hundreds and hundreds of feet above. It looked like the location where the castle was perched, although it was difficult to tell because a thick curtain of mist obscured the peak. The mist would part tantalizingly for a fraction of a second, leaving Ian and me straining for a glimpse of the castle before it closed again and enveloped the mountain. What we saw was mesmerizing. It was stunningly beautiful, like some mythical enchanted fortress out of a fairy tale or
We arrived at a fork in the road, with both paths leading up the rocky peak in different directions. Ian favored the one to the right; I favored the one to the left. We decided to go check out our favored tracks and report back to each other a few minutes later before making a decision. A couple hundred feet up my trail, I became convinced it was the right one. I was just about to yell out to Ian and tell him this when he beat me to the punch and shouted to come back. I found him with a group of six or so Iranian hikers. They spoke little English but indicated that Ian’s path led to the castle, and since they’d all just come from there, they were obviously right.
Another half an hour on and we came to the very steep rocky mountainous section. It was one hell of a place to build a fortress and would have been bloody difficult to attack as the hike up there was no stroll in the park. Sadly, we still couldn’t see the castle clearly, such was the mist blanketing the summit. The Polish guys who’d recommended this route had described similar weather conditions and had said that, suddenly, out of the blue, the clouds had completely parted for them, revealing the castle in all its glory above. Ian and I waited for a while hoping to get the same awesome view from below but the clouds remained steadfast.
The Poles had also told us that it was possible to get a drink at the top, which seemed a bit unlikely given the castle’s inaccessible location up an isolated mountain in the middle of a forest. Jokingly, in stupid overexaggerated upper-class English accents, we shouted up toward the cloud-tipped peak, “I say, would someone be kind enough to put the kettle on up there!” and other inane although quite amusing nonsense. It echoed around the valley for miles.
“I hope there’s no one who understands English at the top,” said Ian.
A little farther up, we came across another path that joined onto ours, coming from the direction of the one I’d first favored. It was almost certainly the same trail and had led up to the castle after all. Being a bit of an outdoor enthusiast, I felt relieved to know I hadn’t got my navigation completely wrong.
From out of nowhere, the strange sound of a large group of males singing harmoniously emanated from the castle’s still unseen, cloud-covered peak. Suddenly, a boulder came crashing down the side of the mountain, accompanied by several shouts. We yelled up to let the choir above know we were down here. A couple of minutes later, a group of about twenty Iranian kids of around fourteen years old came down the mountainside, along with an adult who looked like their school teacher. They were having a great time and looked like they were on a school outing.
They went crazy when they saw us and all came over and shook our hands enthusiastically. They were a great bunch and hyper-energized. Ian told one of them he was from Canada and they went berserk.
“Canada! Canada! Canada!” they chanted together at the top of their voices, which echoed repeatedly all around the valley.
“Iran! Iran! Iran!” Ian yelled back.
“Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran!” everybody, including me, started to yell for no other reason than it was bloody good fun and we were all enjoying it. By this stage, they’d all assumed I was Canadian too and were giving me little pats on the back whilst enthusiastically shouting, “Canada! Canada! Canada!” again and again. I responded with “Iran! Iran! Iran!” It was insane and pointless but a great laugh.
After the chanting, a number of them produced cameras and we all lined up for some group photos. Every time we were about to part and go our separate ways, a couple of the group would run back to shake our hands again or to have one more snap taken with us. This happened about ten times before they finally headed down and disappeared into the mist below. Although out of sight, they were far from out of earshot, and for the next few minutes, the surreal sound of “Canada, Iran!” echoed all around the mist-shrouded mountains of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province.
Eventually, we got close enough to the castle to see it through the clouds. It had taken a good couple of hours but was well worth the effort. The castle was perched right at the top of a near-vertical rock face accessible only via a steep twisting path that led to the summit. We climbed this and were delighted to find the place completely deserted.
Although what remained of the castle was a ruin, many of the walls and structures were intact, several parts of which were roofed. Others were in the process of being rebuilt, but I kind of liked using my imagination to try to picture it back in its heyday.
We had a good look around the site, then sat with our feet dangling over the edge of a section of walling with a massive drop below. We waited here, hoping upon hope that the curtain of cloud would draw, even if just for a second, so we could glimpse the glorious vista we both knew was all around us but could not see.
Although Ian and I had the place to ourselves, it would have been a different story had we been here in late June. At that time, the castle and the surrounding area would have been packed with several tens of thousands of people coming to commemorate the birthday of Babak Khorramdin. Babak Khorramdin was a ninth-century Zoroastrian Iranian nationalist who fought fiercely against the imposition of Islam and the Arab invasion of his country. He was based at the castle, and it was later named after him.
The celebration of Babak Khorramdin’s birthday is a rather disorganized event and follows no particular official program, with Iranians turning up and congregating in small groups for discussions, poetry readings, lectures, musical performances, dancing, and to campout overnight at the castle. The Iranian authorities have been none too happy about the gatherings in previous years, in large part because of what Babak Khorramdin symbolized as a popular nationalist who promoted an Iranian religion and fought against Islam. Some mullahs have criticized the participants in the birthday celebrations, saying that it is unethical to commemorate someone who killed Muslims. According to some reports, there have been multiple arrests at past ceremonies by the security forces.
Ian and I stayed at the top of the castle exploring around for a good long time, still hoping that the clouds would clear, before making the decision to head back. Whilst looking for the easy path down, we came across the “cafe” mentioned by the Polish guys where you could get a drink. It consisted of a couple of big urns, a gas burner, a box of tea bags, and a couple of kettles. It was all kept under a tarp and was deserted today. We considered getting the gas burner on the go and leaving some money for a
We found a path on the opposite side of the castle to the one we’d come up and assumed it was the easier route that led down toward the town. It could have led anywhere though, such was our disorientation from the terrible visibility, which was now down to about thirty feet. We started along the trail, but after a while it petered out, leading us to question if it had been the right path after all. In hindsight, we should have turned back to establish this for sure, but since this part of the walk was downhill and wasn’t through the forest, we decided to continue. It was the wrong decision to make, especially since we could see next to nothing in the fog, and we paid for this dearly by walking for hours on end. It ended up taking us far longer to get down on the “easy path” than the “hard path” had taken us to get up to the castle. The heavens opened and it started to rain, soaking both of us. To add insult to injury, my water bottle that I’d thought had survived its fall intact, was actually leaking and had left a big round wet patch in a rather embarrassing place on my trousers next to where I’d reattached it to my belt.
In the mist, much of the visible landscape looked like an English moor, so much so that I could easily imagine a local country pub emerging from the fog, where I could get roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and a real ale served in front of a cozy fireplace. Being familiar with the delights of English pubs, Ian found the idea extremely appealing, especially since we were now tired, wet, cold, and hungry.
Eventually, we found our way back to the place where the taxi had dropped us this morning. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as we arrived, the clouds started to clear. Located nearby was a little cafe, so we dropped in for a well-earned hot drink. A few minutes later, we were joined by the “Canada, Iran” boys, who were staying at a campsite around the corner and were as enthusiastic as ever. Whilst Ian and I nursed a couple of hot coffees, the boys learnt to smoke cigarettes—none of them inhaled. After a while, Ian popped outside and called a taxi from a phone box down the road, which turned up a few minutes later. When we tried to pay for our drinks, the cafe owner refused payment. We thanked him and headed back to town.
After being dropped off in Kaleybar, we bumped into our first cab driver who’d given us a lift up to the trail this morning. He and Ian started to chat together again and, despite the language difficulties, got on like a house on
