“I could hike like this for a few days,” said Goran.
“You won’t say that tomorrow,” came back Ian.
The running and hiking I’d done in preparation for this trek made the going enjoyable—no huffing or drawing down of breath—and the rate of climbing only became a concern when Charlie, Ian, Goran, and I created an unexpected gap between ourselves and Nico and Patricia.
After climbing nearly an hour, we took a rest. Below us, we saw the dust of two departing minibuses. Why were we happy to see the Armenians lagging behind? It did grant us a distorted sense of being on our own with the mountain. Was it really more special to be one of six rather than in a cluster hike? I realized that segregating ourselves from our fellow hikers risked creating a clique mentality that would do nothing for mountain safety, let alone camaraderie.
Ahead of us, on a shortcut trail, the brothers with two packhorses were making a steeper climb. Having been delayed in their start, they now wanted to be ahead of us; they waved but did not slow.
We shouldered our packs and continued along. Eventually, the brothers’ route intersected with ours, and they stepped in front. We had leaders.
The terrain turned calf-burningly steep. It meant a hiker’s eyes were less level with the surroundings, always wanting to look up. And there, piercing the cumulus, was Ararat’s peak. We stopped, proud our motivator had decided to appear and look down upon us. I felt it was the mountain’s decision, not the weather’s.
“I think I can climb that,” said Charlie, not at all overconfident.
“If you do, I will be with you,” said Ian, knowing more than the rest of us how uncertain such ambitions could be.
“Me too, I hope,” said Goran.
I felt as they did; their measured response to the shiny steel of Ararat’s glaring peak was appropriate humbleness.
One of Ararat’s more enduring stories of vainglory unfolded near the mountain’s Parrot Glacier, and it resulted in the book that initiated my own journey. The rainbow chaser Fernando Navarra had been here six decades ago seeking fame.
Navarra was with an expedition led by Jean de Riquer. The Turkish government supported their mission; the watchful government of the USSR was less enthusiastic, as their empire included the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic, which disputed neighboring Turkey’s claim to Mount Ararat. The Russo-Turkish border was a menacing zone.
Initially they approached Ararat’s northern side from the vicinity of Ahora, where the devastating earth tremors in 1840 had altered parts of the mountain—perhaps, Navarra hoped, exposing the ark. After an initial climbing attempt pulled up short, the group made a second foray, this one to a “moraine front” (implying the end of a former glacier) at 7,375 feet, a location “whose sloping sides ended in gullies.” Unsuccessful in reaching the summit via the northern face, Navarra nevertheless speculated that he climbed “down the slopes that Noah and the Ark’s passengers trod to reach the plain.”
Within a week, the party attempted a south side ascent from a new operational base in Bayazid (Doğubeyazit). On their third attempt they encountered lightning, a blizzard, and hail. They camped at 14,000 feet. “We had the feeling that the mountain was defending itself.” Roped together, they moved cautiously. “Under our feet, nothing was solid, neither rocks nor ice.” Exhausted, their tenacious clawing proved successful, and the climbers were able to “touch the summit of Noah’s Mountain.”
Another day, hiking high on the mountain near a glacier, Navarra claimed to have encountered exactly what he sought. “On one side, I could see a mountain of ice lined with crevasses, on the other, a sheer wall. At the bottom, I saw a dark mass.” The frozen shape, which “resembled that of a ship,” Navarra said, could be explained in no other way than as the remnants of the long lost Ark. Lacking on-site assistance, proper equipment, and the wherewithal to excavate, the camera-less Navarra marked the location in his mind, vowing to return. His intention was to keep his discovery secret until it best served his purposes.
The result was a dispatch datelined Istanbul, August 18, 1952, that read: “Not a single trace of Noah’s Ark was discovered by a French expedition which battled its way to the top of Mount Ararat. The expedition was led by Jean de Riquer, Polar explorer who raised the French flag atop the Old Testament peak.”
Back in France, Navarra penned his bestselling book, The Forbidden Mountain, translated to English and published four years later. It earned him respect as a mountaineer, and finally revealed the ice-captured ship shape that he hoped to explore further.
Fernand Navarra was untroubled by smuggling an artifact off Mount Ararat and out of Turkey. Navarra first sought to verify the age of a timber through an Egyptian “expert at the Cairo Museum,” who pronounced the wood “4,000 to 6,000 years old.” Over time, Navarra’s “beam” attracted less friendly scientific estimates of between 535 and 725 years old. However, an official of the Spanish Ministry of Agriculture, corroborating the first results, gave a rounded age of 5,000 years, placing it circa 3000 BCE. Portrait © Simon Carr.
Fernand Navarra returned to Ararat the year after his first expedition (before his book’s publication), hoping to retrieve a sample of wood that would demonstrate to the world that he had found Noah’s Ark. Punishing headaches, mountain sickness, and numbness assailed him when he was “within a hundred yards of the site of the timbers,” forcing him to leave the mountain.
In 1955, Navarra’s third expedition would claim proof that the mountain provided the wood sample he sought.
With his first-hand knowledge of the danger-laden journey to Ararat, along with his experience facing this mountain’s threatening circumstances, it was curious that Navarra chose that expedition’s team to be composed solely of his family—his wife13 and their sons Jose, age nine, Raphael, eleven, and Fernand, thirteen. Perhaps it was Navarra’s fascination with Noah’s family-based adventures that influenced his decision.
The family ventured into a restricted military zone, Navarra posing as a research archeologist whenever asked of his intentions. His gumption got the family onto the lower reaches of Ararat. There, on the first afternoon of their expedition, the family concluded it would be safest for Navarra’s wife and two of their boys to return to Karakose, fifty miles away, where they would have proper accommodation.
Navarra and Raphael were left alone at the 7,850-foot level to begin the arduous tasks of exploration. They did not have mules or porters, and their packs were large. The journey would demand brute strength, extraordinary survival skills, and agility. Their survival required total interdependence.
Throughout the rest of that day and into the evening, the partners climbed, stopping to rest, at 10 p.m., around 11,500 feet.
The next day was tougher. Fernand would climb and secure a position, then let down a sixty-foot ladder of light steel. Raphael would work his way up this until “by three in the afternoon we had reached the everlasting snowfields 13,750 feet high.”
Later that afternoon, while a fatigued Raphael slept, Navarra took cocaine. “All at once I felt lucid, sure of myself, filled with energy—artificial energy, but as useful as the real thing.” Emboldened, he took a reconnoitering hike on the Parrot Glacier. Hundreds of feet above their camp, vast clouds parted to reveal the enfolded ice he’d discovered in 1952. The glacier had, to his happy astonishment, receded an estimated three hundred feet from when he’d seen it just three years earlier.
Navarra returned to camp and settled in with his son for warmth. In the middle of the night, a loosened eighty-pound rock, caught in a storm of severe gusts, edged away from its mooring and tumbled onto the tent, injuring Navarra’s knee. Half in and half out of sleep after the incident (and perhaps still under the influence), he later wrote, “I dreamed that the snow was pink.”
In the morning, Raphael was eager to find the Ark, saying, “I wish it were already tomorrow today.” Navarra spotted timbers in the cavern he’d visited the day before. They were exhilarated. Bitterly cold and fatigued, the two trekkers
took shelter in an ice cave overnight.
After a meager breakfast, they lowered themselves and their equipment into the cavern using a rope and ladder to get forty feet under the glacier. Navarra hacked into the ice, his pickaxe revealing “a black piece of wood,” which he determined had been “hand-hewn.” Convinced that this was from the framework of Noah’s Ark, Navarra sawed off a water-soaked five-foot length of beam and filmed the ever-remarkable Raphael “hoisting up this ancient piece of wreckage.”
Navarra’s resulting second book, aggrandizing his reputed ice cave discovery of 1955, as well as trips in 1968 and 1969, was titled Noah’s Ark: I Touched It. However, he would be haunted by allegations that he’d bought the wood in a nearby town and relocated it to Ararat so that it could be “discovered.” Unfortunately, neither Raphael nor the intrepid photographer Navarra had taken any “locator” images of identifiable landmarks to corroborate their claim.
Our own Mount Ararat ascent trudged on. I forgot about meeting up with Paraşut, the possibility of which had long seemed more and more remote, despite being intrigued by his claims of an ice cave and ancient wooden timbers.
We headed up the mountain’s southern side, six climbers led by the cooks visible only in the distance as two cantering pole stars. The grandeur of the mountain empowered us. As we wound through another boulder-strewn section of the trail, Fesih was waiting for us around a bend. “Rest,” he said. Niecit was humming to himself a few feet away. Further up the slope, clouds parted to reveal the peak. I felt overwhelmed by the size of it, even when partially draped by cumulous. The rock went gray near snow that could not quite become white in the light, and I recalled Parrot calling it “the austere, silvery head of Old Ararat.” It looked indifferent to our being here, the summit tucked back out of sight as though testing our belief that it even existed at all. It seemed insurmountable.
The two teenage boys had moved on ahead with the horses, using steep short cuts. Niecit got up to leave us and said, “See you at camp. Keep as you are. On path. On mountain.”
On our own again, we meandered through small boulders, only partially rounded by erosion. Sometimes one of us would hike a straight-up shortcut, as the brothers had done. The tactic brought that sense of singleness, a comfortable feeling of aloneness with the mountain, one that following a worn path did not. Only Nico and Patricia stayed on the path. When we looked back, Nico raised his hand to wave us on. An experienced adventurer, he was confident in trailing us, not wanting his pace to set ours. Realizing that it was best not to splinter the group, we stopped to wait out of Nico’s line of sight. We all needed a rest.
When Nico caught up, he said, “It’s becoming difficult for me on this climb.”
I was surprised. I sensed Nico’s humor flagging; a tenseness was evident in his voice. Remembering Charlie’s comment about having trained by walking, I tried to find his eyes, thinking they might be foreshadowing the same concern. None there.
“Nico, we will keep you in sight,” Ian said.
Nico nodded in agreement. “Stay with your pace. I’m not far behind.”
Within thirty minutes the first of our group arrived at Base Camp. The cook tent was set close to the fire, with preparations under way for a meal. The boys were erecting a third trekker’s tent, making homes for us. They’d started far away from the cook tent and fire. Each new tent moved them closer. Ian and I walked toward the first tent, its opening flap faced the mountain slope.
“This’ll do,” Ian said. He set his daypack down. I tossed mine beside a second tent. “This is a marker for Patricia and Nico.”
Base Camp: The pack horses made the difference between an arduous hike and an enjoyable trek for the expedition members. Here they’ve been unpacked as Ian and Nico survey the site of Base Camp and contemplate the next day’s climb.
Charlie came over the lip of land that created this plateau, saw where we were, and claimed a tent for himself and Goran. Belatedly realizing that we risked socially separating ourselves from our fellow climbers, the Armenians, Goran and Charlie chose a newly set tent, infiltrating the other tribe’s grounds and ensuring that kinship would develop. Ian moved my pack to mark a more integrated tent for Patricia and Nico. The walk had changed my thinking, and I accepted that we were fortunate to share a mountain, meals, and a quest with the second group.
Though the Armenians had left the drop-point well after we’d departed, their two lead hikers gained enough ground to keep company with Nico and Patricia. They arrived onto the hem of our campsite together, their camaraderie strengthening Nico’s stride.
“Welcome,” said Charlie. All four acknowledged his flourish. All the tents were now sprung up for the evening’s community.
The sound of bickering reached camp before the remaining hikers did. Kubi was the last to schlep his way into camp, lines of irascibility showing in the squint of his eyes. Disappointment in their guiding arrangements had not dissipated for some during the Armenian troop’s climb.
Two six-foot makeshift tables were set end-to-end, pressed-wood sheets lain across sawhorses. There were assorted stools, plastic or wood. Everyone grabbed a prop and sat near the food. The blue and white stools tilted with the contour of the ground. Goran looked oversize in his small chair, but Ian, sitting at a slant, appeared content. On one side of the table, Patricia, the only one of us who was well-groomed, sat awkwardly on her chair, leaning toward Nico, who leaned toward Charlie, still wearing his cowboy hat, now tilted on his head in alignment with the sloping table. We clustered toward one end of the dinner table, Ian, Goran, and I sitting between newfound friends from Armenia.
Appetizers were set in bowls on the table. And here, nine thousand feet up on Mount Ararat, were two baskets of Wagon Wheels for the picking. There were salami and cheese sandwiches. Also on offer were toffee-colored cheddar cheese, salted crackers, and pretzels. Lots of pretzels. The carbohydrate top-up for the end of the day was accompanied by orange juice, prepared from concentrate.
Goran seemed downcast. “I was dreaming of a barbecue on the mountainside.”
“And a cold, cleansing ale?” It was Charlie.
Goran continued fantasizing. “A friend of mine hiked a mountain in Africa. At night there was always meat over open fire. One night their guide slaughtered a sheep right in front of the hiking party. Within an hour they had this amazing barbecue. It just makes me think … maybe …”
“Hold that thought,” said Nico, motioning toward the cook’s tent.
Fesih came out with a large aluminum bowl of spaghetti and started serving. Niecit brought a second large bowl of spaghetti from the kitchen tent to the table, also cradling a pan of steaming hot tomato sauce. To complete this, just as the food was losing heat to the cool air, he came back out with another pan of sauce and another load of spaghetti.
The sharing was uneven at first, as uncertainty about supply resulted in everyone taking modest portions on the first go-around. When Fesih came with a fourth bowl, we knew we were going to have enough. Then he returned with a platter of fire-crisped chicken. It’s hard for me to think of a meal tasting better than that one did after our long day.
Eric arrived near the end and walked over to sit beside Ian and me as Niecit put out sliced watermelon. “Looks like an interesting dinner. You’ll need it for tomorrow’s climb.”
“You’ll need it too, Eric. There’s lots left,” Ian said.
“I won’t need it unless I get better sorted on my decomposing footwear. It was rough coming up today. It’ll be steeper tomorrow.”
Ian asked what size of shoe Eric wore.
“Ten.”
Ian shook his head. I added, “Mine are ten and a half. You’re welcome to my runners, but there’s no ankle support. That’d be dangerous. You need proper boots.”
“Right,” Eric announced. “About now, they might be at the Van airport.”
Dusk descended, and I walked to the side of the plateau, opposite to where we’d climbed onto it. There was a deep canyon, out of ran
ge of the glow from the fire pit and flashlights, and I felt peace as I looked out over it.
An angry voice bit the calm. “That is not what it should be!” A woman standing next to Kubi was unhappy. Kubi was now supposed to lead our expedition to the summit instead of the Armenians, but had tried to square their discontent by hiking up the mountain with them today. She raised her voice. “You are the senior guide. You should be with us!”
Kubi’s impatience got the better of him. “You should stay at this Base Camp tomorrow. This is how far you should go,” he said. “It is safer.”
“That is not your business,” said another hiker. “We expect you to see us up the mountain.”
Frustrated, Kubi walked away to the cook tent. The man and woman trailed him, then thought better of it and left him alone. The fact that a Turkish-Kurdish guide was arguing with Armenian patrons was not lost on me. The cook-tent sanctuary would not protect him for long.
The woman left the camp and came near the fifty-foot drop off into the canyon. It was now so dark that only a flashlight made it safe there. I shone my light on the path, surprising her.
“We are frustrated,” she said.
“Why are you on the mountain?” I asked, looking to stay out of their argument.
“For Armenians, this is a sacred place. Ararat was part of Armenia. We lost it. That should not have been. It is a stolen signature of our nationhood. Armenia struggles to become a country defined by what’s there, not what’s missing.”
Trying to tread carefully, I said: “It’s been one hundred years—since the atrocities—”
“That is not too long to forget. You seem not to know. You should. After the First World War,” she broke in, “Mount Ararat lapsed into Turkish control. That is what new borders did.”
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