I Trek for Food, A Perilous Journey across the Caucasus Mountains

My wanderlust to experience the world’s culture around food and drink sometimes can put my traveling companions and me in unprecedented conditions. It takes me to the razor’s edge and, at other times, surrounds me with a nest of fuzzy blankets.   

So when I suggested to my friends that we do a trek in the Republic of Georgia, in my daydream, I envisioned an exotic culture at the confluence of east and west on the borders of Russia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Turkey. The birthplace of wine and one of my favorite cheese breads, Khachapuri, Georgia, has a rich tradition of food and wine that has influenced the world.

My sixth sense, however, suggested we should get our affairs in order. I thought the dangerous hiking trails would be the reason for worry in the Tusheti National Park on the border of Russia republic’s Chechnya and Dagestan. I was to find out it was due to altogether different circumstances.

Accessible only three to four months out of the year, Tusheti National Park opens sometime in June to late September or early October. One narrow, steep, winding road connects civilization to the remote areas of Tusheti on the other side of the Caucasus Mountains, which divides Europe and Asia. While the culture errs on the side of Georgians, throughout history, Mongols, Persians, Turks, and Russians conquered the lush green mountainous valleys, leaving some of their influence behind. Dotted with the ruins of towers built for defense, wild horses and sheep herds compose most living inhabitants. Humans remain sparse.

Wait! Isn’t this supposed to be a newsletter about food and drink?  Food and drink, no matter where you go in Georgia, has a sense of ceremony around it, which extends to the villages of Tusheti. 

Let’s get back to the journey to access Tusheti National Park. A sign reads 72 kilometers (45 miles) on the side of a flat paved road. We enter the Abano Pass. Our guide, Sasha, said, “It will be three and a half hours from here to reach our guesthouse in Omalo.”  How could that short distance take more than three hours? I said to myself inside my head.

I ventured to this country to eat and drink wine from the country that birthed it and earn my right to indulge through trekking daily.  What was about to come to pass?

Two all-terrain motorcycles come screaming out of the pass. I thought nothing of it until later. We begin the climb up the Caucasus to 9,271 feet. Hairpin turns, skidding on pebbles, and then the rocky cliffs suddenly drop to a raging creek hundreds and thousands of feet down.  A herd of sheep crosses the road, then a herd of cattle. We pull over into the side of the mountain to let the herds pass, cars coming the other direction to pass, and then the crosses appear one after the other staked into the side of the hill. Signs with headshots of those that have perished followed by a mangled motorcycle and a body bag, the third member of the party coming out of the Abano Pass.  

I started to panic. What had I gotten us into? “Oh,” Wilma says, “you didn’t know this is one of the most dangerous roads in the world?”  

The driver and our guide sat in the front of the Mitsubishi 4x4, chatting merrily in Georgian as festive percussion music played. Up ahead, the water spilled over the mountain above and crossed the road. Our driver pulled over, and our guide said, “We stop for a snack; we are halfway.” We wade our feet into the frigid water to bring us back into our bodies, careful not to go a few feet away where the water crosses the road and glides down the crevasse. We take a few bites of Churchkhela,  a sausage-shaped treat with dried grape juice and walnuts. Our nerves calmed, we braced ourselves for the finish line at the top before winding down to our guesthouse in Omalo.

After climbing more, the Above the Clouds Cafe heralded that we had finally reached the top. A wooden shack with one of the most majestic views on earth and a wooden outhouse on a squeaky hinge that took brute force against the wind to close it stood obstinate on the mountaintop.

The wind whipped through my hair as I exited the van, slapping me. Then, a young woman with brown curly shoulder-length hair and a broad smile greeted us. I spotted a petite wood stove inside the shack covered in handmade rugs with a crackling fire. We drank warm cups of tea and ate a sweet pastry to complement it. What was a version of hell to get here turned into my kind of heaven. 

Squatty metal kettles in green and black warmed the water atop the wood stove, then she poured the water into a cup, drenching fresh herbs that grow wild in the fields—thyme, mint, and tarragon—to steep. Drinking the tea felt like a hug from the inside out. The sweet square bread with red plums cut from a rectangular sheet stored in an airtight bin soothed my soul.

Once a day, homemade pastries come up the pass from the village at the bottom. The mother of the young woman who lives in the shack for the season hails down a driver, and the driver delivers the sweet stash more than earning his treat. 

A brave community of drivers runs the pass, some several times/day, in mostly Mitsubishi 4x4s. They depend on each other for coordination on the roads, courtesy to one another, and the knowledge that they are risking their lives each time they drive the pass - a brotherhood of sorts. The drives also bring refreshments and news to the shepherds walking with the herds on either side of the mountain. Only a fool would rent a car and drive the pass independently. It endangers so many more lives than their own to do so.

Leaving the cafe, the road on the other side appears bearable despite the many hairpin turns resembling cascading ribbons on a Christmas tree. Then, we follow the creek that bursts from the other side of the mountains and finally arrive at the guesthouse outside Omalo. With a view of the surrounding valley, hammocks, gardens to grow food and flowers for the table, and the bees surround the honey-colored two-story wooden house. The seven bedrooms have simple furnishings, all with windows. Downstairs, there is a long, matching wooden table for dinner. An upcoming newsletter will discuss the Supra with all the staples and etiquette of a Georgian feast.

Our host gathers vegetables for dinner and, we get grounded.

Very few cafes and no stores exist in Tusheti; the ones that do are attached to the guesthouses. The Tushetians rely on growing their food, managing waste, and working with limited resources. Our guest house served us a breakfast of eggs, meat, cheese, and some leftovers from the Supra the night before.  As we walked out the door, the host handed us a bag with our lunch for the trek. Our guide, Sasha, gave us a lesson on how to use the hiking poles, as well as a warning not to approach the dogs managing the herds of sheep. We set off on the trail through a dense forest. The narrow trail leads straight up. 

Me at a Tusheti trekking signpost, me and the mountain

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