An eagle soars overhead, carefully scoping the landscape for a suitable feast. In parallel we scan the berry bushes for luscious red jewels that hang ever-so sweetly awaiting our pluck. we gorge on rasperries by the handful. they cover the slopes like rose petals on silk carpet. the sweet tang, the scent, they are a summons to a gastronomical fairy tale viewed from high abreast a precipitous bluff. we feast and harvest, ravaging our way in berry delight through the mountainside, continuing into endless fields of blueberries. we even make blueberry pancakes, and nibble on alpine strawberries that taste remarkably like chewing gum. it is a berry berry good day, as the trek draws slowly to the end. and so, wearing tiring grins smeared red-and-blue we move toward closure along a trusted passage. it is a long and laborious day that never ends; a never-ending story played out in the never-ending Tushetis Alazani. but everything comes together at the end as we trudge weary and tired into the village of Omalo, and some much-needed hearty Georgian home-cooking.
In the past two weeks we shed tears, and lost maps. we spent days in solitude, and feasted with mountainfolk. we entered scree slopes where the path faded to danger. but mostly we wore Raspberry Berets; busy doing something close to nothin' but different to the day before, deliberately losing oursleves to the majestic beauty of the Caucasus Mountains in Khevsureti-Tusheti.
hugs and love from the trek's end. for now.
Joe and Griet
