1876 British Viscount & Ambassador James Bryce - Noah's Ark Search

164 THE EXPLORERS OF ARARAT
been precipitated into the glen suddenly melted, and, forming an irresistible torrent of water and mud, swept along the
channel of the stream and down the outer slopes of the mountain, far away into the Aras plain, bearing with them huge
rocks, and covering the ground for miles with a deep bed of mud and gravel. Even now, after thirty-seven years, the
traces of this convulsion are distinctly visible; in some places the precipices from which the masses fell show a fracture
mark fresh as of yesterday. The direction of the shocks, which were felt as far as Tiflis, the Caspian, and the Lake of
Urumia, was from the center of Great Ararat, towards the northeast. It was reported in Europe at the time that Ararat
had broken out in eruption; but for this story there is no foundation: the dust which accompanied the great rock fall was
probably mistaken for smoke by those who saw it from a distance. Doubtless the blast was produced by the fall of the
rock masses. Since then a few huts have again arisen somewhat lower down the slope than the site of Old Arghuri and
without the mouth of the chasm; here dwell a few Tatars—for the Armenians (several, happening to be away from the
village, escaped) do not seem to have returned to the desolated spot—and pasture their cattle on the sides of the
valley which grass has again begun to clothe. But Noah’s vine and the primeval willow, and the little monastery where
Parrot lived so happily among the few old monks who had retired to this hallowed spot from the troubles of the world,
are gone for ever; no Christian bell is heard, no Christian service said, upon the Mountain of the Ark.
Chapter VII
At 8 AM, on the morning of the 11th of September, we set out from Aralykh to ascend the mountain. We had
arranged to start at sunrise, knowing how terrible the heat would be for the first part of the road, but to get a large party
under way is always troublesome, and certainly not least so in these countries, where there is no sense of the value of
time, and no conception of the conditions of a successful mountain expedition. Indeed, what with the collecting of the
soldiers, the packing of provisions, the hundred little things that occur to one’s mind at the last moment, a compass,
snow spectacles, warm gloves, and, above all, the indispensable lemons, more than three hours would have been
consumed had we been in any hands but those of our genial and energetic host. The last thing was to write a few lines
home, wondering what the next lines would have to report, and then we filed out of the cantonment amid adieux and
good wishes given in strange tongues. We were nine in all, six soldiers of the Cossack detachment, the gentleman
who had undertaken to interpret, and our two selves. The soldier in command was a Kurd named Jaafar, a man of
great mental as well as bodily force, in whom the colonel reposed full confidence, and whose singularly keen and
expressive glance made us wish that we could have held some direct communication with him. Remembering that on
the same day of the year, five years ago, I had started to climb the Schreckhorn, and three years before, the
Maladetta, it amused me to think how unlike this cavalcade of ours was to the parties of loud-voiced Englishmen and
stalwart guides that issue from an Alpine inn before daylight to “do” some stimulating peak or pass. We were all
mounted, though certainly on no fiery chargers, and might rather have been taken for a reconnoitering or marauding
party, sent to plunder some village across the Persian border, which lay six miles off. The Cossacks were of course
fully armed and equipped, while my friend and I, in addition to pistols stuck in the belt, brandished heavy ice-axes, the
management of which, together with that of the bridle and a big white umbrella, required some dexterity. An umbrella
and a horse do seem rather incompatible, not only with one another, but with a mountain ascent; but we would willingly
have looked even more ridiculous for the sake of some protection against the fiery shower of beams that descended
from the cloudless sky, and was reflected from the whitish wastes over which we took our way.
If Great Ararat is the most majestic, Little Ararat may claim to be the most elegant of mountains; the eye is never
tired of its beautiful lines. The two peaks are connected by a rough-topped ridge which forms the back of the sloping
plain I have described, and also marks the frontier between the Russian and Turkish empires. Over it is the path to
Bayazid, distant some nineteen miles to the southwest, while five miles to the east, on the northeastern side of Little
Ararat, one enters the territories of the Shah. The place is therefore particularly well suited for predatory operations,
since, when the marauders are attacked on any one of the three soils, they can promptly retire into one of the other
two, and snap their fingers at justice, just as evil-doers in England used to be fond of establishing themselves on the
boundary between two counties, where they could slip away from the sheriff of either. Hence Russia, who cares more
about the security of the subject than her neighbors do, has placed here a sort of small frontier guard, consisting of
seven or eight armed Cossacks, who remind the mountain Kurds of the existence of the Czar, and keep an eye on the
border depredators, who, lurking about in Persia or Turkey, now and then swoop down on the Aras valley for a little
booty. Before 1828, when Persia still held all of what is now the Russian side of Ararat, this plain of Sardarbulakh was
a regular stronghold of the robber Kurds, who not only spoiled and murdered travelers attempting to pass this way to
Bayazid, but constantly plundered the villages of the plain and the two highways of commerce which pass along the
two sides of the mountain.
The height above the sea of this sloping plain varies from 8818 feet, which is given as the height of the pass
leading to Bayazid, and 7000 feet; and Sardarbulakh in the middle is 7514 feet. Its lumpy volcanic hillocks—I have
called it a plain, but it is far from being level—are covered with good grass; and about a mile off, near the foot of Little
Ararat, appears the only bit of wood on the whole mountain—a grove of low birches, whose dimensions the wasteful
Kurds are rapidly reducing. Near the birch trees is a sort of subterranean village, huts formed by hollowing out the
ground and laying a few boughs, covered with turf, across the top, through which comes such light as can penetrate.
These huts are often uninhabited: I fancy it is mostly when cold weather comes on that the Kurds take to them.