Down to the river to pray

Georgia, the land of milk and honey. Famed for its beauty and adventure, golden fleeces and a place where myths abound in a greater number than government pledges to the NHS. More personally, it is also the place where the nexus between life and a career met, a moment of clarity whereby I decided to dedicate my life to fight for nature, with the charismatic sturgeon being emblematic of this fight.

However, the journey getting into Georgia was about as opposite to milk and honey as you can get. Think landslides, sleeping rough on beaches surrounded by stray dogs and rain so strong it was genuinely blurring my vision along the only artery connecting Turkey to Georgia. Early morning rises were the antidote to get through this bottleneck of the trip, and after being followed by a stray (dog) for a good number of kilometres I reached the border, a place of bedlam, disorder and surprisingly good architecture.

The queue of cars is a usual sigh at any border, but here there was no waiting in line. Drivers merely put their car in line and then ran up to passport control to demand being seen to first….and then proceeded to being blocked in by the cars of others who were still waiting to be seen. What should have taken 10 minutes was nearly an hour, and with my track record with Turkish officials not stacked in my favour I did the honourable thing and joined the heaving mass as well.

*Half the highway linking Turkey to Georgia lays in rubble*

Finally I was in Georgia, back after so many years and it felt like a second homecoming. Excited, knowing the Rioni River lay within touching distance and that I had a local network of friends I would all be seeing in due course. However, the euphoria of entering familiar territory was quickly doused by the next thunderstorm forcing me to shelter in a gift shop, in desperate need of a wee and no toilet nearby. Bushes it shall be, once I could be certain lightning would not strike me….imagine my poor mother getting that call!

Batumi, the first major town in Georgia lay about 25km up the coast, and when the clouds lifted I made a dash for it. I made good time, celebrated by ordering a bowl of Khinkali (Georgian dumplings) and made a rough plan for the next few days. As I was leaving town I was hailed down by a fellow cyclist who had just arrived in town himself. Formalities exchanged (route, duration, best kit etc) he suggested I join a whatsapp group he was a part of; exclusively for cyclists heading east where ideas, routes and partnerships were exchanged.

Like many, I suffer from time to time with imposter syndrome; never quite thinking I am as good as the pack, that I would be unable to reach the lofty heights that surely these other cyclists were reaching. And so it was with great uncertainty I accepted his invitation and joined surely the most niche whatsapp group in existence. It was, in a very strange way, a relief to see that many others were dodging the routes I had taken due to risk or difficulty, and many others far further into the trip were making mistakes that I had ironed out early on.

This was the positive affirmation I had subconsciously been needing, and is what many imposter syndrome suffers need… proof that they are in fact doing their task and most likely doing it very well as we are often pushing ourselves harder than we need. Although very new to the group, I wanted to help people out as much as possible and dived in to share what little expertise I had, and receiving a lot of information on my route ahead in return. Give good, get good back.

By late afternoon I had reached Poti, about 104km from where I had woken that morning, and with my legs feeling like lead. After the tough past few days FFI calling me to offer me their flat they have specifically for visiting guests was like Christmas come early. Poti itself is what I would politely say is a little rough around the edges, but a roof over your head after fending off stray dogs is never something to turn down, and what a roof it was, complete with a warm shower and a bed!

I was up early the next morning to join Janeli, a team member at FFI Georgia, on anti-poaching patrols along the Rioni River. Barely sleeping a wink the night before, I was playing over in my mind how full circle I had come. My last trip I was a recent graduate, a bit lost in the world and chancing my arm on a voluntary experience in Georgia. Now I was returning having determined what I wanted to do in life, burning full of passion although still equally broke. The hours on the river flew by, a blur of identifying illegal baited hooks, chatting with local fishermen and talking about the importance of side streams to overall river health. Indeed, such is their importance that the fishermen we met were trying to catch wels catfish, who in turn were waiting at these river junctions for the fry of migrating fish that had recently spawned.

What struck me about this part of Georgia, and much of rural Europe, were how many empty home there were; with it evident people had moved to the city in search of better work, with the youth in some of these towns often completely absent. Europe will look remarkably different in 30 years time, with huge areas of the continent being abandoned and accidentally ‘returned to nature’. Whether governments and society at large will use this as an opportunity to genuinely give a bit more space back to nature, only time will tell. I am excited by the chance this may present to some species on the brink, but also greatly saddened by all the lost culture, stories and memories that will depart with these decaying towns.

*Not quite Jeremy Wade but trying all the same. Me on the Rioni River*

Continuing east my next port of call was Kutaisi, a city that sits in the foothills of the North Caucuses, a vibrant town that is a gateway for cyclists and hikers alike. I have two options to get there from Poti, the E60 highway all the way, which is never fun and even less fun in bad weather, or hug very local tracks along the bank of the Rioni and chance my arm on the condition on the track..if any track even really existed. I opt for the latter and was immediately met with a track that resembled the Somme in 1916. Mud up to my shins, the bike refusing to move and it lashing down. I double back to firmer ground but after about another 5kms I was told the road ahead was washed out. The highway it was.

I arrived at the Dingo Hostel that evening, muddy, soaked through and probably smelling worse for wear. What followed that evening was a blur of sunset beers looking over the city, poker and an assortment of cha cha until the early hours. It was with a heavy head that I rose early the next morning and said a fond farewell to the bike for a few days as I was about to embark on a four day trek across the Caucuses; the famed Mestia – Ushguli loop. After meeting a fellow British traveler, Jonno, I added a further day, continuing to Chvelpi and into the lower Svaneti valley after his firm recommendation.

*The Rioni road out of Poti….not one for the feint of heart*

It is hard to put into words just how spectacular the hike was; the air full of the scent of wildflowers, towering peaks watching over your every move, wildcamping in the most breathtaking places and most refreshingly, no saddle sores. The four days covered about 72km of pretty hard going trails, with my final day consisting of a 3000m summit. Some people opt to camp near the summit as the views are unreal, but owing to only having a jungle sleeping bag, with a comfort rating of 14c, I decided to respect the mountain and descend.

The Chvelpi extension was majestic, and offered me that feeling I had been chasing since leaving home, a few moments of absolute wilderness. No one around, barely even a track to follow and no signal. I had ten hours of this, following my map in an almost meditative state until an aggressive descent following an old logging track snapped me back to my senses, and to the reality that you are never really too far away from civilisation. Still, it was the fix I needed and the climb down flew by with a smile on my face, but my knees crying out for it to stop.

*Fording a river, somewhere between Adishi and Ushguli*

A few rest days in Kutaisi are ahead of me before I track south, over the Southern Caucuses to the no man’s land that is southern Georgia. Here I hope to see towns built into the sides of mountains, take paths few choose and rest next to a lake that only rogue herders call home, before making a beeline to Tbilisi. I hope to make good time as, by sheer chance, two mates from my school days might also be in town at the same time and it would be good to see familiar faces again….and a chance to offload some of my collected detritus for a free ride home.

I write this blog after reading some sorry news, but news that further reinforces the importance of this expedition. This week, the IUCN (the UN body for nature basically) convened to decide that all sturgeon species are now at imminent risk of extinction; up from 23 out of 26 species last time round, with the Chinese sturgeon now extinct. We simply do not have much longer left to save sturgeon, and so I am making every minute, pedal and rough night count.

If you haven’t before, share the news of this expedition and the plight of sturgeon more generally, go and sign up to a good cause and give back to something you’re passionate about. We only have one planet, there is no magical remedy to unfix all the damage we have done. Now is the time to roll up ourselves and get dirty to save ourselves, as only we can.

Hinterlands

Chasing Kars

One Average Spoke