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The idea of heading to Armenia was born by chance while my friend Marina and I were looking through photos on a nature photographer's blog. We didn't want the standard Yerevan experience with its noisy avenues or the well-trodden paths of Sevan. We were drawn to where the mountains get steeper and the air clearer. Our choice fell on the Syunik region, specifically the surroundings of Goris. We both felt the need to shake things up, to trade office routines for physical exertion and see the Armenia that hides in the high-altitude mists. Early June seemed like the perfect time: the snow on the passes should have already melted, and the exhausting heat hadn't yet scorched the greenery of the alpine meadows.
Preparation was serious. We weren't just packing suitcases; we were carefully selecting gear. Trekking boots, membrane jackets, poles, and high-SPF sunscreen became our best friends a month before the flight. I spent hours googling elevation maps and reading reviews on trail conditions after the spring rains. We didn't plan on sleeping in tents, preferring a "light trekking" format with stays in small family guesthouses to feel the local flavor without carrying 20 kilograms of gear. We wanted a balance between pushing ourselves and basic comfort.
The mood before the start was a bit nervous but exhilarated. We discussed whether we had enough stamina, as the elevation changes in this region are significant. The plan was to hike part of the Janapar Trail, explore abandoned cave cities, and see monasteries that don't make it into every other tourist brochure. We stocked up on dried fruits, nuts, and hope that the early summer weather would be kind to us. The anticipation of the unknown and the physical fatigue that brings a strange satisfaction never left us for a moment.
Our journey began in Goris. It’s an amazing city that seems carved directly into the cliffs. We settled into a cozy guesthouse on the outskirts, where the window offered a view of the famous "stone pillars"—sharp rock formations reminiscent of Cappadocia. The hostess greeted us with strong coffee and homemade cheese. Breakfast was hearty: lavash, fresh greens, matsun, and tomato omelets. This was vital fueling before our first mountain outing, as today we were to climb to the old town and gauge our strength.
We decided to dedicate the first day to acclimatization and a radial hike to Old Goris. This is an abandoned cave settlement on the mountainside. The trail started right behind the residential quarters. It wasn't a difficult hike, but the incline quickly set our hearts racing. We searched for the history of these places: it turns out people lived in these caves until the mid-20th century. Inside some grottos, traces of soot remained on the ceilings along with stone shelves. We wandered through these empty "apartments," imagining how life once buzzed here.
The view from above of modern Goris with its red roofs and strict layout was the reward for the climb. We spent a couple of hours just sitting on the edge, breathing in the scent of thyme. For lunch, we had packed sandwiches and local mineral water. By evening, we descended back to the city, feeling a pleasant heaviness in our legs. Dinner at a local restaurant consisted of kyufta and a fresh vegetable salad. We discussed tomorrow's plans, realizing this was just a warm-up for the real mountains.
The morning of the second day met us with a cool breeze. We planned to reach Khndzoresk—another cave city famous for its suspension bridge. The path lay across hills and pastures. The GPS on the phone occasionally lost signal, so we navigated by stone cairns left by other hikers. The landscapes shifted from emerald meadows to dry rocky screes. Lizards rustled constantly underfoot, while eagles circled high in the sky.
The journey took about four hours one way. Khndzoresk impressed us with its scale. It’s an entire canyon dotted with caves. The main attraction is the 160-meter suspension bridge that sways over the abyss. Crossing it is quite an ordeal for those afraid of heights. Marina and I walked slowly, clutching the cables and trying not to look down where a stream roared far below. At the other end of the bridge, silence and the abandoned Church of St. Tadevos awaited us.
We had a snack right by the walls of the ancient temple. The silence was absolute, save for the sound of the wind. We googled the architectural features of Syunik's Armenian churches, trying to understand why they look so monolithic and austere. The return to Goris felt longer, and our legs began to ache. In the evening, we stopped at a small shop, bought local wine and dried persimmons. We stayed at the same guesthouse, falling into a deep sleep to the sound of rain that suddenly started toward evening.
The third day was the most physically demanding. We decided to hike part of the way toward Tatev Monastery through the Vorotan River Gorge. This was a full-scale trek with a significant elevation gain. First, the trail descended steeply to the river into a zone of dense forests. It was humid and stuffy there. We constantly checked our clothes for ticks, as early June is their season. Crossing a small tributary required caution, as the rocks were slippery.
Then began a long, grueling ascent. We walked along a serpentine path that once served as the main road for caravans. Our pace dropped, and we had to stop every twenty minutes. We drank water from springs, which are quite common here. At one point, Marina doubted the wisdom of such a crossing, but when the monastery towers appeared on the edge of the cliff through a clearing in the trees, a second wind opened up on its own. The sight was worth every drop of sweat.
We didn't take the famous "Wings of Tatev" cable car; instead, we entered the monastery through the old gates from the trail side. This gave us a sense of belonging to history. After exploring the monastery complex, we settled in a private house in the village of Tatev. The hosts offered us a bath and hot homemade food—dolma in grape leaves. It was the best dinner of the trip. In the evening, we stared at the stars, which seem incredibly large and bright in the mountains.
After the difficult previous day, we decided on a lighter outing. We descended from the monastery back down to the river to the so-called Great Hermitage of Tatev (Tatevi Anapat). This is a secluded 17th-century monastic complex currently in a semi-ruined state, gradually being reclaimed by the forest. The trail there goes through a shady gorge smelling of pine needles and damp earth. There are almost no tourists here, which added a special mystical atmosphere to the place.
We spent several hours there, exploring abandoned cells and courtyards. Inside one of the temples, remnants of frescoes were preserved. We looked up information about the hermit monks who lived here in total isolation. Then we reached the Devil's Bridge—a natural formation over hot springs. This is where the Vorotan River goes under the rock. The water there has a strange turquoise hue due to mineral deposits. We risked a dip in one of the natural baths with warm mineral water, and it was an incredible relief for tired muscles.
We had lunch right by the water, having bought some ghingyalov hats (flatbreads with greens) in the village that morning. This is a local specialty filled with up to twenty types of various herbs. In the evening, returning to the village by a passing jeep (we decided to save our legs), we discussed how different the nature of Syunik is from the rest of Armenia. Everything here is grander and wilder. We stayed in Tatev again, enjoying the silence of the rural night, broken only by the barking of dogs in the distance.
We dedicated the fifth day to exploring the high-altitude plateaus. We arranged for a local resident to drive us up in an old Niva to the start of the trail leading to the peaks of the Bargushat Range. Our goal wasn't to conquer a peak but to walk along the ridge with views of Ararat and the snowy summits of the Zangezur Range. The weather was fickle: bright sun one moment, dense fog the next, turning everything into a fantasy movie set.
Walking along a ridge is a special pleasure. A 360-degree view, and underfoot, a carpet of alpine flowers: edelweiss, gentians, wild poppies. We felt like tiny dots in this vast space. We googled the names of the peaks we saw on the horizon, trying to identify Mount Ishkhanasar. The wind at that altitude was piercing, despite it being June, and our membrane jackets and buffs came in very handy. This was the highest-altitude day of our trip.
On the way back, we stumbled upon a shepherd's camp. We were invited for tea and treated to fresh sheep's cheese and flatbreads. The communication was brief due to the language barrier but very warm. The shepherds live here all summer in tents, grazing huge flocks of sheep. By evening, we returned to Goris, where we had moved back from Tatev earlier that day. We were exhausted, but it was that "good" kind of tired that people seek in the mountains. Dinner at the guesthouse was simple: fried potatoes with mushrooms and plenty of mountain herb tea.
We decided to spend the penultimate day more calmly, exploring the surroundings of the village of Karahunj near Goris. We were looking for ancient khachkars—Armenian cross-stones scattered right among the fields. Each khachkar is unique in its ornamentation, and we tried to find the oldest specimens. It felt like a quest: following coordinates from an old blog, pushing through briar patches, and suddenly stumbling upon a masterpiece of stone carving nearly a thousand years old.
Then we headed to Zorats Karer, often called the Armenian Stonehenge. It’s a field of huge vertical stones with holes in them. Scientists still debate their purpose. We googled various theories—from an observatory to sheep pens. The place is energetically powerful, especially when the sun begins to set and the shadows of the stones grow long. We wandered there for a long time, trying not to disturb the few other visitors.
Lunch was at a small roadside cafe where we were served pork shashlik and roasted vegetables. The flavors in Syunik are very intense; all products are local and fresh. We spent the second half of the day souvenir shopping in Goris: picking up some homemade mulberry doshab and dried herbs. We spent the evening on our terrace, going through photos and trying to realize that our journey would end tomorrow. Staying in the now-familiar place felt like home and very cozy.
On the last day, we didn't plan any long treks. We decided to just wander the streets of Goris, visit the local history museum, and climb to the viewpoint at the city entrance to take final shots. The city looked particularly graphic in the morning light. We bought fresh apricots at the market—they had just started appearing but were already incredibly sweet. This was our breakfast on the go.
We visited the local Church of St. Gregory the Illuminator and sat in silence. Then we headed toward the river, where we found an old abandoned bridge. We wanted to capture every detail: the texture of the stone, the color of the water, the scent of blooming gardens. We googled transport schedules for tomorrow, as our Syunik adventure was coming to a close. There was a light feeling of sadness in our hearts, but simultaneously a sense of great satisfaction that we had accomplished everything we planned.
We decided to make the last dinner in Armenia special. We found a place that prepares traditional Syunik kaurma—slow-cooked meat that literally melts in your mouth. We raised our glasses to never losing our way and never twisting an ankle. In the evening, we spent a long time packing our backpacks, trying to fit in all the gifts and memories. The night was quiet, and even the dogs were silent this time, letting us sleep before the journey. Syunik bid us farewell with a cool wind and the scent of wet earth.
This journey was a revelation for me. Armenia turned out to be much deeper and more multifaceted than I imagined. Syunik isn't about "all-inclusive" service or comfortable buses. It's about honesty with oneself, overcoming steep climbs, and the incredible hospitality of people who have almost nothing but are ready to give you their last. I’m glad we chose June: the riot of colors and the freshness of the mountain air compensated for all the physical hardships. Trekking through such places is the best way to reboot the brain.
Of course, there were moments when I wanted to give up—especially on long climbs under the scorching sun or when the fog became so thick I couldn't see my own boots. But it's those moments I remember with the most warmth now. What would I change? Perhaps I’d bring more blister plasters and another pair of light sneakers for resting in the evening. But overall, our route was balanced and very rich. I realized that such trips bring people closer: over this week, Marina and I began to understand each other without words, just by the rhythm of our steps on the trail.
Will I return to Armenia? Definitely yes. But next time, I’d like to explore the northern regions—Lori or Tavush, where the mountains are more forested. Armenia is a country you can't get to know in one trip; you need to "savor" it piece by piece, like a fine homemade wine. The main lesson of this trip for me: don't be afraid to step off the beaten path. The most interesting things always begin where the asphalt ends and the stones start. Now, looking at my battered trekking boots, I feel not exhaustion, but a quiet joy and readiness for new peaks.
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