Alborz Mountains

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Still Shots of the Alborz Mountains

The still shots you are seeing were taken from vantage points that were in no way still. Some of them were through the front windshield, zoomed in to crop out the steering wheel. A breathtaking snapshot of graham-cracker folds of earth jutting out into an intense blue sky is the result of an illusion created by the blue strip on the windshield. When at one point I leaned out of the window to film a magnificent pass, I saw in front of me a line of cars, arms protruding from the windows, all holding digital cameras and aiming in unison at the undulating pass. The video clip, if I am able to upload it, contains a a few short motion clips that were the essence of the incredible journey (and of the obstacles to obtaining stills.)


Almonds and Tangerines


Iran is the only country I have ever visited where I have not seen crinkly bags of chips and other overwrapped non-perishable goods awaiting consumption on every street corner. Instead, barrels of plump almonds, cashews, and pistachios nearly spill from local shops, surrounded by more barrels of spices, dried lentils, teas, and natural rock sugar. There are perfect, ripe fruits, including local pomegranates, modestly laid out in burlap cloth. There are small crisp cucumbers, and freshly baked flat bread. The shops smell like a general store from my hometown in Connecticut called Champlions, a health-food store my father often frequented when I was little, where he would buy a bag of almonds for our snack. Almonds and oranges were standard fare when he drove us cross-country in the seventies and eighties, to visit my grandparents. We would have to pass through the Rocky Mountains and the Grand Tetons, a rapturous journey of statuesque mountains, trembling silver aspen trees, and the smell of pine, punctuated by little conversation, much awe, an occasional "Wow", and the munching of almonds now and then.


I had a sense of deja vu now in the Alborz Mountains, as my brother-in-law passed a bag of fresh almonds around in the car, and produced little tangerines that permeated the car with a citrine perfume. As we snaked to and fro along the roads that had managed to put their great arms around the mountains, rising above chasms of velvety Spring pines, my heart longed to share this country with my father, a place where he would feel at home, never running out of almonds, good fruit, and mountain ranges.


Reliving the memory of our journeys, a recollection of a John Denver song passed through my mind. "It's a long way home to Starwood in Aspen, sweet Rocky Mountain paradise"...as the thought faded, we rounded a long hairpin turn, bringing the stunning, tall white mountains into view, like wise men in long silvery robes. Sweeping Persian melodies and cadences in 3/4 time emanating from the radio kept count with the rhythm of the winding road. It is a long way to Starwood in Aspen, I thought.


Traveling on the Backs of Persian Lions


As we climbed to overcome the peaks, rising, falling and snaking Northward toward the Caspian Sea, it was as though we'd mounted the back of a great lion, the great Persian lion that the banners of Iran once bore in the times of kings, riding as its shoulders rose and fell in its graceful, unburdened stride.
With each spiral the chasm below grows deeper and yet whiter snowy mountains emerge between the green layers below. A shroud of mist and fog dampens the upper passes and spires, transforming them into a hazy dream.


Picnic on the Cliffs of the River


We stopped at a photographic site, where restauranteurs had carved out precarious, shallow spaces to serve tea and kebabs on open fires outdoors. We settled at the farthest outpost, far below which was a noisy, gushing river, and our flimsy table perched near the edge as if to incline itself toward a long downward fall. A chilly wind was blowing hard, nipping at the edges of our flat lavash bread. A gust persuaded a slab of bread to take swift flight from our table. Soon our waiter produced one of many rocks, sterlized in the kebab fire, that the restaurant had acquired in their permanent collection of weights for minding stacks of bread.


After kebabs, bread and tea, I thought I would walk aound the site, hopefully garnering some easy still shots in the process. I was grateful for the purchase of a pair of wheat-colored, leather moccasins at the Tehran market. The two men stayed behind as my sister-in-law and I passed the row of minature merchants perched on the edge of the shelf. My feet seemed to recall the deftness they once knew in pathways, forests and mountains, swiftly picking up speed as they reached a short wild path. "You like...to walk, dont you?" my sister-in-law managed to ask in English, with an inquisitive smile, her thick, frosted mane swirling in the breeze from under her brown scarf. I smiled and imagined that we could walk all day, but our journey to the Caspian Sea awaited.

From the Caspian Sea


We spent a day and night at the Caspian Sea. On the return trip, as we reached the highest peaks, ice and snow trickled and fell over the faces of the cliffs. "Obshar", I thought to myself, as the Farsi word for "waterfall" now crept into my mind. At the entrance of a wide, forbidding turn that would have us heading in the opposite direction within seconds, my brother-in-law brought the car to rest on a small shelf. His door opened with a creak and on foot, he made for a wall of sheer ice across the roadway. I glanced at my sister-in-law, and seeing my puzzled expression she did not delay in answering the question I lacked the ability to frame in Persian. "Mahi" was the only word she spoke that I comprehended, meaning "fish". I recalled the silver-scaled fish we had brought from the Caspian Sea, a delicacy not to be found elsewhere in any sea on earth, now sitting in the trunk. It now registered what my brother-in-law's intentions were, as he broke away pristine pieces of white frozen snow into a large bag. He returned, and there was rustling in the trunk as we sat gazing down into the head-spinning chasm below, from our safe cradle upon the cliff. As rising Persian melodies wafted from the radio like a genie from a bottle, we set off on our final descent down the mountain in the midmorning haze.


When a young Spring darkness had set in that night, we found ourselves gathered with the family around a table brimming with the quartz-white fish and piles of basmati rice, perfumed and golden with saffron. Warm smiles and the laughter of anticipation for the meal went around the table. The mountain peaks of Alborz had been braved to bring this fish from the Caspian Sea, its ice, fed by the water of heaven, keeping it cool. 90 years of distilling the Persian cooking rituals had been brought to bear on the meal in the deft hands of my mother-in-law, prayers had been whispered from her lips as she dissolved and added the fine saffron, which had been harvested on a certain hour of the day from thousands of flowers. "Nush-e-joune", I said, unable to speak more, a Persian "bonne appetit" that means we draw life from the food; the family responded in kind. How good it was to partake in this simple meal in Tehran.

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