered from room service the night before, packing up the khachapuri I’d also ordered (intended as my nourishment for today’s hike). The contents of my backpack are otherwise the same, save for the addition of my hiking poles, which I tie onto one of the straps of my bag. I set out from my hotel around 6:00.

This is, I suppose, where I should inform you that my hotel is situated at the furthest possible location from my destination. Rooms Hotel Kazbegi is undoubtedly one of the best hotels in Georgia, and offers absolutely spectacular views of Mount Kazbek—and the Gergeti Trinity Church—because it’s high on an adjacent hill, meaning that I have to descend down into the valley before climbing back up through the village (and then up—and up—and up—and up).

Once I pass all the way through town, I veer off to the left, through a small parking area, and then up a steep incline that takes me around Gergeti Tower. I follow a steadily rising path up toward Gergeti Trinity Church—but instead of doubling back toward the church, I’m headed onward and upward.

Gergeti Tower, near the start of the trail up to Gergeti Trinity Church; there is an easier, more gradually sloping path around the left side of the tower, but as is my nature, I veer straight up to the right, along considerably steeper ground

On my way up to the church, I pass a group of horses grazing on the slope. One of them seems especially curious about my presence, and he trots right up to me, letting me give him a nice little pet as he curls back his lips and flashes his teeth (which, I am told, is something they do to aid their sense of smell). I linger with my new friend for a moment before continuing onward and upward.

*My new horse friend was very curious to get to know me*

I walk past the church parking lot, toward a sign that points up to the glacier—up a very steep hill. Atop this hill, I take a short break, enjoying a quick bite of churchkhela and some electrolytes and taking in a spectacular view of the church down below, as a thick fog begins to creep in.

There are two routes from here that lead up to the glacier: the ‘classic route’ climbs along the side of the valley (with the church steadily diminishing from view for most of the hike), or the ‘ridge route,’ which is slightly longer and considered a bit more challenging (and therefore less popular), but which promises the most exceptional views of Mount Kazbek the entire way up.

I head up the ridge route, and only encounter three other hikers on the way up to Sabertse Pass—a group of guys who started their hike at the church parking lot, and who appear to be on their way to summit the mountain. I let them gain a bit of distance in front of me, because with thick fog settling in all around me, I am immensely enjoying the feeling of utter solitude and isolation along the ridge.

The first part of the ridge trail passes through a small forest—low, modest trees and shrubs surround me on all sides, until eventually I emerge above the tree line. The fog is so thick that I can barely see 50 meters down the steep slope of the ridge—let alone even dream of catching a glimpse of Mount Kazbek. But I love the coziness and moodiness of the ambiance, and I head upward at a leisurely pace.

*The only three people I encounter along the ridge, disappearing into the fog*

For the next couple of hours, I am climbing steadily upward—sometimes along gentle slopes, sometimes along steep inclines. But the path, in general, is easy. As I get closer to Sabertse Pass (where the two trails meet), the fog has begun to lift, and I can start to catch glimpses of the spectacular vista that surrounds me.

It is at this point that the weather begins to turn quite chilly (owing to the altitude), and I stop briefly to put on my jacket.

From Sabertse Pass, I have a spectacular view of Mount Kazbek, with Altihut situated directly in front of it. It takes about another 40 minutes or so before I reach the hut, traversing rocky, muddy, and slightly snowy terrain (although the snow is basically slush) and then crossing over a bridge that consists of three wooden planks.

*Altihut sits just above 3,000 meters—just about a kilometer and a half from the glacier (another 300 meters upward)*

At the hut, I decide to take an extended break before heading onward to the glacier. Here, I order a cup of tea and tuck into some khachapuri from my pack. The handful of other people hanging out at the hut are all climbers preparing to head onward to Bethlemi Hut before summiting Mount Kazbek the following morning. Their energy is infectious, and I find myself envying them deeply. I, too, would like to keep climbing onward, higher and higher.

After an hour’s rest, I strap my boots back on, grab my hiking poles, and once again proceed upward.

From here, the landscape is breathtaking and otherworldly. Waterfalls cascade off the rocky cliff. I cross over small streams of melted snow—one of which requires a bit more focus than the others (for the smaller ones, I can pretty much just barrel through, thanks to my waterproof hiking boots, but the larger one requires a bit of a balancing act on slippery stones), and I’m grateful to have my poles for extra stability.

I cross over a somewhat large section of snow that, this early in the season, has yet to melt, and continue up rocky terrain, until I arrive at my destination. The striated pattern of the glacier, the auburn hue, the sound of melting water gurgling underneath, and the thickly packed snow that ascends steeply upward—all of these indicate the end of my journey.

*Melting snow and glacier water cascades off the rocky cliff*

I sit along the glacier while some of the climbers affix their crampons to their boots—another group decides to forgo them, arguing that, with such deep snow, there is no need.

I am sitting up above 3,300 meters (nearly 11,000 feet), having gained over 1,600 meters (over 5,200 feet) in elevation over the course of the morning. I feel like I am on the edge of two worlds, and I long to follow the groups of climbers as they tread steadily onto the next one.

I am on the precipice of something—not just the glacier, not just the foothills of Mount Kazbek, not just the steep cliff darting down into the impenetrable valley below. I am on the precipice of a new stage in my life—one in which I push the limits of both mind and body, take adventure more seriously than ever, and start to imagine bigger, more daring possibilities for my life.

After a short rest spent admiring the view, soaking up the chilly mountain air, and indulging in a sense of accomplishment, I set off back down toward Kazbegi. I follow the classic route back, moving slowly and steadily downward.

*The way back is tiring, but still offers gorgeous views the entire way*

Going down proves to be more challenging than going up: it’s not easy on the knees to descend for hours on end, and by then, my hiking boots are feeling tight around my toes. Once I reach a point where the ground has leveled out slightly—and the consistency is more grass and dirt than loose rocks and choppy shale—I change into my trainers.

When I reach the church again, I briefly consider hailing a taxi back to my hotel. But I have a wild stubbornness about me, and I feel this deep, primal desire to finish what I started.

However, because I’m exhausted, my decision-making skills are less sharp. Instead of putting my hiking boots back on and heading back via the trail I climbed up on, I go down a steep, rocky switchback in my trainers, grumbling the whole way, trying not to lose my footing (I do, once, slide down on my ass, but because the ground is so steep, it’s a pretty short fall). I end up reaching the main road—a winding, weaving switchback street that adds considerable mileage to my hike (and, in retrospect, is probably not the safest road to walk along). Eventually, I reach a point where I can cut straight down through a cemetery, and I do, eventually reaching the village. From here it’s still another 45 minutes or so before I make it back to my hotel, moving at a snail’s pace on the downhills and surprisingly thankful that the last stretch is all uphill.

*An adorable welcome back into the village*

I arrive back at my hotel just before 7 in the evening—13 hours after I set out. I feel utterly exhausted in the most glorious way. I take a shower, order room service, and settle into bed. I’m too exhausted to eat, and end up waking up around 1:30 in the morning to finally tuck into my now-cold burger.

The next morning, as I pack my bags, finally enjoy a nice breakfast at the hotel, and wait for my driver to take me back to Tbilisi, I have this feeling that I’ve just permanently flipped a switch in my brain. I’ve just set something off inside me—a fuse, perhaps, that, once ignited, cannot be snuffed out.

I am in love with the snowy peaks, the thin mountain air, the coziness of the valleys, with the feeling of true and utter solitude, with the humbling sense of standing at the feet of giants. But more than that, something is vibrating at a high frequency in my brain, telling me to go further, harder, higher.

I am 36, and my thirst for adventure is just beginning.