“Everest?!” No, Elbrus. The clarification was followed either by a raised eyebrow or a bemused nod. It was the typical response when I told someone I was about to climb Mount Elbrus, a mountain that apparently few have heard of, yet is the highest peak in Europe. But for many, the unfamiliar mountain wasn’t the most baffling part of my trip—they were more surprised to learn that I was traveling to Russia just to climb it.
Contrary to what some might guess, Europe’s tallest peak is not in the Alps, the continent’s haven for hard-core mountaineers. While the better-known, 15,781-foot-tall Mont Blanc is the tallest mountain in the Alps and the European Union, Russia’s Mount Elbrus towers at 18,510 feet, making it one of the Seven Summits—the tallest mountains on each continent. The dormant volcano in the Caucasus mountains near the border between Russia and Georgia does attract a smattering of European skiers, but for most U.S. residents, and at this time in particular, Russia is more known for its politics than its peaks.
So while everyone else was sharing beach photos from their sexy summer getaways, I layered thermal, down, and Gore-Tex into a duffel bag during a NYC heatwave. Yes, it was July, but I was packing for below-freezing temps and heading to a country plagued by unflattering stereotypes of Cold War–era espionage, political collusion, and a less-than-warm veneer.
On an acclimatization day before the Mount Elbrus summit attempt climb, Rellihan’s group hiked a trail on Cheget Peak that runs alongside the Russia-Georgia border.
Photo by Ren Fuller
But for me, those preconceptions made the adventure all the more intriguing: This was my chance to experience the country beyond its complicated image. And perhaps just as difficult as the physical challenge, I would have to forget politics—and the travel advisory about Elbrus’s reputation for civil unrest and terrorism—in order to experience Russia’s peaks (and people) with an open mind.
I would be climbing Mount Elbrus with WHOA Travel (Women High on Adventure), an adventure travel company run by and for women. I’d climbed Kilimanjaro, my first of the Seven Summits, with WHOA and over 25 women from around the world on International Women’s Day in 2015. When I learned about the company’s first eight-day expedition to Elbrus, it seemed like the logical next challenge. These two mountains are considered the easiest to tackle of the elite peaks, and because I was more interested in the camaraderie and adventure than I was in summiting all seven, it looked like Elbrus would have to indeed be my Everest.
The mountain’s remote location makes it unfamiliar terrain for many in the United States, but we were assured that it is accessible, and that, while grueling at times, the climb doesn’t require previous mountaineering experience. Still, while gazing over the rental gear we picked up in the small ski village of Cheget—ice axes, mountaineering boots, crampons, ropes, and harnesses—it was hard not to feel overwhelmed. When we climbed Kilimanjaro, we had been told we would only need hiking poles and a smile.
The WHOA group of women—armed with trekking poles, ice axes, harnesses, and crampons—climbed Russia’s Mount Elbrus.
Courtesy of WHOA Travel
The best part about climbing with these 16 women—none of whom had experience with this technical climbing gear—was that we weren’t afraid to ask a lot of questions: “Is this the right way to put on my crampons over my boots?” (No, the spikes go down, into the ground.) “Is this how to hold my ice axe?” (No, you should hold it with the pick pointing backwards so you don’t impale the climber in front of you.)
From the first day in Cheget, our WHOA group attracted a lot of attention. It wasn’t that people didn’t expect to see women climbing Elbrus—on the contrary, two of our local guides, Anna and Vera, were experienced Russian mountaineers who lead trips up Elbrus with WHOA’s local partner organization, Pilgrim Tours—it was that we were an all-woman group who had come here to climb together. “All girls?!” one middle-aged man called out in a thick Russian accent as our single file of ladies moved past him up an icy slope.
There’s no room for stereotypes on a mountain, where everyone shares the same goal of making it to the top and getting back down alive.
After our first acclimatizing hike on Day 2, I asked our Russian guide Misha, a man of few words, how he thought we did. Admittedly, I was fishing for compliments and wanted to hear that we’d climbed better than expected in our spiky cramponed boots for the first time.
“Average,” Misha replied, stone faced. But he later changed his tune when we moved ahead of another group of climbers on the mountain. His constant refrain of “Let’s go” was then always followed by the addition of “—my strong girls!”
We learned not to expect much praise from our Russian guides, but we appreciated their seriousness about safety, their steadfast stamina, and their reverential respect for this beast of a mountain. To our disbelief, as we gasped for air on our short breaks during the exhausting ascent, Misha seemed to be always puffing away on a cigarette. But he also always carefully packed up his cigarette butts and put them in his backpack.
One of the reasons to climb the formidable Mount Elbrus? To be surrounded by this endless horizon of snow-capped peaks in the remote Caucasus.
Photo by Ren Fuller
After three days of acclimatization hikes and training on how to use our ice axes and how to self-arrest (a technique used to stop oneself while falling down a steep ice- or snow-covered slope), we were ready to take on the summit. Or so we thought. A built-in rest day turned into an anxious day of waiting when we learned that unpredictable weather on Elbrus frequently postponed summit attempts. Finally, we got the thumbs up from Misha. We would be setting out as planned in the middle of the night—or rather, at 3 a.m.—to begin our ascent.
The seven- to eight-hour climb to the summit began in pitch black with all of us sporting headlamps. But even after the sun rose, the day was a bit of a blur—a haze of snow and fog whipped up by lashing winds—made blurrier by the thin air. We made it to the peak of Elbrus around 10 a.m. and stood on a small ledge covered with flags from nearly every country. And while I had danced and wept with joy at the sunrise on the summit of Kilimanjaro, on the top of Elbrus I collapsed to the ground, thinking, “Thank God, I can finally rest for a minute.” But news of an approaching storm forced us to rush back down. At one point during our descent though, the clouds broke for a few moments, revealing a seemingly endless horizon of snow-capped Caucasus mountains that nearly took my last labored breath away. That view alone made it all worth it.
The sun started to rise and light the way on “Summit Day” hours after the group’s 3 a.m. start time.
Photo by Ren Fuller
We slid down the final icy stretch to the snowcat waiting to take us back to base camp. We joked that vodka would be the main course at dinner, and in fact, this wasn’t too far from the truth: Every time our little shot glasses were empty that night, Misha would fill them right back up. Some of us danced on chairs, as the vodka-fueled celebration silenced all our aching muscles. Congratulatory speeches were made, including one from Anna who assured us she was happy that our group of ladies made it. Nodding to her stoicism on the mountain, she said, “We Russians, we smile on the inside.” There’s no denying that Elbrus is a harsh, moody, and formidable mountain, and we couldn’t have tackled it without the support from our Russian guides. But we also taught hard-core climbers on the mountain—and ourselves—to not underestimate a cackling group of women armed with ice axes. There’s no room for stereotypes on a mountain, where everyone shares the same goal of making it to the top and getting back down alive. And your countries’ political differences—and whatever kind of relationship their leaders may or may not have—don’t matter when a fellow climber is offering you a hand or a safety rope on a treacherous slope.
As the ’90s techno was turned up and the vodka flowed, we all forgot the pain and struggle of climbing up and down Europe’s highest peak, at times crying on the inside. Now, as I looked around, we—the “all girls” climbing crew and our Russian guides—were all smiling on the outside.
