Some of our craziest stories always begin the same way—three of us deciding, once again, to disappear into the wild.
This time, it was Lomi Mountain, deep in Borjomi—a place known for its forests, silence, and something you can’t quite explain until you feel it yourself.
The air there is different. Cleaner. Heavier with the scent of earth and leaves. The ground is soft and damp, the forest alive with quiet sounds—birds, wind, distant movement. It doesn’t just surround you. It pulls you in.
We took a bus and reached the entrance near Borjomi Central Park, where, as always, our journey began with a ritual—coffee. I pulled out my small stove, and within minutes we were sitting there with hot cups in our hands, talking about the trail ahead.
It wasn’t just another hike.
That night was Ann’s birthday.
Tako and I had planned everything in secret—cake, candles, decorations, even small fireworks. Ann had no idea. And somewhere between laughter and planning, the anticipation of that moment quietly followed us into the forest.
The first part of the hike felt almost unreal. The deeper we went, the more the outside world disappeared. We stopped often—not because we were tired, but because we didn’t want to rush through something that felt this alive.
That’s what makes these trips special. Just the three of us—no schedule, no pressure. We move at our own pace, stop wherever we want, stay as long as we feel like. Out there, we don’t follow time—we follow ourselves.
At one point, we paused again, standing in front of a perfect opening between branches—a natural window overlooking the forest. I took a photo of Tako there. Even then, I knew I’d come back one day, maybe in winter, to recreate that same moment under snow.
As we climbed higher, the forest began to change. Wooden steps appeared along the trail, an abandoned tractor stood silently among the trees, covered in stickers, like a forgotten relic. Everything felt slightly surreal—like walking through a place that existed somewhere between reality and a story.
And then there were the sounds.
We had unknowingly arrived during deer breeding season. The forest echoed with the deep, haunting calls of male deer—loud, raw, almost unnatural. It didn’t sound like something you’d expect to hear in a forest. It sounded ancient.
By the time evening approached, we were close to our destination—the shelter near Lomi Mountain. The plan was simple: rest, warm up, and celebrate.
From a distance, we saw smoke.
At first, it felt like luck. Someone had arrived before us. The shelter would be warm.
But when we got closer, everything stopped.
The shelter was gone.
Burned to the ground.
Only concrete remains and blackened debris were left behind. Smoke still rose into the evening air. It must have been burning all day.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
I kept asking Tako if this was really the place. She looked around, quietly confirming what we didn’t want to accept.
It was.
And suddenly, everything changed.
It was getting dark. We had no tent. No backup plan.
The forest, which felt magical just hours ago, now felt uncertain.
We called the rangers. There was only one option—Chitakhevi Shelter, 1–2 hours away.
So we walked.
Fast.
No breaks, no talking—just movement. The light was fading, and every minute mattered. By the time we reached the shelter, night had already settled in.
But this time, we were lucky.
The shelter was intact. Quiet. Waiting.
I gathered wood and lit the fire. Slowly, warmth filled the room. It felt like safety.
But we still needed water.
The spring was a kilometer downhill.
And it was already dark.
We went anyway.
Halfway down, we heard it.
Something in the forest.
Close.
The sound was deep, sharp—angry. Not distant. Not harmless.
To this day, I don’t know if it was a deer or a bear.
I started shouting as loud as I could, trying to sound bigger than I was. The forest answered back with silence—and tension. At one point, I even scared Tako more than the animal did.
But whatever it was, it didn’t come closer.
We filled the bottles and climbed back up, faster than before.
That night, inside that small shelter, everything felt earned—warmth, food, light.
And then midnight came.
The surprise.
Candles lit the room. A small cake appeared. Decorations, laughter, a gift—and finally, fireworks breaking the silence outside.
In the middle of the forest, surrounded by darkness, we created something bright.
Something ours.
Later, I fed the fire and lay down to sleep. But sleep didn’t come easily.
I didn’t just wake up because of the noises—I stayed awake because I felt responsible. Every sound outside felt like something getting closer, and I kept thinking that if anything happened, I had to be the one ready.
I woke up several times, adding wood to the fire, listening.
Something was out there.
Not seen. Just… present.
Morning came quietly.
Coffee helped.
We left our backpacks behind and returned toward the burned shelter, then continued up to Lomi Mountain itself. Along the way, we passed an abandoned shepherd’s cabin, standing alone against time.
And then we reached the top.
Everything opened.
The entire forest stretched beneath us—endless green, mountains rolling into the distance, silence that felt complete. We lay there in the grass, letting the sun warm us, not saying much.
Some moments don’t need words.
We walked to a small distant church we had seen from above, then turned back.
We had done everything we came for.
Adventure. Fear. Uncertainty. Joy.
All of it.
The only thing missing was the shelter—the one we never got to experience. A place that held memories for so many, now gone without explanation.
That part still lingers.
We packed up and made our way back down, taking a different trail. It wasn’t the same. Some paths just stay with you more than others.
By evening, we reached the exit. A foreign hiker gave us a lift toward the main road.
And just before leaving, we saw something familiar—a Mitsubishi Delica belonging to our friend, a guide from Travelman. He must have gone up that same morning. Of course, we took photos with it—one last memory from the trip.
And that was it.
A journey that gave us everything—excitement, fear, disappointment, joy.
The kind of experience only the wild can offer.
Some places disappear.
But the moments you live there—the laughter, the fear, the feeling of being truly alive—
those stay forever.
