SWR-3

Our lungs gasp for air with each upward step. The air thins as our path tops altitudes over 4,000 metres, but jaw-dropping views more than make up for the discomfort. Standing on the edge of the escarpment, we gaze in awe over soaring jagged peaks, stone columns, and gorges dropping into oblivion. Not only does this dramatic land hold some of the most impressive landscapes anywhere, it’s home to plants and animals found nowhere else on Earth.

The Simien Mountains of northern Ethiopia are known as the Roof of Africa. While a few other African peaks are higher, Mount Kilimanjaro being the most famous, they are mostly individual mountains. The Simiens are part of a vast mountain plateau with several peaks topping 4,000 metres; Ras Dashen is the highest, at 4,543 metres. This combination of outstanding scenery and habitat for rare species earned the Simien Mountains UNESCO World Heritage Site status. Indeed, it was among the original 12 places in the world so named in 1978 when the United Nations first started designating sites of outstanding cultural or natural significance.

We start our journey with a one-hour flight from the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa to the northern city of Gonder, a former ancient capital dominated by a 17th century castle, also a World Heritage Site. Dubbed the Camelot of Africa, the fairly-tale castle built by Emperor Fasil is part of a rambling walled Royal Enclosure filled with palaces, churches, banquet halls, and even a cage that held lions.

Gonder brims with history at every turn. We wander through the ornate Debre Birhan Selasie Church, dating to 1690, where colourful Biblical scenes cover every inch of the interior. The life of Christ is portrayed, St. George is slaying the dragon, and a fearsome painting of the Devil surrounded by flames reminds the faithful not to stray. The ceiling is adorned with the faces of 80 winged cherubs, each with a different expression.

Christianity was embraced in Ethiopia even before Europe. The enduring history and traditions of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church continue to pervade the life of the country. The day we arrive, crowds are gathering in the streets outside our hotel. A funeral procession is underway for a high ranking priest, with chanting and ceremony at several stops along the slow route to the church. The funeral is somber but certainly not drab. Many wear robes of pure white, while some priests and attendants are dressed to the hilt in a rainbow of colours, carrying umbrellas in dazzling shades of red and gold.

Our main purpose in coming to Gonder is to visit the Simien Mountains. While we have a general idea of what we want to do, we arrive without concrete plans. It takes surprisingly little time to make arrangements. It's a fair bet that any foreigners wandering around Gonder are likely heading to the mountains, so they soon catch the eye of trekking organizers. Our hotel arranges for one such organizer, Abiyot Admassu, to come to talk to us. Before long, we work out a five-day hiking and camping trip. It seems like there is a lot to put together: transport to the park, a guide, cook, food, camping gear, and mules with handlers to carry gear between camps.

“No problem,” says Abiyot. “If I know before 2:00 pm, we can be ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

Early next morning we’re off on the three-hour trip by van to Debark, home to the national park headquarters. The drive is an eye-opening introduction to rural Ethiopia, with people literally everywhere. With around 90 million inhabitants, Ethiopia is the second most populous country in Africa, after Nigeria. Cities such as Addis Ababa teem with people, but urban areas are a mere drop in the bucket. Over 90 per cent of the population is rural, with most people eking out a subsistence living.

It’s well into the dry season during our February visit. Hills and fields are brown and bone dry, as they are expected to be at this time. Most crops have been harvested, with straw stacks dotting the landscape. Only a few stands of barley, the crop of choice in much of this region, await cutting. Plots of land vary in size, but most are tiny, some less than an acre. Large fields are not necessary when most farming is done by hand or with animals.

To much of the world, the mere mention of Ethiopia evokes stark images of the 1980s famine. The northern part of the country was especially hard hit by severe drought, made all the worse by mismanagement and corruption by the extremist Marxist government, and civil war as Eritrea fought for independence from Ethiopia. Historians still debate how much of the famine was caused by drought and how much by politics. Ethiopians today are anxious to shed that pervasive, stereotypical image, although the country remains among the poorest nations on Earth. Travelling through the parched land, it’s easy to see how things could deteriorate so quickly. Many people just scrape by at the best of times. If the rains don’t come when expected, consequences are serious.

Traffic on the highway is fairly light – motorized traffic that is. There’s no shortage of donkey carts, herds of sheep and goats, horses, mules, and people walking. Passing through villages, we have to negotiate the mass of humanity and livestock that usually spills onto the road. The van driver leans on the horn and the mass slowly parts enough for us to make it through. We hit a traffic jam behind a slow-moving donkey cart, its driver wrapped in a blanket that covers his head like a hood. The rickety cart is hauling a load of firewood, its wheels wobbling as if they’re about to fall off. The scene seems right out of Biblical times, except that the driver is talking on his cell phone. It never ceases to amaze us how remote places in one of the poorest countries in the world could have better cell service than we have in many rural areas where we live.

In early morning, kids are on their way to school. Most are walking, but we see a surprising number running along the side of the highway that winds through the hilly countryside. Walking is normal for most students, but if they live a long way from school, they may run part of the way. Ethiopia is famous for its marathon and long distance runners, many excelling in Olympic competitions. Abiyot tells us that this is how many top athletes got their start, running for a very practical reason – it’s a long way to school. No worries about childhood obesity here.

Debark is a crowded dusty town, made all the more chaotic because the highway through town is being rebuilt, and we've arrived on market day. We stop to register at the national park office, where Abiyot turns us over to Getachew, our guide, and Jemale, a scout with the national park. Park regulations stipulate that every party heading into the mountains has to be accompanied by an armed scout for protection. Protection from what isn’t all that clear. Bandits roamed the hills many years ago, but these days hiring a scout is more about providing employment in this impoverished region than the need for protection. Never without the Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder, Jemale turns out to be an amiable hiking companion.

To leave Debark, our van weaves through the central market, now bursting with people and their wares. Winding up the dusty hills on the outskirts of town, we travel headlong into a steady stream of people, carts, and livestock flooding toward the market. Many people lug heavy loads, while others carry only a couple long eucalyptus poles that they hope to sell for building material.

Higher and higher we climb into the mountains, enter the national park gates, and before long are dropped off with Getachew and Jemale for a four-hour hike to the first campsite. The relatively short walk helps us acclimatize to high altitudes, with little altitude gain as we follow the edge of the escarpment. Since we are already at over 3,200 metres, we are treated to stunning views right from the start. It’s difficult to imagine a more formidable terrain. Remnants of ancient volcanoes and 40 million years of erosion have formed a sea of barbed peaks and pinnacle rocks, broken by gorges and chasms. Some cliff faces drop over a kilometre, almost straight down.

The mountains are known for their high biodiversity, including several endemic plants and animals. Even in the dry season, assorted flowering plants cover the land. Wild thyme is abundant, its pink-purple flowers carpeting the ground and emitting a pleasant fragrance as we walk through meadows. We see plenty of Abyssinian rose, white-blossomed plants reaching three metres or more, the only rose native to Africa. Most impressive are giant lobelias, short palm trees with long flower stems that shoot straight up as much as 10 metres.

In late afternoon we arrive at Sankaber campsite, nestled in a clump of trees near a spectacular clifftop viewpoint. The only buildings are simple round shelters used for cooking, and a couple of even simpler toilets – essentially concrete structures with holes in the ground. Our tent is already set up, with a folding table and chairs nearby. Our cook, Estefen, and his assistant Melaku welcome us with tea and popcorn. We could get used to this. It's a far cry from our usual hiking trips where, after walking all day, we still have to set up camp then think about cooking.

Thick-billed ravens are never far away, especially in the campsites where they are always on the lookout for unattended food. Found only in Ethiopia, the aptly named black bird has a substantial bill that looks as if it could bite through steel. We’re careful not to go even a short distance away when there’s food on our table. But at Sankaber we forget about a brand new bar of soap near the wash basin. Without warning, a raven soon swoops in, grabs it, and flies off.

Just as the sun sets, Estefen brings out our supper. He’s dressed in his chef’s hat and white jacket, an incongruous sight in this wilderness setting, but a nice touch. A candle stuck inside a cut-off plastic water bottle provides light and adds a splash of elegance to our first meal in the mountains.

We're suitably attired for dining, meaning that we're wearing every piece of clothing we have with us. It may be hot shirt-sleeve weather as we hike during the day, but as soon as the sun goes down, the temperature drops like a rock at this altitude. We quickly don sweaters, warm coats, hats, and gloves. At night we sleep in wool long johns inside our down sleeping bags. When we wake next morning, our thermometer shows about 0 degrees Celsius. Not bad. Abiyot told us not to be surprised if we hit minus 5 degrees.

It is mostly guests who sleep in tents. Some guides or other helpers have tents, but most simply make do. The cooks usually sleep in the cooking shelter. Most scouts and mule handlers stay outside, wrapped head to toe in the ubiquitous blankets that often take the place of coats.

Next morning the rest of our team arrives – two mules with two mule handlers. They will carry all the food, bottled drinking water, and camping and cooking gear between the three campsites we’ll be visiting. We also hire a riding mule, which comes with a mule handler. This was an option we debated, but decided that one mule might be a good idea, just in case. We have concerns as to how well we’ll hold up at high altitudes. A mule would come in handy if we suffered from altitude sickness, or one of us twisted an ankle or had some other mishap. Forget about calling an ambulance for pickup where we’re headed.

The terrain gets progressively rougher past Sankaber. A narrow ridge takes us to a lookout point, next to the appropriately named Geech Abyss, where the land drops into nothingness. Across the narrow gorge we look over a waterfall, now a mere trickle in the bone dry conditions, with a single drop of a half kilometre straight down.

We watch lammergeyers soaring effortlessly in the thermals, some flying far below us in the deep chasms. These magnificent birds stay with us throughout the trip. Also known as bearded vultures, they have wingspans close to three metres. While this rare species lives in mountain areas in various parts of Africa, Asia, and Europe, their biggest populations are in Ethiopia. Like most vultures, lammergeyers are scavengers, living mostly on dead creatures. But they have very discriminating tastes, with a preference for bone marrow. Their digestive systems can handle smaller bones, but for big bones they have a special trick. They pick up a bone, fly a hundred metres or more into the air, then drop it on rocks, making it easier to get at the nutritious marrow in the shattered pieces.

We’re enjoying the view until Getachew tells us that we have to cross that gorge. The good news is that we can walk downhill for a while. The bad news is that we have to climb back up even higher. As it turns out, walking downhill on the rocky trail proves to be every bit as difficult. There’s less huffing and puffing than going up, but more strain on our knees. We rely on our walking sticks to keep from slipping down the loose dusty soil. No chance of riding the mule; it too has its challenges in the uneven rugged sections.

The terrain levels out at the bottom as we follow a river valley, then stop for lunch at an idyllic spot with rocky outcroppings above a little waterfall. Tired from the walk, we stretch out on the pancake rocks for a short snooze. Then it's time for our regular ritual of slathering on more sunscreen almost every time we stop. At higher altitudes, UV radiation becomes a lot more intense, so we face an ongoing battle to prevent sunburn.

It's hard to leave this beautiful spot, especially when we look at the trail and know that it's all uphill from here. While we're resting and enjoying the view, we watch the mule train go by. We left Sankaber early in the morning, right after breakfast. In the meantime, the cooks and mule handlers had packed up camp, and are now passing us. The mules are carrying all the gear: tents, bedrolls, chairs, tables, propane tanks, cooking utensils, and boxes of food. Not only our mules, but those from other camping groups pass by in a line, stopping every now and then while handlers adjust loads that are constantly shifting on the rough uneven trail.

Despite this being a national park, villages dot the landscape, with even more communities around the park periphery. Throughout our trek, we see people herding sheep, goats, and cattle. Cultivated crop land covers slopes that would make a mountain goat dizzy. Increased erosion, overgrazing, and other human pressures are taking a toll on native plants and animals – the very reasons this place was designated a national park and World Heritage Site in the first place. The impact is serious enough that UNESCO has put the Simien Mountains on its List of World Heritage Sites in Danger. Our path takes us beside a man breaking new land, a formidable task using an ox pulling a primitive wooden plow through ground that seems more rock than soil. It’s a shame to see even more native grassland destroyed, but his family has to eat.

There’s no easy solution. People have lived here for over 2,000 years, long before the national park was declared. The government is encouraging mountain dwellers to move by offering to buy them out. From stories we hear, a major gap remains between what is being offered and what they would accept as a settlement. This won’t happen quickly, if at all. Even if the villagers agreed to move, where would they go in this already overcrowded country?

Our approach to Geech village looks surreal. The settlement sprawls across the hillside – an assortment of round buildings of rocks and mud, topped with substantial thatched roofs. In most rural villages in Africa, we usually see corrugated tin or other trappings, however simple, from the modern world. Looking at Geech from across the valley, there is absolutely nothing to remind us that we are still in the present, that we haven’t somehow been transported a thousand years back in time. The community survives on farming, but we see no farming equipment. Men are winnowing grain by hand, tossing seeds in the air, allowing chaff to be carried away by the afternoon breeze.

The campground just past Geech sits on an exposed windswept plateau. We arrive completely exhausted. After an hour or so of rest (accompanied, of course, by the customary hot tea and popcorn), Getachew tells us that this is by far the best place to see sunset. There's just one glitch – the viewpoint is a bit of a walk away, uphill of course. We trudge up the long slope to the edge of a precipice dropping into dark shadows. While the setting would be spectacular anytime, the lingering evening light casts a magical glow across the slopes and peaks. Haze covers the horizon, diffusing streaks of warm light over the wild land.

Next morning, we’re ready to leave, but there’s a minor problem – the riding mule has disappeared. Sometime in the night or early morning, it decided it had had enough, and turned for home. We start out anyway, while the mule handler, Kelebie, looks for the runaway. After an hour or so, they catch up to us, poor Kelebie apologizing profusely for his mule's bad behaviour.

We come across our first band of geladas, commonly called gelada baboons. Scientists tell us that these primates are closely related to baboons, but are separate animals. Found only in the highlands of Ethiopia, geladas are the world’s highest dwelling primates, and the most terrestrial of all primates, other than humans. Unlike most other baboons and monkeys, they only rarely venture into trees. Geladas are grass-eaters, preferring to walk and shuffle along the ground where they pick blades of grass with their hands. They also live in larger groups than other baboons, with some bands topping 300 animals.

Our immediate impression is how gentle and easy-going they seem. In other parts of Africa, we would never even consider approaching a group of baboons. Here, if we stand in one spot in the general direction they are heading, they will walk right beside us and barely give us more than a bemused look. At first glance, the big males appear imposing and fairly intimidating. They have hair to spare – luxuriant, golden, and shaggy lion-like manes. The males' cape of hair covers them so completely, that when they sit still in the grass, they almost look like small haystacks. Occasionally males open their mouths wide and roll back their lips to display sharp teeth – a threatening gesture often used by competing males.

Geladas are called the “Bleeding Heart Baboon” for the red, heart-shaped hairless patch on their chests. Females ready to mate display a brighter red patch, an obvious signal to waiting males. They often “talk” to each other, with fairly high-pitched tones a favourite of their varied repertoire of calls. Some sounds made by baby geladas are remarkably like cries of human babies.

The geladas move on, and reluctantly, so do we. It's time to continue our upward climb along the mountain slope to a 4,000-metre ridge. Now, we're especially glad that we arranged for our mule. The route turns out to be a steady heart-thumping, lung-gasping grunt, every step uphill in the oxygen starved air. We take turns riding the mule for 20 minutes or so then change off. Getachew and Jemale climb steadily as if this is just another stroll in the park.

At the summit we stop for a rest and can see forever in every direction. Chenek campground looms in the distance, far below. This is the steepest descent of all, along a series of eroded switchbacks and goat trails. In the valley we see a few thatched-roofed buildings in a village, cultivated land reaching way up the opposite slope, and the road where a truck looks like a toy. Several times, the trail skirts the edge of the escarpment, with views that continually bring the camera out of the bag.

Chenek is not only a campground, but also a tiny village where men working for the national park live with their families. Jemale points out his house, and not long after we arrive, his two young kids come running over to greet him. Since he lives just up the hill across the road, we assume that he’ll be sleeping there during our two-night stay at Chenek. But no, he insists that he guard our tent. It's his job, so he’ll stay. He sleeps on a broken concrete bench outside, his trusty Kalashnikov beside him.

Since we have an extra day at Chenek, we plan on hiking toward Mount Bwahit, its summit reaching over 4,400 metres. Every day as we set out on our hike, we can't imagine that the impressive scenery could get any better, but it does. Today we stop to take in the incredible view in one direction over the yawning chasms below, and twenty minutes later, we discover another unforgettable view facing a different direction. It continues like this for the next hour as we climb steadily along the edge of the escarpment. Stopping for another well-deserved rest, we overlook a cliff face with an opening to a cave on one side.

“I’d like to see what’s in that cave,” says Getachew.

“You'd be nuts to go there!” we tell him. We see no clear route to the opening that drops into a deep nasty canyon.

But there’s no stopping him. Getachew is always very careful when guiding us, and never puts us in dangerous situations, but when he’s by himself, he becomes a daredevil, totally unafraid of heights, and oblivious to dangerous precipices. We watch him nimbly climb like a mountain goat over places that make us wince.

This time, even easy-going Jemale, never fazed by anything, yells a warning in Amharic, but to no avail. Getachew makes it safely to the cave and back, with the help of some fancy rock-climbing acrobatics.

“He belongs in the crazy hospital in Addis!” says Jemale, shaking his head in resignation.

As we climb to over 4,200 metres, we’re really feeling the lack of oxygen, and have to rest more often. We're on the lookout for rare Walia ibex, and the area around Chenek is considered the best bet to find them. Getachew tells us they usually frequent sheltered valleys rather than open areas at higher altitudes, so we decide to spend the rest of the day looking for ibex rather than continuing higher.

Getachew suggests a particular valley where he occasionally sees them, and to get there we have to cross the road that winds through the high mountain pass. Ahead of us, a three-ton truck slowly crawls up the hill, the box on the back packed with people. This is public transport. A bus from Debark comes part way into the mountains, but higher up, a heavy duty truck takes over. Barely moving, it finally stops. Everyone climbs out and starts walking up the steep road. The truck doesn’t have enough power to make the hill because there isn't enough oxygen for the motor to run properly. Now it’s stalled. Each time the driver tries to start it, a deafening backfire echoes through the hills, followed by a great cloud of blue smoke. After several tries, the engine finally starts, and the truck continues its snail's-pace climb, eventually catching up to its passengers.

We scour the valleys and eventually spot a few ibex far below. Found nowhere else in the world but the Simien Mountains, Walia ibex are highly endangered, with only about 500 animals left. The large, regal-looking goat-like animals are an attractive chestnut brown and grey, with white on the legs and undersides. The defining feature of the males is their thick horns that curl back for a metre or more in graceful curves. The ibex we see are all females, with much smaller and thinner horns. They're too far away to photograph.

Approaching the campground in late afternoon, we’re resigned to the fact that we likely won’t get close to ibex, since we’re leaving the next morning. Then someone runs over to find us. There's ibex nearby. We make our way to the bluffs where they were last spotted, then suddenly catch sight of two big magnificent males grazing calmly less than 50 metres away. They eventually move into a clearing and cooperate long enough for photos. Even more impressive close-up, they sport long goatee beards and lethal-looking horns used to battle each other for dominance.

We’re doing quite well for finding rare critters, so we’re not too disappointed when we fail to find the most elusive animal of all – the Ethiopian wolf. It’s the world’s rarest wild canid, or dog-like animal, and Africa’s most endangered carnivore. Numbering just 300–400 animals in total, they are found only in isolated mountain areas of Ethiopia, with most in the Bale Mountains farther south. The Simien Mountains are thought to have about 50. We’ve come close, however. On our last morning at Chenek, a couple guides tell us that they heard wolves during the night.

Before we pack to leave, Jemale invites us to his house for coffee. Drinking coffee is one of the joys of travelling in Ethiopia. No matter where we go – fancy city restaurant, small town cafe, Estefen’s hearty breakfasts at our mountain-top campsites – the coffee is always great. Perhaps not surprising considering that Ethiopia is where the stuff originated.

While the exact origins of coffee are lost in time, legends abound. A common story is that of a goat herder in the highlands of Ethiopia who noticed that when his animals ate the berries from a particular tree, they became more spirited. Trying some himself, the herder was amazed at how alert he felt. He took some of the wondrous berries to the abbot at a local monastery, but the holy man disapproved and threw the berries into the fire. When they smelled the wonderful aroma that came from the burning berries, the abbot had a change of heart, and retrieved the berries from the fire. They dissolved the roasted berries in hot water, and the first cup of coffee was born. It's such a wonderful story that if it didn’t happen exactly that way, it should have.

Coffee at Jemale’s very modest house is no exception to the rule of taking coffee seriously. His wife goes through the whole traditional coffee ceremony, starting with raw beans that she washes a number of times in warm water. Then she roasts the beans in a shallow frying pan over a small charcoal fire – an important part of the ceremony is appreciating the aroma of the roasting beans. She pounds the beans using a mortar and pestle then puts the powder in the coffee pot with hot water to brew. It doesn’t get any fresher than this. Jemale’s neighbours wander in and out to share in the coffee and conversation. It’s considered good manners to have at least three cups during a coffee ceremony, so at the end we’re buzzed and ready for anything.

But today we have nothing more strenuous than the long and dusty bone-jarring drive to Debark, then back to Gonder. Catching our last glance of these mountains, we agree that this ranks among the high points of our travels. Breathtaking landscapes on the Roof of Africa, extraordinary wildlife, fascinating cultures, agreeable travel companions – all served up with the world’s best coffee.

Sunset over the Simien Mountains.

Arlene Karpan with scout Jemale (left), and guide Getachew (right).

Gelada baboons.

Trekking on the Roof of Africa