Last hours in the fairy chimney landscape

Wednesday, February 11, 2026 - Day 169 of 500

I'm sitting at a small café in Göreme, watching the afternoon light play across the undulating rock formations that have captivated me these past few days. My bag is packed at the hotel, and in a few hours, I'll be heading to the bus station for my overnight journey. Time for one last coffee and some reflections.

This morning I woke up early – not balloon-ride early, but early enough to catch the soft morning light. I wanted to take a final walk through Rose Valley before leaving. The weather app promised clear skies until afternoon, and I wasn't about to waste my last chance to explore.

I set out around 8:30, arriving at the trailhead by 8:40 (giving myself those extra minutes to find the exact starting point). The valley was quiet, with just a handful of other hikers visible in the distance. The morning chill still hung in the air, and I was glad for my extra layer.

Rose Valley gets its name from the pinkish hue of the rocks, particularly vibrant in the morning light. Walking through the narrow paths between towering rock formations felt like navigating a natural maze. Around every corner was another view more spectacular than the last.

What struck me most were the trees – stubborn, determined things growing from seemingly impossible positions in the rock face. Twisted juniper and oak, their roots somehow finding purchase in the tiniest cracks. Nature's persistence manifested. I stopped to photograph a particularly impressive specimen growing sideways out of a vertical cliff face, its trunk nearly parallel to the ground before curving upward toward the sky.

After about two hours of hiking, I found a flat rock overlooking the valley and sat down to take it all in. The silence was profound – just the occasional bird call and the whisper of wind through the rock formations. It's these moments of stillness that have become increasingly valuable to me on this journey. Sometimes I need to just sit and process everything I'm experiencing.

I made it back to Göreme around noon, dusty and ready for lunch. Found a small place offering lentil soup and fresh bread – simple but perfect. The owner asked where I was from, and when I mentioned Norway, he smiled and said, "Very cold there, yes?" I laughed and gestured to the sunny day outside. "This is like our summer," I told him, which he found hilarious.

I've been reading about the new regulations the Turkish government is planning to implement to protect Cappadocia. Stricter rules for commercial photography and events, heavier fines for unauthorized activities. It makes sense – this landscape is both stunning and fragile. The thousands of years of human habitation here have already left their mark, and modern tourism brings its own pressures.

This region sits at such a fascinating intersection of natural wonder and human ingenuity. From soaring 800 meters above in a balloon to descending eight levels underground at Derinkuyu, I've experienced both extremes of what Cappadocia offers. The people who carved these underground cities and cave churches weren't just surviving – they were creating something extraordinary within the constraints of their environment.

My time here has been too short. If I weren't on this 500-day countdown, I might have stayed longer, hiked more valleys, visited more underground cities. But that's the nature of this journey – always moving forward, always more to see.

I notice I'm starting to think more about the passage of time. Day 169 means I've used up exactly one-third of my journey. Have I changed in that time? Am I any closer to figuring out what comes next? Hard to say. Sometimes I feel like I'm just collecting experiences without processing them deeply enough.

The clouds are starting to gather now, just as the forecast predicted. My coffee cup is empty, and it's probably time to head back to the hotel to collect my bag. The overnight bus to Antalya leaves at 8:00 PM, and I want to be at the station by 7:30 at the latest.

Cappadocia, you've been magical. Your impossible landscapes, your hidden underground cities, your resilient trees growing where nothing should grow – I'll carry these images with me. And someday, perhaps I'll return with more time to spare.

Until then, onwards.

Photo: A twisted juniper growing horizontally from a vertical rock face in Rose Valley, its branches reaching stubbornly toward the light.