The sunset before our 24 hour evac.That day, we hiked on the trail for more than 8 hours with significant elevation gain, using the GPS and locals to continue on the right path. Around 5 pm, we stopped again for water on our snow covered mountain road. I accidentally left my hand-carved Turkish walking stick the goatherd gave me at the spring - so after hiking back to retrieve that and continuing on - we didn't get to the pass we were heading for until around 6:30 pm, so now the sun had almost completely set and we were both pretty tired.
The road we were hiking on was a 3 or 4 meter wide swath clinging to the side of a steep mountain ridge, with a serious drop off on one side and often precarious rocky cliffs and overhangs on the other. The guidbook said the road was often closed due to rock slides, but we found it difficult to believe that the road was ever open with all the huge boulders and major washouts. Because of where we were, however, our choice of campsites was very limited, so when we got to the pass between a jutting rock shoulder and the main ridge, we pulled off to the side of the road, pitched our tent in the dark, and dined by moonlight on yufka and olives.
Around 8 or 9 in the evening, the air that had been so calm during the day revved up and soon a pretty wicked wind was slamming into the ridge and rushing with gale force by our tent (Hannah, thanks to her amazingly warm sleeping bag and position in the middle of the tent, was asleep for this bit).
The barometer reading on the GPS started to drop - and just kept dropping the next few hours until the power of the wind finally managed to wake Hannah up. We kept vigil for the next few hours until almost 3 am - when we decided to lie down again and maybe try to sleep since Bryan's amazing new tent seemed to be holding it's own (even though it was only designed for up to 45 mph winds... and the winds that were gusting past us definitely blew at atleast 60 mph). By 4:30 or 5 am small raindrops began to fall, wicked clouds had lowered over the peaks and the pressure was still dropping. When the lightening and thunder started around 5:30, at Bryan's command we executed a pitch-black pack up of camp. It took both of us to disassemble the tent: one person to pack it up and one person to hold onto everything so it didn't blow away.
We were both dressed in multiple layers - most of the clothes that we had were on, including multiple rain shells. We started hiking out just as the rain really started to fall, lashing is visible sheets. I've never had the sensation of being cold and wet from rain falling on the backs of my knees, but that morning the rain managed to get everywhere (though thanks to Bryan's obsessive use of Ziploc bags, nothing really sustained any water damage.
Thankfully, we only had one other pass to cross and then it was an all downhill walk to the small town of Çandır we were headed for - down the forest road we thought we saw on the map, having abandonded the trail at this point in favor of speed getting out of the mountains (besides, we couldn't have seen the marks in the snow).
We hiked through the icy snow on the road for almost an hour before we reached the next pass. By this point, the rains had become torrential and mixed with sleet and hail and every part of us was soaked. It was not quite cold enough to be snow, but only because I think the wind was blowing so hard it didn't have time to freeze completely. Masochistically, I wanted to try to capture a picture of the crazy storm at the pass but the camera got wet and frozen when we tried to take a picture.
We continued hiking for another two hours, literally slogging through snow until we lost enough elevation it became mud. Our boots became completely waterlogged as we hiked on, by now in the murky gray daylight. Finally exhausted by trying to poke fun at our situation through weather reports, "Today's forecast: the weather today will start clear, slowly moving into a torrential downpour quickly changing to a weather pattern we like to refer to as 'completely insane.'" The wind had unfortunately not slackened as we hiked down into a canyon and it was so strong at this point we had to fight to even take steps in the generally right direction. At this point we decided our status was officially the definition of 'absolutely miserable.'
After about three hours of this, we walked into a group of houses - a village we later learned was named Yıldız. Bryan suggested we stop and ask for directions at least, but I was feeling so tired, cold, hungry, wet and all around miserable I didn't even want to stop or even attempt to speak Turkish. We walked all the way through town until we got to a fork in the road at a cemetery.
Now, the road the map showed on it had no fork in it. We weren't sure what to do but didn't like the idea of standing around so we started walking down one path. After a bit we decided to pull out the GPS. Standing under a bush, completely soaked, digging through a pile of soggy Ziplocs for the GPS there was a huge flash of lightening. We looked at each other, through our stuff in the backpack - and turned around and hiked back towards the houses.
At the first one we came to, we slogged up the driveway until we came to a group of buildings. Not sure which one might have people in it, and seeing no sign of life - we chose the one with a yamaha motorcycle parked under the side. We wadded past chickens, and after about 5 minutes of discussion, "should we go up the stairs? should we not? Are they here?" I finally climbed up the outdoor staircase, yelled, "Help, please!" (in Turkish ... it's about all I could manage) and knocked on one of the doors.
The jaw of the man who opened the door dropped, but his wife, who was right behind him - pushed by, took one look at the crazily dressed, completely soaked foreigners on her porch and said, "GEL!" ushering us into their one room with only turkish carpets on the floor, an old TV, and a piping hot woodstove.
In a furry of activity, we were stripped of all our outside wet gear and huddled into the one room of this family, a father, mother, grandmother, and daughter without a lick of English. Bryan and I could do nothing but huddle by the wood stove for at least a half an hour, mumbling thank yous at frequent intervals.
At one point, the mom came in and took me away to another room, where she had me strip off the clothes I was wearing and put on a pair of too short mens pants and a flourescent pink overshirt. She and her daughter took one look at me, standing there dripping in clothes that didn't fit, not quite fitting into the low ceilinged room and burst out laughing. The mom then pulled a big skirt over my head and sent me back into the other room. Acting the gentleman, Bryan managed to hold in his laughter in front of the family.
After a bit more thawing, much to our amazement and delight, the family brought in a tray with loaded fresh eggs, yoghurt, cheese and walnuts and of course, tea. The mother then came in with a plastic container about the size of a laundry basket. She opened it up and it was chock full of ... MORE yufka! As we ate, overjoyed at the site of food and filled with gratitude for this family's amazing hospitality, we talked more with them, and found out the eggs were from their chickens (of course) and the milk and cheese from their cow, who lived in a room right under the one where we sat.
We also talked about where we were trying to get to. Much of their conversation was lost on me - but I managed to figure out they were talking about some kind of car, or tractor in the village that could take us out. I thought I told them it was okay, we could walk the last 10 k since the weather had cleared significantly at this point.
Apparently... something was lost in translation there...
The road we were hiking on was a 3 or 4 meter wide swath clinging to the side of a steep mountain ridge, with a serious drop off on one side and often precarious rocky cliffs and overhangs on the other. The guidbook said the road was often closed due to rock slides, but we found it difficult to believe that the road was ever open with all the huge boulders and major washouts. Because of where we were, however, our choice of campsites was very limited, so when we got to the pass between a jutting rock shoulder and the main ridge, we pulled off to the side of the road, pitched our tent in the dark, and dined by moonlight on yufka and olives.
Around 8 or 9 in the evening, the air that had been so calm during the day revved up and soon a pretty wicked wind was slamming into the ridge and rushing with gale force by our tent (Hannah, thanks to her amazingly warm sleeping bag and position in the middle of the tent, was asleep for this bit).
The barometer reading on the GPS started to drop - and just kept dropping the next few hours until the power of the wind finally managed to wake Hannah up. We kept vigil for the next few hours until almost 3 am - when we decided to lie down again and maybe try to sleep since Bryan's amazing new tent seemed to be holding it's own (even though it was only designed for up to 45 mph winds... and the winds that were gusting past us definitely blew at atleast 60 mph). By 4:30 or 5 am small raindrops began to fall, wicked clouds had lowered over the peaks and the pressure was still dropping. When the lightening and thunder started around 5:30, at Bryan's command we executed a pitch-black pack up of camp. It took both of us to disassemble the tent: one person to pack it up and one person to hold onto everything so it didn't blow away.
We were both dressed in multiple layers - most of the clothes that we had were on, including multiple rain shells. We started hiking out just as the rain really started to fall, lashing is visible sheets. I've never had the sensation of being cold and wet from rain falling on the backs of my knees, but that morning the rain managed to get everywhere (though thanks to Bryan's obsessive use of Ziploc bags, nothing really sustained any water damage.
Thankfully, we only had one other pass to cross and then it was an all downhill walk to the small town of Çandır we were headed for - down the forest road we thought we saw on the map, having abandonded the trail at this point in favor of speed getting out of the mountains (besides, we couldn't have seen the marks in the snow).
We hiked through the icy snow on the road for almost an hour before we reached the next pass. By this point, the rains had become torrential and mixed with sleet and hail and every part of us was soaked. It was not quite cold enough to be snow, but only because I think the wind was blowing so hard it didn't have time to freeze completely. Masochistically, I wanted to try to capture a picture of the crazy storm at the pass but the camera got wet and frozen when we tried to take a picture.
We continued hiking for another two hours, literally slogging through snow until we lost enough elevation it became mud. Our boots became completely waterlogged as we hiked on, by now in the murky gray daylight. Finally exhausted by trying to poke fun at our situation through weather reports, "Today's forecast: the weather today will start clear, slowly moving into a torrential downpour quickly changing to a weather pattern we like to refer to as 'completely insane.'" The wind had unfortunately not slackened as we hiked down into a canyon and it was so strong at this point we had to fight to even take steps in the generally right direction. At this point we decided our status was officially the definition of 'absolutely miserable.'
After about three hours of this, we walked into a group of houses - a village we later learned was named Yıldız. Bryan suggested we stop and ask for directions at least, but I was feeling so tired, cold, hungry, wet and all around miserable I didn't even want to stop or even attempt to speak Turkish. We walked all the way through town until we got to a fork in the road at a cemetery.
Now, the road the map showed on it had no fork in it. We weren't sure what to do but didn't like the idea of standing around so we started walking down one path. After a bit we decided to pull out the GPS. Standing under a bush, completely soaked, digging through a pile of soggy Ziplocs for the GPS there was a huge flash of lightening. We looked at each other, through our stuff in the backpack - and turned around and hiked back towards the houses.
At the first one we came to, we slogged up the driveway until we came to a group of buildings. Not sure which one might have people in it, and seeing no sign of life - we chose the one with a yamaha motorcycle parked under the side. We wadded past chickens, and after about 5 minutes of discussion, "should we go up the stairs? should we not? Are they here?" I finally climbed up the outdoor staircase, yelled, "Help, please!" (in Turkish ... it's about all I could manage) and knocked on one of the doors.
The jaw of the man who opened the door dropped, but his wife, who was right behind him - pushed by, took one look at the crazily dressed, completely soaked foreigners on her porch and said, "GEL!" ushering us into their one room with only turkish carpets on the floor, an old TV, and a piping hot woodstove.
In a furry of activity, we were stripped of all our outside wet gear and huddled into the one room of this family, a father, mother, grandmother, and daughter without a lick of English. Bryan and I could do nothing but huddle by the wood stove for at least a half an hour, mumbling thank yous at frequent intervals.
At one point, the mom came in and took me away to another room, where she had me strip off the clothes I was wearing and put on a pair of too short mens pants and a flourescent pink overshirt. She and her daughter took one look at me, standing there dripping in clothes that didn't fit, not quite fitting into the low ceilinged room and burst out laughing. The mom then pulled a big skirt over my head and sent me back into the other room. Acting the gentleman, Bryan managed to hold in his laughter in front of the family.
After a bit more thawing, much to our amazement and delight, the family brought in a tray with loaded fresh eggs, yoghurt, cheese and walnuts and of course, tea. The mother then came in with a plastic container about the size of a laundry basket. She opened it up and it was chock full of ... MORE yufka! As we ate, overjoyed at the site of food and filled with gratitude for this family's amazing hospitality, we talked more with them, and found out the eggs were from their chickens (of course) and the milk and cheese from their cow, who lived in a room right under the one where we sat.
We also talked about where we were trying to get to. Much of their conversation was lost on me - but I managed to figure out they were talking about some kind of car, or tractor in the village that could take us out. I thought I told them it was okay, we could walk the last 10 k since the weather had cleared significantly at this point.
Apparently... something was lost in translation there...
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