Americans, Antiochus, and Arsameia

Position: 37°58’04″N 38°43’52″E

Slipping on the snow and ice, Clio’s tyres whined with increasing urgency. She refused to move forward. Fortunately, she wasn’t involuntarily moving backwards either. The steep, narrow road was in relatively good condition. Only, it was covered in a Turkish version of ‘Cascade Concrete’.

For those of you not used to winter driving in the Pacific Northwest (PNW), consider yourselves fortunate. Two things conspire to make it terrifying. The first is all the other drivers in the region. With little to no experience of driving in snowy conditions, they charge around in the misguided belief all-wheel drive and ABS will save them. They’re also the ones in the ditch a half mile from home.

The second is the snow itself. Heavy with moisture, it typically falls when the thermometer hovers around 0C, i.e., when it’s barely freezing. Cascade Concrete is a skier’s expression. Unlike the Rockies’ famous Champagne Powder, heading off-piste after a heavy snowfall in the PNW is akin to pushing cement around. Best have wide skis, or a snowboard, and strong legs.

Lower down, city dwellers discover that any amount of pressure compresses the snow into ice and water. Without studs or chains, you ain’t goin’ nowhere under control, buddy. About 14 years ago Portland was hit by a ‘blizzard’. A foot of snow fell and stayed around for 10 days. Because there is no plowing to speak of, the city was paralyzed. I saw one Lexus slip sideways downhill, bouncing off parked cars on either side of the road. Compared to the Northeast, where traction control consists of a couple extra bags of cement in the trunk of your Chevy, this was far more entertaining.

Meanwhile Back in Türkiye

Snow in Turkey’s southern mountains is common in winter. With a large body of water nearby and freezing levels well above 1,000 metres, conditions are similar to the Cascades. I knew what lay ahead, but that didn’t stop us having a go up Mount Nemrut. The opportunity to tick another box in our virtual guidebook was too tempting.

There is something to the old saw of the ancient mystic living in a cave on a mountaintop. Many of the world’s most fascinating sights are found at elevation. Like Machu Picchu or Lake Titicaca, for example. The moais of Mount Nemrut speak volumes about the certain kind of crazy that makes a shaman and their acolytes leave the rich, fertile plains for the mountains and carve huge heads out of rocks. But artifacts don’t lie.

SAVING CLIO

With a guardrail on one side and the mountain rising above us on the other, our only option was to back down – slowly. Yes, I know, I could have done a quick reverse handbrake turn and spun Clio around smartly. She is a rental after all. But discretion and valour and all that. My heart raced for the first 50m or so – until I remembered all the much stupider things I’d done in cars, and reassured myself that this wasn’t all that difficult in comparison.

Reaching some bare asphalt and traction, I breathed a sigh of relief and got out to watch our new traveling compadres attempt the climb. A hundred metres on from where we gave up, they too began the slow retreat downhill. The moais would have to wait until the spring thaw. Passersby told us the park was officially closed anyway, so we felt a little better about our attempt and failure.

Plan B

Pointing the cars downhill, Plan B kicked into action. Carol and I didn’t know what Plan B was, but Ozy did. We wound down the opposite side of the mountain towards Arsameia, another ancient city up another mountain. The scenery was spectacular, all deep ravines and overhanging rocks.

Arsameia

The history of this ancient capitol of the Greco-Iranian kingdom of Commagene is about as comprehensible as any of the Balkan states. That is to say, not at all. A long set of stairs delivers you to a very well-preserved stone relief of King Mithridates (aka Antiochus I of Commagene) shaking hands with Heracles. Nearby is a deep cave with a long inscription above its entrance describing how the city was founded and instructions on carrying out once important rituals. Because both the cave and the dexiosis (a relief in which people join hands) were completely covered in dirt for centuries they are in remarkably good condition.

At the top of the hill you find unexcavated foundations and spectacular views over the valleys. The cliffs are mighty impressive. The Romans annexed the area in the early 0000s and abandoned the hilltops for the valleys lower down. I guess when you’re swinging a big army you can defend the lowlands and reap the benefits of easier access.

The sun made its way towards the horizon, and it was time to find a room for the night. Our new friends decided to head further east, where we had just come from, so we parted ways with promises of catching up in Marmaris before too long.

Hang on a minute!

(Just who the heck are these people? You left out a whole section of this story! Sheesh! – ed.)

You’re right. I apologise. Let’s rewind the tape back to our second day in Şanlıurfa. Scene, hotel lobby, late afternoon.

“Are you American?”, asked the tall, slim, woman of Carol. “I heard you talking and I figured you might be from the States.”

“We are. We’re from Portland, Oregon.”

“No way! I’m from Hood River. That’s amazing! It’s such a small world. I saw you yesterday and wondered. Where are you heading? I could really use some girl time…”

“We have no idea where we’re going from one day to the next. We thought about heading up towards Adiyaman to see the heads at Mount Nemrut. We’re going to stop at Göbekli Tepe first.”

“That’s where we’re heading, too! Let’s go together.”

“Sure! Why not?”

Michelle was starting her mid-life journey of self-renewal by running away to Europe. She met Ozy, a yacht captain for hire at the end of the summer. He told her he was heading back to Türkiye for the winter, so she tagged along. At some point she convinced Ozy and his brother to go on a road trip as her guides. A sailor and horsewoman, she and Carol spent the next 45 minutes stumbling across mutual acquaintances in Hood River’s kiteboarding scene 15 years ago.

Ozy spoke excellent English and was both charming and knowledgeable about the region’s history. His brother (one of 11), spoke no English, but made clear his appreciation of how well I’d adapted to Turkish driving. (Probably something to do with my skilful weaving through traffic when we left the city.) We paused to explore Göbekli Tepe together before piling back in our respective cars to continue our journey.

Soldiering On

Driving north from Sanliurfa, the eastern Taurus Mountains stand fast, blocking the way. The road is wide and new and we make good time. Slowing down at the checkpoint on the Nissibi Bridge, we find the army in charge and wearing full combat fatigues. These are not the usual Jarndarma or Trafik Cops checking IDs. For the first time we’re asked for our passports. Opening the boot and digging through my backpack in the United States would likely provoke the police into drawing their weapons. Here I’m viewed as a relatively harmless crank. Our details are run through a computer hidden in a small kiosk behind centimetres thick, bottle green bullet-proof glass. After a few minutes a soldier came back and examined us again. Then he handed over our documents, and quietly waved us through.

Time is a Loop

Eventually, the road turns and dips, then rises steeply following the twisting banks of the Ataturk reservoir. It is here tributaries coalesce and pool, and finally exit the dam as the Euphrates, the western boundary of Mesopotamia. The foothills, dun and bare, look parched by the brutally hot summers. And, although warm for January, there was a chill coming off the mountains that deepened the higher we got.

Clouds blanketed the valley. The side road towards Mount Nemrut pitched up. Hostels and pensions lined the road for the first few kilometres. All closed for winter, but a good indicator of how popular the place is in the summer. A couple of shepherds and their flocks vied for our attention. Snow loomed above us, and I tried to temper Carol’s optimism about reaching the summit. By the time the snow had made its way from the shoulders to the middle of the road, I knew roughly how far we’d get.