Caucasian Heights – Georgia

Want to climb a 5,000m peak? Mount Kazbek in Georgia is closer than most, and it’s stunningly photogenic too

So, why Georgia? Well the answer’s not a word, it’s a number: 5,047. Relative to the UK, the Caucasus is one of the closest places to find mountains above the 5,000m mark, and that 5,047 is the height in metres of one of the most visually arresting and user-friendly peaks of its kind too. But don’t take my word for it. Have a click around yourself, and you’ll see how effectively the metric system divides up mountain ranges across the world. Look for the famous 4,000-ers and you’ll find yourself in France, Italy and Switzerland. Up the figure to 5,000 and suddenly you’re in Pakistan, the Yukon, Ecuador, Iran and – a smidgen closer than the rest – Georgia. In short: if you want to climb higher than you can in the Alps, then this is one of the most logical places to do it.

That’s ‘logical,’ not ‘popular.’ If you know much about the Caucasus, then you’re in the minority. It’s not really discussed in Britain, and mountaineering teams visiting the region tend to be made up of local Georgians and Russians, closely followed by Polish climbers culturally bound by a shared history under the USSR. If you’ve heard of any peak here it’s probably Elbrus, the historically-overlooked (in the west, at least) 5,642m twin-peaked volcano which sits on the Russian side of the range and, at over 800m taller than Mont Blanc, is often quoted as being the ‘true’ summit of Europe.

But although that makes for a great life tick, I’d suggest looking a little – and only a little – further afield, because if you’re building up your experience levels outside of the Alps, then a peak like Kazbek is custom-made for you. Its volcanic and glaciated slopes offer that impressive height gain into new metric territory in a package that’s challenging enough to stretch your tolerance for altitude, suffering and hard work, yet not technically overwhelming enough to preclude those of us to whom low-grade Scottish winter routes represent the pinnacle of our achievements. It’s a peach to look at, too.

So let’s meet Georgia. Bounded by high mountains to the north and south, it occupies a strip of intermittently blos­soming, green, fertile, sun-baked, barren, tropical, alpine and urbanised land between the Black and Caspian seas. The story goes that when God was dividing up the world between the peoples He’d created (this is an 82% Orthodox Christian country by the way), the Georgians were too busy drinking wine and making merry to take part. When all was done they were left with nothing, so God gave them the land he’d intended for his own retirement. It’s a pleasant parable, but one slightly derailed by the chaotic nature of Georgian history and the precarious political state it finds itself in today.

Life under Russian and Soviet control, which ran almost uninterrupted from 1801 until 1991, has left Georgia with struggling infrastructure. And the modern Russian Federa­tion still won’t leave Georgia be, having invaded (yet again) as recently as 2008. The situation is further complicated by the breakaway regions of Abkhazia in the west (once annual host to 3.4 million beach tourists in the USSR-era) and South Ossetia in the north (determined to assert cultural and reli­gious autonomy like its trans-border neighbour North Ossetia in Russia) turning to the Federation and, many maintain, being manipulated and controlled by it to further weaken the Georgian state. Not strictly in the mix, but near enough to be worth mentioning is the sporadically volatile Chechnya region, just over the northern mountain wall. In short: sleepy Bedfordshire this is not.

What does this mean for travellers? Very little. The bulk of Georgia is relatively safe to visit, and the Foreign Office’s current advice supports that. But nobody would describe it as easy. The roads are badly maintained and ill-used and accident rates are correspondingly high (an annual 16.8 deaths per 100,000 people), accommodation options vary wildly in their quality, sanitation can be poor, internet connections routinely drop out for hours at a time, telephony isn’t great and there are occasional power cuts. In other words: you’re in for an adventure.

On the plus side, you may be taken aback at the warmth of the welcome in the strangest of places: limitless top-ups of chacha (homebrewed brandy) and more meat dumplings than you could eat in a week await you if you maintain a genuine interest in the people you meet on your travels. It helps if you speak a little Russian as Georgian has no relation to any other language and is expressed in its own distinct alphabet – a bar­rier if you intend to learn anything beyond a few pleasantries.

This experience was all to come, of course, and at the start of our journey we knew little beyond what a cursory read of our guidebooks could tell us. That would soon change. After five hours across two flights from London to Poland to Georgia, my Polish climbing partner Maciej and I had made our way across the country – first to the sprawling capital of Tbilisi and then directly north on the ever-climbing Geor­gian Military Road, past the vast Zhinvali reservoir and the Gudauri ski resort, towards the town of Stepantsminda. With a population of just 1,800 it’s a local place. So local that, as a Polish-born lady in the tourist information centre told us, new arrivals have to be interviewed and approved by the town elders if they hope to make their stay in the area perma­nent. It’s far from wealthy – most of the roads are uneven dirt tracks and most of the buildings incomplete or falling into disrepair – but still you’ll find a welcome as sincere as any in Georgia.

After a good night’s sleep and an extensive breakfast feast at our guesthouse, we started our ascent. It had been a long jour­ney – two days with little food and less rest – and so we began slowly. We’d decided to hire a horse and rider to carry our heavy packs, containing tents, rucksacks and nearly a week’s supplies, two thirds of the way to the mountain’s established base camp. This left us with just light daypacks. The normal route to the summit starts at Stepantsminda (1,740m), winds up past the spectacularly-positioned Gergeti Trinity Church (2,170m), up to the Arsha Pass (2,940m) and on over the Gergeti Glacier to the Betlemi Hut and base camp (3,670m). Beyond that it leads up to an icy and glaciated pass (4,480m) and finally on to the 5,047m top. Throughout all of that there are some truly glorious mountainscapes rising all around.

Whether it’s the view up towards the great, soaring white dome of Kazebek itself, with the dwarfed speck of the Gergeti Trinity silhouetted against it, or the snow-capped spires of Mount Shani and surrounding peaks forming the steep wall on the other side of the valley, there’s enough natural beauty here to distract from even the most dull and painful of ascents – which thankfully the climb up Kazbek only very occasion­ally strays towards being. And then only if you overstretch yourself on the approach.

By 4pm we’d reached a popular and well-watered camping spot just past the Arsha Pass. A pleasant place to stay. But as we’d climbed in plenty of company up obvious paths and the base camp was just another 800m above us, we decided to continue on. It could take as little as two hours. In hindsight: not such a good idea. Fast-forward to 8pm and we’d only just passed the Gergeti glacier. Eventually we crawled up on to the rocky plateau surrounding the Betlemi Hut and somehow managed to put up the tent. We’d made great progress in a single day, but at a potentially great cost: we’d exhausted ourselves.

The next day began slowly. Sleep had been kept away by tension, throbbing heads, unusually quick and heavy pulses, thirst and nausea. Climbing to 3,670m from 1,740m, itself a big jump from our normal altitudes, in a single day and from an already tired state, had been double what we should sensibly have done. We spent the day resting, eating everything we could, exploring the hut and campsite, mar­velling at the scale of the views down on to the glacier, across the valley and up to our summit, intermittently feeling sor­ry for ourselves and closely monitoring how much of our strength was returning.

This, it turns out, was a fair amount. Come the morning of day three, and after a better night’s sleep, we decided to climb as close to 4,000m as we felt comfortable with to help our bodies further acclimatise. We’d then rest up in the after­noon and go for the summit at 2am the next day.

The morning was crisp and cold and stunning to look out on. The distant and jagged peaks, spreading across into Russia, were sharp against the horizon. The flowing glacial water, diverted across a corner of the camp to supply the teams stopping here, was coated with a thickening crust of ice that snapped and cracked pleasingly when we drew the day’s supply. The signs were all good.

As was the day, initially. Climbing upwards across steep-sided snow slopes we made quick and confident pro­gress to well above 4,000m in well under than two hours.

We congratulated every descending party we passed who had made their attempt that morning. Even the suddenly collapsing weather – the wind picked up and heavy rains and hail suddenly began to pour down on us – didn’t suppress our spirits. By the time we’d made it back to the camp we felt certain that tomorrow we’d be on the summit ourselves.

But as the afternoon dragged on, and slower parties stag­gered back into camp from the still-building storm, the altitude see-saw began again. Our energy levels dropped and we struggled to eat as much as we felt we should. Visibility on the plateau and above (we were told) was down to an arm’s length and made crawling the only safe way to descend. Things were not looking good for our 2am plans. The afternoon brought some reprieve, but by midnight the winds had hit another high. A handful of tents in the campsite didn’t survive them, some collapsing on their own, others being pulled down by their owners who scurried into the hut in search of shelter.

By lam a frank discussion in our wind-battered tent led to the only reasonable conclusion: we wouldn’t be trying for the summit tonight. The mountain didn’t want us, and we didn’t have the strength to change its mind. In many ways it was not an easy choice. But in another sense it was never really a choice to begin with. We slept.

Cue 6am… and I’m sure you can guess already. An perfectly still morning. Immaculate fields of fresh snow coating the high summit above us. Not a hint of cloud to be seen in a hard sky of blue stretching horizon-wise. The best guess of the forecast was that it wouldn’t last. Torrential rains were incoming for the next few days. This was our chance, and it had already passed. We admired it. Snapped pictures. Took down the tent. Found a little time to feel sorry for ourselves. Put that to one side. Descended to the burning brightness of the glacier and began the journey down.

So no summit for us this time. But does that make the trip a failure? Not at all. We might have missed our chance to reach 5,047m, but as an opportunity for learning it couldn’t have been finer. The weather on any high mountain will always be a barrier, but a more experienced approach to the alti­tude – resting up, starting strong and ascending a maximum of 1,000m per day (how tempting the Arsha Pass campsite looked on the descent) – would have put us in a confident position to make good on our slim window to reach the tip of Kazbek. And next time, be it on this peak or some other exquisite slice of high altitude in some other unfamiliar part of the world, we will have the experience to make it work. For me, that chance can’t come soon enough.

Did You Know?

Fast facts about the Caucasus and Mount Kazbek …

1. The Caucasus is made up of Georgia, Turkey, Russia, Iran, Azerbaijan and Armenia las well as a bevy of smaller republics and breakaway regions) and has a character entirely of its own – neither quite Asian nor traditionally European. For the unfamiliar traveler it’s a new and exciting world.
2. At 5,047m Kazbek is the third highest mountain in Georgia and the seventh highest in the Caucasus.
3. Georgian folklore has it that the hero Amirani was chained to Kazbek as pun­ishment for introducing metalworking to humanity, in clear defiance of the God’s wishes. The story mimics the Greek tale of Prometheus in many other ways, too.

Let’s Go – Georgia

Get There. There are no direct flights to Georgia, but you can pick up budget flights to the capital Tbilisi connecting in Istanbul, Warsaw, Riga, Amsterdam and other locations. Stopover times vary so the total travel time could be anything from eight to 18 hours.

Stay There. There are hotels in Stepantsminda, but the best choice is a local B&B or homestay… which vary dramatically in quality, so exercise caution. We had a very positive experience with the Red Stone Guest House which gave an exceptionally friendly wel­come and offered a seemingly-limitless (and very tasty) breakfast of homemade cheese, meat dumplings, eggs, bread and preserves. There is a tourist informa­tion centre just south of the town’s main square, which can help find you accom­modation if you don’t pre-book.

What to Take. Full mountaineering gear for altitudes up to and above 5,000m, including warm lay­ers, high quality outer shells, crampons, a single ice axe, a geodesic tent and winter sleeping bag if you intend to camp, and a rope and harnesses if you intend to climb without a guide. This should be treated as a mountaineering expedition, which it is. However, as the technical parts of the route are only mildly technical (in the right conditions) I would recommend cram­pon-compatible boots that you can also comfortably use on grass, path and softer terrain – you’re going to be ascending around 2,000m of it before you get to the snow and ice!

When to Go. Much like non-winter mountaineering in the rest of the northern hemisphere, the summer months of late June to early September are the best time to approach Mount Kazbek.

Weather Forecast. The weather on Kazbek is notoriously changeable and potentially hazardous – the cost of being a tall and free-standing mountain. Because of this, and the lack of alpine-level infrastructure (and phone signal) in Georgia, you’ll struggle to find a consistent forecast..