This was my second winter climbing expedition on Cilo. I had previously completed a significant winter ascent in 2013, which was also covered in the press. http://arsiv.tdf.gov.tr/32-yil-sonra-reskouludoruk-ilk-kis-tirmanisi/
My adventure began in March 2019, when I flew from Istanbul Sabiha Gökçen Airport to Van together with three of my mountaineer friends. Our plan was to continue from there to Yüksekova by taking the intercity minibus that departs every hour. We chose Sabiha Gökçen because it was closer to our homes. The rest of the Cilo team (eight people) flew directly to Yüksekova from the airport on the European side of Istanbul. At that time, there were no direct flights from Sabiha Gökçen to Yüksekova. The route we took was both more economical and, by then, people in Istanbul had started choosing the airport closest to the side of the city they lived on when deciding on a trip.
When the flight day came, I boarded the plane with excitement, stowed my carry-on bag, and sat down. After the final ID check, I had been walking carelessly toward the jet bridge while looking at my phone. In my hands I had my phone, a fleece, my wallet, and the boarding pass. As I slipped the boarding pass into my wallet, I realized my ID wasn’t inside. Oh no! It was one of those rare moments where I felt as if boiling water was poured over me. A feeling I truly dislike… I tried to calm myself by thinking, “I must have put it in my carry-on.” I looked as if I was sitting comfortably, but in my mind there was a nagging worry I couldn’t shake off. I checked all my pockets. Maybe I had dropped it after the last ID check while boarding. Or maybe I shoved it somewhere in my bag. When the plane landed in Van, I checked my carry-on again, but it wasn’t there either. After everyone disembarked, I explained my situation to the flight attendant. She told me to wait at the baggage claim area, and if they found it on the plane, they would bring it to me. I waited for a while, but no one came. Meanwhile, I somehow found the phone number of the lost-and-found office at Sabiha Gökçen Airport and called them to ask if an ID had been found. The answer was negative…
Since there was nothing more I could do at Van Airport, the four of us took a taxi to the city center. As soon as the driver placed our backpacks into the spacious trunk of his Doblo, he immediately guessed we were mountaineers. We told him we were heading to Cilo. The taxi driver, worried, said:
“What business do you have there in this weather, brother? Something might happen to you.”
He tried to discourage us along the way, offered to show us around Van instead, and even invited us to his home as guests. We thanked him sincerely for his kind invitation, but said “Maybe next time, inshallah.”
When we reached the city center, we left our backpacks at the bus company office where we would later depart for Yüksekova. Then we went into a nearby restaurant for lunch. I couldn’t really taste the food, my mind was too preoccupied. After lunch, my friends and I went to the Van Provincial Population Directorate. It was only a 5–10 minute walk, and we found it easily by asking around. I explained my situation to the chief there. Other than my Turkish Mountaineering Federation (TDF) license, I had no other ID on me. And that card didn’t even have an embossed seal. We tried to find a solution together. He told me that in order to prove my identity, an official inquiry would need to be opened — a long process. In the end, he said he could not issue me a new or temporary ID. We left empty-handed.
Next, we thought of going to the police station. We knew there would be frequent ID checks on the way, and we figured maybe an official report could help. At the station entrance, there was a long line. I got in and waited, but the line wasn’t moving. Like any regular citizen, I asked the person in front of me what the line was for. It turned out people released under judicial control were lining up to sign in, since the station was closed for lunch. I left the line and went to the information desk to explain my case. As I passed through the door, the X-ray machine beeped because of my backpack. The officer asked me to open it. Already nervous, I became even more tense when he saw the drone inside. I quickly explained why I had it and why I was there. Once he calmed down, he told me that such matters were now handled by the population directorates and advised me to call 199 to report my lost ID. So once again, we left with no solution.
As we wandered around Van, the departure time of the last bus to Yüksekova — 16:00 — was approaching, so we reluctantly returned to the office. We bought tickets for the last trip and began our intercity journey with my three friends. The trip passed quickly with conversation. As night fell, we stopped at a roadside rest facility. Suddenly, a young man rushed out into the freezing cold without a coat, opened our van’s door, and welcomed us warmly. Dressed in strange clothes compared to locals, we entered the rest stop as “foreigners from the West.” Inside, everyone was engrossed in a football match but still came over to chat with us. When we tried to pay for our tea, they refused, saying we were guests. Things like this are not common in the West — perhaps a true East–West difference.
As we neared Yüksekova, the ID checks by gendarmerie and police began, as I had expected. A few days earlier, incidents in the region had led to the declaration of a state of emergency. The uncertainty made me nervous. They could have detained me for a while, which would have meant missing my group in Yüksekova — essentially canceling the expedition for me. At each checkpoint, I showed my mountaineering license and explained my situation. I don’t recommend it to anyone, but for adrenaline seekers — let me note this: walking around without an ID during a state of emergency gives you more than enough adrenaline. 🙂 Luckily, I reached Yüksekova without any trouble. What I learned from this was: it’s always useful to keep a second ID (like a driver’s license or passport) in a different bag while traveling. For the return trip, I came up with a plan: I asked my family in Istanbul to send my driver’s license to the hotel where I was staying. By the time our expedition was over, the package would have arrived. And indeed, the plan worked perfectly. I didn’t try, but I doubt the airline would have accepted my mountaineering license as valid ID for boarding.
By the time we arrived, the friends who had flown directly were already settled in the hotel. They were at a nearby café, attending a welcome dinner organized by the Yüksekova Nature Enthusiasts group. We dropped our belongings at the hotel lobby and went to join them. There we met Sönmez Erkaya, Head of Klos Mountaineering, along with our other climbing friends from Istanbul and the Yüksekova Nature Enthusiasts team. After dinner, we sang songs together. With these wonderful young people, we played saz, sang folk songs, and danced halay, spending a beautiful evening.
Day One:
In the morning, we arrived at the Yeşiltaş military outpost with two minibuses. We met the soldiers, who welcomed us warmly. The commander’s supportive words kept our morale and motivation high, and we are grateful for that. When I came here in 2013, a different commander had collected our IDs and asked each of us one by one, “Did you come here of your own will?” I understand this was for security reasons, but the difference in approach makes a huge impact on motivation. After taking a commemorative photo with the soldiers, we shouldered our backpacks with high spirits and set off.
We walked all the way to Serpel Plateau through deep slushy snow and under continuous snowfall. We crossed many avalanche-prone sections. Witnessing this scene lowered our morale. We began to think, *if the conditions are like this in the first stage, the next ones must be even more difficult… What we saw was no different from the Karakoram ranges in Nepal or Pakistan.
I had three pairs of gloves with me — inner, middle, and outer layers. I thought the middle layer would be enough and set off wearing just one pair. Toward the evening, that pair got wet, and my fingers started to freeze. The other gloves were buried deep in my backpack and not easy to reach. Since we were so close to the campsite, I kept postponing changing them out of laziness. But as darkness fell and the wind grew stronger, I began to feel real pain. I almost paid for this mistake by freezing my fingertips. The lesson I learned from this: no matter what, always keep your gloves in an easily accessible spot in your pack!
We reached the Serpil Plateau Camp (2100 m) via a 6.5 km route in 10 hours. However, we saw that there was avalanche risk almost everywhere. We chose the least dangerous spot we could find. It was a place where an avalanche had already fallen and released part of the snow load. As darkness fell, we pitched our tents there. Afterwards, everyone crawled into their sleeping bags. In that cold, the comfort of down sleeping bags feels indescribably good — like being in a mother’s arms…
Day Two:
The next morning, we woke up as daylight broke. The sun hadn’t yet reached our tents. It was hitting the slope across the stream, about 40–50 meters away. In the mountains, when the sunlight is close but not yet on you, you feel sudden temperature shifts, like when you open and close the freezer compartment of a refrigerator. That’s why we were eagerly waiting for the sun to finally reach us.
Meanwhile, we began preparing breakfast. My tent mate and I stepped outside to fetch water from the stream. When we got there, we realized it was impossible to reach the water because of 3–4 meters of snow depth above it. I tied an empty plastic bottle to a rope and lowered it, but since the bottle was too light, it didn’t sink into the stream and didn’t fill with water. We thought about cutting the 1.5-liter bottle in half or tying a rope to a cooking pot and lowering it, but pulling it back up without spilling seemed impossible, since the rope wouldn’t drop straight down like into a well. We considered setting up an anchor and rappelling down, but since we were hungry and thirsty, we kept trying the simplest way.
This time, I tied my thermos to a rope and dropped it into the stream. The scene looked like Eskimos fishing. My thermos had a tiny carabiner attachment on its lid. My God, how life-saving that feature turned out to be! I experienced it right there. With the thermos, we were able to draw water without spilling and then fill our bottles. When the other campers saw this, they rushed over with their bottles and thermoses and lined up for water. Together with my tent mate, we managed to meet everyone’s water needs in the most efficient way.
Had we not been able to get water from the stream, everyone would have been forced to melt snow, wasting their most precious mountain supplies — stove cartridges. Anyone who has ever drunk melted snow water knows how terrible it tastes. Mountaineers usually melt snow and add powdered drinks, both to improve the flavor and to supplement electrolytes that pure snow water lacks. But since we had direct access to as much water as we wanted, there was no need for that — and everyone was in high spirits.
However, due to yesterday’s weather conditions and the avalanche sections, some of our friends lost their motivation and didn’t want to continue. During the technical meeting, six people decided to turn back. We took their stove cartridges and extra food, said our goodbyes, and they returned with the local guide. We left the excess gear in one tent, packed up the other tents and our backpacks, and then set off with the full load of the camp.
To reach Horkedim Plateau at 2900 meters, we had to climb a steep 800-meter section we called the Azap Couloir with our backpacks fully loaded with camp gear. It was an immense challenge for us. My backpack felt as heavy as lead. Our tent for four people weighed 5.6 kg, and we carried it in turns. The snow was up to our knees, and every step we took looked like drilling into an oil well. Each time I lifted my foot and tried to push it into the snow for the next step, the lead-like weight on my back pulled me backward.
Breaking trail in the snow with that much weight on my back was pure agony. No amount of money would make someone willingly endure such torment. Without teamwork, the climb would have taken another one or two days. And without teamwork and faith, I don’t think I could have carried such a heavy load like a mule and put myself through this suffering. In the end, there is no applause, no reward. This is something you do from the heart.
The climb we had started in the morning dragged on until around 10:00 p.m., as we searched in exhaustion for a campsite. Instead of pushing all the way to the plateau at 2900 meters, we set up camp about 100 meters below, on a gently sloping spot. The next day was our planned rest day.
Day Three:
We woke up to our rest day and had breakfast. We spent the day doing small chores but mostly resting. Sönmez made a great contribution to our photos by acting as a model — but it came back to him later as the pain of a sunburn. 🙂
Without high-factor sunscreen (like SPF 50), you can get burned in such an environment almost without realizing it. The mountains are more effective than a tanning bed…
We used shovels to cut snow blocks like bricks and built separate toilets for men and women. Squat toilets in the wild provide great comfort and safety — but against drones, we were defenseless. 🙂
At noon, we gathered in our leader Sönmez’s tent for a technical meeting. We decided to wake up at midnight, 00:00, for the summit push.
When night fell, everyone retreated to their tents to sleep. I’m not someone who can easily fall asleep in different time zones. While my tent mates were able to rest, I mostly stayed awake with my eyes open.
Back in 2013, when I came here, drones constantly flew over our camp. In the silence of nature, the noise was overwhelming, and I couldn’t sleep at night. This time, technology must have advanced — they were flying much higher, and the sound was quieter.
Day Four:
Around 01:00, we set out from our summit camp and entered the summit route. Each time I reached a rise ahead, I climbed with the hope that the summit ridge would finally come into view. After finishing one of the seemingly close ridges, I thought, Alright, this must be very near the summit. But alas, another ridge appeared before me. The summit refused to reveal itself. The steep section I passed through between 3700–3900 meters was extremely exhausting. Above us stretched a sunny, clear blue sky; below us lay an icy white blanket — yet I felt as if I were lost in a boundless desert, dying of thirst. At one point, I remember muttering to the teammate in front of me: Wouldn’t it be great if one of those drones circling above dropped some cold water on us?
When we reached the plateau at 4000 meters, it was noon. Only 135 meters of elevation remained ahead of us. We had arrived at the ridge and arête section of the route, which involved 2–3 hours of technical climbing. We roped up as a team. Leading the way, Sönmez told us: ‘At some random moment I’ll shout “Watch out!” — and when I do, everyone should act as if someone has fallen and do what’s necessary.’
A few minutes later, as we moved one by one along the moderately steep ridge, he suddenly shouted, ‘Watch out!’ All of us instantly dropped to the ground and drove our ice axes into the snow. Since everyone was fully alert, we were able to react at the very same moment.
Dark clouds were approaching from a distance, and it looked like the weather would deteriorate toward evening. Fog clouds were intermittently drifting over the summit ridge and then passing by. While we were doing the drill, a fog cloud came — but this time it didn’t move on. It was as if it was announcing tense moments ahead. Visibility dropped to 30–40 meters. Our leader said that our reflexes were good and reminded us that we needed to stay this attentive at all times.
We had barely taken a few steps after rising to our feet when an earsplitting crack tore through the mountainside, followed by a tremor that shook me like a miniature earthquake. My foot felt as though it had been wrenched from the snow beneath me. In an instant, a massive slab of snow broke free, roaring and shuddering as it plunged down the slope, dragging smaller chunks along with it into the yawning abyss below. Two of our female teammates, at the front, vanished into the northern void to our right. Instinct took over. We all threw ourselves to the left, plunging our ice axes deep into the snow for grip. When the avalanche stopped, the world seemed frozen. No one dared move. I felt as though I had stumbled onto a film set—yet this was no movie; it was bone-chilling reality.
“Fell! They fell!” The shouts were frantic, overlapping, chaotic. No one had the courage to inch toward the cliff. A smooth, blinding white cornice stretched before us, but its edges were a cruel mystery—where did the snow end and the abyss begin? We feared another collapse might claim us all. This was the thin, trembling line between life and death, and we had stepped beyond it.
Were they still clinging to the rope, or had they vanished into the void? I pressed myself against the snow, my body flat, eyes straining to see, heart pounding. I counted, scanning the line—who was missing? Kenan crouched like a soldier in a foxhole, scanning the slope, calculating every shadow, every threat. The snow itself seemed alive, waiting for the next victim. The rope quivered, a silent question hanging in the frigid air. Like anglers testing a line for a bite, we checked the tension, unsure what we might find. Then we called down. The response was faint, scrambled, barely human: a whisper lost in the wind. At least someone was alive. Sönmez commanded silence, then called himself: “Are you okay?” “…dkh jbfg..gdfsdsdfj”—a weak, almost ghostly voice reached us.
There they were: suspended hundreds of meters above the abyss, rope cinched at their waists, staring up at the endless sky. Packs and ice axes lost to the void. Their voices faint, fragile, yet defiant: they were alive. What went through their minds in that vertigo-soaked moment? Perhaps life itself flickered before them, scene by scene… or the ache of unfinished stories, missed chances, or a love that would never return filled them. Time had stopped; minutes stretched into lifetimes. Every heartbeat, every second, felt like a lifetime. The mountain had claimed its terror, but somehow, miraculously, it had not claimed them. And in that frozen silence, we waited, suspended in disbelief, feeling the raw edge of mortality brush against our souls.
Up above, Sönmez began setting up an anchor with his ice axe. He transferred the weight on the rope to the anchor for security and then unclipped from the rope team. Right behind him, our teammate Recep (Kulaber) was lying face down very close to the cliff. The rope was pressing over his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. Once the anchor was established, there was some relief at the front. But the person positioned closest to the cliff, right behind the fallen teammates, was still bearing the load. That weight had to be taken.
My teammate in front of me, probably in shock, asked twice if he should unclasp from the rope. He was thinking of unclipping and securing himself with the ATC. But that wasn’t a sensible move, because he was lying down the slope and had no position to support himself with his feet. I was behind him, watching those lying on the ground.
I was preparing to take on the load if he unclipped. When we all objected simultaneously, he didn’t unclasp. Then, following Sönmez’s instructions, we slowly inched left. The fallen friends had moved slightly upward and closer to the slope. We could begin hearing their voices and understanding them.
We swung a rope with a carabiner attached into the abyss and asked the person closest to the slope to catch it and clip it to their harness. The first time we swung it, our friend couldn’t reach it. This time, probably still in shock, the friend hanging on the rope asked if he should unclasp from the rope before the carabiner reached him. Later we realized that the main rope was stuck under the cornice, so we couldn’t pull both up at once. What seemed like a completely irrational question at the time was actually because he thought that if he unclipped, his friend would be saved. He was willing to sacrifice himself to save his teammate.
How can a person sacrifice themselves like that in such moments? There must be something hidden deep inside us… Normally, humans are very selfish, but in some moments, that hidden part emerges, and a person may want to give their life for a relative, a friend, or even a complete stranger.
Fortunately, he didn’t make that decision alone. On one of our attempts, he managed to grab the rope with the carabiner we sent, clip it to his harness, and then detach from the rope connecting him to his friend. Using rope rescue techniques, we first pulled up the friend who unclipped from the main rope and then the other friend. Seeing a hand rise from the abyss felt like a scene from a movie. We all hoped that our friends would come up intact from below. Seeing that they were alive made all of us happy. The hugs and joy of the rescued friends brought an emotional moment. We experienced a feeling that words cannot describe.
Our friends had suddenly fallen into the void, and we had been left at the edge of the slope. Sometimes you truly feel that something spiritual protects you. During this 10–15 minute incident, which was like a film scene, thankfully no one suffered any physical injuries, but it affected us mentally very deeply.
Then we crouched down and formed a circle. Everyone was asked for their opinion one by one: continue or stop? Some of our friends, having put in so much effort to get this far, wanted to continue, saying ‘We can do it.’ Participating in such a mountain expedition again was not easy. Like other sports, mountaineering requires training. You need to go to other mountains at least 2–3 months in advance for training climbs and undergo acclimatization processes to prepare your body for high altitude. Beyond that, there are other challenges. People working jobs need to get leave from work, official permits from authorities, and even if those are arranged, the weather may not cooperate. There are also significant costs for equipment and logistics. As the elevation increases, expenses rise as well. For example, mountains above 7000 meters approach the sky, and so do the costs. Each attempt may require spending astronomical amounts, at least $20,000. Even if a climber finds a sponsor, how many such attempts can one realistically make?
We were all aware of these various difficulties. However, the rock we crouched on was covered with several meters of snow, and it was hard to tell where the rocky area began and ended. We would be walking entirely on a white mass of snow, but it was uncertain whether there was rock or a void beneath. White can be as deadly as it is beautiful. Ahead of us was a ridge where we could experience the same scenario repeatedly. The Reşko Peak — named after the snow-covered mountains — was calling us.
We had spent almost all of our remaining energy just to stay alive. We could return to the summit camp, rest, and try again the next day. But our food supply was not sufficient. The majority of us decided to abandon the climb and turn back. The mountain would still be there. Another winter season, we could return and try again.
The rope team decision here could be criticized. But if we had been moving in a smaller group of 3–4, several of our friends could have gone over the cliff at once. On the other hand, in a place with too many climbers attached to the same rope, a fall could cause a disaster bigger than 3–4 people. This requires extreme caution. The decision must be made carefully; otherwise, it could turn from a lifesaving measure into a source of catastrophe. In our case, placing the lighter climbers at the front of the rope team was a conscious and important choice. If heavier climbers had been at the front, a fall could have dragged everyone into the abyss. Positioning lighter members in front was the right choice.
However, performing the drill of dropping to the ground simultaneously was a mistake. This may have weakened the snow slab and triggered the break. It could have been done somewhere behind us. Perhaps that was also a good possibility, because if the slab had broken while descending along the same tracks rather than during the climb, the situation could have been even more difficult.
When we returned to our summit camp, we immediately went into the tents and spent the night resting. We had been on our feet for 18 hours and deserved the rest.
Day Five:
The next day, the weather brightens. Around 06:00, we all wake up. How wonderful it is to come back to life and wake up to the sun… Two of our friends are eager to start the return journey immediately, as they have flights in the evening. We want to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. We try to convince them that they could leave the next day, but due to their schedules, they want to go back now. Sönmez allows them to go ahead with the local guide.
We enjoy our breakfast. Drinking something warm in the mountains is so precious, I can’t describe it.
After breakfast, packing up the tents and getting ready to set off takes about two hours.
While heading toward the main camp, we hear the sound of a helicopter in the distance. It passes over us and circles around. We assume it is conducting a security flight. Usually, when you see a helicopter, the common thing is to wave… To avoid any misunderstandings, we warned each other not to make any hand gestures. When it began to land nearby, we looked at each other with curious eyes. Hesitantly, we moved toward the helicopter.
The wind generated by the rotors is so strong that it’s hard for us to stay on our feet. Once we board the helicopter, we learn that they came for us. They had been monitoring us constantly. They saw the three people moving ahead in a hurry and tried to contact them via radio. When they couldn’t reach us by radio, they assumed there was a problem.
We all boarded the helicopter, and after a 10–15 minute flight, they landed us at a police station positioned on a high slope. We told them that our tents and equipment were left at the main camp. To retrieve them, Sönmez and I stayed on the helicopter, while the other friends went down to the station to rest. We took off again. When we arrived at the main camp, there was no flat area for the helicopter to land.
Sönmez and I jumped from the helicopter, about 2–3 meters high, to dismantle the tent. The main camp had Husky tents. This tent, which I had been using for many years for economic reasons, had been distorted by the strong wind generated by the helicopter’s rotors. The helicopter created a storm effect with wind speeds of at least 80 km/h. I had never experienced such a violent storm before. The Husky tent is rectangular and tall, which makes it comfortable, but in a severe storm, I questioned how reliable it would be. I also wished that Sönmez’s legendary NorthFace dome tent had been set up nearby; I wondered how it would stand side by side with the Husky. The NorthFace tent wasn’t set up because Sönmez had taken it to the next camp.
We dismantled the tents at the main camp and quickly gathered our gear. Meanwhile, the helicopter found a slightly inclined spot, and the crew carefully monitored the surroundings through the windows, helping the pilot to lower the helicopter’s wheels to the ground like parking a car. We loaded our equipment onto the helicopter, jumped in quickly, and took off again.
When we reached the base area, we boarded the working helicopter again with our other friends and flew directly to the Yüksekova Garrison. We couldn’t pick up the friends who had gone ahead because they had entered the valley. The attention and help from the soldiers made us happy. The tea and treats delighted us. While in the mountain environment, we were suddenly transported to civilization within a few minutes, sipping our tea and enjoying the snacks. We had a pleasant conversation with the esteemed commanders about our climb, the region’s issues, and the potential for winter tourism, and we took a commemorative photo.
Meanwhile, we returned to our hotel with a helicopter we called from the district center (ha ha ha, okay, back to the real world 🙂 — actually a normal 27-seater minibus). Ironically, the three friends who went ahead completed the full tour on foot. While we arrived at the district center around 14:30 and rested at our hotel, they still hadn’t gotten out of the valley. They also missed their flights. They only managed to join us for the dinner we had together. I won’t say who these unlucky friends are, but maybe you can guess from the photos (a hint: because they were exposed to the light reflected from the snow for longer, their faces might be more sunburned 🙂).
Day Six:
The next morning, we said our goodbyes. Most of the group returned to Istanbul by plane. I traveled with a small team organized by Sönmez, first to Van and then to Bingöl. Our goal was to climb a frozen waterfall we had previously scouted. The whole day was spent traveling in an intercity minibus. Looking out the window, everything was pure white. On the vehicle’s stereo, an Ahmet Kaya tape – Sensiz Yaşayabilirem – was playing. As melancholy and silence filled the bus, Sönmez, probably feeling bored, started singing a lively folk song. I had worried that passengers might be disturbed or complain, but when Sönmez sang beautifully, there were no objections. The other passengers enjoyed it, and some even recorded videos for social media live streams. The cold atmosphere warmed instantly as Sönmez created a sense of camaraderie with his singing. We began chatting with the passengers as if we had known them for forty years. Of course, everyone had their own troubles—some were visiting sick relatives, others were going to see spouses in prison.
Day Seven:
Early in the morning, we visited the Bingöl Youth and Sports Provincial Directorate. We met with officials and our friend, the Bingöl TDF provincial representative. With their help, we went on a full waterfall hunt in the region. However, we found that despite the cold weather, all the waterfalls only froze during January and February; at other times, they were not suitable for climbing. After our short but productive exploration of Bingöl, we flew back to Istanbul and returned home.
Our climb was covered as news in some print and online media.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to all the institutions, organizations, and rope partners who contributed to this major and important winter expedition, offering their help and support without reservation. We have promised to return to Cilo, because the mountain stands there, continuing to offer adventure to those who wish to climb it.
Footnote: There is a wonderful film about the Cilo Mountains produced by Fujifilm. If you are curious about this region, I am sharing the video link and highly recommend watching it: https://vimeo.com/139283269
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►İ L E T İ Ş İ M – [email protected]
