Waiting for the Road to Wake

Day 77 of the journey began quietly. Dawn arrived without snow, just cold air and a thin wind cutting across the mountain pass. I stepped outside without my motorcycle jacket for the first time in days, a small but encouraging sign. The road, however, was unchanged — still buried under ice and compacted snow, just as it had been the night before.

We waited. Snowplows passed occasionally, tractors followed, then a truck spreading something dark — salt or dirt, I wasn’t sure. Every little effort helped, though none of it felt decisive. Clouds hung heavy above us, blocking any real warmth from the sun. The pass sat stubbornly between 1,900 and 2,100 meters, immune to impatience.

I wasn’t the only one eager to move. Afto tried to get his truck rolling, but the wheels spun helplessly. Road workers arrived with shovels, throwing dirt under the tires by hand. Eventually, around 9:30 a.m., the truck freed itself. That was my cue. The tow truck lingered behind us for a moment — and then disappeared downhill, faster than I could ever follow.

Kilometer by Kilometer

The first stretch was brutal. I tried riding along the dirt shoulder, thinking it safer than the ice. Instead, the front wheel dropped into a hidden ditch masked by snow. I fell hard to the left. One person stopped, then another car pulled over. Soon, six of us were pushing, pulling, lifting, freeing the motorcycle from the snow that had swallowed the rear wheel.

That was enough experimentation. From then on, I stayed on the ice.

I rode slowly — rarely more than 20 km/h — feet relaxed on the pegs, letting the bike find its balance. I stopped every few kilometers, always aiming for the next town rather than empty road. By late morning, progress became measurable. Seven kilometers. Then another six. The road was still treacherous, especially downhill sections where ice stretched unbroken, but the falls stopped. The sun finally appeared, though it offered more light than warmth.

By noon, I reached the border.

Back Into Georgia

The crossing was surprisingly fast — barely twenty minutes — despite the snow packed between the lanes. Officials looked at me as if I were slightly mad. They asked about winter tires, about riding conditions, about why I was there at all. I didn’t have good answers. I rarely do.

On the Georgian side, the landscape didn’t change much at first. Snow and ice continued for kilometers. Reports varied wildly: ten kilometers, fifteen, twenty, then thirty. I stopped believing estimates and focused instead on rhythm. First gear. No rushing. No stopping unless necessary.

Gradually, ice turned to slush. Slush turned to wet asphalt. Somewhere along the way, I fell twice more — once on ice, once climbing through deep slush — but slowly, unmistakably, the mountains loosened their grip.

After nearly sixty kilometers of frozen road, I reached Akhalkalaki, where the asphalt was finally bare.

Into the Rock

By late afternoon, I arrived near Vardzia — exhausted, behind schedule, but unwilling to skip it after coming this far. The first hostel I’d booked was closed. The second, recommended to me, was locked despite cars parked outside. As I stood there wondering what to do, a group of young men stopped and offered help. It cost me 100 lari, but at that point, certainty was worth more than money.

I dropped my gear and rode on.

Hidden deep in southern Georgia, carved directly into a sheer cliff face, Vardzia rose silently from the rock. Built in 1185 during the reign of Queen Tamar, it was not just a monastery but an entire city — more than 6,000 rooms spread across 13 levels, stretching over half a kilometer of stone.

Monks once lived here, prayed here, stored grain here, and prepared for invasion here. The complex was engineered with tunnels, escape routes, irrigation systems, even a throne room. At its heart stood the Church of the Dormition, its frescoes still alive with medieval color, including one of the most famous portraits of Queen Tamar herself.

I climbed until my legs burned — stairs up, stairs down, paths branching unexpectedly, caves leading to more caves. Fences and railings guided the modern visitor, but the scale remained overwhelming. Stone upon stone, silence layered with centuries.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, I turned back. There was more to see — much more — but daylight and fatigue set the limit.

Evening Descent

I retraced my steps just as dusk settled into the valley. The road back to the hostel was mercifully short. The room was simple but private, with a bathroom and a shower — luxuries after recent nights. Heating was absent, but I didn’t care. After ice, wind, and uncertainty, stillness felt like comfort.

The road had delayed me again.
But it had also delivered something rare:
a reminder that patience sometimes leads not forward, but deeper.