The military highway. It is neither militarised, nor is it a highway. But it is high. Very high. It leaves Tbilisi and cuts across the Higher Caucasus connecting Russia and Georgia. It was commissioned by Tsar Alexander I shortly after Georgia was annexed into the Russian Empire in 1801 in order to allow easier access for Russian troops descending to fight the Persian Empire. Its construction took decades, and reaches the highest point in the Jvari pass, in the heart of the Caucasus, at 2379 metres.

We drove most of the way in the jeep of a young Georgian architect who knew every tiny anecdote regarding the road’s construction. Here was the stone barrier built by German prisoners of war during Soviet times, there was one of the oldest iron bridges, now unused, and here were the Armenian trucks, more Armenian trucks, mostly Armenian trucks. “This road is the only thing keeping Armenians from starving to death” the architect told us. When Russia closed its border in 2006 after the short war with Georgia, Armenia was virtually cut-off from the rest of the world, landlocked between enemy countries. In 2013 the border opened again and Armenian snow-ploughs ensure that the Georgian section of the highway stays clear to allow trucks to come and go.

We reached Stepantsminda, the town at the foot of Mount Kazbek, a looming giant towering over the surrounding peaks, 5033 metres above sea level. The third highest mountain in Georgia, it is also the most symbolically important. It is on this mountain that the Titan Prometheus was chained for eternity, in punishment for stealing fire from the gods and giving it to the humans. Every day an eagle ate out its liver, which grew again at night, until Heracles saved him years later. Stepantsminda is a town of guesthouses. The main square which opens next to the road is filled with men and women aggressively offering rooms, dinner, breakfast, guides, internet.

“We’re not Russians!”

“Xaxaxa. да да да, вы понимаете по-русски”.

“But we don’t know what you’re saying”

“да вы русский . Я дам вам хорошую цену”

“Lenu?”

“Xорошую!”

“Niet, spasiba”

We tried the local guide’s office which advertised as a tourist information point. No information. No maps. No help. Niet, niet, niet. The young arrogant mountain guide hid behind his glacier glasses and sat behind a wall of silence.

“English? Parusski?

“არა!”

We must have looked too shabby to make any money out of us. So long Stepantsminda! We crossed the river and climbed to the village on the other side. There we found a great family-run guesthouse, with maps, all the info we could want, and most importantly a warm friendly welcome. Now we were right under Kazbek, and the 14^th century Gergeti Trinity Monastery perched on a hill under the mountains’ shadow. We scampered up the hill, as dozens of 4x4s zigzagged carrying loads of Israeli and Russian tourists.

We left the crowds behind and picked up a trail leading to the beginning of Kazbek’s main glacier. Below us a team of Russian climbers were preparing their ascent to the peak. It would take them at least three days to the top and back. We reached a small mound with a view of the glacier to one side, the monastery and the river below on the other, and Kazbek’s peak towering behind us. A few rocks piled on to each other, half buried in the snow.

We took in the view while deciding how to spend the next few days. Our plan was to find a trail that would take us across the mountains and into some of the other valleys of the region. But again, just like in Svaneti, we were told it was not possible. The passes were too high, there would be too much snow.
We decided to go for it anyway. That evening we hitch-hiked into one of the side-valleys just south of Kazbegi. We set up our tent by a river which we knew we would have to cross the following morning, but we decided not to worry about it yet. Hopefully we would find a bridge close by. The valley opened up behind giving us a lasting view of Mt. Kazbegi.
There was no bridge. We waded the torrential current, stepping bare-foot on the smooth slippery stones, using all the strength in our legs to withhold the force of the water, carrying our backpacks over our heads. The sun was strong, and in seconds our blood thawed, but we had to repeat the process time and again, as we climbed into yet another valley, quickly losing sight of the path, unmarked on our maps, which hadn’t been trodden in months.
As we reached the line of snow, we could hear nothing but the rush of melting snow gathering under our feet, feeding the now hidden stream.
The last stretch of the valley before the pass was a white wonder-world, surrounded by jagged peaks, and no visible signs of life. We trod heavily in the snow, soft and deep, which often collapsed under our weight leaving us scrambling to climb out. The pass was up ahead, we could see the drop and the mountains beyond that, like another set of shark teeth, row after row of peaks hinting at the hardness of the environment. More than once we thought about turning back, as our feet became colder and colder every time we had to wade the torrent, and the sun took longer to warm our blood. And yet, it felt as though going back would prove even harder than pushing onwards.

The moment we crossed the pass, and turned round a cliff to the valley on the other side, the snow was gone. Facing south, the mountain side had already given away all it’s waters, and we could see pastures and cows grazing by the river below. The descent was not easy, the melting snow had taken most of the path away with it. Treading lightly at first, I quickly learned from Giacomo how to watch my footing, digging my boots into the chocolate-like flakes of broken rocks and stones. Soon we were cruising down a docile ravine, skidding on the rock-flakes, half sliding, half running down to reach the pastures below in minutes.
Exhausted we walked up to the handful of huts, the summer dwellings of shepherds who spend half the year in the remoteness of the mountains. As we scrambled over a fence a hoarse voice yells at us in Georgian. For a moment we feared we would be soon chased away by some monstrous Caucasian mastiff. Instead, we were met by the beckoning, smiling red face of Vano, a stocky, happy shepherd who dragged us to his hut.
In Russian we tried to explain where we came from, but mostly we exchanged smiles and gratitude for the hot, wild mint tea his wife brewed for us. As we sat on the make-shift porch overlooking the scenery of the whole valley, we were offered a choice of fresh bread, milk, cheese and fried potatoes.
We spent the evening sharing our stories, talking about our home and their home. As they shared food with us, he eagerly fished out his binoculars pointing to fresh bear footprints on the snow on the mountain side across the valley, and proudly boasting his hunting gun, a vintage American Winchester.

Vano and his wife spend the winters in Pasanauri, a town on the Military Highway on the way to Tbilisi, and every spring drive their cattle north, climbing deep into the valley of the Boseli river, beyond the pot-holed dirt track, the path that cuts into the forest, and the last settlements reached by electricity and running water. They use a small generator to heat and power their house, collecting fresh pure water from any one of the thousands of springs gushing from every side of his corner of the world. Remote, alone with his wife and a handful of neighbours, their life is marked by the cycles of winter and summer, the life of their cattle and the worries of wolves, bears, milk and meat prices and little else.

Vano left us sitting with his wife who spoke no Russian, as he headed out to bring in the cattle into their enclosure by the hut. He directed the calves in a smaller sheltered pen; these he will sell once they are fat enough to slaughter. The rest of the cows waited patiently to be milked, as Giacomo and I helped carrying the buckets of milk inside.

As it got dark and cold, we were invited to sit inside on their beds laden with sheep-wool blankets and carpets keeping out the night’s chill. He laughed as we asked him where we might set up our tent, showing us instead into a small wooden hut nearby and getting two beds ready for us, piling up woolly blankets to cover our sleeping bags.
Incredulous and incapable of finding the words to thank him for his selfless hospitality, we collapsed exhausted onto the hard surfaces which stank of sheep and cow hide.

We were disappointed the next day not to stay longer, but Vano was eager to show us the way back to the path which pointed south, turning into a muddy track, and finally a paved road towards the military highway. For once we were spared the impossible task of wading the river, as he ferried us across on his white horse onto the other shore. We walked for miles until a car finally gave us a ride back to the military highway and onto our next destination, Tusheti and Eastern Georgia.

We finally found what we had looked for in the Caucasus, genuine friendliness and hospitality beyond the increasingly commercial and touristic destinations of Georgia. To access it we had to trek alone, recklessly and against most of the advice we had received, dragging our heavy backpacks for each step of the way, overcoming my fear of steep descents and the exhaustion accumulated over days and days of uninterrupted hikes.