Hiking in Armenia: Through the woods to ancient monasteries and an interview with a monk

(This is the last of a three-part series on Armenia.)u

DILIJAN, Armenia – Yandex is Armenia’s version of Ubur and the drivers in this rural, northern part of the country all seem left over from the Ottoman Empire. Their faces show the remains of a thousand battles. Sad eyes scan the roads. Old limbs pick up bags.

My driver taking me to a trailhead in Dilijan National Park was a diminutive, leather-faced, elderly man who spoke no English. He could not answer my question of where the hell were we going. We seemed to be driving into the middle of a Siberian forest.

I was in what they call the “Switzerland of Armenia.” Dilijan National Park covers 92 square miles (240 square kilometers) not far from the Azerbaijani border. Oak, elm and hornbeam forests cover vast territories of 47 miles (79 kilometers) of marked hiking trails with snowcapped peaks off in the distance.

When Armenia was a Soviet republic, Russian artists came here to chill out and be inspired. I came to get more in touch with a country that’s 80 percent mountains and see some of Armenia’s famed monasteries.

After about 15 minutes of twists and turns climbing higher into blind forests, we finally came to an outdoor recreation area. Parz Lake, smooth as glass and looking very cold, seemed peaceful with geese tranquilly floating in the water. On the lake stood a mini A-framed house, suitable for a beaver tired of the rain.

The entire area was barren, sans two people doing maintenance work on the string of cottages used during the summer. They got me onto the right trail and I started a long slow march.

Alone.

In two days hiking in Armenia I saw four other hikers. That’s it. A total of about four hours of hiking and I saw four people, none on the hike from Parz Lake.

No, hiking in Armenia in late November isn’t like Switzerland in June. It’s lonely, cold and a bit slippery. But I wanted to be alone in the wilderness and see 900-year-old monasteries, one of which is still in use. In that respect, Dilijan National Park was my Switzerland for this fall.

I covered eight miles (13 kilometers) in those four hours. That’s fairly modest by hiking standards but not bad for a 69-year-old man three weeks after a vicious case of bronchitis and three months after a hip replacement. 

Getting there

The marshrutka van taking me north from Areni dumped me off at a major intersection on the southern end of Yerevan, the capital. A taxi took me 15 minutes to Northern Station, a leftover Soviet nightmare that has not seen a sliver of improvement from Armenian independence.

White vans parked in a dirt lot with broken down chairs for those waiting for their rides. Inside the station was a vast, dark, empty hall with stairways seemingly going nowhere. A lone woman behind a window sold me a ticket to Dilijan and I precariously sat down outside.

The ride north, however, was lovely. Villagers sold roast corn on the cob at roadside stands. We went by Lake Sevan, the largest lake in the Caucasus covering 1,240 square kilometers and, at 1,900 meters, one of the largest freshwater high-altitude lakes in the world. Ducks and geese floated near the lake’s edge. 

We climbed higher into the forested hills. On the outskirts of Dilijan, we began passing modern resorts. In summer, when Yerevan is sweltering in 100 degrees, packed Dilijan National Park can indeed seem like Switzerland in summer.

My Toon Armeni Guest House is high on a hill with a nice view of the town below. Its excellent restaurant has tables in a garden setting, perfect for post-hike beers. I looked forward to working off the yummy Armenian food and wine.

Juktankvank and Matosavank

Vank means “monastery” in Armenian and the country has 4,000 of them. As the world’s first Christian nation, founded in 301 A.D., Armenia has long been a religious center, even through 70 years of Soviet rule. The Soviets destroyed 92 monasteries but hundreds remain.

To see two of them, my Yandex driver took me in his rickety car up into the hills to a dusty construction site west of town. Armenia is booming and construction is everywhere. I walked past three crews building what looked like hotels or condos on my way to the trailhead.

As I took my first steps on the trail, I remember an Armenian telling me my first day in the country. “This is the worst time to be in Armenia.” What he meant was that nature is dead. Dilijan National Park is famous for its wildflowers in spring. In late fall, I was walking through a forest of barren trees. 

I was in a forest of sticks.

At the trailhead I met three young locals who put me on the right path uphill. Won wore a ballcap of the Colorado Avalanche hockey team. I told him I lived in Denver for 23 years and he peppered me with questions about the Avalanche’s lineup.

I told him I knew as much about hockey in America as I do hiking in Armenia.

My guidebook listed the hike as “moderately difficult.” It’s a six-kilometer loop that goes steadily uphill on a wide dirt track, levels off, goes up and levels off. With the trees blocking any view of the valley below, it became a bit tedious.

But after only 45 minutes, I came across the first monastery. In the middle of a forest with only a narrow, dirt hiking path leading to it, Jukhtakvank sticks out like a haunted house. Built in the 11th century, it consists of two buildings side by side. St. Grigor is a huge stone structure held up by steel girders.

Two A-frame roofs stand out above a dome that long since has disappeared. Inside is a well-preserved, large chapel with light pouring in from the open dome illuminating the altar with framed artwork of Jesus and his Disciples.

The other church, is an ugly, stone A-frame block but inside was a vase of flowers and various offerings from passersby.

It all looks as if people attend services here but the monk left too long ago for anyone to remember. 

Matosavank

It was another 50 minutes to the next monastery. This went mostly downhill through a thick forest. The international hiking symbol of white and red horizontal stripes on trees accurately led me along the way. Otherwise it would be impossible. All the trails were covered by leaves.

I ran across the three Armenians on the narrow trail and they told me they come up here frequently. It’s a good place to get away from tourists, to be in a quiet space and talk about things they can’t discuss in crowded wine bars.

Matosavank is a massive stone structure built in 1247 with a grass-covered roof and a tree statue that looks like a dancing boy. A big hole in the front serves as a window and a side entrance leads into a tunnel. In a far room is a khachkar, Armenia’s trademark carved wooden religious artwork. 

In the corner is a crude wooden cross entwined in vines and an old tray that once held candles for offerings.

I returned passing a pleasant babbling brook thinking I’ve only seen what appeared to be abandoned churches. I longed to see a working monastery. I got my wish the next day.

Goshavank

Correction on my solo jaunts. I wasn’t completely alone. On the bank of Parz Lake, a friendly German shepherd approached me, sans barking. I patted his head and gave him a short petting session. He must’ve sensed my love for animals as he served as my four-legged guide the entire hike.

The trail to Goshavank goes up a heavily leaf-laden forest so thick I could see nothing below. It climbed steeply through switchbacks with the shepherd either leading me, following me or smelling some bark he may have thought was animal matter.

I took a rest about halfway up and the shepherd put his paw on my knee. He needed petting or else. Maybe I’d be on my own. The red and white signs would be my only lifeline through this thicket of barren trees.

In about 90 minutes we reached a clearing above the treeline and I felt the sun for the first time that day. We walked across an easy meadow. For the first time in two hours we heard other sounds besides our own footsteps.

We heard horses and cows and soon saw them along the trail. We heard a chainsaw coming from some huts in the distance. 

The trail went downhill then dropped toward the village of Gosh. At the bottom of the trail, sitting like a medieval castle, stood Goshavank. Unlike the first two, Goshavank had suffered no damage from time or nature.

The beautiful monastery sported four pointy roofs bearing crosses and offering a full battery of functions. Goshavank consists of two churches, St. Astvatsatsin and St. Gregory, two chapels, a depository and one of the most beautiful khachkar in all of Armenia.

Built in 1188, Goshavank’s main chapel is huge with giant columns holding up a domed ceiling. The entryway leads to an altar with two vases of fresh flowers framing a portrait of the Virgin Mary.

I took a well-earned seat outside and saw a tall man with a black robe of the Armenian Apostolic Church greeting some of the many visitors who arrived by car. 

Father Tadeos has been the lone monk at Goshavank for seven years. He spoke excellent English and had spent time in Granada Hills, Calif., last year. He couldn’t understand the disconnect Americans have.

“I asked, ‘Who are your neighbors?’” he said. “‘I don’t know.’ That’s a big problem. Here we help each other. If we don’t see our neighbors for two or three days, we ask, ‘Are you OK?’”

After reading about the persecution of Armenians over the centuries, meeting Father Tadeos felt like meeting St. Francis of Assisi. I had to ask this kind, generous holy man, how he felt about Turks. During the genocide, they killed 1,000 Armenian priests among the 1.5 million Armenians. In Yerevan’s genocide museum, I saw a photo of five of them hanging behind Ottoman soldiers.

Today Armenia has 500 priests.

“It happened,” he said. “We’re praying. We remember. We don’t forget. Never. It gives us power to serve.”

I told him I admired his ability to accept. Me? I still have angry grudges against something classmates said to me in high school. Knowing I tread on sensitive ground, I gently nudged him to tell more about how he deals with the past.

His answer will always stay with me, especially after 10 days in a country I grew to love.

“Jews killed Christ, and Christ rose again,” he said. “Turks killed Armenians, and Armenians rose again. You can kill our body but not our soul.”

If you are thinking of going …

How to get there … Marshrutkas leave Yerevan’s Northern Station for Dilijan. The 1-hour, 15-minute journey is about €2.

Where to stay: Toon Armeni Guest House, 4 Kamarin St., Dilijan, 374-98-78-7899, https://www.toonarmeni.am, info@toonarmeni.am. Three-star hotel has spacious rooms in a lodge-like setting with a helpful, English-speaking staff and an excellent restaurant. I paid about €110 for three nights.

Where to eat: Kchuch, 6 Sayat Nova St., Dilijan, 374-41-886-010, 10 a.m.-10 p.m. On the bank of a roaring river, Kchuch is one of the most renowned restaurants in Armenia. Walking through two giant wooden doors is like walking into a castle. Eat classic Armenian dishes in cast-iron skillets such as chicken khorovats on skewers while listening to Armenian music. A huge selection of delicious, hearty salads, too. I paid about €25 for one including wine.

When to go: Spring. Dilijan is famous for its spring wildflowers which, in late November, I did not see. Spring temperature highs of mid-60s and lows of high-40s. During my stay it ranged from high 30s to high 40s with no rain.

For more information: Tourist Information Centre, 15/2 Maxim Gorky, 374-094-399-336, www.visitdilijan.com. Great place to get maps and advice on best trails for you.