Letting the Mountain Go

Morning in Mogvi arrived without drama — no snow, no wind, just cold air and the quiet after the previous day’s struggle. Before leaving, I nearly made a mistake: my right mirror, loosened during one of yesterday’s falls, was barely holding on. I tightened it properly this time. In the snow, mirrors are useless — you’re not overtaking anyone — but today was different. Today, I needed awareness again.

I left around 9:30 a.m., later than planned but unbothered. The forecast was friendly, and the road promised descent rather than ascent. Still, technology tried to confuse me once more. Two phones, same app, same location — yet two different routes. One promised 175 km but climbed back toward 2,000 meters. The other stretched to 230 km but stayed low. After yesterday, the choice was obvious. Distance mattered less than altitude.

The plan was simple: go down and keep going down.

The Gift of Good Weather

Progress was slow at first — barely 30 km by 10:00 a.m. — not because of difficulty, but temptation. The views kept opening, wide and generous, the kind that ask you to stop even when you know better. Valleys unfolded beneath soft light, villages clung to hillsides, and snow remained only on distant peaks. Many viewpoints were unreachable, churned into mud by trucks that had stopped there before me, but the road itself was dry and forgiving.

From Mogvi’s altitude, the descent toward Kutaisi felt like exhaling. Every kilometer dropped me further from the cold, further from yesterday’s tension. By early afternoon, the air had changed completely.

At 3:00 p.m., I arrived at the Forest Hostel in Kutaisi. For the moment, I was alone. I left most of my gear behind and rode out again, lighter now, toward Gelati.

Gelati: The Mind of a Kingdom

Gelati Monastery sits quietly in the hills east of Kutaisi, but its significance far exceeds its scale. Founded in the early 12th century by King David IV — known as David the Builder — it was conceived not only as a monastery but as an academy, a center of learning meant to rival the greatest intellectual hubs of the medieval world. For centuries, philosophers, theologians, and scientists studied here. Gelati earned the name “the Athens of the Caucasus.”

Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1994, the complex is anchored by the Cathedral of the Nativity of the Virgin, its domes rising gently above the surrounding forests. Inside, despite ongoing restoration, the walls still breathe with Byzantine mosaics and frescoes from the 11th and 12th centuries — golds, blues, and greens arranged not to impress, but to elevate.

King David himself is buried here. His tomb is simple, almost deliberately humble, placed so that visitors must step over it as they enter — a final gesture of submission to his people and to God.

Outside, I met Massel, a German traveler moving on foot with trekking skis, hoping for snow higher up. We spoke the shared language of mountains and weather. For once, I was grateful there was no snow here — for him, less so. We wished each other well and went our separate ways.

Chance Encounters

As Massel left, two people approached me — Gabi from Ecuador and Cris from the Netherlands. They’d heard me speaking Spanish and struck up a conversation. Travel has a way of shrinking the world like that. We talked easily, unhurriedly, and agreed to meet later for dinner.

Before evening, I headed toward my last stop of the day.

Bagrati and the Hill That Shouldn’t Exist

Bagrati Cathedral stands above Kutaisi, visible from nearly everywhere. Built in the early 10th century under King Bagrat III, it symbolized the unification of Georgia — politically, spiritually, and architecturally. Light stone, balanced proportions, and a great dome that dominated the Rioni valley.

Time was less kind to Bagrati. Earthquakes and invasions took their toll, and an Ottoman attack in the 15th century reduced it to ruins for centuries. Yet even broken, it remained a symbol. Recently restored, the cathedral now stands again — not untouched by controversy, but undeniably present.

Getting there, however, nearly cost me my nerves. The GPS first sent me down a prohibited street, then rerouted me up a cobbled, winding, absurdly steep hill. I hesitated halfway up — a mistake. On a slope like that, hesitation equals failure. I leaned forward over the tank and committed, heart pounding, knowing that if I stopped again, the bike would roll backward whether I wanted it to or not.

At the top, relief came fast.

The cathedral interior was sparse, almost disappointing, but the view was anything but. Kutaisi spread out below, bathed in the fading light. I launched the drone just as dusk settled — one last effort before night.

Shared Tables

By 6:00 p.m., I was back at the hostel. At 8:15, we walked into the city to meet for dinner at El Paso, a Georgian restaurant. Around the table gathered a small, accidental community: Gabi and Cris, Vana from Lebanon, Vincent from Canada, and briefly, Georgi from Georgia. Stories crossed borders easily. Languages overlapped. Time softened.

Chris handed me his Turkish SIM card — a quiet, practical kindness. Turkish SIMs, he warned, are expensive; topping up is easier. In exchange, I later gave my Russian SIM to Vincent, who’s waiting out visa paperwork nearby.

This group had formed through Couchsurfing — no couches involved, just people. It’s changed since I last used it in 2018, but maybe this is what it’s become: a way to share cities, meals, and moments rather than places to sleep.

At 10:00 p.m., we said our goodbyes.

Tonight, I’m the only guest at the hostel. Tomorrow, it will be full.