According to tradition, Mount Ararat is the scene of two of the most
important events in the history of the human race. In the sacred land of
Eden, which Armenian legend places at its base, the first of human life
was born; and on its solitary peak the last of human life was saved from
an all-destroying flood. The remarkable geographical position of this
mountain seems to justify the Armenian view that it is the center of the
world. It is on the longest line drawn through the Old World from the Cape
of Good Hope to Bering Strait; it is also on the line of the great deserts
and inland seas stretching from Gibraltar to Lake Baikal in Siberia—a line
of continuous depressions; it is equidistant from the Black and Caspian
Seas and the Mesopotamian plain, which three depressions are now watered
by three distinct river-systems emanating from Ararat’s immediate
vicinity. No other region has seen or heard so much of the story of
mankind. In its grim presence empires have come and gone; cities have
risen and fallen; human life has soared up on the wings of hope, and
dashed against the rocks of despair.
To the eye Ararat presents a gently inclined slope of sand and ashes
rising into a belt of green, another zone of black volcanic rocks streaked
with snow-beds, and then a glittering crest of silver. From the burning
desert at its base to the icy pinnacle above, it rises through a vertical
distance of 13,000 feet. There are but few peaks in the world that rise so
high (17,250 feet above sea-level) from so low a plain (2000 feet on the
Russian, and 4000 feet on the Turkish, side), and which, therefore,
present so grand a spectacle. Unlike many of the world’s mountains, it
stands alone. Little Ararat (12,840 feet above sea-level), and the other
still smaller heights that dot the plain, only serve as a standard by
which to measure Ararat’s immensity and grandeur.
Little Ararat is the meeting-point, or corner-stone, of three great
empires. On its conical peak converge the dominions of the Czar, the
Sultan, and the Shah. The Russian border-line runs from Little Ararat
along the high ridge which separates it from Great Ararat, through the
peak of the latter, and onward a short distance to the northwest, then
turns sharply to the west. On the Sardarbulakh pass, between Great and
Little Ararat, is stationed a handful of Russian Cossacks to remind
lawless tribes of the guardianship of the “White Sultan.”
The two Ararats together form an elliptical mass, about twenty-five miles
in length, running northwest and southeast, and about half that in width.
Out of this massive base rise the two Ararat peaks, their bases being
contiguous up to 8800 feet and their tops about seven miles apart. Little
Ararat is an almost perfect truncated cone, while Great Ararat is more of
a broad-shouldered dome supported by strong, rough-ribbed buttresses. The
isolated position of Ararat, its structure of igneous rocks, the presence
of small craters and immense volcanic fissures on its slopes, and the
scoriæ and ashes on the surrounding plain, establish beyond a doubt its
volcanic origin. But according to the upheaval theory of the eminent
geologist, Hermann Abich, who was among the few to make the ascent of the
mountain, there never was a great central crater in either Great or Little
Ararat. Certain it is that no craters or signs of craters now exist on the
summit of either mountain. But Mr. James Bryce, who made the last ascent,
in 1876, seems to think that there is no sufficient reason why craters
could not have previously existed, and been filled up by their own
irruptions. There is no record of any irruption in historical times. The
only thing approaching it was the earthquake which shook the mountain in
1840, accompanied by subterranean rumblings, and destructive blasts of
wind. The Tatar village of Arghuri and a Kurdish encampment on the
northeast slope were entirely destroyed by the precipitated rocks. Not a
man was left to tell the story. Mr. Bryce and others have spoken of the
astonishing height of the snow-line on Mount Ararat, which is placed at
14,000 feet; while in the Alps it is only about 9000 feet, and in the
Caucasus on an average 11,000 feet, although they lie in a very little
higher latitude. They assign, as a reason for this, the exceptionally dry
region in which Ararat is situated. Mr. Bryce ascended the mountain on
September 12, when the snow-line was at its very highest, the first large
snow-bed he encountered being at 12,000 feet. Our own ascent being made as
early as July 4,—in fact, the earliest ever recorded,—we found some snow
as low as 8000 feet, and large beds at 10,500 feet. The top of Little
Ararat was still at that time streaked with snow, but not covered. With so
many extensive snow-beds, one would naturally expect to find copious
brooks and streams flowing down the mountain into the plain; but owing to
the porous and dry nature of the soil, the water is entirely lost before
reaching the base of the mountain. Even as early as July we saw no stream
below 6000 feet, and even above this height the mountain freshets
frequently flowed far beneath the surface under the loosely packed rocks,
bidding defiance to our efforts to reach them. Notwithstanding the
scarcity of snow-freshets, there is a middle zone on Mount Ararat,
extending from about 5000 feet to 9000 feet elevation, which is covered
with good pasturage, kept green by heavy dews and frequent showers. The
hot air begins to rise from the desert plain as the morning sun peeps over
the horizon, and continues through the day; this warm current, striking
against the snow-covered summit, is condensed into clouds and moisture. In
consequence, the top of Ararat is usually—during the summer months, at
least—obscured by clouds from some time after dawn until sunset. On the
last day of our ascent, however, we were particularly fortunate in having
a clear summit until 1:15 in the afternoon.
Among the crags of the upper slope are found only a few specimens of the
wild goat and sheep, and, lower down, the fox, wolf, and lynx. The bird
and insect life is very scanty, but lizards and scorpions, especially on
the lowest slopes, are abundant. The rich pasturage of Ararat’s middle
zone attracts pastoral Kurdish tribes. These nomadic shepherds, a few
Tatars at New Arghuri, and a camp of Russian Cossacks at the well of
Sardarbulakh, are the only human beings to disturb the quiet solitude of
this grandest of nature’s sanctuaries.
The first recorded ascent of Mount Ararat was in 1829, by Dr. Frederick
Parrot, a Russo-German professor in the University of Dorpat. He reached
the summit with a party of three Armenians and two Russian soldiers, after
two unsuccessful attempts. His ascent, however, was doubted, not only by
the people in the neighborhood, but by many men of science and position in
the Russian empire, notwithstanding his clear account, which has been
confirmed by subsequent observers, and in spite of the testimony of the
two Russian soldiers who had gone with him.(1) Two of the Armenians who
reached the summit with him declared that they had gone to a great height,
but at the point where they had left off had seen much higher tops rising
around them. This, thereupon, became the opinion of the whole country.
After Antonomoff, in 1834, Herr Abich, the geologist, made his valuable
ascent in 1845. He reached the eastern summit, which is only a few feet
lower than the western, and only a few minutes’ walk from it, but was
obliged to return at once on account of the threatening weather. When he
produced his companions as witnesses before the authorities at Erivan,
they turned against him, and solemnly swore that at the point which they
had reached a higher peak stood between them and the western horizon. This
strengthened the Armenian belief in the inaccessibility of Ararat, which
was not dissipated when the Russian military engineer, General Chodzko,
and an English party made the ascent in 1856. Nor were their prejudiced
minds convinced by the ascent of Mr. Bryce twenty years later, in 1876.
Two days after his ascent, that gentleman paid a visit to the Armenian
monastery at Echmiadzin, and was presented to the archimandrite as the
Englishman who had just ascended to the top of “Masis.” “No,” said the
ecclesiastical dignitary; “that cannot be. No one has ever been there. It
is impossible.” Mr. Bryce himself says: “I am persuaded that there is not
a person living within sight of Ararat, unless it be some exceptionally
educated Russian official at Erivan, who believes that any human foot,
since Father Noah’s, has trodden that sacred summit. So much stronger is
faith than sight; or rather so much stronger is prejudice than evidence.”
We had expected, on our arrival in Bayazid, to find in waiting for us a
Mr. Richardson, an American missionary from Erzerum. Two years later, on
our arrival home, we received a letter explaining that on his way from Van
he had been captured by Kurdish brigands, and held a prisoner until
released through the intervention of the British consul at Erzerum. It was
some such fate as this that was predicted for us, should we ever attempt
the ascent of Mount Ararat through the lawless Kurdish tribes upon its
slopes. Our first duty, therefore, was to see the mutessarif of Bayazid,
to whom we bore a letter from the Grand Vizir of Turkey, in order to
ascertain what protection and assistance he would be willing to give us.
We found with him a Circassian who belonged to the Russian camp at
Sardarbulakh, on the Ararat pass, and who had accompanied General Chodzko
on his ascent of the mountain in 1856. Both he and the mutessarif thought
an ascent so early in the year was impossible; that we ought not to think
of such a thing until two months later. It was now six weeks earlier than
the time of General Chodzko’s ascent (August 11 to 18), then the earliest
on record. They both strongly recommended the northwestern slope as being
more gradual. This is the one that Parrot ascended in 1829, and where
Abich was repulsed on his third attempt. Though entirely inexperienced in
mountain-climbing, we ourselves thought that the southeast slope, the one
taken by General Chodzko, the English party, and Mr. Bryce, was far more
feasible for a small party. One thing, however, the mutessarif was
determined upon: we must not approach the mountain without an escort of
Turkish zaptiehs, as an emblem of government protection. Besides, he would
send for the chief of the Ararat Kurds, and endeavor to arrange with him
for our safety and guidance up the mountain. As we emerged into the
streets an Armenian professor gravely shook his head. “Ah,” said he, “you
will never do it.” Then dropping his voice, he told us that those other
ascents were all fictitious; that the summit of “Masis” had never yet been
reached except by Noah; and that we were about to attempt what was an
utter impossibility.
In Bayazid we could not procure even proper wood for alpenstocks. Willow
branches, two inches thick, very dry and brittle, were the best we could
obtain. Light as this wood is, the alpenstocks weighed at least seven
pounds apiece when the iron hooks and points were riveted on at the ends
by the native blacksmith, for whom we cut paper patterns, of the exact
size, for everything we wanted. We next had large nails driven into the
souls of our shoes by a local shoemaker, who made them for us by hand out
of an old English file, and who wanted to pull them all out again because
we would not pay him the exorbitant price he demanded. In buying
provisions for the expedition, we spent three hours among the half
dilapidated bazaars of the town, which have never been repaired since the
disastrous Russian bombardment. The most difficult task, perhaps, in our
work of preparation was to strike a bargain with an Armenian muleteer to
carry our food and baggage up the mountain on his two little donkeys.
[Illustration: WHERE THE “ZAPTIEHS” WERE NOT A NUISANCE.]
Evening came, and no word from either the mutessarif or the Kurdish chief.
Although we were extremely anxious to set off on the expedition before bad
weather set in, we must not be in a hurry, for the military governor of
Karakillissa was now the guest of the mutessarif, and it would be an
interference with his social duties to try to see him until after his
guest had departed. On the morrow we were sitting in our small dingy room
after dinner, when a cavalcade hastened up to our inn, and a few minutes
later we were surprised to hear ourselves addressed in our native tongue.
Before us stood a dark-complexioned young man, and at his side a small
wiry old gentleman, who proved to be a native Austrian Tyrolese, who
followed the profession of an artist in Paris. He was now making his way
to Erivan, in Russia, on a sight-seeing tour from Trebizond. His companion
was a Greek from Salonica, who had lived for several years in London,
whence he had departed not many weeks before, for Teheran, Persia. These
two travelers had met in Constantinople, and the young Greek, who could
speak English, Greek, and Turkish, had been acting as interpreter for the
artist. They had heard of the “devil’s carts” when in Van, and had made
straight for our quarters on their arrival in Bayazid. At this point they
were to separate. When we learned that the old gentleman (Ignaz Raffl by
name) was a member of an Alpine club and an experienced mountain-climber,
we urged him to join in the ascent. Though his shoulders were bent by the
cares and troubles of sixty-three years, we finally induced him to
accompany our party. Kantsa, the Greek, reluctantly agreed to do likewise,
and proved to be an excellent interpreter, but a poor climber.
The following morning we paid the mutessarif a second visit, with Kantsa
as interpreter. Inasmuch as the Kurdish chief had not arrived, the
mutessarif said he would make us bearers of a letter to him. Two zaptiehs
were to accompany us in the morning, while others were to go ahead and
announce our approach.
At ten minutes of eleven, on the morning of the second of July, our small
cavalcade, with the two exasperating donkeys at the head laden with mats,
bags of provisions, extra clothing, alpenstocks, spiked shoes, and coils
of stout rope, filed down the streets of Bayazid, followed by a curious
rabble. As Bayazid lies hidden behind a projecting spur of the mountains
we could obtain no view of the peak itself until we had tramped some
distance out on the plain. Its huge giant mass broke upon us all at once.
We stopped and looked—and looked again. No mountain-peak we have seen,
though several have been higher, has ever inspired the feeling which
filled us when we looked for the first time upon towering Ararat. We had
not proceeded far before we descried a party of Kurdish horsemen
approaching from the mountain. Our zaptiehs advanced rather cautiously to
meet them, with rifles thrown across the pommels of their saddles. After a
rather mysterious parley, our zaptiehs signaled that all was well. On
coming up, they reported that these horsemen belonged to the party that
was friendly to the Turkish government. The Kurds, they said, were at this
time divided among themselves, a portion of them having adopted
conciliatory measures with the government, and the rest holding aloof. But
we rather considered their little performance as a scheme to extort a
little more baksheesh for their necessary presence.
[Illustration: READY FOR THE START.]
The plain we were now on was drained by a tributary of the Aras River, a
small stream reached after two hours’ steady tramping. From the bordering
hillocks we emerged in a short time upon another vast plateau, which
stretched far away in a gentle rise to the base of the mountain itself.
Near by we discovered a lone willow-tree, the only one in the whole sweep
of our vision, under the gracious foliage of which sat a band of Kurds,
retired from the heat of the afternoon sun, their horses feeding on some
swamp grass near at hand. Attracted by this sign of water, we drew near,
and found a copious spring. A few words from the zaptiehs, who had
advanced among them, seemed to put the Kurds at their ease, though they
did not by any means appease their curiosity. They invited us to partake
of their frugal lunch of ekmek and goat’s-milk cheese. Our clothes and
baggage were discussed piece by piece, with loud expressions of merriment,
until one of us arose, and, stealing behind the group, snapped the camera.
“What was that?” said a burly member of the group, as he looked round with
scowling face at his companions. “Yes; what was that?” they echoed, and
then made a rush for the manipulator of the black box, which they
evidently took for some instrument of the black art. The photographer
stood serenely innocent, and winked at the zaptieh to give the proper
explanation. He was equal to the occasion. “That,” said he, “is an
instrument for taking time by the sun.” At this the box went the round,
each one gazing intently into the lens, then scratching his head, and
casting a bewildered look at his nearest neighbor. We noticed that every
one about us was armed with knife, revolver, and Martini rifle, a belt of
cartridges surrounding his waist. It occurred to us that Turkey was
adopting a rather poor method of clipping the wings of these mountain
birds, by selling them the very best equipments for war. Legally, none but
government guards are permitted to carry arms, and yet both guns and
ammunition are sold in the bazaars of almost every city of the Turkish
dominions. The existence of these people, in their wild, semi-independent
state, shows not so much the power of the Kurds as the weakness of the
Turkish government, which desires to use a people of so fierce a
reputation for the suppression of its other subjects. After half an hour’s
rest, we prepared to decamp, and so did our Kurdish companions. They were
soon in their saddles, and galloping away in front of us, with their arms
clanking, and glittering in the afternoon sunlight.
At the spring we had turned off the trail that led over the Sardarbulakh
pass into Russia, and were now following a horse-path which winds up to
the Kurdish encampments on the southern slope of the mountain. The plain
was strewn with sand and rocks, with here and there a bunch of tough, wiry
grass about a foot and a half high, which, though early in the year, was
partly dry. It would have been hot work except for the rain of the day
before and a strong southeast wind. As it was, our feet were blistered and
bruised, the thin leather sandals worn at the outset offering very poor
protection. The atmosphere being dry, though not excessively hot, we soon
began to suffer from thirst. Although we searched diligently for water, we
did not find it till after two hours more of constant marching, when at a
height of about 6000 feet, fifty yards from the path, we discerned a
picturesque cascade of sparkling, cold mountain water. Even the old
gentleman, Raffl, joined heartily in the gaiety induced by this clear,
cold water from Ararat’s melting snows.
[Illustration: PARLEYING WITH THE KURDISH PARTY AT THE SPRING.]
Our ascent for two and a half hours longer was through a luxuriant
vegetation of flowers, grasses, and weeds, which grew more and more scanty
as we advanced. Prominent among the specimens were the wild pink, poppy,
and rose. One small fragrant herb, that was the most abundant of all, we
were told was used by the Kurds for making tea. All these filled the
evening air with perfume as we trudged along, passing now and then a
Kurdish lad, with his flock of sheep and goats feeding on the
mountain-grass, which was here much more luxuriant than below. Looking
backward, we saw that we were higher than the precipitous cliffs which
overtower the town of Bayazid, and which are perhaps from 1500 to 2000
feet above the lowest part of the plain. The view over the plateau was now
grand. Though we were all fatigued by the day’s work, the cool,
moisture-laden air of evening revived our flagging spirits. We forged
ahead with nimble step, joking, and singing a variety of national airs.
The French “Marseillaise,” in which the old gentleman heartily joined,
echoed and reëchoed among the rocks, and caused the shepherd lads and
their flocks to crane their heads in wonderment. Even the Armenian
muleteer so far overcame his fear of the Kurdish robbers as to indulge in
one of his accustomed funeral dirges; but it stopped short, never to go
again, when we came in sight of the Kurdish encampment. The poor fellow
instinctively grabbed his donkeys about their necks, as though they were
about to plunge over a precipice. The zaptiehs dashed ahead with the
mutessarif’s letter to the Kurdish chief. We followed slowly on foot,
while the Armenian and his two pets kept at a respectful distance in the
rear.
The disk of the sun had already touched the western horizon when we came
to the black tents of the Kurdish encampment, which at this time of the
day presented a rather busy scene. The women seemed to be doing all the
work, while their lords sat round on their haunches. Some of the women
were engaged in milking the sheep and goats in an inclosure. Others were
busy making butter in a churn which was nothing more than a skin vessel
three feet long, of the shape of a Brazil-nut, suspended from a rude
tripod; this they swung to and fro to the tune of a weird Kurdish song.
Behind one of the tents, on a primitive weaving-machine, some of them were
making tent-roofing and matting. Others still were walking about with a
ball of wool in one hand and a distaff in the other, spinning yarn. The
flocks stood round about, bleating and lowing, or chewing their cud in
quiet contentment. All seemed very domestic and peaceful except the
Kurdish dogs, which set upon us with loud, fierce growls and gnashing
teeth.
Not so was it with the Kurdish chief, who by this time had finished
reading the mutessarif’s message, and who now advanced from his tent with
salaams of welcome. As he stood before us in the glowing sunset, he was a
rather tall, but well-proportioned man, with black eyes and dark mustache,
contrasting well with his brown-tanned complexion. Upon his face was the
stamp of a rather wild and retiring character, although treachery and
deceit were by no means wanting. He wore a headgear that was something
between a hat and a turban, and over his baggy Turkish trousers hung a
long Persian coat of bright-colored, large-figured cloth, bound at the
waist by a belt of cartridges. Across the shoulders was slung a
breech-loading Martini rifle, and from his neck dangled a heavy gold
chain, which was probably the spoil of some predatory expedition. A quiet
dignity sat on Ismail Deverish’s stalwart form.
[Illustration: THE KURDISH ENCAMPMENT.]
It was with no little pleasure that we accepted his invitation to a cup of
tea. After our walk of nineteen miles, in which we had ascended from 3000
to 7000 feet, we were in fit condition to appreciate a rest. That Kurdish
tent, as far as we were concerned, was a veritable palace, although we
were almost blinded by the smoke from the green pine-branches on the
smoldering fire. We said that the chief invited us to a cup of tea: so he
did—but we provided the tea; and that, too, not only for our own party,
but for half a dozen of the chief’s personal friends. There being only two
glasses in the camp, we of course had to wait until our Kurdish
acquaintances had quenched their burning thirst. In thoughtful mood we
gazed around through the evening twilight. Far away on the western slope
we could see some Kurdish women plodding along under heavy burdens of
pine-branches like those that were now fumigating our eyes and nostrils.
Across the hills the Kurdish shepherds were driving home their herds and
flocks to the tinkling of bells. All this, to us, was deeply impressive.
Such peaceful scenes, we thought, could never be the haunt of warlike
robbers. The flocks at last came home; the shouts of the shepherds ceased;
darkness fell; and all was quiet.
One by one the lights in the tents broke out, like the stars above. As the
darkness deepened, they shone more and more brightly across the
amphitheater of the encampment. The tent in which we were now sitting was
oblong in shape, covered with a mixture of goats’ and sheep’s wool,
carded, spun, and woven by the Kurdish women. This tenting was all of a
dark brown or black color. The various strips were badly joined together,
allowing the snow and rain, during the stormy night that followed, to
penetrate plentifully. A wickerwork fencing, about three feet high, made
from the reeds gathered in the swamps of the Aras River, was stretched
around the bottom of the tent to keep out the cattle as well as to afford
some little protection from the elements. This same material, of the same
width or height, was used to partition off the apartments of the women.
Far from being veiled and shut up in harems, like their Turkish and
Persian sisters, the Kurdish women come and go among the men, and talk and
laugh as they please. The thinness and lowness of the partition walls did
not disturb their astonishing equanimity. In their relations with the men
the women are extremely free. During the evening we frequently found
ourselves surrounded by a concourse of these mountain beauties, who would
sit and stare at us with their black eyes, call attention to our personal
oddities, and laugh among themselves. Now and then their jokes at our
expense would produce hilarious laughter among the men. The dress of these
women consisted of baggy trousers, better described in this country as
“divided skirts,” a bright-colored overskirt and tunic, and a little round
cloth cap encircled with a band of red and black. Through the right lobe
of the nose was hung a peculiar button-shaped ornament studded with
precious stones. This picturesque costume well set off their rich olive
complexions, and black eyes beneath dark-brown lashes.
There were no signs of an approaching evening meal until we opened our
provision-bag, and handed over certain articles of raw food to be cooked
for us. No sooner were the viands intrusted to the care of our hosts, than
two sets of pots and kettles made their appearance in the other
compartments. In half an hour our host and friends proceeded to indulge
their voracious appetites. When our own meal was brought to us some time
after, we noticed that the fourteen eggs we had doled out had been reduced
to six; and the other materials suffered a similar reduction, the whole
thing being so patent as to make their attempt at innocence absurdly
ludicrous. We thought, however, if Kurdish highway robbery took no worse
form than this, we could well afford to be content. Supper over, we
squatted round a slow-burning fire, on the thick felt mats which served as
carpets, drank tea, and smoked the usual cigarettes. By the light of the
glowing embers we could watch the faces about us, and catch their
horrified glances when reference was made to our intended ascent of
Ak-Dagh, the mysterious abode of the jinn. Before turning in for the
night, we reconnoitered our situation. The lights in all the tents, save
our own, were now extinguished. Not a sound was heard, except the heavy
breathing of some of the slumbering animals about us, or the bark of a dog
at some distant encampment. The huge dome of Ararat, though six to eight
miles farther up the slope, seemed to be towering over us like some giant
monster of another world. We could not see the summit, so far was it above
the enveloping clouds. We returned to the tent to find that the zaptiehs
had been given the best places and best covers to sleep in, and that we
were expected to accommodate ourselves near the door, wrapped up in an old
Kurdish carpet. Policy was evidently a better developed trait of Kurdish
character than hospitality.
Although we arose at four, seven o’clock saw us still at the encampment.
Two hours vanished before our gentlemen zaptiehs condescended to rise from
their peaceful slumbers; then a great deal of time was unnecessarily
consumed in eating their special breakfast. We ourselves had to be content
with ekmek and yaourt (blotting-paper bread and curdled milk). This over,
they concluded not to go on without sandals to take the place of their
heavy military boots, as at this point their horses would have to be
discarded. After we had employed a Kurd to make these for them, they
declared they were afraid to proceed without the company of ten Kurds
armed to the teeth. We knew that this was only a scheme on the part of the
Kurds, with whom the zaptiehs were in league, to extort money from us. We
still kept cool, and only casually insinuated that we did not have enough
money to pay for so large a party. This announcement worked like a charm.
The interest the Kurds had up to this time taken in our venture died away
at once. Even the three Kurds who, as requested in the message of the
mutessarif, were to accompany us up the mountain to the snow-line, refused
absolutely to go. The mention of the mutessarif’s name awakened only a
sneer. We had also relied upon the Kurds for blankets, as we had been
advised to do by our friends in Bayazid. Those we had already hired they
now snatched from the donkeys standing before the tent. All this time our
tall, gaunt, meek-looking muleteer had stood silent. Now his turn had
come. How far was he to go with his donkeys?—he didn’t think it possible
for him to go much beyond this point. Patience now ceased to be a virtue.
We cut off discussion at once; told the muleteer he would either go on, or
lose what he had already earned; and informed the zaptiehs that whatever
they did would be reported to the mutessarif on our return. Under this
rather forcible persuasion, they stood not on the order of their going,
but sullenly followed our little procession out of camp before the
crestfallen Kurds.
In the absence of guides we were thrown upon our own resources. Far from
being an assistance, our zaptiehs proved a nuisance. They would carry
nothing, not even the food they were to eat, and were absolutely ignorant
of the country we were to traverse. From our observations on the previous
days, we had decided to strike out on a northeast course, over the gentle
slope, until we struck the rocky ridges on the southeast buttress of the
dome. On its projecting rocks, which extended nearer to the summit than
those of any other part of the mountain, we could avoid the slippery,
precipitous snow-beds that stretched far down the mountain at this time of
the year.
Immediately after leaving the encampment, the ascent became steeper and
more difficult; the small volcanic stones of yesterday now increased to
huge obstructing boulders, among which the donkeys with difficulty made
their way. They frequently tipped their loads, or got wedged in between
two unyielding walls. In the midst of our efforts to extricate them, we
often wondered how Noah ever managed with the animals from the ark. Had
these donkeys not been of a philosophical turn of mind, they might have
offered forcible objections to the way we extricated them from their
straightened circumstances. A remonstrance on our part for carelessness in
driving brought from the muleteer a burst of Turkish profanity that made
the rocks of Ararat resound with indignant echoes. The spirit of
insubordination seemed to be increasing in direct ratio with the height of
our ascent.
We came now to a comparatively smooth, green slope, which led up to the
highest Kurdish encampment met on the line of our ascent, about 7500 feet.
When in sight of the black tents, the subject of Kurdish guides was again
broached by the zaptiehs, and immediately they sat down to discuss the
question. We ourselves were through with discussion, and fully determined
to have nothing to do with a people who could do absolutely nothing for
us. We stopped at the tents, and asked for milk. “Yes,” they said; “we
have some”: but after waiting for ten minutes, we learned that the milk
was still in the goats’ possession, several hundred yards away among the
rocks. It dawned upon us that this was only another trick of the zaptiehs
to get a rest.
[Illustration: OUR GUARDS SIT DOWN TO DISCUSS THE SITUATION.]
We pushed on the next 500 feet of the ascent without much trouble or
controversy, the silence broken only by the muleteer, who took the _raki_
bottle off the donkey’s pack, and asked if he could take a drink. As we
had only a limited supply, to be used to dilute the snow-water, we were
obliged to refuse him.
At 8000 feet we struck our first snowdrift, into which the donkeys sank up
to their bodies. It required our united efforts to lift them out, and half
carry them across. Then on we climbed till ten o’clock, to a point about
9000 feet, where we stopped for lunch in a quiet mountain glen, by the
side of a rippling mountain rill. This snow-water we drank with raki. The
view in the mean time had been growing more and more extensive. The plain
before us had lost nearly all its detail and color, and was merged into
one vast whole. Though less picturesque, it was incomparably grander. Now
we could see how, in ages past, the lava had burst out of the lateral
fissures in the mountain, and flowed in huge streams for miles down the
slope, and out on the plain below. These beds of lava were gradually
broken up by the action of the elements, and now presented the appearance
of ridges of broken volcanic rocks of the most varied and fantastic
shapes.
It was here that the muleteer showed evident signs of weakening, which
later on developed into a total collapse. We had come to a broad
snow-field where the donkeys stuck fast and rolled over helpless in the
snow. Even after we had unstrapped their baggage and carried it over on
our shoulders, they could make no headway. The muleteer gave up in
despair, and refused even to help us carry our loads to the top of an
adjoining hill, whither the zaptiehs had proceeded to wait for us. In
consequence, Raffl and we were compelled to carry two donkey-loads of
baggage for half a mile over the snow-beds and boulders, followed by the
sulking muleteer, who had deserted his donkeys, rather than be left alone
himself. On reaching the zaptiehs, we sat down to hold a council on the
situation; but the clouds, which, during the day, had occasionally
obscured the top of the mountain, now began to thicken, and it was not
long before a shower compelled us to beat a hasty retreat to a neighboring
ledge of rocks. The clouds that were rolling between us and the mountain
summit seemed but a token of the storm of circumstances. One thing was
certain, the muleteer could go no farther up the mountain, and yet he was
mortally afraid to return alone to the Kurdish robbers. He sat down, and
began to cry like a child. This predicament of their accomplice furnished
the zaptiehs with a plausible excuse. They now absolutely refused to go
any farther without him. Our interpreter, the Greek, again joined the
majority; he was not going to risk the ascent without the Turkish guards,
and besides, he had now come to the conclusion that we had not sufficient
blankets to spend a night at so high an altitude. Disappointed, but not
discouraged, we gazed at the silent old gentleman at our side. In his
determined countenance we read his answer. Long shall we remember Ignaz
Raffl as one of the pluckiest, most persevering of old men.
[Illustration: HELPING THE DONKEYS OVER A SNOW-FIELD.]
There was now only one plan that could be pursued. Selecting from our
supplies one small blanket, a felt mat, two long, stout ropes, enough food
to last us two days, a bottle of cold tea, and a can of Turkish raki, we
packed them into two bundles to strap on our backs. We then instructed the
rest of the party to return to the Kurdish encampment and await our
return. The sky was again clear at 2:30 P. M., when we bade good-by to our
worthless comrades and resumed the ascent. We were now at a height of nine
thousand feet, and it was our plan to camp at a point far enough up the
mountain to enable us to complete the ascent on the following day, and
return to the Kurdish encampment by nightfall. Beyond us was a region of
snow and barren rocks, among which we still saw a small purple flower and
bunches of lichens, which grew more rare as we advanced. Our course
continued in a northeast direction, toward the main southeast ridge of the
mountain. Sometimes we were floundering with our heavy loads in the deep
snow-beds, or scrambling on hands and knees over the huge boulders of the
rocky seams. Two hours and a half of climbing brought us to the crest of
the main southeast ridge, about one thousand feet below the base of the
precipitous dome. At this point our course changed from northeast to
northwest, and continued so during the rest of the ascent. Little Ararat
was now in full view. We could even distinguish upon its northwest side a
deep-cut gorge, which was not visible before. Upon its smooth and perfect
slopes remained only the tatters of its last winter’s garments. We could
also look far out over the Sardarbulakh ridge, which connects the two
Ararats, and on which the Cossacks are encamped. It was to them that the
mutessarif had desired us to go, but we had subsequently determined to
make the ascent directly from the Turkish side.
[Illustration: LITTLE ARARAT COMES INTO VIEW.]
Following up this southeast ridge we came at 5:45 P. M. to a point about
eleven thousand feet. Here the thermometer registered 39° Fahrenheit, and
was constantly falling. If we should continue on, the cold during the
night, especially with our scanty clothing, would become intolerable; and
then, too, we could scarcely find a spot level enough to sleep on. We
therefore determined to stop here for the night, and to continue the
ascent at dawn. Some high, rugged crags on the ridge above us attracted
our attention as affording a comparatively protected lodging. Among these
we spread our carpet, and piled stones in the intervening spaces to form a
complete inclosure. Thus busily engaged, we failed for a time to realize
the grandeur of the situation. Over the vast and misty panorama that
spread out before us, the lingering rays of the setting sun shed a tinge
of gold, which was communicated to the snowy beds around us. Behind the
peak of Little Ararat a brilliant rainbow stretched in one grand archway
above the weeping clouds. But this was only one turn of nature’s
kaleidoscope. The arch soon faded away, and the shadows lengthened and
deepened across the plain, and mingled, till all was lost to view behind
the falling curtains of the night. The Kurdish tents far down the slope,
and the white curling smoke from their evening camp-fires, we could see no
more; only the occasional bark of a dog was borne upward through the
impenetrable darkness.
Colder and colder grew the atmosphere. From 39° the thermometer gradually
fell to 36°, to 33°, and during the night dropped below freezing-point.
The snow, which fell from the clouds just over our heads, covered our
frugal supper-table, on which were placed a few hard-boiled eggs, some
tough Turkish bread, cheese, and a bottle of tea mixed with raki. Ice-tea
was no doubt a luxury at this time of the year, but not on Mount Ararat,
at the height of eleven thousand feet, with the temperature at
freezing-point. M. Raffl was as cheerful as could be expected under the
circumstances. He expressed his delight at our progress thus far; and now
that we were free from our “gentlemen” attendants, he considered our
chances for success much brighter. We turned in together under our single
blanket, with the old gentleman between us. He had put on every article of
clothing, including gloves, hat, hood, cloak, and heavy shoes. For pillows
we used the provision-bags and camera. The bottle of cold tea we buttoned
up in our coats to prevent it from freezing. On both sides, and above us,
lay the pure white snow; below us a huge abyss, into which the rocky ridge
descended like a darkened stairway to the lower regions. The awful
stillness was unbroken, save by the whistling of the wind among the rocks.
Dark masses of clouds seemed to bear down upon us every now and then,
opening up their trapdoors, and letting down a heavy fall of snow. The
heat of our bodies melted the ice beneath us, and our clothes became
saturated with ice-water. Although we were surrounded by snow and ice, we
were suffering with a burning thirst. Since separating from our companions
we had found no water whatever, while the single bottle of cold tea we had
must be preserved for the morrow. Sleep, under such circumstances, and in
our cramped position, was utterly impossible. At one o’clock the morning
star peeped above the eastern horizon. This we watched hour after hour, as
it rose in unrivaled beauty toward the zenith, until at last it began to
fade away in the first gray streaks of the morning.
[Illustration: THE WALL INCLOSURE FOR OUR BIVOUAC AT ELEVEN THOUSAND
FEET.]
By the light of a flickering candle we ate a hurried breakfast, fastened
on our spiked shoes, and strapped to our backs a few indispensable
articles, leaving the rest of our baggage at the camp until our return.
Just at daybreak, 3:55 A. M., on the 4th of July, we started off on what
proved to be the hardest day’s work we had ever accomplished. We struck
out at once across the broad snow-field to the second rock rib on the
right, which seemed to lead up to the only line of rocks above. The
surface of these large snow-beds had frozen during the night, so that we
had to cut steps with our ice-picks to keep from slipping down their
glassy surface. Up this ridge we slowly climbed for three weary hours,
leaping from boulder to boulder, or dragging ourselves up their
precipitous sides. The old gentleman halted frequently to rest, and showed
evident signs of weariness. “It is hard; we must take it slowly,” he would
say (in German) whenever our impatience would get the better of our
prudence. At seven o’clock we reached a point about 13,500 feet, beyond
which there seemed to be nothing but the snow-covered slope, with only a
few projecting rocks along the edge of a tremendous gorge which now broke
upon our astonished gaze. Toward this we directed our course, and, an hour
later, stood upon its very verge. Our venerable companion now looked up at
the precipitous slope above us, where only some stray, projecting rocks
were left to guide us through the wilderness of snow. “Boys,” said he,
despondently, “I cannot reach the top; I have not rested during the night,
and I am now falling asleep on my feet; besides, I am very much fatigued.”
This came almost like a sob from a breaking heart. Although the old
gentleman was opposed to the ascent in the first instance, his old Alpine
spirit arose within him with all its former vigor when once he had started
up the mountain slope; and now, when almost in sight of the very goal, his
strength began to fail him. After much persuasion and encouragement, he
finally said that if he could get half an hour’s rest and sleep, he
thought he would be able to continue. We then wrapped him up in his
greatcoat, and dug out a comfortable bed in the snow, while one of us sat
down, with back against him, to keep him from rolling down the
mountain-side.
[Illustration: NEARING THE HEAD OF THE GREAT CHASM.]
We were now on the chasm’s brink, looking down into its unfathomable
depths. This gigantic rent, hundreds of feet in width and thousands in
depth, indicates that northwest-southeast line along which the volcanic
forces of Ararat have acted most powerfully. This fissure is perhaps the
greatest with which the mountain is seamed, and out of which has
undoubtedly been discharged a great portion of its lava. Starting from the
base of the dome, it seemed to pierce the shifting clouds to a point about
500 feet from the summit. This line is continued out into the plain in a
series of small volcanoes the craters of which appear to be as perfect as
though they had been in activity only yesterday. The solid red and yellow
rocks which lined the sides of the great chasm projected above the
opposite brink in jagged and appalling cliffs. The whole was incased in a
mass of huge fantastic icicles, which, glittering in the sunlight, gave it
the appearance of a natural crystal palace. No more fitting place than
this could the fancy of the Kurds depict for the home of the terrible
jinn; no better symbol of nature for the awful jaws of death.
Our companion now awoke considerably refreshed, and the ascent was
continued close to the chasm’s brink. Here were the only rocks to be seen
in the vast snow-bed around us. Cautiously we proceed, with cat-like
tread, following directly in one another’s footsteps, and holding on to
our alpenstocks like grim death. A loosened rock would start at first
slowly, gain momentum, and fairly fly. Striking against some projecting
ledge, it would bound a hundred feet or more into the air, and then drop
out of sight among the clouds below. Every few moments we would stop to
rest; our knees were like lead, and the high altitude made breathing
difficult. Now the trail of rocks led us within two feet of the chasm’s
edge; we approached it cautiously, probing well for a rock foundation, and
gazing with dizzy heads into the abyss.
The slope became steeper and steeper, until it abutted in an almost
precipitous cliff coated with snow and glistening ice. There was no escape
from it, for all around the snow-beds were too steep and slippery to
venture an ascent upon them. Cutting steps with our ice-picks, and
half-crawling, half-dragging ourselves, with the alpenstocks hooked into
the rocks above, we scaled its height, and advanced to the next abutment.
Now a cloud, as warm as exhausted steam, enveloped us in the midst of this
ice and snow. When it cleared away, the sun was reflected with intenser
brightness. Our faces were already smarting with blisters, and our dark
glasses afforded but little protection to our aching eyes.
At 11 A. M. we sat down on the snow to eat our last morsel of food. The
cold chicken and bread tasted like sawdust, for we had no saliva with
which to masticate them. Our single bottle of tea had given out, and we
suffered with thirst for several hours. Again the word to start was given.
We rose at once, but our stiffened legs quivered beneath us, and we leaned
on our alpenstocks for support. Still we plodded on for two more weary
hours, cutting our steps in the icy cliffs, or sinking to our thighs in
the treacherous snow-beds. We could see that we were nearing the top of
the great chasm, for the clouds, now entirely cleared away, left our view
unobstructed. We could even descry the black Kurdish tents upon the
northeast slope, and, far below, the Aras River, like a streak of silver,
threading its way into the purple distance. The atmosphere about us grew
colder, and we buttoned up our now too scanty garments. We must be nearing
the top, we thought, and yet we were not certain, for a huge, precipitous
cliff, just in front of us, cut off the view.
“Slowly, slowly,” feebly shouted the old gentleman, as we began the attack
on its precipitous sides, now stopping to brush away the treacherous snow,
or to cut some steps in the solid ice. We pushed and pulled one another
almost to the top, and then, with one more desperate effort, we stood upon
a vast and gradually sloping snow-bed. Down we plunged above our knees
through the yielding surface, and staggered and fell with failing
strength; then rose once more and plodded on, until at last we sank
exhausted upon the top of Ararat.
For a moment only we lay gasping for breath; then a full realization of
our situation dawned upon us, and fanned the few faint sparks of
enthusiasm that remained in our exhausted bodies. We unfurled upon an
alpenstock the small silk American flag that we had brought from home, and
for the first time the “stars and stripes” was given to the breeze on the
Mountain of the Ark. Four shots fired from our revolvers in commemoration
of Independence Day broke the stillness of the gorges. Far above the
clouds, which were rolling below us over three of the most absolute
monarchies in the world, was celebrated in our simple way a great event of
republicanism.
Mount Ararat, it will be observed from the accompanying sketch, has two
tops, a few hundred yards apart, sloping, on the eastern and western
extremities, into rather prominent abutments, and separated by a snow
valley, or depression, from 50 to 100 feet in depth. The eastern top, on
which we were standing, was quite extensive, and 30 to 40 feet lower than
its western neighbor. Both tops are hummocks on the huge dome of Ararat,
like the humps on the back of a camel, on neither one of which is there a
vestige of anything but snow.
[Illustration: ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT ARARAT—FIRING THE FOURTH OF JULY
SALUTE.]
There remained just as little trace of the crosses left by Parrot and
Chodzko, as of the ark itself. We remembered the pictures we had seen in
our nursery-books, which represented this mountain-top covered with green
grass, and Noah stepping out of the ark, in the bright, warm sunshine,
before the receding waves; and now we looked around and saw this very spot
covered with perpetual snow. Nor did we see any evidence whatever of a
former existing crater, except perhaps the snow-filled depression we have
just mentioned. There was nothing about this perpetual snow-field, and the
freezing atmosphere that was chilling us to the bone, to remind us that we
were on the top of an extinct volcano that once trembled with the
convulsions of subterranean heat.
The view from this towering height was immeasurably extensive, and almost
too grand. All detail was lost—all color, all outline; even the
surrounding mountains seemed to be but excrescent ridges of the plain.
Then, too, we could catch only occasional glimpses, as the clouds shifted
to and fro. At one time they opened up beneath us, and revealed the Aras
valley with its glittering ribbon of silver at an abysmal depth below. Now
and then we could descry the black volcanic peaks of Ali Ghez forty miles
away to the northwest, and on the southwest the low mountains that
obscured the town of Bayazid. Of the Caucasus, the mountains about Erzerum
on the west, and Lake Van on the south, and even of the Caspian Sea, all
of which are said to be in Ararat’s horizon, we could see absolutely
nothing.
Had it been a clear day we could have seen not only the rival peaks of the
Caucasus, which for so many years formed the northern wall of the
civilized world, but, far to the south, we might have descried the
mountains of Quardu land, where Chaldean legend has placed the landing of
the ark. We might have gazed, in philosophic mood, over the whole of the
Aras valley, which for 3000 years or more has been the scene of so much
misery and conflict. As monuments of two extreme events in this historic
period, two spots might have attracted our attention—one right below us,
the ruins of Artaxata, which, according to tradition, was built, as the
story goes, after the plans of the roving conqueror Hannibal, and stormed
by the Roman legions, A. D. 58; and farther away to the north, the modern
fortress of Kars, which so recently reverberated with the thunders of the
Turkish war.
We were suddenly aroused by the rumbling of thunder below us. A storm was
rolling rapidly up the southeast slope of the mountain. The atmosphere
seemed to be boiling over the heated plain below. Higher and higher came
the clouds, rolling and seething among the grim crags along the chasm; and
soon we were caught in its embrace. The thermometer dropped at once below
freezing-point, and the dense mists, driven against us by the hurricane,
formed icicles on our blistered faces, and froze the ink in our
fountain-pens. Our summer clothing was wholly inadequate for such an
unexpected experience; we were chilled to the bone. To have remained where
we were would have been jeopardizing our health, if not our lives.
Although we could scarcely see far enough ahead to follow back on the
track by which we had ascended, yet we were obliged to attempt it at once,
for the storm around us was increasing every moment; we could even feel
the charges of electricity whenever we touched the iron points of our
alpenstocks.
Carefully peering through the clouds, we managed to follow the trail we
had made along the gradually sloping summit, to the head of the great
chasm, which now appeared more terrible than ever. We here saw that it
would be extremely perilous, if not actually impossible, to attempt a
descent on the rocks along its treacherous edge in such a hurricane. The
only alternative was to take the precipitous snow-covered slope. Planting
our ice-hooks deep in the snow behind us, we started. At first the strong
head wind, which on the top almost took us off our feet, somewhat checked
our downward career, but it was not long before we attained a velocity
that made our hair stand on end. It was a thrilling experience; we seemed
to be sailing through the air itself, for the clouds obscured the slope
even twenty feet below. Finally we emerged beneath them into the glare of
the afternoon sunlight; but on we dashed for 6000 feet, leaning heavily on
the trailing-stocks, which threw up an icy spray in our wake. We never
once stopped until we reached the bottom of the dome, at our last night’s
camp among the rocks.
In less than an hour we had dashed down, through a distance which it had
taken us nine and a half hours to ascend. The camp was reached at 4 P. M.,
just twelve hours from the time we left it. Gathering up the remaining
baggage, we hurried away to continue the descent. We must make desperate
efforts to reach the Kurdish encampment by nightfall; for during the last
twenty-seven hours we had had nothing to drink but half a pint of tea, and
our thirst by this time became almost intolerable.
The large snow-bed down which we had been sliding now began to show signs
of treachery. The snow, at this low altitude, had melted out from below,
to supply the subterranean streams, leaving only a thin crust at the
surface. It was not long before one of our party fell into one of these
pitfalls up to his shoulders, and floundered about for some time before he
could extricate himself from his unexpected snow-bath.
Over the rocks and boulders the descent was much slower and more tedious.
For two hours we were thus busily engaged, when all at once a shout rang
out in the clear evening air. Looking up we saw, sure enough, our two
zaptiehs and muleteer on the very spot where we had left them the evening
before. Even the two donkeys were on hand to give us a welcoming bray.
They had come up from the encampment early in the morning, and had been
scanning the mountain all day long to get some clue to our whereabouts.
They reported that they had seen us at one time during the morning, and
had then lost sight of us among the clouds. This solicitude on their part
was no doubt prompted by the fact that they were to be held by the
mutessarif of Bayazid as personally responsible for our safe return, and
perhaps, too, by the hope that they might thus retrieve the good graces
they had lost the day before, and thereby increase the amount of the
forthcoming baksheesh. Nothing, now, was too heavy for the donkeys, and
even the zaptiehs themselves condescended to relieve us of our
alpenstocks.
That night we sat again around the Kurdish camp-fire, surrounded by the
same group of curious faces. It was interesting and even amusing to watch
the bewildered astonishment that overspread their countenances as we
related our experiences along the slope, and then upon the very top, of
Ak-Dagh. They listened throughout with profound attention, then looked at
one another in silence, and gravely shook their heads. They could not
believe it. It was impossible. Old Ararat stood above us grim and terrible
beneath the twinkling stars. To them it was, as it always will be, the
same mysterious, untrodden height—the palace of the jinn.