Roberts screamed and dropped her loaf of bread. I plowed through a crop of rhododendrons and fir saplings and waist-high reeds, branches slapping the windshield, doing a number on my paint job. The Rover bounced like a happy hooker, and I fought the wheel bravely and soon we came to a slight clearing.
I looked at Faye. Face ashen, her right hand clutched the roll bar with the sort of grip that could pinch a cobra’s head off. “Almost missed the turn-off,” I said sheepishly. “As you can see, it’s not the easiest road to spot.”
She leaned forward, peering out the windshield. We were surrounded by lush plant life, some of which rested on the hood of the Rover. Somewhere a bird chirped.
“You call this a road?” she asked incredulously.
“As the saying goes: Once a road, always a road.”
She shook her head dubiously. Apparently she wasn’t familiar with that saying.
With the naked eye, the road was difficult to discern, and admittedly there was very little that was road-like about it. Especially considering there was a massive boulder sitting directly in front of us. However, on my office wall is an aerial photograph of the region, and from above, the road is surely there.
I picked my way around the boulder and through stunted firs and thorny bushes, destroying crocuses and snowdrops and orchids. The Rover had no problem bounding over the uneven ground and smaller rocks.
But the bigger boulders posed a problem. Some sat within the road like trolls guarding bridges. Eastern Turkey is a rocky land, the result of millenniums of volcanic activity and grinding glaciers. I was forced to find a clearing around the massive formations, usually angling off the path over smaller shrubs, and in one instance scattering a small herd of ibex feeding on the arid grass.
A short while later, Faye asked, “Is this the route my father took?”
“It’s possible, though I don’t detect any recent passage.” I swerved to avoid a cedar which had materialized out of the mist. “Access to the mountain from the north and east would have been too time consuming. More than likely, Daveed led your father this way, coming up from the south. Then again, I could be wrong. After all, Ararat has a base of twenty-five square miles. That’s a lot of mountain to cover.”
Once on a smooth stretch of bronze-colored earth dotted with clumps of ankle-high grass, I reached into the back seat and grabbed two bottled waters. “Thirsty?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I think I'm getting car sick.”
“Is it my driving?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s always my driving,” I said.
I stopped the Rover and left the engine running and lit a cigarette. The morning was quiet, with little animal activity, although a red squirrel did appear around the thick bole of a cedar. The little booger watched us nervously, then scurried back behind the safety of the tree. It was about as cute as cute can be.
Before us, filling the entire windshield, was Mount Ararat. Its continuously snow-capped peak was hidden behind thick cumulus clouds, and from here, the mountain appeared unimaginably massive. Ararat is, in fact, a perfect conical volcano. Detached from any mountainous chains, it’s a free-standing entity reminiscent of Japan's Mount Fuji, with canyons and lakes and glaciers. And its own weather systems.
And, some claim, a very old ship.
We were still seven miles from its base. Faye stared up at the mountain, mouth slightly open. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked up through the windshield as if she were watching the departure of the latest space shuttle.
“How big is it?” she asked finally.
“Seventeen thousand, give or take a few hundred feet.”
“And just how dangerous?” Her words sounded distant and strained, as if Faye were talking behind a wall. Ararat has that effect on people.
“Supremely.”
“And you’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“We can still turn back,” I said. “I’ll
I looked at Faye. Face ashen, her right hand clutched the roll bar with the sort of grip that could pinch a cobra’s head off. “Almost missed the turn-off,” I said sheepishly. “As you can see, it’s not the easiest road to spot.”
She leaned forward, peering out the windshield. We were surrounded by lush plant life, some of which rested on the hood of the Rover. Somewhere a bird chirped.
“You call this a road?” she asked incredulously.
“As the saying goes: Once a road, always a road.”
She shook her head dubiously. Apparently she wasn’t familiar with that saying.
With the naked eye, the road was difficult to discern, and admittedly there was very little that was road-like about it. Especially considering there was a massive boulder sitting directly in front of us. However, on my office wall is an aerial photograph of the region, and from above, the road is surely there.
I picked my way around the boulder and through stunted firs and thorny bushes, destroying crocuses and snowdrops and orchids. The Rover had no problem bounding over the uneven ground and smaller rocks.
But the bigger boulders posed a problem. Some sat within the road like trolls guarding bridges. Eastern Turkey is a rocky land, the result of millenniums of volcanic activity and grinding glaciers. I was forced to find a clearing around the massive formations, usually angling off the path over smaller shrubs, and in one instance scattering a small herd of ibex feeding on the arid grass.
A short while later, Faye asked, “Is this the route my father took?”
“It’s possible, though I don’t detect any recent passage.” I swerved to avoid a cedar which had materialized out of the mist. “Access to the mountain from the north and east would have been too time consuming. More than likely, Daveed led your father this way, coming up from the south. Then again, I could be wrong. After all, Ararat has a base of twenty-five square miles. That’s a lot of mountain to cover.”
Once on a smooth stretch of bronze-colored earth dotted with clumps of ankle-high grass, I reached into the back seat and grabbed two bottled waters. “Thirsty?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I think I'm getting car sick.”
“Is it my driving?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s always my driving,” I said.
I stopped the Rover and left the engine running and lit a cigarette. The morning was quiet, with little animal activity, although a red squirrel did appear around the thick bole of a cedar. The little booger watched us nervously, then scurried back behind the safety of the tree. It was about as cute as cute can be.
Before us, filling the entire windshield, was Mount Ararat. Its continuously snow-capped peak was hidden behind thick cumulus clouds, and from here, the mountain appeared unimaginably massive. Ararat is, in fact, a perfect conical volcano. Detached from any mountainous chains, it’s a free-standing entity reminiscent of Japan's Mount Fuji, with canyons and lakes and glaciers. And its own weather systems.
And, some claim, a very old ship.
We were still seven miles from its base. Faye stared up at the mountain, mouth slightly open. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked up through the windshield as if she were watching the departure of the latest space shuttle.
“How big is it?” she asked finally.
“Seventeen thousand, give or take a few hundred feet.”
“And just how dangerous?” Her words sounded distant and strained, as if Faye were talking behind a wall. Ararat has that effect on people.
“Supremely.”
“And you’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“We can still turn back,” I said. “I’ll
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