Favorite part/section of the TCT:

This is an impossible question. Impossible! But I admit I have a particularly special place in my heart for the highland region of Javakheti in southern Georgia. It’s a fascinating, austere region where the primary language is Armenian and the high-altitude volcanic mountains and sparkling alpine lakes leave you feeling like the only tiny human in the world– aside from the semi-nomadic shepherds you encounter. I spent a lot of time up there between 2021-2023 mapping out routes, and got to learn from several local tourism experts who have so much love for these mountains that it’s absolutely infectious.

And on a personal note, it’s particularly special to me because that’s where I met my dog in 2023– the little stray jackal-like puppy who followed me for three days through the high mountains. She came back with me to Tbilisi and I named her Mela (meaning “fox” in Georgian) because of her bushy tail and adorable, attentive ears. (Technically she should have been an Armenian-speaking dog, but “աղվես” (“aghves”) was more of a mouthful.) Adopting a Georgian street dog was definitely not in my plan, but has since become one of the very best things in my life.

Favorite place in the Caucasus:

Zeskho. It’s such a special place along the TCT– the site of so many volunteers’ hard work, so much community building, and so much great time in nature. The lack of cell service really helps!

Memorable Moment:

One day while I was thru-hiking across Armenia in 2021– testing the new route with Tom– I fell behind our group. That wouldn’t have been a problem except that my phone died abruptly– and with it my only source of navigation on the unmarked trail. That wouldn’t have been much of a problem either, since I quickly began following their distinctive hiking-boot footprints– until we hit asphalt. Uh-oh. 

We had agreed to meet in the center of Martiros, the next village, so I followed my best logic in the direction of the town. I started to ask the farmers I saw on the side of the road: “Have you seen two guys walk this way? Foreign-looking, big backpacks?” 

“Yes, yes,” they said. “Just 10 minutes ago. They went that way.” 

I made it to the town center: nothing. But it turned out there was also an Old Martiros, another few kilometers away. 

And so I continued on– until eventually I asked a farmer who looked at me completely blankly. “No, I haven’t seen anyone,” he said, confused. “I’ve been out here all morning.” Once again: uh-oh.

Just then, a Zhiguli came screaming down the small 2-lane highway and stopped. A stuffed backseat full of children smooshed between a pile of watermelons gaped at me. “Are you okay?” they asked. “Where are you going?”

They confirmed that I was heading in the right direction– it turned out they were heading to Old Martiros for a birthday party. “We’d give you a lift, but…” the driver waved at the overfull backseat. I waved away the offer with my thanks and walked on as they sped away.

Not 2 minutes later, the car came roaring back into view, reversing all the way down the highway. The driver said from the open window: “As soon as we drove off, we thought, no way, we can’t leave you! Get in, we’ll make it work!” And so began a mad rush of reorganizing the backseat: Watermelons stuffed into the trunk around my backpack, watermelons and children on my lap.

When we made it to the town square, I could see Tom and Roffi waiting down in the picnic area. But first my hosts insisted that they give me a tour of the historical church. They walked me through, pointing out the intricate khachkars and explaining the history of the church and posing for photos with me. 

That’s when I found out the purpose of the gathering they were attending: It was a 21st birthday party, but more than that, it was also celebrating the safe discharge of a few local young boys from their military service. The 2020 war with Azerbaijan had just taken place the year prior. No one was taking a safe discharge from military service lightly. They knew enough people who hadn’t been so lucky.

But as they told me this, their faces also lit up: “You need to stay and join! Your friends too!” 

There are deep traditions of hospitality here– so much so that, in the ritual animal sacrifice known as matagh (often done in gratitude to God for having saved someone from misfortune, commonly done when sons come home from military service) there is a special part of the meat reserved for guests or strangers. So by joining, we were also playing a certain important role.

Week prior, at the start of the our thru-hike, Tom and I had agreed that there would be at least one day when we got an invitation and had to just write off the planned mileage of the day entirely– that it couldn’t be planned for, but we would know it when we saw it.

Today, it was 10am. We had at least 20km more to cover. But we gave each other a look and it was very clear: today was that day. 

And that’s how we ended up as the special guests of a 150-person birthday party in Old Martiros, with dozens of watermelons cooling in spring water, piles of homemade gata, the ritual matagh slaughtering a sheep to thank God, skewers and skewers of khorovats, vodka toasts, and grandparents and children alike breaking it down to Armenian folk music. 

I toasted with the grandmothers, made friends with a local teenage girl who was learning English, occasionally stumbled over to try to save Tom from the enthusiastic old men at the vodka table, and did my best to provide some good-hearted entertainment with my attempts to learn some Armenian dance moves. 

We finally rolled out of the picnic area close to nightfall, little more than a ball of gata and khorovats, to pitch camp at the nearby 13th-century cave church. 

It’s one of my favorite memories from my time on the trail, reminding me to always stay curious and open, and that hiking in the Caucasus works best when you’re willing to toss your planned itinerary to the wind.

What is special about the TCT’s international exchanges and gatherings?

It’s always special to come together with a diverse group of people around something that you all love. You get to share perspectives, learn about the world through their eyes, and your shared love of the mountains (or whatever your thing is) makes it easy to connect across different backgrounds.

But I admit: even I have been surprised by how positive the TCT exchanges are. In the midst of so much regional conflict and tension and stereotypes, we were so nervous about curating those gatherings. What if our ideas were off base? What would we do if something went wrong? What if even a shared love of nature was no match for generations of trauma and hate?

Then I would look over, and see my colleagues from Armenia and Azerbaijan laughing together, sharing slices of a mandarin.

I think the most powerful thing about these types of exchanges is that it allows people to simply be people. To meet each other as individuals, not as a representative of a whole country and its history. The mountains create the container of shared beauty and challenges to make that possible. And I think it’s that type of experience– building connections on a person-to-person level– that will ultimately make broader cooperation possible.

Most special part of the TCT:

The connection between people and nature that happens at every level– whether that’s volunteers getting to know a 1-kilometer slice of a landscape in a new, intimate way; the shepherds and villagers who live and work in these mountains; or the side-by-side immersion into the natural world and the local culture you get as a hiker.

Why should people hike or get involved with the TCT?

If you’re a curious person who loves the mountains, who likes working on big complex puzzles, who likes to have the type of adventures you’d never be able to plan for, who wants to hear wildly diverse stories from different walks of life, and who wants to make an impact in a unique, tangible way: You will never be bored here.