The doorbell of the house owned by the Fouladvands, our host family in the north part of Tehran, rings at half past four. Fazili, the personal driver of Dr. Kunič, the Slovenian Ambassador to Iran, is a quarter of an hour too early, so we invite him for coffee which we drink standing in the kitchen. It's pleasant to talk to him during the ride towards Damavand, since his English is very good, and, moreover, Fazili guides his car of Iranian origin between the rushing beasts along the mountain road. The latter ascends as high as 2700 metres above sea level at its tallest point. The drive itself, on the other hand, is less pleasant for us, since perception of traffic safety in Iran is substantially different from the one we are used to in Europe.
It has dawned in the meantime and soon after having crossed the pass we can observe Damavand, the 5671 m high half-active volcano which is the tallest peak of Iran, its summit being surrounded by a turban of clouds. It protrudes above other 4000 m tall peaks forming the Alborz mountain chain like some bad-tasted photo-wallpaper. The Japanese call it Fujiyama's brother, that's why they keep climbing it in summer almost as often as they climb the Matterhorn in Switzerland.
After a two-hour ride we turn off the main road in a small town called Polur, hitting the side road heading towards Reine, a small village which is the principal starting point for summer ascents to Damavand. The road itself is surprisingly well maintained and ploughed. Namely, it leads past a major accumulation lake and further on to quarries from where sand is brought even to Tehran. On the road itself one can well be surprised by falling stones, or, better to say, rocks falling down to the road from unsecured clefts mostly during springtime. We also succeed, with some driver's manoeuvres between rocks rolled off the stone walls, in gliding to the pass where the altimeter displays 2500 m in the morning road ice.
Behind the first bend a plain with stone-made shepherds' cottages appears on the left hand-side, indicating a favourable place to start a trekking. We descend some more kilometres so that Fazili can show us the junction where mountain hikers are brought towards approaches and base camps beneath the mountain by off-road cars in summer. Reine can be seen from here, too, lying at an altitude of about 2000 m, where we agree to meet again in one or two days' time. In spite of the driver's confirmation that most accessors head towards the summit from this side, Dušan and myself decide better to try from the pass to gain elevation. The decision which will prove to be correct in future causes an expression of wondering on the otherwise ever agreeable driver's face, but he obeys without a word of objection.
We bid Fazili goodbye on the first bend beneath the pass where he tries to follow us on our ski tracks with his Iranian niceness in spite of our advising not to do so. Reason wins over niceness and he, having dipped into snow all the way up to his ass four times on a two metres' distance of snow-walking, sits down on a rock, emptying his shoes filled with snow and waving merrily every time when we look back. He most probably thinks that we are on a direct way to Allah, carrying our huge backpacks and with skis attached to our feet.
In front of me, Dušan is, with all beginning ski touring enthusiasm, drawing probably the very first touring ski trace directly towards the peak of Damavand. Some centimetres of snow fell days ago, so we are lucky not to have to carry our skis across the mountain meadows where cattle shelters are spread all over, stone barriers similar to those standing close to the Adriatic seashore as well as volcanic stones spread around. We know our way only from what the Ambassador Kunič, who had already been to the peak, told us, and from a guide where, however, there is merely a description of the summer access, even that one being quite superficial.
It is hard to obtain any guides or suitable mountain maps in Iran, in spite of the fact that we tried to provide for the information necessary by the kind help from our host, Nada (a Slovenian woman living in Iran), even at the very seat of the Mountain Society of Iran. When the gentlemen in this organization saw two foreigners wanting to climb Damavand, they must have felt immense quantities of US dollars in our wallets. Therefore, they tried to extract these dollars which, in no way, were superfluous, by offering us, besides the obligatory access permit and guide (as far as he would be able to go) as well as the transportation (as far as possible) also by means of a certificate or diploma, respectively, certifying that we reached the Damavand summit. Luckily, Nada's knowledge of Iranians as well as Dušan's natural instinct to keep his wallet as intact as possible brought us so far that we were promised a map of the area and bid good luck with Allah till the next time we would meet again.
One or two days before we were supposed to leave various guides kept appearing at the Fouladvands' door trying to help us at any price, be it as guides or good connoisseurs of the mountain, trying to persuade us about the dangers of a winter access, to warn us of avalanches, to inform us of shelters and winds blowing from three sides, of the impossibility of rescuing in case of an accident, telling us about garlic without which we would never reach the summit due to lack of air, etc. Our dilemma how to climb the mountain was sovereignly solved by the Ambassador during the Easter dinner which he organized for the Slovenians living in Tehran; in addition, he also invited us, since Nada is a translator at the Embassy. He brought a picture of Damavand from his room, pointing with his finger at the ridge which was supposed to serve us as orientation during the access. This was the most useful information concerning the way we ever got.
Not knowing the way that should lead us to the southern ridge, we carve the ski track in accordance with our personal "taste". At the height of about 2700 m above sea level we wake up a lovely family of wild boars that run away out from a stone overhang to the other side of the ridge. We meet no more living beings except birds on our way.
After a two-hour walk we face the first obstacle, a deep canyon separating the plain from the southern ridge. Luck and some sense of orientation lead us to – according to my opinion – the only safe passage, a path traced just in case where in summer most probably cattle is led to pasture on this plain. We actually lose somewhat more than 200 altitude metres but this is still better than climbing across the crumbly and muddy canyon walls dragging along all the ski touring equipment. There is another plain in front of us and there is no indication that there is anything left that could obstruct our way towards the peak. We are advancing well and, at the altitude of about 3000 m, we face a deserted military building. I recall it from a narration by one of the men that had offered themselves to be our guides. It is here somewhere where the summer access to the peak begins.
I replace Dušan in the leading position and curve up stairs in accordance with the shape of the land and my more and more wheezing lungs. The west wind is gaining force and the peaks surrounding the fourthousanders in the neighbourhood are wrapping themselves in fog. The first snowstorm does not discourage us and we keep thrusting further. It is at an altitude of about 4000 m when we don't see even a metre ahead and, as we grasp the rocks on the ridge so as not to fly off directly into the Caspian Sea, Dušan lets out of his mouth the very same words I would have most liked to say already two hours ago myself: "We'd better turn back!"
Leaving our climbing furs on our skis we glide down to the valley, hardly being able to follow the snowed-up ski tracks. A real volcanic rock falls off my heart when, at an altitude of about 3000 m, the fog draws back. The snow turns into rain and keeps wetting us. I don't know what I'm more wet from: is it rain or sweat? Towards evening, we reach the road where Fazili had left us in the morning. We cannot decide whether to take shelter and sleep in the fold letting rain through on all sides or to proceed to the valley. We decide to do the latter and direct towards Polur.
But it is only now when the real "hedgehog fucking" starts. We keep on pushing ourselves across the road surface – a little on the road itself, a little across the stones, somewhat through ice and water and the least across the snow. I have already cursed everything that has been trying to unhinge my mind in these moments as well as all my crazy ideas from all my past and future journeys around the world, when a truck catches up with us. Dušan stops it by a hitchhikers' gesture and in spite of the fact that the driver speaks only Farsi (Iranian language), we come to an agreement and he takes us along directly to Tehran. The ride is not as fast as the one in the morning but Dušan and I laugh more and more as kilometres pass. The driver's tea and the warm truck cabin keep warming up our frozen bodies.
It's about midnight when we ring the bell at our hosts' door. They almost have a stroke when they see us standing in front of their door. They are almost as glad to see us as we are to see their home and, in spite of our weariness, we have to describe our today's adventure before we go to bed.
The weather forecast for the next few days is unfavourable, although half of the Slovenian Embassy has been collecting it all around the world. We decide to disburden our hosts for a while and go on a journey around Middle and South Iran for a couple of days. Bus and train rides from one place to another by night, sightseeing of towns and places by day keep sucking our powers gathered in winter accesses. We keep hurrying as much as possible since our time is very limited and, last but not least, we have to try Damavand once more.
The morning story of truck drivers repeats once again with the sole difference that this time it is a taxi driver who will fleece us for some rials. The "dumpling" I've been dragging in my stomach before we try to climb Damavand for the second time becomes even heavier due to the crackling music from the driver's radio. In spite of the fact that the weather has been lousy for the last few days and quite a lot of new snow for this time of the year has fallen, the sea of stars in the night sky forecasts a beautiful day finally. When we turn off the main road in Polur, the driver's driving knowledge is soon over on the icy road. He would certainly have needed that knowledge to access our starting point driving on the icy and snowy road. Unless we can reach the saddle by car, there is not much chance for us to spend the night in the bivouac. The car stops after a few kilometres, of course, but with our help at the rear side we make it somehow. He at least has brought our luggage to the starting point.
Since we already know the starting section of the way, the first morning hours pass in a pleasant walk across the moraines of Damavand. It is only the direction of the southern ridge that makes me anxious. I estimate it to be much closer to us than we were told. The day is clear, thus the peak itself can very well be seen, and our compass points to the southern ridge very distinctly. I am warming to a new variant of approach, while Dušan insists on the old one. I give up after a short discussion and we proceed across a known ground, but in a more ideal direction than last time. We are proceeding faster since the weather and snow conditions are better.
The higher we get, the more we keep staring around ourselves and looking for the bivouac that won't appear at all. The altimeter shows more than 4250 m when Dušan notices it on the neighbouring ridge, some 150 m beneath our position. So it is true anyway that we have been walking across the southeastern ridge instead of the south one. Not even the swearwords that drop out of my mouth at that moment can help. Dušan prefers standing a couple of metres away so as not to learn any bad talking. When I finally lose some of my temper we estimate our chances to cross over. It will not at all be easy, bearing in mind all our equipment.
Trying not to lose too much height, we descend to the mountain gorge diagonally across the rocks and blown snow. I take a long breath in the gorge, turn the beeper on and use all my remaining energy to cross the gorge filled with new snow. Allah was on our side and led us one by one across the dangerous place. On the other side we have to attach our skis to our backpacks that have been too heavy even before and climb somewhat more than 100 m upwards through a steep groove across heavy snow. At the end of the groove there is dessert in form of an about one metre snow cornice. It's Dušan I save this part of the way for. He wades the way through and pulls me across that cornice, in addition.
After two hours of unnecessary crossing we face the stone-made bivouac at an altitude of 4150 m: we are lucky to find it open. The night is a real nightmare composed of headache and cold which I get rid of by pulling all my clothes onto myself and a bivouac bag over the sleeping bag. Our fate would not have been very favourable out there in that wind. Dušan wakes me up around four o'clock in the morning, cooking milk at the same instant. I don't even feel like eating, let alone cooking. I force myself to eat a little something.
There is a light glimmer in the east when we depart. We leave most of our things in the bivouac and, therefore, our backpacks are much lighter than yesterday and we proceed quite well. The wind has calmed down somewhat towards morning, that's why it is even not so damned cold. In spite of that, the cold gets through the gloves and ski boots. Dušan takes the lead at about 5000 m and it is hard for me to follow him. I lean on my ski poles, stare at the tip curves of my skis and keep breathing, breathing – when something dashes past me. I turn around and see Dušan sliding down to the valley faster and faster.
The heavy snow we have been cursing so badly all the way long is an immense luck for him this time. He stops on one of the plates made of blown snow after some forty metres. Luckily, the snow is not harder since, in that case, he would have stopped at least 500 m lower where the ground gets flat. He can't do it that well after this slip anymore. I take the lead again, feeling somewhat better than before. The mountain is becoming less steep and there comes a new problem: Damavand is a semi-active volcano and sulphur steam evaporates in places. There is nearly no snow in such places, just a little ice and small stones between which white smoke crawls. When the right wind blows, one inhales a whole box of cigarettes with one breath at an altitude above 5000 m.
When there is almost no more snow left, I fall over my backpack and wait for Dušan. We can't go on on our skis and we put crampons on our shoes. I tell Dušan that I'll go back and ski downhill unless I can see the peak from behind the edge. He keeps persuading me that we will make it to the top. I go on without my skis and I'm soon as exhausted as earlier. I've been even higher but have never suffered that badly from altitude before. In addition, the sulphur steam keeps choking my breathing machine. Following my feelings, I rush between some rocks and, having climbed around them, the volcano crater opens in front of me. I'm on top! It's three o'clock in the afternoon sharp.
I step into windshade and wait for Dušan. What a pity we haven't got more time to take a better look at the crater. There are clouds coming up from the east and we have to get down to the valley and further to Tehran where we have to catch a plane early in the morning of the day after tomorrow. The downhill skiing is no special delight. One sinks into the snow blown together whenever one doesn't want so. We ski along the southern ridge we did not get acquainted with while climbing up. Each wrong gorge would cost us much precious time and a new ascent. That's why I keep looking for gorges with reliable exits and passages to next gorges, regardless of how steep they are and of skiing delights.
It's quite a relief when we, at an altitude of about 3000 m, just before sunset, come across our yesterday's ski tracks: now I know we will catch our plane heading for Slovenia next night.
Home
Dušan's description
Top