August 2.—Walking our horses all the way, we reached Adeljivas in four hours, excluding stoppages. The track follows the shore of the lake the whole distance, and you never lose the expanse of waters. In fact, it is the base of the block of limestones on the west of Sipan that you are skirting throughout the ride; although at first, and for some distance, the stratified rocks are superseded by intrusive material of igneous origin. These sombre heights are flanked by low foothills of purple conglomerate, which have been thrown into a succession of shallow folds, with an axis parallel to the shore. But as you approach Adeljivas the igneous rocks give way, and the conglomerate thins out and disappears. The limestone meets the waters, which it tinges with its own white hue. Hardened almost to the state of marble, it is in places full of corals. The scene becomes remarkable in the neighbourhood of the town, where cliffs of this description and of great elevation descend abruptly into the depths above which you ride.1 Where these recede and leave the shore, giving place to a wide alluvial strip at the foot of Sipan, long concealed, is situated Adeljivas. The castle clings to the cliff; the gardens clothe the alluvial soil. In other respects our journey was not, perhaps, noteworthy. Besides Tunus, we passed only a couple of hamlets the whole way. Such oases of verdure—for the walnuts are especially fine—were much more rare than one would expect. But the district is unsafe; and it was patrolled by soldiers before we passed. This precaution was perhaps due to the presence by our side of the Kaimakam of Akhlat. His colleague of Adeljivas came out to meet us, near the border of his administrative district. The promontories along this shore do not protrude far; but they are bold, and with several prongs or bluffs. They offer no difficulties to the road. Lagoons have been forming on a large scale within the bays, due probably to the rise in level of the lake.

Passing through the enclosure of the ruinous walled city, which recalled the Kala or Ottoman fortress at Akhlat, we encamped among the gardens of the more modern quarter.2 The trees are well grown, and provided us with deep shade. At least one considerable stream descends from the interior; the oasis is of some extent. Early next day we made our way in the lightest of clothing from our tents in the heart of the orchards to the margin of the shore. It was some little distance, but the walk was all that we could wish. The morning is the time to enjoy the picturesqueness of any Eastern town. There will be shadows to give relief to the scene, and light sufficient to bring out the colours. The deep white dust upon the lanes has not yet been disturbed. Draughts of freshness from the groves and gardens keep the air sweet and cool. Such a straggling lane or two, between low walls of mud and stone, took us past an old mulberry tree studded with red fruit, and a fountain gushing forth by the side of the way. So we came to a little valley, opening out towards the lake, and harbouring a swift and shallow rivulet, black with the shadows of an avenue of willows. A mass of foliage, on either side of the adjacent meadows, screened the pleasant place from fortress and suburb, except for a glimpse of the citadel in the west.

We stripped on a narrow margin of pebble-strewn shore, regretting our purple rocks at Akhlat. The water is shallow for some distance out; but, in spite of the embouchures of the irrigation channels, it was most intensely blue. We swam forth, enjoying the buoyancy of the waves, with the distant barrier of the Kurdish mountains before our eyes. Their bare escarpments towered up to their crown of snow. In the reverse direction the landscape was already flooded with light, and the foliage merged into the general brilliancy of tone. A conspicuous object was the ruinous citadel, proudly placed against the cliffs—the single witness in the scene to a period of human masterfulness in direct contrast to the actual insignificance of the human element in this fair and richly-gifted land.

When we returned there were two wooden couches with leather seats, and a couple of chairs, of similar pattern and equal shabbiness, arrayed upon the sward. These unusual objects had been unearthed for our benefit. They were not long in finding occupants among the personages of importance who were desirous of paying us the honour of a visit. The Commandant of the garrison came, accompanied by his aide-de-camp; they were followed by the burly mufti, and by several notables; last of all came the two Kaimakams. It was a medley of striped military trousers and gold lace, of flowing cloaks and white turbans, of black frock-coats and the tasselled fez. Each had a word to say upon the details of the expedition; each could help if one would only give them time. My great regret was that time failed me to receive their suggestions; there were indeed so many things which must be done. First I had to feed and water my horses, for the forage had not arrived in the early morning. When it came, the several owners were at variance, one with another; and I was obliged to seize it by force. Then there were my people, who would surely go without their breakfast rather than take the trouble to procure victuals. These I had provided with great difficulty overnight; but the cook had experienced trouble with his fire. Such everyday concerns were augmented on this occasion by several affairs of much greater consequence. It was necessary to engage at least ten porters; when these had been got together with infinite difficulty, there was no possibility of arriving at terms and a price. By the time the Kaimakam appeared, the orchard was alive with people, all intent on delaying the conclusion of their several bargains for the mere love of talk. That official was of great assistance, because he fixed the price himself, and ordered each man to conclude his business on those terms.

But there was one matter which called for very delicate treatment, and of which the ultimate issue was not so clear. It was most important that our escort, during the journey through the wild districts interposed between Sipan and BingÖl, should be composed of men who might be trusted at least so far as not to involve us in unnecessary brawls. They must obey my orders to the letter; but my authority could only exist by delegation from a higher authority; and it was essential that they should both respect and fear this source. Now the Kaimakam of Akhlat alone inspired me with confidence that his men would think twice before daring to play the fool. But Adeljivas belonged to the vilayet of Van; and his colleague would certainly insist in sending his own zaptiehs at least as far as the borders of that of Bitlis. And at what point in that bleak region could one hope to pick up the others? Fortune came to my aid in arriving at a settlement. It so happened that the Vali of Van had not been informed of our intention to enter his province. Indeed the ascent of Sipan had not formed part of our original programme. Now the Vali was alarmed at the prospect of a possible visit on our part to his capital. Adeljivas was so very near; we should be across in no time. And Van was in a state of unrest. His subordinate had telegraphed overnight that we had arrived, and might return after our excursion to Sipan. This it was in the interest of the Vali to prevent. A message came that very morning, conveying greetings from his Excellency, but enquiring whether we were furnished with a permission to travel, or even with a tezkere, or travelling pass. Of course he well knew that no such documents were in our possession, since the whole question of the right of the Palace to prevent Englishmen from travelling had been raised in connection with our persons. The incident brought the very wind into our sails which we had been courting on every side. We had not the least intention of going to Van. But the Kaimakam of Adeljivas would now be anxious to be rid of us for good and all. When therefore I placed before him the two alternatives, of returning and perhaps proceeding to reason with his Excellency in the capital; or of pushing on direct from Sipan and leaving his territory as fast as possible—the latter course was at once and joyfully approved. And when I made it a condition that the men of the Kaimakam of Akhlat should be allowed to meet us at the base of the mountain upon our descent, this proposal was also accepted without demur.

It was noon by the time these various matters had been decided—not a bad piece of work under the circumstances. There only remained the last and saddest of our duties—to say good-bye to the energetic and admirable official who had accompanied us thus far on our road. What a contrast between this Circassian, lithe of figure and nimble of mind, and his heavy, thick-skulled colleague of Adeljivas! In the latter I had recognised the former Kaimakam of Vostan—him whom I had met at Akhavank. What memories arose of Khachatur and his famous dinner! I learnt that he had already descended to his tomb.... Nothing could be more pathetic than the spectacle of an honest man, endeavouring to cope, not only with the inherent difficulties of his post, but also with the tricks of such rascals in high places as you see on every side. Such is the lot of the Kaimakam of Akhlat. It touched us to the quick. It is quite as sad as the sufferings of the Armenians. In the Turkish service there still remain a number of excellent officials—men well capable of dealing with the Armenian question in a manner conformable at once to humanity and to their country’s good. But they are flouted, and set aside. Some retire, others are constrained to effect a shabby compromise; while the younger or less steadfast become rapidly demoralised, and end as badly as they commenced well.

Two villages had been mentioned as both presenting a good base from which to climb Sipan. One was Norshunjik, and the other Uran Gazi. The first is situated on the south-western side of the mountain, and the second rather more round towards the west. Uran Gazi—a Circassian settlement—was, after some debate, selected, owing chiefly to the reputation and resources of its head men. It may be reached in about two hours from Adeljivas. Riding in a northerly direction, we pursued a winding track which became involved in the recesses of the hills. We must have been close to the break-off of the plateau of limestone on the west of Sipan; but the view towards the east was never open. The limestone was all about us, white and barren as usual, in striking contrast to the verdant scene we had left behind. So high did the escarpments tower, that although we continued to rise at a considerable gradient for a space of about an hour, it was only towards the latter portion of the ascent that we obtained a view of the summit region of the great volcano. But the vista towards the lake was of striking beauty, with the ruinous castle standing up against the blue. Deep below us on our left hand we admired the site of a walled monastery, high-seated in a broad valley. There was more traffic along this track than one might have expected; we kept meeting laden donkeys and a number of wayfarers. The adjacent slopes were, in places, strewn with blocks of lava.

When we reached the pass, we were standing on the edge of an undulating plateau, and were still within the zone of the limestones. A slight descent from this point brought us almost immediately to a shallow but very extensive depression. It had, in fact, the appearance of a vast plain, somewhat of an oval, with an axis roughly from east to west. In the latter direction we could see the plain tonguing into the limestones, or, in other words, the almost latitudinal limestone ridges sinking into the plain. But these were dwarfed in the east by the flows of lava from Sipan, of which the huge frame was now fully exposed. In particular a bold stream plunged down from the summit region, ending in dark, precipitous sides. About in the centre of the depression lay a little lake, fringed by marshes, and bordered by a deep belt of what appeared to be a white efflorescence adhering to its shores. It was the Jil GÖl (lake of rushes), once of considerably greater extent. A village, just a speck at the western extremity of the bold ridge of lava, was identified as Uran Gazi. Behind us the limestones stood up like a wall, screening the lake of Van.

Except for the marshes, there was not a trace of verdure in a landscape devoid of trees or even of bush. Far and wide, the surface of the plain was broken only by mounds or gullies—the mounds heaped up with blocks of black lava, the gullies doubly darkened by the same material. Indeed the whole depression has been covered with lava, probably to some considerable depth. Its elevation above sea-level is not much less than 7700 feet.3 These lavas, which must have been of a liquid nature, may have been, in part, emitted from the volcano during its infancy, but have largely issued from fissures in the plain. Flooding into the limestones, they compose such a lofty pedestal that the volcano somewhat loses height. The climber is not ungrateful for their help.

In another three-quarters of an hour we reached Uran Gazi, and were received by two Circassian notables, resident in the village, Murad Effendi and Shakir Effendi. I think I have already observed upon the superiority of the Circassian villages to those of their neighbours, Armenians or Kurds. The bread they make is eatable; fair cheese can be obtained; the tenements are much more solidly built. Great stacks of hay had already been collected against the winter. The Circassian skirted coat and the Circassian cap are still worn; and, indeed, this people cling to all the customs of their native country, from which the Russians have compelled them to wander out. Of our two hosts, Murad was in the prime of life; while Shakir, although advanced in years and with snow-white hair, still retained his vigour and vivacity. It is the vivacity of the Circassians which is so impressive in the moral sphere, just as in the physical sphere it is the brilliance of their eyes. Murad Effendi buckled to, with the result that in an hour and a half all was prepared for the start. Tezek fuel for the fire, and hay for the horses, and for ourselves a lamb and several chickens—such were the burdens which were ready for the shoulders of the porters, four of whom had already arrived.

The position of the village, at the extremity of the bold ridge of lava (Fig. 187), may be taken as representing the furthest westerly extension of the flows of lava from the volcano, as we see it now. The ridge itself has an axis of about west-south-west. At four o’clock we made our way along its southern margin, up the broad valley by which it is separated from similar outliers on the south. The caterjis, with the packs, followed this valley to its head; but our guides, whether from knowledge of the ground or from mere impatience, were not long before they led us right up the wall of the ridge. Dismounting, we dragged our horses over the rocky surface, at considerable peril to their legs. The summit was, however, almost perfectly flat; and, although the upward slope and the craggy nature of the ground rendered progress rather arduous and slow, the breadth of the ridge enabled us to pick a way. In this manner we struggled on for about an hour, when, at six o’clock, I called a halt. The caterjis were not in sight, and, when last we had espied them, they were still in the trough of the valley. There they would have remained, with our tents and baggage, knowing well that we must come to them. I sent an officer with instructions to bring them up by force; and, after waiting until night, we were at length rejoiced by their arrival, and encamped on a stretch of sward below a large patch of snow. Our elevation was 10,300 feet.

August 4.—The ascent of Sipan offers no difficulties whatever at this season, and is, indeed, a delightful excursion. There is the joy of awaking to a landscape so inspiring—such a wide segment of a circle, almost without limits on the horizon, framed by the heights descending upon either side. From the rocky island of the Kartevin to the western slopes of the Nimrud crater, an immense region is outspread at our feet. Flatness of outline is the almost universal characteristic; and the marble peaks of the Akh Dagh, conspicuous even at this distance, are at once an exception and a solecism. Further west, the view extends to the even ridge of the BingÖl Dagh, flecked about the centre with snow. Nearer masses of imposing aspect are Bilejan and Khamur; an unknown mountain, which, later in our journey, we came to know as Kolibaba, rising with lesser proportions between the two. But the plains outdo the mountains, resembling a wide sea—although surely no sea can be surrounded by such commanding objects. The treeless, yellow surface commences deep below us, and stretches without a break to the Kartevin. Low ridges come edging towards it from the block of limestones, which, in the west, appears to encircle the lake of Nazik, and to divide it from that of Gop. The outline of the block grows in height towards Lake Van.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon before we were ready to start upwards, turning our backs upon this scene, and on foot. The ten porters carry our flying tent and our wraps, besides a little tezek fuel for our camp fire, and four long poles for taking measurements. They perform their work in an admirable manner, never grumbling and never stopping to talk. Their features betray their Armenian origin, although they are Mussulmans. The westerly eminence of the summit region towers high above us; but there is no beach of boulders to impede our progress, like upon Ararat, and no causeways to circumvent. The tops of the streams of lava are always fairly level, although they are rocky at the sides. They consist of a basic augite-andesite, with conchoidal fractures, which grows more glassy as you approach the higher region. Stretches of grass are not infrequent, watered by the melted snow. Little runnels descend the slope with a pleasant, gurgling sound, but cease to flow when the sun goes down. In three-quarters of an hour we open out Lake Van, the ridges collecting towards the summit circle. The gradient of the slope is now 33½°, the highest registered on this side of Sipan. We are above and among large patches of snow. But the going is very easy, the ground being covered with turf and flowers. It is quite a little garden of forget-me-nots and pink daisies and buttercups and campanulas. These raise their heads above an undergrowth of pearl-wort. There is no juniper or yellow immortelle to be seen. Soon after four o’clock this flowery slope gives way, and we enter the summit region, with the westerly eminence on our left hand. Before us lies a deep and irregular basin filled up with masses of snow.

Such perhaps is the most concise description of the strange scene about us and at our feet (Fig. 188). My illustration was taken on the following day from the top of the westerly eminence, or western summit of Sipan. Our position now is on the slope of that lofty eminence, on the upper margin of a field of snow, which is not visible in the picture, but which descends to the little lake in the foreground. The lake is known as Kirklar GÖl, or lake of the forty Mussulman saints, and is probably due to the dissolving of the snowy sheets which hem it in on either shore. The slope on the opposite, or southern side of the basin is very steep where it sinks to the pool; and it sometimes happens that the snow falls headlong and in a mass into the blue water. West of the lake, and especially beneath the western summit, the edge of the basin is low; indeed we have entered into the summit region by a natural passage or partial cleft.

Adhering to the skirts of this western summit, or taking refuge upon the snow from the deep rubble on its uppermost slope, we proceed in a north-north-easterly direction towards the northern side of the basin. A new flower clings to the powdery surface above the snow—sweet-scented arabis. The bold bluff of the peak above us joins on to a pronounced ridge, corresponding to the ridge on the right of the illustration, of which, indeed, it forms the counterpart on the north. We now open out a most remarkable object—a round and very lofty mass, built up, it would appear, of rubble, and of such dimensions that not only does it fill the basin on its eastern side, but even destroys and supersedes the peripheral figure. It looks as if it were flat upon the summit, from which rise a number of little conical peaks, like cairns. Its sides are so steep that they are nearly free of snow. We exclaim, “There is KerkÜr, piled upon Sipan!” The only feature which we miss is the oak scrub. The mass is well shown in the photograph, but not the second little lake which nestles in a lap of snow at its foot. This pool is separated from the first by a low saddle in the hollow of the basin, of which it collects the waters on the east.

The ridge upon which we stand narrows and becomes knife-like, as it bends towards the northern extremity of the upstanding mass. It provides the scantiest strip of bare but level rock between sheets of snow on either side. On the north it is a cornice of snow above the plains, thousands of feet down. In that direction there would appear to be a tremendous abyss. Nor is the slope towards the basin of tolerable gradient; it is so steep that it would be difficult to descend to the second of the lakes without making a considerable circuit. Still this ridge appears to offer a convenient site for our encampment, owing to its central position. There are a few piles of rocks, nearly as high as a man, which will prevent us being swept into the depths on either side, in case a storm should arise. The only danger would be a sudden drift of snow. I give orders to erect the tent against one of these little screens; and, accompanied by a Circassian, Oswald and I continue our march towards the lofty platform on the east.

Our slender parapet ends in its steep and talus-strewn side, which we commence to scale. We step from block to block, the boulders consisting of a light brown lava, which has broken up with sharp angles. There can be no doubt that this mass is the latest result of eruptive action upon the summit of Sipan. The whole or nearly the whole of the eastern portion of the crater was blown away, and this cone raised upon its ruins. It is almost circular in shape. The level parts of the platform, upon which we emerge from the rocky slopes, are covered with snow and ice; but the cairns, of which there are too many to count, protrude from the white canopy with little beaches of brown rock. It is hard to tell at a first glance which is the highest of these piles. Our Circassian conducts us to one among them on the north of the mass, which, indeed, is the most elevated of all. When we have clambered to the summit, we are amazed to find a screen, rudely erected from the boulders by a human hand. It provides us with just the shelter which we shall require for our observations upon the following day. We have reached an altitude of 13,700 feet.4

The sun is setting; so the tripod is rapidly erected, and the bearings of the principal mountains registered with the utmost care. Happily the sky is almost free of cloud. Ararat soars into space, a magnificent object, both peaks of the greater mountain, although almost merged by the perspective, being distinguishable by the naked eye. The bold snow bastion on the west is seen to the fullest advantage. But the Little Ararat is almost hidden by nearer outlines; and only the summit of that graceful cone is exposed. If the mountain of the Ark be without equal, or even rival, in a landscape which in all directions is sublime, it possesses at least a neighbour with many attributes in common—the Kuseh Dagh, beyond the plain of Alashkert. That giant overtops the land forms, almost from the very base—a truly inspiring sight. It is so essentially a great mountain, towering up to a symmetrical, but deeply vaulted dome.

Night is falling as we descend to our little tent upon the ridge at an elevation of 13,000 feet. But our poor porters and the several zaptiehs who have, quite unnecessarily, scrambled up—how shall we protect them against the rigour of the night? They prefer to remain with us; so we wrap them up in the stout red cloth which we have by us for our measuring poles. They cower over the smouldering fire against the screen. But the temperature scarcely sinks as low as freezing-point in the sheltered places, and at dawn the lake below us is free of ice.

August 5.—Neither my companion nor myself are able to sleep, although we are quite fresh for our work next day. The same experience befell our party upon Ararat; at these high altitudes one does not seem to require sleep. We are up before the sun; but the light is already sufficient to disclose the great world, silent at our feet. Not a vestige of cloud is clinging to our mountain; and, as the sun rises, all the outlines in the distance are well defined. To Oswald is apportioned the task of taking measurements, and he starts off over the snow-fields with his telemeter and his poles. I mount to the summit of the platform on the east, which is reached at half-past six. There I erect my instruments in the same cairn which we visited yesterday, and which may be called the eastern summit. The pools on the way are thinly crusted with ice.

With what joy I look out from the well upon the cairn, and am greeted with the sight of Ararat in all his majesty, without a particle of cloud! Every minute the outline grows in distinctness, and each familiar feature becomes clear. How radiant the fabric looks—such a bright presence in the sky, above the summits of the Ala Dagh! Those mountains pass insensibly into the outlines on the east—the horizontal heights of the Persian tableland. Westwards it is a series of plains. The plain of Patnotz, deep below us, joins the plain of Melazkert; that expanse is continued into the region of Bulanik, threaded by the silver channel of the Murad. Kartevin and Bilejan rise like islands from this sea-like surface, in which are lapped the blue waters of Lakes Nazik and Gop. In the north the undulations of the plateau country are continued up to the barrier of the Mergemir—Kilich-Gedik; but that outline is so low that you almost see the plain beyond it, supporting the base of the Kuseh Dagh. Further west the plains are bounded by much bolder masses—Khamur with BingÖl showing up behind. The peak of PalandÖken is just perceived. But the Nimrud crater is a conspicuous object—not the least remarkable feature in the scene. How vast it all looks!—stray clouds throwing liquid shadows, and earth reflecting the glow of morning in vague, mysterious lights and hues.

In the opposite direction the contrast exceeds expectation—for one is standing in the border region on the outskirts of the plateau, and near the serried ranges which confine it on the south. Never have I seen those ranges look so steep and savage, the seams rising like spear-points from the water’s edge. Nowhere is their outline more broken into peaks, more exactly the opposite of the outlines on the north. And the contrast is enhanced by the sea to which they descend—the dream-like presence of the sweet sea of Van. Pleasant verdure softens the landscape of the nearer shores, with their sinuous inlets, already deepening to an intense blue.

I remain about three hours upon this summit, and then proceed to the highest eminence on the eastern margin of the circular figure, in order to overlook the eastern arm of Lake Van. On my way there a strange incident occurs. My Circassian has told me that there exists a ziaret, or place of pilgrimage, in the vicinity of this cairn. Curious, and half doubtful, I ask him to show me the spot, which he says is close by. What is my amazement when, opening out a slight hollow of the snowy surface, we see before us a group of Mohammedan women, standing upon the ice with bare feet and ankles, and prostrating themselves before a pair of stag’s horns! Indeed the antlers are so thickly covered with little bits of rag that it is impossible to say for certain to what species of animal they belonged. Stranger still is the fact that a band of women—I count twelve—should have risked their lives in this way. Tantum religio!... And yet the Kaimakam of Melazkert is quite unshaken in his belief that only one man, and he in exceptional circumstances, has ever trodden the sacred summit of Sipan!5

After spending nearly another three hours upon the eastern eminence, during which I draw in the portion of the lake which lies before me, because I recognise several errors in the existing map, I return to our camp upon the ridge. Oswald has just completed his arduous work upon the snow; and the combination of our labours produces the following results, which must be taken as approximate. The long axis of the figure described by the summit region is but little inclined from an east-west line. The centre of the circular mass, to which the eastern summit belongs, is a little north of a line drawn from the western summit in an easterly direction. The ultimate points of this axis are, on the west, the western summit, and on the east, the eminence upon which I last stood. The distance between the two is one and a quarter miles. The breadth of the basin is just under a mile.

The Circassians and the porters dance with delight when the order is given to take down the tent. They appear to have made up their minds that we shall keep them shivering for another night. All give utterance to devout and repeated Alhamdilallahs, thanks be to God! Our last duty is to scale the western summit, and to become familiar with the scene which it commands. We overlook the small circular lake of the Aiger GÖl, on the southern slopes of Sipan. It perhaps fills the basin of a parasitic crater. The elevation of this peak is about the same as that of the eastern summit, namely 13,700 feet. On our way down we recognise the traces of a bear; and we reach our standing camp without further incident at about five o’clock. It has been a very full and delightful day.6