Thunder in the Hills: Touring Through Eastern Anatolia’s Most Remote Region –

Continuing his trip from Greece to Georgia, Ryan Wilson finds himself in one of the most remote regions in all of Türkiye. Follow along as he has a close call with the raw power of nature above Van Lake and discovers the big hearts and endless hospitality of the Kurdish people who call this area home…

After a few days speeding down the highway from Malatya to make up some time, I arrived in Tatvan, a majority Kurdish city that sits on the shores of the sprawling Van Lake. From there I refined a rough route south, through some of the most remote mountainous areas in the country, just north of the Iraqi border. This part of East Anatolia was the region that held the most mystery along my route, with most of the info I could find about the area south of Van Lake being from the clashes between the Turkish military and Kurdish militias that have found refuge in these remote areas over the years.

Things have quieted in the area in recent years, with much of the fighting pushed down into northern Iraq. Still, there is a very noticeable increase in military presence, with frequent military checkpoints set up, and streams of camouflaged Humvee-style vehicles posted up in the cities and rumbling across the roads—a distinct shift from areas further west.

Off the Beaten Track

In typical fashion, the route I plotted out went well out of the way to avoid the main road whenever possible. As soon as I left the more frequently visited shores of Van Lake and set off toward some remote dirt roads, it was clear based on my interactions with locals that not many foreigners come here. Initial faces of confusion upon spotting me would soon light up with curiosity and interest. Inviting me for tea or lunch to ask about where I’m from, where I’m going, and what brought me to the area.

Climbing through the quiet Kolludere valley, I passed a big convoy of military vehicles and soldiers traveling at a casual walking pace and thought for sure that as I overtook them I would be sent back in the direction I came from, toward the main road, but as I confidently cruised by and greeted them I only got a casual wave in return and continued on my way.

Between small settlements, sparse forests line the lower slopes of the valley in an area that is prime Syrian brown bear habitat, as noted by the frequent tracks and scat I spotted along the road. As I gained elevation, that foliage thinned out and made way for golden grassy hillsides and sharp rocky peaks.

Making Friends

Two-thirds of the way up the climb I met a local shepherd when his dogs came and blocked my path up the road. I was running low on time to make it to the pass by nightfall, but when he invited me for tea, I couldn’t say no. He motioned for me to follow him down a small path below the road and I honestly had no idea where we were going. I thought he might have a shepherd’s camp setup somewhere, but he brought me to an empty field next to the river before emptying his backpack full of supplies and lit up a fire below his charred teapot.

We didn’t share much in terms of a common language, but breaking bread over a fire is the one true universal language. He pulled out a whole platter of fresh goat cheese, tandoor bread, local honey, and hazelnut butter from his bag and insisted that I would have to eat more to have enough energy for the rest of the climb toward the pass.

He sent me off with a bag full of cheese and bread and walked me up the trail to where I could once again find the road and continue my ride east as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Never Trust the Forecast

I reached the pass and was greeted by huge views over Van Lake once again, checked my InReach to see how the weather would be overnight, and decided to set up camp right below the pass when I saw that there was only supposed to be a bit of light rain. It was one of the best campsites I had all year, or at least that’s what I thought…

Around 10:30 pm, some light rain started to pitter-patter on my tent. In the distance, I could hear the rumble of thunder slowly starting to build. Sparse flashes in the distant sky followed by long gaps got my attention and soon those gaps between flash and sound started to rapidly close and the rumble began to build. The smattering of light rain turned to a barrage of hail, and those distant lightning flashes were hammering the same ridge that I was occupying in my humble Dyneema abode.

I’ve found myself in a couple of iffy spots during storms over the last 9 years on the road, but none came close to this one. Near-constant lightning strikes so close to my tent over a 15-20 minute time period that they made my ears ring. I could smell charred earth in the air from small brush fires that briefly lit the hillside below me. There was nothing I could do but bury my head in my sleeping bag and wait it out. At some point, I decided to put in my headphones to just try to drown out the sound.

In time, the storm slowly passed, but it took a couple of hours before the adrenaline wore off and I was able to sleep.

At dawn, I emerged from my tent to watch one of the most spectacular sunrises I’ve seen in a long time. The contrast between the peaceful nature of the morning view and the powerful display of nature I’d dealt with just hours before couldn’t have been more stark. I was lucky to witness it in more ways than one.

I packed up camp and descended toward civilization, emerging from the mountain in a small village a couple of kilometers shy of the main road next to Van Lake. Arriving toward another checkpoint I was sternly questioned about where I came from and why I was there. It’s often difficult to explain to people who aren’t familiar with this niche of bike traveling why I wouldn’t want to just take the highway, which would be much faster and easier.

A search through my bags and lots of photos of me and my bike followed, but eventually the ice was broken a bit once I was able to show them some videos and photos of other places in the world that I had ridden through and they started to come around to the idea that I wasn’t making trouble.

The High Trail to Çatak

Reaching the main road once again, it was like another world. I hopped on a ferry to visit Akdamar island which is home to an Armenian cathedral that dates back to 915 AD, and sees quite a bit of tourism when compared to any place to the south. From the island I could faintly spot the small road I’d be taking next as I once again veered south, this time sticking to that direction until I come within a handful of kilometers of the Iraq border.

The road was steep and led straight toward a rocky gorge before zig-zagging up and over the hill, 700m (2300ft) straight above the lake before dropping down a rugged track toward a small settlement on the plateau. When I rode through, there were people gathered on the street who were immediately curious about how I ended up in their small village.

It didn’t take long before they invited me in, and in classic Kurdish style, brought out a big tray of local food and tea. Up here it is a steady diet of lentil soup, yogurt, cheese, and freshly homemade tandoori bread that is common in this region of the country.

I started to realize that I need to keep an appetite up before I pass through any Kurdish village because chances are high that I’ll be invited in and kept well-fed. This was a perfect meal after a tough climb, and getting to meet virtually the entire village and experience their joy and hospitality was especially memorable.

It was tough to pull myself away from such a welcoming group, but I had a little over 30km to the last sizable town on my route, known as Çatak, where I planned to stay for the night, so I had to get the show on the road.

The hillsides that surround the road to Çatak started to close in and rise steeply around me. The town sits at the confluence of two rivers, with a dramatic cliffside as its backdrop. I could immediately tell how few tourists had come through here by the confused stares that came my way when I rolled into town. It was a lively place for its size, with seemingly every person from the town out on the streets having tea or heading to the various shops. For a moment, you could feel everyone slow their conversations and takes notice of the foreigner on his bike.

I checked in to the one hotel in town and hit up a local restaurant, where of course a group invited me to come and share their food while I waited for mine, and eventually insisted on paying for my meal too. “You are our guest. Your money is no good here”. A phrase I’d grown accustomed to hearing in recent weeks. It was common to even have shopkeepers refuse to accept my money when I was stocking up on supplies for the road. Kurdish hospitality truly is something you have to experience to understand. It’s unlike anywhere else I’ve been.

Into the Unknown

From here, my route started to get a little more spicy. When I looked on the map, there weren’t obvious thru-roads to connect toward the Hakkâri province in the south, but after scouring Google Maps, I found a track that looked like it might connect, despite some fuzzy satellite imagery in the area.

To make things more complicated, many of the places here have Kurdish names (as known by locals) and Turkish names (as labeled on maps), so it wasn’t always easy to communicate about where I was going beyond just pointing in a direction. Often, when I said I was going to Hakkâri, everyone would point in the opposite direction as if it were the only way. Wanting me to take the highway back to the lake and then jump on the main road south, but I had other ideas, and thankfully one person knew where I was trying head and gave me the little confirmation I needed to give it a shot.

The region I would pass through next was once a hotbed of conflict in the region. One of the villages had to be completely evacuated a couple of decades ago and was destroyed in the fighting. Visual and aural cues were still all around as I rode through. Watchtowers sit atop virtually every mountain ridge. The eerie whirring of UAV drones overhead was constant and unsettling to say the least.

I kept expecting to come up to another military checkpoint and get turned back but somehow that never came.

By sunset, I reached a small shepherd settlement and was immediately greeted by a group of locals who invited me for tea and food and offered a bed for the night. Many of the people here live in the city but come here in the summer to work with their animals.

In the morning we had breakfast #1 until another villager came and invited us for breakfast #2 at another home nearby. Like I said, they like to keep you well fed here!

Other than a few seasonal shepherd camps, this zone was about as isolated as it gets in the region. I would follow this small road for 70km to the next town, but first I had plans to spend the night at Calyan Göl, a lake tucked into these mountains at nearly 3000m.

After four solid days of riding from the Van Lake, I arrived through the valley to the town of Beytüşşebap and set up at the local Öğretmenevi (aka Teacher’s house) for a day off. Teacher’s houses are often the only accommodation you’ll find in smaller towns that are run by the government specifically to house teachers that come from bigger cities to work at schools, but they also will house a weary cyclist in a pinch as well. They run the gamut from the worst accommodation you’ve ever seen, to legitimately very nice places, but they’re always welcome when you need a warm shower and a power outlet to recharge. I was happy that this one existed and used the opportunity to plot out my way forward.

The next stop on my route was one that I’d been looking forward to since I started researching Türkiye before my first trip here in 2020. It was hard to believe that I was so close to Cilo mountain after failing to reach it during my first trip to the region due to active conflict in the area. How did it go? Stay tuned here to find out!