'The climber is one who goes where his eyes lead him - and comes back.' - Gaston Rebuffat.
Above: Travellers pause to wet their feet on the salt beaches of Tuzgolu near Aksaray at sunset.
Trusting our bulging rucksacks to the bowels of the bus, the two of us piled boldly onto the Nigde Aydoganlar 'express' at lunchtime amid a cluster of bodies, sweat and luggage. Fifteen minutes later, we still had not left the berth in ASTI as a desperate mother pleaded with the skeptical driver and his sidekick to hold the bus for her two missing children (three eventually showed up). Innumerable coaches motored past us as we stood on the tarmac; bags were unloaded and then reloaded at the side of the bus; we cursed in various languages, cramped in our seats (this was not Kamil Koc rahat). I could tell it was going to be another epic trip into the mountains.
In Turkey, it is always the travelling which proves the mountaineer's commitment to the cause. I have felt more acute danger on the overland approach than on the actual climb many a time. Bus travel, rather than steep or overhanging pitches, tends to heighten my feeling of being alive (especially since the provincial buses normally operate at double the standard capacity, with humans, vegetables and, yes, even animals jamming the aisles and keeping the driver company on the dasboard). If Peru is indeed worse than this, as my mother's stories would suggest, I would rather not go to the Cordillera Blanca (just yet). But our objective today was the Aladaglar - the Dolomitic mountains of central Anatolia triangulated in between Kayseri, Nigde and Adana and home to some of the best, and most committing, alpine climbing available within the four points of our compass, and in reach of our elite means of transportation.
We scrambled out onto the dusty Nigde-Camardi road after a tortuous potholed tour of the backroads and villages, where it was strange to see people returning to land that used to be cultivated, bearing bags of onions, beans and lentils purchased in Nigde. Dusk arrived, and with it Recep in a cloud of dust. In keeping with the last six hours, we found ourselves wedged into the jeep with two villagers and a two-metre long steel bar coated in oil, which urgently needed to be ferried over to Cukurbag; after a near-miss or two on the decapitation front, we managed to fit it in diagonally across the front and back seats, and as Recep gunned the engine I prayed there would be no mishap this late in the journey.
Above: Adventure travel takes many forms - from the ramshackle to the bucolic - on any approach to the mountains; riding the tractor over stones and ruts, deep into the forested silence of the Emli Valley added to the feelings of excitement and isolation which had been building up to this point of 'no return'.
Early the next morning, we tipped our loads into the back of Salim abi's tractor, as the infamous summer heat of the Aladaglar began to coalesce all around us. At least we were going to be climbing north-facing rock, meaning most of our work could be accomplished in the shade and the brutality of the sun's rays. Until now, the idea of climbing north faces had never seemed so refreshing.
Above: Evening light softly illuminates the upper reaches of the Emli Valley, home to itinerant shepherds husbanding scarce water supplies and climbers willing to pit themselves against the towers and buttresses of the surrounding peaks.
Above: Exposed scrambling during 'reconnaissance activities' on day one, as we explored an adjacent valley, in search of new lines on its unclimbed limestone walls.
To Be Continued...
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