A Winter's Day in Chrome Valley
The city streets were wet into the weekend. The heavy rain, which had started the day before and tired at night, had turned into drizzle on Sunday morning. While waiting for the departure time in Cumhuriyet Square, we retreat to the eaves of an old building to avoid getting wet.
A big plane tree in front of us, taxis that fanned the fallen leaves from the plane tree, minibuses, students who were obviously preparing for a big test because of their hectic hustle and bustle, intimidated garbage collectors, and vicious cats mixing the garbage adorned the picture of the city in the morning. We were unaware that our trip would turn into an adventure with high adrenaline.
We boarded our vehicle at 08:00. Değirmendere accompanied us along the way. With the rain water filling the stream bed, the soil flowing from the edges turned the stream water into a blurred color. Until Maçka, the still unshed yellow leaves of some trees were almost resisting the winter. The snowfall that had just begun on the southern slope of Mount Zigana had painted everything white when we passed the tunnel. The seasons are so intertwined in the Black Sea.
Ancient City: imera
Before we reach Torul, we turned towards the İkisu sign and after about 5 km, right after the village of İkisu, we turned right on the Karaca Cave road towards Krom Valley. We tried to identify the trees that cover the stream along the valley. Water poplar, willow, walnut and apple trees were some of them. These relatively leafless but completely fruitless trees and the reddish dwarf shrubs above make me emotional; it reminded me of the faded photos that adorned my childhood photo album. We pass the town of Yaglidere, a town on the way, refreshing our memories, and we head towards the village of Olucak, whose ancient name is imera, home to fifty-seven monasteries and churches, and once inhabited by the Greeks, known as the Ten Thousands.
Even from afar, it was clear that the houses were covered with zinc, whitewashed and with small windows, with their glowing images. Here, we understand that the winter is tough, from the wood pile of more than a man's size in the courtyard of each house. In the village, the inhabitants of the village had gathered for the funeral of a seventy-five-year-old grandmother. This crowd, which draws our attention in a small residential area, shows that the people living in the surrounding villages are in good solidarity. Considering the winter conditions, this seems to be an inevitable situation. Under the drizzle, the audible prayers in the cemetery reached the wall of the imera ruins, where they mingled with the sound of the river across the valley. Since we could not find the opportunity to chat with the villagers in these mourning days, we continued on our way. Pass the village and get out of our vehicle near the ancient ruins. We took a group photo. We started walking, leaving the first traces on the snowy, sleet hiking trail. Our route is the road between imera Church from here and Krom Church on the back of the mountain we plan to reach by crossing the summit.
imera Church was established on the slope of a high mountain 2 km south of Olucak village. In the ancient city, which is 38 km away from the city center of Gümüşhane, there is a monastery with a dome and a dome covered with vaults. The ancient city, which has many churches of historical and cultural value, has been declared an archaeological site even though it is late. In its inscriptions, the date 1350 written with root dyes is read. On the remaining walls of the largely devastated ruins, there are graffiti that are evidently drawn by the visitors. As we look down on these works entrusted to us, we turn red and close the dusty pages of history.
Walking the Trail on a Winter's Day
Leaving the time tunnel of history, we are moving towards Krom Church, one of the ruins of Imera, under light snowfall. When we came to the 2357-altitude ridge, we were unaware that we would be caught in a heavy blizzard. The path was gradually covered with snow. We were on flat land on the ridge. As the snowflakes flew through the air, the eye could not see. Instead of protecting ourselves, there was neither a shelter nor a secluded area in the vicinity. It became cold. We started to get cold.
November 5, 2006 was a Sunday with high adrenaline. Actually, everything was fine in the beginning. Everything was going well. We were trying to catch the first snowflakes of the season with our hands along the way. The snowflakes we caught were melting away in our hot hands. We loved that those who fell to the ground made a crunchy sound when we stepped on them. In fact, Köksal for a while, after this joyful trip:
Brother; "Let's reward ourselves at the roaster on Torul road," he had said on the way back. “Okay,” I replied to his cheerful, appetizing offer.
I told you, we were walking happily on an ideal track, crossing the back. Along the way, we were picking fruits from large and small rosehip trees and taking pictures. There are so many rosehip trees around us… We used to store the energy we spent on the slippery path by eating rose hips. As we crossed the ridge, we didn't mind the snow that turned into a blizzard. When the snow accumulated on Ragıp's and Erdem's mustaches turned into ice and started to grow into stalactites, we hugged our cameras in laughter. We realized the severity of the cold and blizzard only when we couldn't get our cameras to work. Who knows how hard it was to use the compass and other devices. We started to capsize first from one side, then from all sides. We've been cut off. We couldn't stand. We gathered together. Erdem set out to look for a secluded, windless place. Then Koksal left. We were on hold. We were getting colder as the blizzard intensified. There was no going, time was running out. The snow was piling up on us. We were having trouble breathing. It looked like we were going to avalanche and roll downhill. As the cold intensified, our body temperature dropped. He was afraid, we were backing each other on the one hand.
After a while, I noticed that my fingertips were numb. It was the first time I felt death come this close. Death seemed hard to get out of its claws. Even if I got out of there, my fingers would get gangrene and cut off on the way back! That's how it seemed to me at the time. I thought of the pens I couldn't hold; Colorful crayons, ballpoint pens, fountain pens or pencils with which I write poetry… All of them are worth something else now… Ah! I hurt. my loved ones. At that moment, they were already fluttering in my head.
When I tried to rub it to warm it up, I thought I was putting my hands in my pocket with Bülent's warning. But I realized that my sense of texture had disappeared with Bülent's second warning. When I looked at the faces of other friends, I encountered faces that cannot be described. You only know if you've seen the dead face. The faces of each of them had turned purple, even livid. Death was beginning to show its cold face behind its type. It was as if he was chasing us after each of us.
"Don't get tired when death comes after me
There go, death come again at some time
You'll get the fate, you won't get me
Exist, death, come again at some time"
Karacaoglan
We were saying words that would make us smile. However, we did not have the joy to make fun of what was said. “Friends, we will freeze and stay here as a monument,” said Bülent. I thought of the monument built in memory of the Spanish soldiers who died in the plane crash on Mount Pilav. Meanwhile, there was still no news from Erdem and Köksal. We were helpless in hesitation. I dreamed of what my grandfather once told me.
What My Grandfather Told
It was a few months before he passed away. In the evening of a summer day: “We used to resist flood, wind and snow with our experience on the highland without technology; Let me see those places of my youth one last time,” he told my father in the village. The evil feeling in his eyes at that moment caused my grandfather to sigh deeply. We wrapped the prepared cornbread, anchovy and slippery in a bundle and set off for the plateau the next day. The Zigana tunnel had not been opened yet. We came to Hamsiköy, by winding roads, and from there to Zigana Pass. There is the bunker still standing in the gateway. He had described how they had once woken up here because of the dew, feeling the chill of that time.
He said that living on the plateau requires experience.
He showed us the area where the highland house (I don't remember the name of the highland now) is located, of which there is no trace of what they once lived in, and told us how the shepherd dogs smashed the wolves attacking the herd at the foot of the rocks next to him. He was equipped with experiences that sounded like a fairy tale to me at that age, but are completely exemplary today. During the break we gave, he pointed with his hand and showed the place where they built their plateau house. In response to my questions, he wisely said that we should not be deceived by the beautiful weather at the moment, that the weather could change suddenly and a storm might occur, and that even a snow type might appear suddenly, and that this would affect the place more than the downstream.
Moreover, we could easily drain the drinking water on the opposite slope to the house, be protected from the mountain wind, and secure the herd and the barn against wild animals, he said. In the light of his experience, he used to tell us that technology was used in the city regardless of natural disasters and what this carelessness could cause us in the future.
Olucakli's Stream
The place we were in was like that unprotected place where I had a break with my grandfather, which remains in my memories. Fog. type. Cold. His eyes could not see. The cold was in our bones. Wild animals are definitely in their den in this weather. On the plateau, all of these were dangers. We should have left here. Fortunately, those who left the group were able to return. Now we had to set a direction. East, west, south, north or whatever its derivatives are… Regardless of who makes the final decision, not knowing which direction we are going… We left ourselves down the ridge in hopes of finding a settlement where we thought we would arrive. We were walking fast, running and rolling with Ömer to raise our body temperature. When the group behind us called, we slowed down and waited for them to approach. As he descended towards the valley, his type decreased and trees began to appear. When we saw the vague huts with snow-covered roofs, Ömer's cry was like the joy of a ship's crew who lost their way to see the land. In the distance, we were greeted by a young boy who came out onto the porch of the house with the barking of dogs. We asked permission to take a rest. His family was sensitive and showed us a place. They also offered tea in a boiled pot. We interviewed the head of the house who lived in Istanbul and was spending his vacation at home at that time. The rest of the people, whose young people are generally abroad, were engaged in animal husbandry and fruit production in the region.
Even though we felt the cold breath of death on our neck that day, we had a life to live. After taking a breather in the hospitable family that opened its door to us in a neighborhood of Olucak village, which we randomly descended down the ridge, we set off again. Our clocks showed 17.00. There was an eerie silence all around. The weather was getting dark. Evening was about to fall. As time progressed, the night would turn into parliament blue. Now a quiet life dominated nature in an insidious darkness. Just ahead, the village of Olucak was visible, this time under the dim lights of the mosque's minaret. I remembered Köksal's statement. It was time to reward ourselves at the roaster. While we stopped by the roaster near Torul and waited for our order, we chatted next to the stove that smelled of pine.
This travel article has been taken from the book of our region's travel writer Hasan Kantarcı's In the Footsteps of the Road and published with the permission of the author.
