TransCaucasian Trail - Pieroad

THE TRANSCAUCASIAN TRAIL

For the first time since I began my journey around the world on foot, I was seriously considering the idea of parking Ezio and carrying a backpack instead. I had done a few treks in Latin America and Australia, but the longest ones had never lasted more than a week. This time, it would take at least a month to cover the 800-plus kilometers stretching from Meghri, on the southern border with Iran, to Lake Arpi, in the northwestern corner of Armenia nestled between Turkey and Georgia. The locals call this region “Armenian Siberia” because in winter, the air cools down to temperatures of around minus thirty degrees (one year, it hit -42). I stumbled upon this fact while doing some research, and it stuck with me—though I’m not sure why.

It didn’t take long to make the decision. After four years of walking and pushing a stroller, I was eager for a change: swapping paved roads for mountain trails, and forty kilos of comfort for a more essential setup. Why take the easy route when you can complicate things? In reality, it was about expanding my comfort zone and stepping into the ultralight category that Diogenes himself would have admired. Since I’d have to carry everything on my back this time, reducing the weight of my setup seemed like a wise choice. I reached out to Silvia from Ferrino's marketing team and pitched the plan: between a tent, a sleeping pad, and a sleeping bag, I would save almost two kilos. The three-season, one-person, free-standing Nemesi tent would house me and the contents of my 65-liter Instinct backpack, a lightweight, waterproof bullet made of Dyneema.

The trek has a name, the Transcaucasian Trail, and an ambition: to connect the countries south of the Caucasus—Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. The idea was born in 2017, and with the pandemic in between, the trail was still under development. The information available on the website was extensive, especially for the Armenian section, with a GPX track and a rough guidebook. However, work on the trail was still in its infancy, and while the difficulties it presented would make the journey slow and challenging, they also kept mass tourism at bay. Summer 2024 seemed like the perfect time to enjoy the adventure.

FIRST DAYS ON THE TRAIL

I started in early August from Meghri, the southernmost point of the TCT. The village, with its few thousand inhabitants, fits the standard size of an Armenian settlement. “Meghri” in the local language relates to honey or sweet things, likely due to the abundance of grapes, figs, and apricots grown in the area. Every family has a vineyard or an orchard—some produce is eaten, but the real reason lies in the enduring Soviet passion for alcohol. Each respectable family maintains its own production of potent, colorless liquors they call vodka, which they bring out at every opportunity. These spirits are closer to grappa than actual vodka, and though consumed in a single gulp starting at ten in the morning, they oddly leave no hangover. Oddly still, refusing them is impossible.

The first days on the trail are the hardest (for reasons tied to the local vodka consumption) and lead to reconsidering decisions while cursing the initiative that promotes novelty. Eventually, the body adapts—it just needs time to acclimate and sweat through proverbial seven shirts. Unfortunately, my wardrobe had shrunk to just one. Hikers starting from the south receive a warm welcome from the trail: literally, with over forty degrees and punishing climbs exposed to the sun, and metaphorically, with thorny bushes, intrusive branches ignoring personal space, fallen trees, and stinging plants. Some have even spotted bears, though they aren’t part of the welcoming committee, and such encounters aren’t guaranteed.

A peculiar fact about Armenia is that mountains cover 86% of its surface—more than Switzerland or Nepal—with half the country sitting above 2,000 meters. This morphology doesn’t offer much relief in terms of temperature: summers are scorching, and winters freeze solid. On the bright side, there’s no escaping the breath-stealing climbs and knee-breaking descents. The first begins in Meghri itself, climbing from 600 meters (one of the trail’s lowest points) to 2,200 meters before muscles have a chance to warm up. The third stage is even worse: starting at 1,700 meters in Shishkert—a place that takes poetic license to be called a village—and ascending to 3,200 meters on Mount Khustup, all before lunch. I reached the rocky ridge with my tongue hanging out and a shameful number of breaks. As I contemplated how I had managed to trek the Andes at 4,000-5,000 meters just three years earlier, an unkind answer stared me in the face: had I aged overnight?

With the summit in sight, the sky decided I had seen enough, closing in with a stubborn cluster of gray clouds. At the base—a clearing adorned with a human-height iron cross and Armenian and military flags—I dropped my backpack to the ground with the gentleness of someone under pressure and rummaged inside. Having saved nearly two kilos on gear, I had brilliantly decided to balance it out with two kilos of grappa. Seven flasks of four different flavors were meant to last two weeks, but the prospect of lightening the load and celebrating every stage quickly outweighed any careful strategy. I sipped plum cordial by a makeshift fire, and gradually, along with the color returning to my cheeks, hope returned that I might make it without collapsing.

ANCIENT MONASTERIES

Within a week, my body adjusted to the loads (the grappa was also gone), and fatigue was replaced with the sheer pleasure of walking. After missing Mount Khustup's summit, the first gems of the trail appeared: the Shaki Waterfalls and the Tatev and Noravank monasteries, both nearly UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Armenia boasts an impressive number of religious sites, and its abundance of mountains has allowed churches and monastic complexes to claim particularly scenic locations. Noravank was built at the end of a fiery red gorge, while Tatev sits on a cliff, some 500 meters above the river below. While some arrive by car and a few on foot, most take the world’s longest cable car, enjoying a spectacular flight over the chasm beneath the cabin.

One wonders how monks chose such remote places for their dwellings—and how much sweat it took to build them. This region has been a crossroads for remarkable migrations, especially from the East; many Silk Road routes passed through here. Occasionally, alongside caravans of spices, less peaceful visitors like the Mongols or Huns would arrive, driven by nostalgia for the plains they left behind and intent on reshaping the landscape by razing what they found. Fleeing mounted armies is exhausting, especially without early warning. Hence, the idea of building monasteries in hard-to-reach areas—usually the highest possible spot—offered the dual advantage of staying alive and enjoying a good view from the windows.

GEGHAMA MOUNTAINS AND THE YAZIDI

Monasteries and homemade vodka are recurring themes in an Armenian journey. However, venturing away from urbanized civilization offers a glimpse into another, lesser-known world untouched by passport-stamp tourism. I found myself midway through the trek, among the gentle grassy hills of the Geghama Mountains, a region composed of various volcanic formations stretching across the country from south to north. No settlements, no food resupply points, and no trees for firewood. Additionally, given the presence of bears and wolves, lighting a fire to grill meat might have been a counterproductive activity. Regardless, since the volcano and I were headed in the same direction, we decided to keep each other company for a few days.

The rough descriptions in the guide mentioned two hazards to watch out for: electrical storms and shepherd dogs. These 70-kilo white giants introduced me to the Yazidi, a semi-nomadic people originally from northern Iraq who have been engaged in livestock farming in the Armenian mountains for generations. Approaching flocks of goats, sheep, and cattle is extremely risky as the dogs charge even if you stay 100 meters away. The wisest move was to take long detours to avoid their camps, but at some point, curiosity got the better of me.

Thanks to the whistle integrated into a strap on my backpack, I announced my presence well in advance. A human figure emerged from one of the tents, calling off the massive dogs with a sharp, commanding yell. I cautiously approached the camp with the kind of care one uses when stepping outside the tent at night to go to the bathroom. Two women, possibly mother and daughter, met me halfway. They had sturdy bodies, large reddened hands, black hair wrapped in scarves, long dresses ending in rubber boots. Greetings did not include physical contact; perhaps a handshake could occur if men were around, but nothing more. How to communicate? I dislike Google Translate—it stifles the brain. I prefer improvising with gestures and intuition; a story always manages to surface.

The conversation almost always begins with simple geographic questions that, upon reflection, reveal some of the most profound ontological questions of human existence: Where are you from? Where are you going? Are you alone? The family of shepherds climbs to the high pastures every spring, descending to the valleys by late September to move north. Regularly, though not daily, a battered and brave truck climbs improbable trails to collect the milk produced by their cows; payment is made in cash, allowing the family to participate in society and stock up for the following year when they return to isolation with enough food for months. The milk is stored overnight in 20-liter containers near a stream, where the air is cooler.

With broad and unmistakable gestures, I was invited inside. The tent resembled a Mongolian yurt, though I had never seen one personally. Circular in shape, its walls were made of numbered wooden panels, covered with animal skins outside. Inside, there were iron beds, a wood stove, a gas cylinder for cooking, a table, chairs, a bench, general utensils, and swarms of flies due to the proximity of large animals. The floor was, of course, hard-packed earth. In the adjacent tent was the workshop: a rather dirty bathtub served for curdling cheese, and blue plastic buckets contained various fermentation stages. A kilo of goat cheese cost the equivalent of five euros—cash only, of course. I bought some, hoping it wouldn’t wreak havoc on my stomach, and considering the hygienic conditions in which I had been eating over the past weeks, I concluded my chances were good. After leaving the workshop tent, we returned to the living tent for unfiltered coffee and a few candies. I opened my backpack, laid some dried fruit on the table intending to leave it as a gift. It was politely rejected and returned to my pack. These people know how hard life is in the mountains and would never take food from a stranger, regardless of the circumstances.

TRAIL END - IT’S ALWAYS TOO SHORT

I left the Geghama Mountains to descend gradually toward Lake Sevan, the largest body of water in the country. Just north lies the National Park and the town of Dilijan, where one of the TCT founders opened and manages a hostel, the Dilijan Hikers Hostel. I took the opportunity to throw myself and my clothes into the first washing machine since I started three weeks earlier and to feast on fried potatoes and ojaxuli, a stew paired with local wine. Dilijan was the last major food resupply point. Although I had mailed food parcels to myself via the postal service, I took the chance to stock up further. Ten days remained until Lake Arpi, and the 65-liter backpack, extendable by another 15 liters, allowed for considerable autonomy.

North of green Dilijan, valleys and hills unfolded seamlessly, culminating in the Debed Canyon, a gaping chasm where rows of rumbling tractors spent their days combing wheat fields. Irregularly, the usual stone monasteries with vertiginous views appeared, often hosting wedding or baptism celebrations. Faith is alive in Armenia, and it’s clear that here, God has not yet been declared dead.

The journey on the TCT ended after 820 kilometers and 32 days, at an unremarkable ranger station of a National Park. It took several attempts to convince them to let me past the gate. I pointed to the sign marking the trail end and the route map, then mimed taking a photo with my hands. They allowed me through. I snapped a picture, waved goodbye, and with an empty pack and eyes full of wonder, headed to the nearby Georgian border—the next chapter of this trek. It was time to reunite with Ezio and update him on the month of adventures. I thought, "Maybe I’ll read these words to him as we head to Tbilisi. I also need to tell him something big that’s been on my mind recently: a year from now, we’re going home."