A finalist in our Pilgrimages competition is forced to trust a stranger to be her savior after she and her hiking buddy are ambushed by dogs on the Transcaucasian Trail, Azerbaijan, but this comes with its own potential dangers.
My traveling companion Eva and I hoisted our backpacks. The plan was to follow a segment of the Transcaucasian Trail toward the high mountain village of Khinalig, with a detour via Shahdag’s slopes. In winter, the area bustles with skiers; in late summer, it’s a realm of open pastures strewn with grazing sheep. The shepherds bring their flocks to the meadows until the first cold spells drive them back into the valleys.
Shortly after breakfast, we set out. The morning sun was milder than usual, softened by wisps of cloud. We passed trickling streams and the edges of steep ravines, pausing now and then to snap photos of the jagged peaks. Though we moved slowly, our spirits were high. Laza retreated behind us, a scattering of pale houses dwarfed by monumental cliffs.
Eventually, the old cable car station came into view — a silent structure perched on the hillside, cables stretching into the distance. We aimed to reach another small village called Qriz by day’s end, but the terrain was steeper than anticipated, and we suspected we’d be finishing our route by headlamp.
As we climbed, the landscape changed. We left behind the well-worn footpaths near Laza, picking our way across grassy hills where sheep dotted the slopes like moving stones. A few hours later, we heard the sound we’d been warned about: the resonant bark of an Azerbaijani shepherd dog. We froze, scanning the horizon. Sure enough, we spotted a massive, shaggy figure perched among the flock. Once it sensed us, it stood and began to bark more insistently, trotting in our direction. From the corner of my eye, I saw a second dog appear — and then a third one.
Eva’s face went pale. “They’re coming closer,” she whispered, as if that might prevent the dogs from noticing us.
At first, we tried to keep our distance, angling away from the sheep to signal we were no threat. But these were Caucasian shepherd dogs, famously territorial. One of them advanced, barking in a steady rhythm that thrummed in my chest. Then it broke into a run.
A shepherd in the distance whistled and waved, clearly attempting to recall his animals. But the dogs kept coming. My heart pounded as I realized that a single voice might not be enough to stop them, especially if they perceived us as intruders.
By now, the first dog had closed the gap between us, barking loudly and aggressively. From another angle, the second dog charged in. They were determined to herd us away or knock us down. Eva and I spotted a tall, metal post a few meters from us — part of the old ski lift infrastructure. Without speaking, we sprinted toward it, the dogs just a few strides behind. At that moment, all notions of calm, methodical response vanished. Our only goal was to avoid being bitten.
We grabbed the post and scrambled up, hugging the metal as we climbed. The dogs circled beneath, barking and lunging. My heart hammered so fiercely that I thought it might burst. I felt the cold metal press against my arms and thighs, and prayed the dogs wouldn’t figure out how to leap high enough to reach us.
For a tense few minutes, we clung there like frightened monkeys, breathing hard. The dogs snapped at the air around the post. One tried jumping, but we were just out of reach. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the shepherd arrived on horseback. He called out sharply, jabbing the air with a long staff. The dogs retreated, still growling. Once they had stepped back, the shepherd coaxed us down. My limbs trembled so violently that my first attempt to descend nearly ended in a slip. Only the shepherd’s steadying arm prevented a fall.
“They won’t bite now,” he probably said in Azerbaijani, gesturing for us to step away from the post. Perhaps he was simply reading our terror, but his tone was surprisingly gentle. Standing in his presence, the dogs seemed less hostile, though they continued to eye us warily.
As if to dissipate the tension, the shepherd offered us his horse for a short ride. Eva shook her head, still rattled. I accepted — maybe out of some desperate need to reclaim a scrap of confidence. The horse, however, had other ideas. It snorted and tried to bolt. I clutched the reins, urging it to “prrrr,” as I’d learned from other riders. The shepherd watched me with a faint smile. For a few minutes, I trotted around in a half-circle, heart still pounding from the dog ordeal, but grateful for a reprieve.
When I finally dismounted, Eva was chatting with the shepherd. Neither side spoke more than a few words of Russian, but they were communicating through gestures and single-word exchanges. After a bit of pantomime, he invited us to his home for tea. We hesitated. We planned to get to Qriz before dark, and we were running late. But at the mention of şaşlik (grilled lamb), we wavered. The memory of the lunging dogs was still fresh; it felt rude to refuse hospitality from the man who had saved us from a mauling. So we relented, letting him lead us along a faint path that curled around the hill toward a small, low-roofed stone dwelling.
Inside, it was warm and dim. The shepherd, called Raul, stoked a fire and heated water for tea. On a rough wooden table, he set out bread, fresh cheese, and a kind of dense pastry that tasted faintly of herbs. Then he brought out the lamb he intended for şaşlik, instructing us with gestures to slice the innards — heart, liver, and lungs. We skewered them on iron rods as he coaxed a bed of charcoal to life, fanning it with a flat piece of metal until the embers glowed red-hot.
With the skewers propped on stones around the coals, the lamb cooked quickly. Raul also threaded chunks of tomato and bits of lamb fat onto additional rods, layering flavor onto the impromptu meal. The scent of roasting meat filled the small space. Despite the day’s tension, my mouth watered. Soon, we found ourselves seated on cushions, sharing a simple but hearty feast. Outside, the wind picked up, scouring the hills. The dogs, from what we could tell, were somewhere beyond the house, likely standing guard over the scattered flock.
As we lingered, the shepherd pantomimed a strategy for encountering dogs in the future. He wrapped his arms around his torso, as though linking elbows, and then squatted low, facing forward. From his rapid Azerbaijani, we gathered that if we ever saw a shepherd dog charging, we should huddle together, arms around each other’s waists, and crouch facing the dog. It sounded odd, but it was presumably a sign of submission and unity that might minimize aggression. We nodded, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. I couldn’t imagine calmly squatting if a dog barreled toward me, fangs bared.
The night was slowly setting in, and Raul suggested we stay until morning. A few hours later, another shepherd arrived, carrying his staff. He joined the meal without fanfare, ate some of the remaining şaşlik, and unrolled a thin mat as if to sleep. The dwelling was a single room. Eva and I exchanged uneasy glances; we wondered if we’d end up sleeping inches away from two strangers. That might have been fine if we felt entirely comfortable, but the younger shepherd had begun acting strangely — touching my arm a bit too often, leaning in. When I shrugged him off, he laughed as though it were a game.
Eventually, he hauled out a small tent. At first, I sighed in relief, thinking he meant for us to have our own separate space. But it soon became clear he wanted me to join him in that tent. We had no shared language for me to say “Thanks, but no thanks,” so me and Eva ended up politely refusing and staying close to each other, weaving a firm boundary with gestures and repeated “nyet.” The older man observed without comment. Feeling awkward but determined, Eva and I ended up huddling in our sleeping bags on the floor while the younger shepherd kept fussing. It was a restless night, but we emerged unharmed.
By dawn, we were eager to move on. Over tea, the shepherd handed us something unexpected: two thin wooden poles, each about two meters long. “No place to climb there,” he said, referencing the previous day’s scramble up the ski lift post. He snapped them in half, reattaching them in a way that allowed us to carry them more easily. “If a dog comes, you have a stick,” he said in halting, improvised Russian. Grateful for anything that might help us defend ourselves, we accepted, though I silently prayed we wouldn’t need them.
The morning was crisp and bright, and the shepherd’s dogs were nowhere in sight, presumably patrolling the slopes. We said our goodbyes, hoisted our heavy packs, and rejoined the faint path that was supposedly part of the Transcaucasian Trail. In reality, the route was unmarked, a patchwork of animal tracks meandering up and down gullies. Before long, we stumbled onto a vast construction site where trucks and excavators crawled like industrious beetles, hauling rocks and earth. Workers in neon vests eyed us curiously, pointing us this way and that until we’d skirted the site and regained open ground.
Not much later, we heard barking again, more distant but insistent. Another flock, another set of dogs. My stomach clenched. I gripped the shepherd’s makeshift pole, Eva doing the same. But we were too far away for the dogs to sense immediate intrusion, so they stayed near the sheep.
Days later, as we descended from the highlands, my backpack still pressed into my shoulders, but something in me had shifted. Trust had been both a necessity and a gamble — a lesson carved into the cold mountain winds. A pilgrimage is never just about reaching a place; it’s about the spaces in between, the quiet negotiations with the unknown.
