CLIMBING INTO WINTER
THE Khvamli Table Mountain seems to stand as a fort between the north
and the south, and it is an extraordinary sight. Its uppermost two
thousand feet are naked of verdure. The grey cliff, a mile long, rises
sheer from the crests of a green forest and extends in a regular
battlemented array, which suggests a great city wall. On one side of
that mountain I found summer, and on the other winter.
It was an extraordinary experience to climb out of an almost tropical
summer into a land where the trees were only just budding, and the
snowdrop and crocus were in bloom, and where the snow had not yet melted
from the road. I had started on a Sunday when the weather approximated
to that of July; on Friday I had reached March, and on Saturday I was in
mid-winter.
I passed through Oni, an unusual town, in which scarcely a new house has
been built since the twelfth century, and which is now inhabited by a
tribe of mountain Jews living in peculiar isolation. This was on
Thursday afternoon, and I spent the night in an inn nine miles north, at
the little town of Utsera, now fast becoming a popular health resort
though a hundred miles from a railway station. It is about the height of
Mount Snowdon, on the fringe of an ancient pine forest. At Utsera it was
raining on the Friday morning. At the next village, Glola, a thousand
feet higher, the rain was changed for sleet. The road ascends through a
fir wood said to be the grandest in the Caucasus; the pines are as
broad-trunked as some of our famous oaks, and they rise straight as a
die to almost incredible height. Their ancient hoariness and greyness
add to their majestic appearance.
I was now nearing the neck of the mountains and stormy Mamison. The
Rion, broad at Kutais, was here but a small torrent. The road, if such
it can be called, was traversed by many cascades and broken away by
rocks and rivers, so that a horseman could pass only with difficulty. To
vehicular traffic it was completely closed. Sitting at any point of the
road one could count literally scores of uprooted pines. Above Glola the
sun came out, the same hot Caucasian sun, though tempered by the cold
air, and, as if to pretend that summer was there, the Camberwell Beauty
butterfly (of name obviously not universal) flitted to and fro flaunting
its purple and gold. Under the pine trees were wild snowdrops thick
clustered, and on the roadway even little purple crocuses.
The road became difficult to manage, two bridges having been entirely
washed away. I had at one point to leap fifteen feet on to a black
snowdrift, which I feared might give under me. But I succeeded and won
my way to Gurshevi. That was the first village of the Ossetines, and had
generally a bad name. Some years ago an explorer and two guides
disappeared entirely in this region, and have never been heard of since.
And I had an adventure there which greatly alarmed me. I had not stopped
at the village; it was difficult of access, being upon a cliff, and I
strode forward toward the pass. But a verst forward on the road I was
hailed from a distance by four roughs, who demanded a rouble. I hurried
on. They called “Stop!” But I paid no attention, seeing that they were
extremely heavily clad and could not hope to catch me up; they were in a
valley about five hundred feet below. The road, however, was
extraordinarily tortuous, and if I had only climbed straight up the
cliff to the pass I should have saved myself at least five miles
walking, and my encounter with the roughs into the bargain. They were
able to cut me off and get into hiding among the boulders and rocks
above the road. My position was sufficiently dangerous, but I did not
guess their intention; they had no guns. Fortunately I caught sight of
one of them running from one rock to another, and when I came to the
district I stopped short and demanded of my hidden enemies what they
wanted. For answer a large lump of rock came whizzing through the air
within two inches of my head. Had I been struck I should have been
stunned. Whilst I was deliberating a second followed, almost more
terrifying than the first, and coming with great force, being hurled
from above. No one was to be seen. There was but one thing to do. I
lifted up my legs and sprinted.
I did not cease running till I was well up the pass and in a region
where there were no loose rocks to be found. The snowy peaks had now
become unveiled, and the fir forest was left behind. I thought that if I
hurried I might get over the pass that day. My assailants were far
behind. I did not fear another ambush. What was my surprise, however, to
see suddenly in front of me two men walking towards me. Their dog rushed
at me. I received him with equanimity, being much more afraid of men
than of beasts. They told me there was no road for ten versts and would
not be for a month, and they advised me to go back to Gurshevi. I
listened with trepidation and could not believe what they said. I agreed
to their advice, however, but said I would rest a little as I was very
tired, and bade them go on in front. When they were out of sight I left
the road abruptly and struck straight up the turfy bank towards the
pass. I crossed the circuitous road three times and came to the region
of continuous unmelted snow. I dragged myself through a mile of “slosh,”
where a profusion of yellow water-lilies were growing, and for the best
part of an hour I strove to find the road again. When I found it and
followed it I came rapidly to snow too soft and deep to pass; indeed,
twenty yards in front the road was perfectly lost in the snow, unmarked
by undulation or rift in the even whiteness.
I was desperate, but I felt sure there was a way, for I had heard of
hillmen coming from Utsera, and had been even counselled to wait for a
companion there. I resolved to get a shepherd to show me the way, and
with that in view climbed awkwardly downhill to the turfy region, where
a flock was browsing. Yes, there was a way—one quite different from the
road; an Ossetine shepherd offered to show me for a shilling. I agreed
on condition that he first gave me a glass of milk, for I was exhausted
and had eaten nothing since morning. This man was friendly enough, but
on consideration he thought it impossible to show me that night. I
should have to wait until next morning. I might sleep with them in their
koutan if I didn’t mind the filth; they would make a bonfire and a big
supper. His mate, Gudaev, would play the fiddle; I could sing. He would
roast two quails which Achmet had killed; they would all have a jolly
evening, and to-morrow morning very early he would take me and show me
the track. Very thankfully I agreed.
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