Bakhmaro
I often think about where it all truly began.
Not just hiking.
Not just photography.
But everything that followed.
If I had to choose a single point—this was it.
Bakhmaro.
A Small “Yes”
One day, my coworker and friend Guram asked me:
“Hey, don’t you want to go to Bakhmaro this winter? There’s a tour in two weeks. Let’s go—it’ll be awesome.”
I didn’t overthink it.
Why not? Let’s try something new.
So I said yes.
At the time, it felt like a small decision.
Looking back now, it feels like the most important one I ever made.
Preparing for the Unknown
I knew Bakhmaro winters were harsh—meters of snow, freezing air that cuts through everything. I didn’t want to arrive unprepared.
I bought warm gear. Heavy trousers. Layers.
And then—almost impulsively—I bought my first camera: a Canon M50 Mark II with a basic kit lens.
I didn’t know much back then. I didn’t understand lenses, light, or settings.
But something in me wanted to capture what I was about to see.
I had no idea this would become a part of who I am.
The Road That Stopped
We left at night in a crowded minibus. The kind of ride where strangers quickly become part of the same story.
As we climbed higher, everything outside changed.
The air grew sharper.
The snow deeper.
The road narrower.
Hours passed.
Then—stillness.
The bus stopped.
We were stuck.
Pushing Forward
We stepped into the cold. It hit instantly—sharp, clean, almost electric. Snow crunched under every step.
We pushed. Again and again.
Nothing.
The road had made its decision.
So we made ours.
We would continue on foot.
Into the White Silence
The trip was organized by Geo Megzuri, led by our guide Levan. Our next point was near Chkhakhura.
The walk was short—maybe one or two kilometers.
But it felt like another world.
Snow rose on both sides like frozen walls—two to three meters high. The sound of the outside world disappeared. Only footsteps and breath remained.
I had never seen anything like it.
First Taste of the Mountain
At the end of the trail, we found a spring. Ice-cold water—painful, refreshing, alive.
And then we saw it.
A snowcat.
A machine built for places where roads no longer exist.
The Ascent
Some of us climbed inside. Others stayed outside, facing the wind directly.
That’s when I first noticed them.
Ann… and Tako.
Tako—who would later become my wife.
They were laughing, fully alive in that moment.
Later, she told me something unforgettable:
They weren’t even supposed to be here. Their original trip to Goderdzi was canceled.
So they ended up here instead.
Sometimes life doesn’t plan—it places.
Arrival
We reached our cottage.
Or rather—what was visible of it.
The first floor was buried in snow. We entered through a tunnel carved into it.
Inside: warmth. Wood. Firelight.
Outside: endless winter.
We dropped our bags.
Picked them up again.
And went straight back out.
A Living Fairytale
Bakhmaro didn’t feel real.
Snow-covered cottages stretched endlessly. Trees stood frozen. The air felt lighter—almost unreal.
Someone said that if you stayed here long enough, your blood would change.
I almost believed it.
Exploring Without End
Guram and I walked everywhere.
We climbed onto rooftops made accessible by deep snow. We wandered for kilometers, stopping constantly to take photos.
At one point, Guram jumped from a buried roof and disappeared into snow.
Completely stuck.
I pulled him out, laughing.
We were like kids.
Finding Each Other
Later, we met Ann and Tako again.
They were just like us—always moving, always exploring.
That mattered more than I expected.
We introduced ourselves. Walked together.
And something quietly began.
The Climb
We decided to climb one of the peaks—sunrise or sunset mountain.
I don’t remember which.
But I remember every step sinking deep into snow. Every breath visible in the cold air.
At first, I thought Ann and Tako might struggle.
I was wrong.
They climbed just as strongly as we did.
The View
At the top, the wind had cleared the snow.
And the world opened.
Mountains in every direction. Endless silence.
Not silence you hear—but silence you feel.
For the first time in a long time, everything inside me slowed down.
It wasn’t just beautiful.
It was ancient. Powerful. Healing.
Laughter in the Cold
We took photos. Flew the drone.
Jeta—the Laika dog we met—thought the drone was a bird and chased it. Guram struggled to land it while we laughed endlessly.
Simple moments.
Unforgettable ones.
The Moment I Still Have
Later, my camera lens got buried in snow.
Tako gently took it and cleaned it with her hands while the camera kept recording.
I still have that video.
We watched it years later.
And for a moment—we were back there.
That Night
Back in the cottage, people gathered around the fire.
Outside—deep silence and frozen night sky.
I stepped outside to try astrophotography.
No tripod. No knowledge. Just curiosity.
Thirty-second exposures… handheld.
The results were terrible.
But that didn’t matter.
That was the beginning.
The Deep Sleep
That night, I slept deeper than I ever had before.
Not rest—complete mental silence. Like everything shut down.
Later, Tako told me she experienced the same thing.
I still can’t explain it.
The Last Day
Morning came quietly.
We walked again. Took photos. Laughed at small things.
We found a bar hidden under snow—entered through a tunnel. Warm. Alive.
Coffee. Conversations. Stillness.
Later: snowmobiles. More exploring.
And one final dinner together.
Leaving
Eventually, it was time.
We boarded the snowcat.
The sun was setting as we descended.
No one spoke much.
What Stayed With Me
- My first real step into photography
- My first true adventure
- The beginning of my love for hiking
- The moment I met Tako
- The start of a friendship with Ann that would shape many journeys ahead
All of it—
Because I said yes.
The Beginning
This is where it started.
Where something shifted.
Where three paths crossed—mine, Tako’s, and Ann’s.
Where a new life quietly began.
Bakhmaro wasn’t just a place.
It was a beginning.
