Snow had transformed the eastern Turkish landscape into a white expanse, blanketing roads and natural features, but it could not hinder me from following the tracks left by the long extinct Anatolian lion. One wintr'sn day I took a boat from Gevaþ on the shores of Lake Van towards the island of Akdamar, where I would begin my journey of discovery. The scenery was harsh and wild in its formidable winter guise, yet equally enchanting. When the idea first came to me of seeking out an Urartian lion, history had whispered to me that winter was the time best fitted for my journey, in which lions would await me at beginning and end. Some of these lions, carved in reliefs, were to be seen in the church on Akdamar Island, and others on the walls of Ishakpaþa Palace in Dogubeyazit. In this eastern landscape woven with legends I would perhaps hear the echo of their roars over the snow. I was met on my arrival at Akdamar not by lions, but by gulls resting on the jetty. The almond trees which in spring adorn the island like a bride with their white blossom were now in deep winter slumber.

Founder of the church, King Gagik I of Vaspurakan, and its architect, the monk Manuel, were both in their own eternal rest. I began to look for the lions on the church walls, which are adorned with the loveliest 'stone zoo' that I have ever seen. Passing by peacocks, bears, bulls, gazelles, mountain goats, deer, and parrots, I found them. One of the lions was winged, and two stood beside Daniel. Others were hunting prey. Snow had gathered in the grooves and hollows of the carvings. They were too high up to touch, but I looked my fill, admiring the skills of those long gone craftsmen who had created them. As I boarded the boat, the gulls screeched with joy at my departure.I returned to Van for a hearty breakfast of herb cheese, garlic sausage with eggs, and honey and butter, and when I could eat no more of this delicious repast, I set out again on my 185 kilometre journey over ice and snow. The weather of Van is full of surprises. After three hours of heavy snowfall, the clouds dispersed to reveal an azure blue sky. But the cold was by no means diminished, and horses by the side of the road breathed out white

In the villages of single-storey cottages through which we passed, the only sounds which broke the deep winter silence were shrill school bells and the shouts of children rushing out of the pink painted primary schools into the playgrounds at breaktime. When I reached the town of Çaldiran I stopped at the hilltop monument commemorating the victory of Sultan Selim Yavuz at the Battle of Çaldiran, and gazed out over the plain. Just beyond the town I saw a man wading up to his waist in Lake Kaz carrying a pitchfork in his hand, like a vision of Poseidon with his trident. In fact he was a farmer gathering marsh grasses as fodder for his hungry cattle waiting on the lak'si edge. After crossing the 2644 metre high pass of Tendürek, I entered the province of Agri. Keeping my eyes on the summit of Agri Dagi (Mount Ararat), rising amidst gaunt hills, I continued on my way. Many mountaineers have failed to return from this mountain, which from a distance looks deceptively easy to climb.

But the carvers who venerated their strength immortalised them in stone, allowing us centuries later to imagine their roars echoing in these mountains.

* Akgün Akova is the author of several books of poetry and essays.