CHAPTER VIII
FROM MUSH TO ERZERUM
In travelling from Mush to Erzerum, you cross the block of the Armenian highlands from their southern margin almost to their northern verge. Should the season be that of summer, it is possible to perform the passage on a course nearly as straight as a bee-line. For the mountains which face the traveller from the depressions of this region are, for the most part, but the sides of a higher table surface over which he may ride for miles without drawing rein. But this higher surface is much too elevated to render the journey pleasant, or even safe, at the commencement or during the progress of an Armenian winter. It is more prudent to adhere to the great plains at a lower level, through which the tributaries to the Murad wind their way; and from these to cross to the deeply-eroded bed of the Upper Araxes, which affords a luxurious approach to the northern districts. This route once adopted, two deviations are suggested which will not lengthen the journey by many miles. The first is a visit to the ancient cloister of Surb Karapet (John the Baptist), on the northern border range of Mush plain; the second, a short sojourn in the ancient burgh of Hasan Kala, not far from Erzerum. The northern capital will be reached by convenient stages in six travelling days, the distance covered being about 160 miles.[1]
It was the 29th of November, just after half-past nine in the morning, when our party of four Europeans and four Turkish soldiers defiled into the plain from the hill of Mush. The iron-grey colt was being led by one of our new companions, the more docile that he anticipated release. Were we prisoners and these our jailers? I asked the question of the principal man, who was a sergeant with the name of Mevlud Chaoush. A black shawl, reaching to the shoulders, was wound about his head as a protection from the weather. His irregular and forbidding features never broke into a smile, nor did his lips move except to utter a command. We passed several deserted burying fields, with fallen headstones, and forded the Garni Chai, a mere torrent in a wide bed. More than half-an-hour had passed before we doubled the western promontory, and struck our true course across the plain.
We skirted or could see several hamlets—dots in the expanse, which had the appearance, usual in this country, of a sea. No hedges or artificial boundaries parcel the ground; no leafy trees blend in the distance to a soft, grey mass. The harvest had been gathered, and you could scarcely tell the difference between the cultivated and the unreclaimed soil. Marshes, instead of a network of irrigation channels, received the waters babbling down from the southern range. After several halts, rendered necessary by the freaks and misfortunes of the baggage horse, we reached at half-past twelve the considerable Armenian village of Sheikh Alan, near the ford of the Murad. About a mile beyond the village we approached the margin of the noble river which we had followed from Karakilisa to Tutakh.
It appeared to be flowing in two channels through a bed having a width of 200 yards or more. After fording the first of these branches, which was about 30 yards across, we made our way over a beach to the second branch. It was some 100 yards in breadth, the water reaching to the horses’ knees. When we had gained the opposite bank, which was firm and well-defined, we prepared to say good-bye to the Murad. What was our surprise to meet a third and magnificent river, sweeping towards us in an independent bed! It was buffeting its high left bank, at the extremity of a beautiful curve, and the flood was much too deep to venture in. So we followed the current until the bluff sent it swirling to the opposite margin, diffused over a wider space. Even at this point the passage was not without risk; but an experienced villager piloted us safely to the further side. From bank to bank was a distance of about 80 yards, and the wavelets wetted our horses’ flanks. The confluence of the Kara Su, the stream which collects the drainage of the plain of Mush, is situated some little distance above the ford.[2]
Fig. 155. Monastery of Surb Karapet from the South.
Following with the eye the course of the river, we searched in vain for a gap in the mountains among which it disappeared. These describe a bold half-circle at the western extremity of the plain, not many miles from where we stood. The heights on the north join hands with the heights upon the south, and appear to prevent all issue from the plain. From the ford we proceeded in a north-westerly direction to the village of Ziaret. It is an Armenian settlement with 150 tenements, and possesses a church but no school. The kiaya,[3] or head of the village, was quite a civilised individual; and such was his politeness that he sent his own son with me, to wait on me during my sojourn at Surb Karapet. He informed me—the usual story—that there had been a teacher in the village, but that last year he had left (euphemism), and his place had not since been filled.
After a stay in this settlement of an hour and three-quarters, we continued our journey at a quarter before four. Our course was about the same, and we reached the foot of the northern barrier at half-past four o’clock. Although the level of the ground had risen, the ascent to the monastery occupied over an hour. It is situated among the uppermost recesses of the wall of mountain, at an elevation of about 6400 feet, or of 2200 feet above the trough of the plain.[4] We wound our way up a cleft in the face of the rock, through a bush of low oak. The temperature fell, and we became enveloped in banks of cloud. A drizzling rain turned to snow before we reached the cloister, and next morning the adjacent slopes were cloaked in white. The monks informed us that it was the first fall of snow which they had experienced during the course of this brilliant autumn.