Ararat Dreams

The sun rose spectacularly this morning, casting the clouds in brilliant shades of red, orange and purple… The rolling hills of desert and stark land formations staunchly contrasted the colors of the morning sky. I watched the scene unfold from the back window of a marshutnie as we stiffly bounced along scantily paved highways, plowing our way through the occasional herd of farm animals—sheep, goats, cows, old Armenian men with sticks, who vaguely alternated between chasing their charges off the road in the face of oncoming traffic, and idly chattering about whatever shepherds have to chat about in the early morning chill.

As I was contemplating the subject matter of Armenian shepherd conversation, my eye was caught by a break in the sun-bathed clouds. There, in the distance, stood the newly snow-covered flanks of Mt. Ararat, magnificently aglow in a burning shade of yellowish orange. The scene was startlingly crisp, and sent a small chill down my spine—half out of sheer the awe, the other the return of the itch to climb. To experience, first-hand, the cold searing my lungs, the ice crystals stinging my face, the morning sun creeping through the shadows, turning the ice crust into soft, wet mush. Communing directly with nature and thus feeling directly its brutality and harsh realities somehow makes it that much more beautiful.

The two white cones dominated the landscape—the large monstrosity and the smaller replica, rising serenely above the cloud layer, basking in the rising sun. It was one of those scenes that resonates in memory, that can be matched by something different, perhaps, but never replicated. That, in one simple glance, defies those who lack appreciation and understanding, and for the rest of us, creates an excitement about the natural world that can only be quelled through direct interaction.

Perhaps I will never again see Ararat in today’s glorious form. I have no pictures to commemorate the event—they would have merely distracted from the experience anyhow. Only a memory sharply etched into my mind as tangible proof of creations true glory.

Nature is a strange entity—separate in its existence from our day-to-day lives, and yet intrinsically and inextricably intertwined in everything that comprises the amalgamation of civilization. At its gentlest it is a time-marker, ticking off the years in snow accumulation and thaw, autumn color changes, spring blooms and summer breezes, at its most menacing, a force well beyond the scope of human control. Perhaps a well-needed reminder of forces greater than ourselves and an opportunity for introspection towards the state of humanity. A poignant opportunity for selflessness and a simultaneous invitation to the malicious, but which prevails?

I find I am given the opportunity and the catalyst to contemplate such issues while in Armenia, where the snowfalls mark more than just passing time. They mark a time that is better than the last, but still not good enough. The snow-crested mountains signify the end of the canning season, the final harvest, the last chance for laundry to dry before it freezes. They signal the beginning of cold nights, poor nutrition, short days, layers of clothing, evenings passed drinking tea and huddling around the heater. An experience I am sure not to forget. Normally the new snow falls are exciting for me, but now they linger with a newfound sense of a dread, and perhaps a newfound sense of respect for the power of nature over the human condition. This time I can’t some home from my camping trip to a nice warm house and a long hot shower. I am living it, a two-year commitment regardless of the season and the lack of pizza delivery.