East of the town of Akhalkalaki, which almost touches the long train of the western slope, a bold mass of mountain features the landscape, square-seated on the floor of the plateau (Fig. 20). It rises to a height of nearly 11,000 feet; but this imposing altitude is shorn of half its grandeur by the lofty levels of the adjacent plain (5500–6000 feet). Still the mountain overpowers all the surrounding outlines; the summit overlooks the neighbouring heights. When we had issued from the chasm of the Toporovan river and gained the surface of the plateau, our first thought was to ascend this elevated viewing-stage, and command the flat expanse, bordered by dim and distant ranges, which was now unfolded before us on every side.

Horses were impressed on the morning after our arrival to take us to the foot of the higher slopes. We were informed that it was necessary to make the half-circuit of the mountain and to start climbing on the eastern side. But why reject the tempting gradients of the nearer western slope, sweeping towards you with a succession of harmonious curves? Yet where obtain a satisfactory answer to this question? The actual experiment might involve the loss of a day. So we bowed to the decision of our native conductor, and became reconciled to the long ride. Mile after mile the great plain stretched to the westward, a solid sea, patched in places with fallow and stubble, but treeless, without a hedge, without a boundary of any kind. We were approaching the stony confines of the mountainous zone which borders the plateau on the east. The wretched village of Abul rears its stacks of cow-dung fuel among a waste of stones.

Seen from the side of Akhalkalaki, the mountain presents the appearance of a composite mass. A long trough mounts to the summit region, dividing the fabric into two halves. Each half is crowned by a well-defined summit; that on the south is single of form and considerably lower, its loftier neighbour on the north appears to possess two peaks. In reality this double peak conceals a third fang, which is prominent on the eastern side. The three-fanged summit communicates with its less elevated neighbour by a lofty col, the uppermost edge of the trough. The slopes of Abul display the volcanic origin of the mountain, and descend in long-drawn outlines to the plain. The lengthiest declines westwards from the more northerly summit, and has the shape of a long back or ridge. The steepest is the slope just beneath this summit, facing north; it is inclined at an angle of 30 degrees. The village of Abul is situated to the south of the western slope, and would present a convenient starting-point from which its easy gradients might be scaled. Our guide, however, assured us, I cannot conceive upon what foundation, that the ascent would occupy two days. So we left the village to skirt the base of the southern half of the mountain, of which the sides have a gradient of 18 degrees. Rounding the mass, we were able to reach on horseback some grassy uplands of the further slopes. This favourable nature of the ground extends to a considerable elevation, and had probably been the inducement which had influenced our leader to bring us such a long way. From these pastures it was a climb of one and a half hours over the rocks to the pinnacles of the loftiest and most northerly mass. We sent the horses back, with directions to meet us on the further side, since we had decided to descend by the western ridge.

Throughout the length and breadth of the Armenian highlands, themselves the loftiest section of the bridge of Asia between India and the Mediterranean Sea, there is perhaps no summit, with the possible exception of that of Ararat, which possesses a prospect at once so distant, so extensive and so full of interest as that which expands on every side from the triple peak of Abul.1 You stand on a stage which commands the fabric of the nearer Asia, without dwarfing the proportions of the majestic structure, without confusing the varied members of the vast design. The tableland with its open landscapes is unfolded before you, swelling and falling from plain to hummock, from hummock to rounded ridge, from vaulted ridge to the soaring arcs of an AlagÖz and an Ararat, crowned with perpetual snow. The troubled outlines of the border ranges encircle the mysterious scene; and, far away, from a gloomy background to this full sunlight and radiant atmosphere, lurid flashes are reflected through layers of murky vapour by the snows of Caucasus, infinitely high.

The detail of the landscape engages the mind with the same engrossing fascination as the panorama impresses the sense. From west right round to south, vast tracts of level ground are outspread at your feet. Here and there the plain is broken by barren convexities, of which the outlines mingle with the outlines of the surrounding chains. No wood or leafy hedgerows dull the mobile surface, which is responsive to every mood of the sky. But a large area is checkered with black and yellow patches—alternate fallow and stubble-field and standing corn. The reclamation extends to the slopes and recesses of the neighbouring mountains, struggling upwards to the verge of the rock. Yet this human note is lost in the immensity of the scene, which displays no other sign of the presence of man. Lonely lakes lie lapped in the hollows of these mountains and upon the floor of the plain. A deep crack in the solid earth features the distance from west to south, and is drawn towards you almost at right angles through the plain. It is formed by the sinuous clefts of the Kur and the Toporovan, and it is almost the limit of the level ground upon the west and north.

Beyond this caÑon of the Kur, which is distant some twenty miles, ridge upon ridge of lofty and barren mountains are massed upon the horizon from south-west. They belong to the Dochus-Punar volcanic system, and they overpower all the ranges about us, with the exception of the dim Caucasian chain. From those slopes, as from these slopes upon which we are standing, lavas have streamed over the surface of the intermediate country and levelled the inequalities of the ground. That eruptive action is long extinct; the fires are dormant; no wreath of smoke crowns the familiar volcanic forms. The system is seen to sink to the caÑon upon the north, where a gap in the outlines gives a passage to the Kur. On the northern side the heights are resumed by a long, serrated ridge, which belongs to the northern border mountains, and which extends from west by south to east by north. A little west of north lies Lake Tabizkhuro, with the dome of Samsar rising from its shores. The foreground towards the north is filled with mountain masses, with vaulted summits and rounded slopes. Our guide was unable to name them to us, and I therefore busied myself with an outline sketch. A long ridge sweeps away from Abul on the north-eastern side in a hemicycle concave to the west. It mingles with the forms of the nearer masses, of which the most prominent may, I suppose, be identified with KÖr Ogly and Godorebi, members of the Abul-Samsar eruptive group. The long bulwark of the Trialethian chain is either hidden by these nearer mountains, or only disclosed through brief vistas to a sea of outlines beyond. The northern horizon is closed by the snowy peaks of Caucasus, over a hundred miles away.

Towards the east we were not impressed by any commanding features in the mountain landscape, although we were overlooking the eastern wing of the meridional eruptive system, flanked by the Somkethian ridges on the further side. Between us and those vague shapes was lapped an extensive lake, Lake Toporovan, broken by the outline of the eastern fang of Abul. But what are those gleaming snows, just protruding above the horizon from a snowless vaulted ridge in the south-east? The flat horizontal outline is broken towards the centre by a low serration of snow-clad peaks. It is AlagÖz, seventy miles distant in a straight line; it is even said that from here the dome of Ararat is visible, when it is not concealed by its faithful wreath of cloud. Compared to these, the nearer heights in the south are thrown into insignificance; the eye completes the circle to the point from which it started, the lofty ridges in the south-west.

Slowly we made our way over the piled-up boulders, down the back of the long ridge which descends to the westward, along the northern side of the deep trough. Before us, on the plain, we followed the fissure in the even surface which marks the course of the hidden river of Akhalkalaki, until it was lost in the radiance of the setting sun. Regaining our horses, we paused for awhile on the margin of a little marsh which is situated about at the foot of the mountain, some 4000 feet below the topmost peak. The mournful chorus of frogs broke the intense silence, and contributed to the impression of the loneliness of Nature which inspired the mood of our homeward ride.