The gravelly Turkish highway rose through broad pastureland, a vast mountain-ringed plateau, desolate yet grand. On this long empty road, the most lively spots were the bare poplars where great black crows squawked protectively over their nests.
    Rust-colored hills moved in on our left, train tracks and the Aras River on our right. Then the hills abruptly closed in, fortress-like coppery rocks surrounding us. The jagged formations were irregular, weird, some jutting up like petrified wood or statues uncovered by time, winds and rains.
    (Later we descended to Kars) and rejoined the Aras River, dividing Turkey and the former USSR. This fertile valley, renowned for its fruit trees, spreads across to Armenia. The clouds parted for a rare view of Mt. Ararat, said to be the resting place of Noah’s Ark. We forged on, joining a line of vehicles whose drivers were debating how to make it through the muck. Our driver suggested we follow on foot--just in case. Watching in amusement were two young shepherd boys and a longhaired black goat with curving white horns.   
    The summit was broad, flat and covered in snow. As the sky collapsed into great swirling masses of pink, gray and purple clouds, we continued down into a storybook land of green grass, melting snow, rushing streams, glistening ponds reflecting the blue sky. And mud. Undaunted a man was getting a shoe shine on the oozing main steet of Caldiran.