A 48-hour adventure
Like many people in Dubai, I find the precious 48 hours of my weekend disappear in the blink of an eye. Before I can catch my breath, it’s Saturday night, I’m packing my travel bag and wondering how the time has passed so quickly.
Frequent travel, long working hours and an active social life mean that opportunities for getting into the outdoors and away from the hustle and bustle of daily life are few and far between.
So, one day in late November I stopped making excuses, dusted off my unloved kit and cleared my diary for the upcoming weekend. The plan was to have the biggest adventure possible whilst making it back for work on Sunday morning.
The choice of destination was based on little more than an internet search of cheap flights to countries with mountains, snow, ice and visas on arrival. Being a Brit, the impulsive decision to find some snow and ice can be attributed to the genuine psychological confusion caused by still being able to wear a T-shirt in November!
The Mount Aragats Massif, a collection of the tallest peaks in Armenia and only an hour from the international airport, ticked all the boxes. A few emails later and a plan had emerged to attempt a first ascent of the (hopefully frozen) Gera hot Ice falls at around 3,200m on Mount Aragats. Temperatures of around -15 degrees for the whole week meant that, on paper, our chances looked good.
Squeezing every available hour from my weekend, and every kilo from my baggage allowance, I changed into my heavy winter boots and climbing clothes in the work toilets on Thursday afternoon, and, after getting some very strange looks from the receptionist I headed to the airport for the four-and-a-half-hour flight to Yerevan.
Whilst not far as the crow flies from Yerevan, getting to our base within striking distance of the Gera hot falls required some significant logistical effort. And as always seems to be the case with winter trips, the weather did its best to turn what should have been an enjoyable drive and pleasant hike into a 6-hour battle against the elements.
Once out of Yerevan, the roads quickly became iced over, and visibility reduced as a blizzard began blowing. Not to be so easily deterred we pressed on to Aragats village at the foot of the massif. Here, after some discouraging conversations about the state of a path into the mountains, we decided to arrange for the hire of some Skidoos to avoid a long trudge through thick snow.
Tucked up in a warm car with a cup of coffee, I imagined speeding over snow drifts with the wind in my hair, throttle down on a high powered skidoo as we climbed effortlessly to our camping site for the night. However, in true Armenian style, what eventually clattered in to greet us were two original model Russian skidoos at least 30 years old, mostly tied together with string and barely running.
With the weather threatening heavy storms, we repacked our bags, tied what we could to the skidoos using Sellotape and squeezed ourselves on to the back of the seat, gingerly holding onto our huge, brusque and fearless Armenian drivers.
With two riders and multiple bags on each Skidoo, they were heavily overladen and seriously unbalanced. Strength, concentration, and anticipation were needed as even the most modest incline had the potential to fling the passenger off the back and into the snow. Not easy to maintain with strong winds and whiteout conditions. Eventually, after a few initial turns had resulted in overturned bags, people and skidoos, and with much scowling and grumbling from our veteran drivers we got the hang of riding shotgun and after a couple of hours, we arrived at our campsite for the night, where they promptly dumped us and returned to the village.
Yet again, this being the Armenian way, I was in for a surprise. With storm conditions, and wind speeds up to 45km per hour, pitching a tent in the open was an uninviting prospect, and my excellent guide, Mkhitar, had found an unconventional emergency shelter: a rusty oil tank with a door hacked into one end.
Even with this improvised shelter, it was still necessary to pitch the tent, which meant a hard two hours of snow shoveling to turn the perfectly cylindrical floor of the oil tanker into a surface flat enough to hold the tent. Tired, cold and with aching muscles we collapsed into the tent, ready for a hot drink and some food. Mkhitar, carrying the stove while I carried the food, had only just begun unpacking when he turned sheepishly towards me with a worried look, having been in this position before, I knew exactly what that look meant before he needed to tell me – he had forgotten to bring anything to light the stove with.
Despite racking our brains for every trick we had ever heard of for igniting a spark, and coming very close with an AA battery and chewing gum wrapper, we eventually admitted defeat, and had to go to sleep grumpy, hungry, and as we had not been able to melt any snow to drink, thirsty.
When we woke in the morning we immediately knew that the previous day’s toil had been worth it, the storm had blown over, the sky was clear blue as far as the eye could see and we were alone, completely surrounded by fresh snow. With no working stove to cook breakfast with, we ate a couple of mini Snickers bars and immediately set off towards our objective, hoping to find some water on the way.
The waterfall, despite being the only 3km away, took several hours to reach due to the thick snow and our heavy bags. But the experience of being alone in the beautiful mountains, with perfectly clear skies and nothing to think about except the 20 metres ahead of me was pure bliss. I wanted it to go on forever.
We soon had the waterfall in sight, and it was immediately obvious that large parts of it had not frozen, despite the cold temperatures. It was, after all, very early in the season. However, we thought we could make out a climbable line of ice on the right-hand side, and having come this far, we pushed on in high spirits, the prospect of ice climbing on one hand, or a drink of water on the other.
Forging our path through steep, thigh deep snow, we eventually reached the base of the icefall. The second we sank our ice tools into the base of the climb we knew it would be impossible. The ice was completely waterlogged, spongy, and about as unsafe to climb as it’s possible for ice to be. There was not even a discussion. Strangely, given the considerable effort we had put into getting to this point: pushing through the storm the previous day; the roller coaster of the skidoo ride; the snow shoveling and the fiasco with the stove, I was not disappointed that the waterfall was not climbable. Mountaineering is much more about being in the mountains and enjoying the experience than ticking off climbs or achieving objectives. I was quite content to shoulder my bag and begin the long journey back to the airport.
I arrived back into Dubai at half five in the morning on Sunday. The excitement of having done something adventurous with my weekend more than compensated for my heavy eyelids and sore legs. I have asked Mkhitar to ring me the instant the waterfall is completely frozen; I will definitely return! ■
Words by: Charlie Dunn
Photos by: www.uptherocks.com
