The Lost Trails of Zagros: Mountain Biking in Iraqi Kurdistan

On the flanks of Halgurd, we find a three-mile descent that rides like an alpine-slide covered in buckshot

That brings us to Kurdistan. The region’s relative security has nurtured a tourist boom, with the number of visitors swelling 47 percent last year to more than three million. Most come from the southern and central provinces of Iraq and across the border from Iran, though a fledgling adventure tourism sector caters to intrepid Westerners.

Kurdistan in May is as lush as Park City, Utah, during spring run-off, the sweeps of grassy meadows and snow-white mountain incisors dissonant with the sandy, kiln-hot vision of Iraq seen in media reports. Another surprise is the relative affluence. Kurdistan holds approximately 30 percent of Iraq’s oil reserves, and that wealth clearly benefits the region. The airport in Erbil, the capital, is all polished steel and bright-white tiles; the city skyline is an Erector Set of cranes, and wide, well-paved highways lace a countryside dotted with freshly painted stone houses.

We snake our way three hours northeast from Erbil on buttery asphalt over two passes to the town of Choman, the jumping off point for Halgurd mountain that’s just a couple of miles from the Iranian border. The country’s second highest peak is incorporated into Iraqi Kurdistan’s first national park, Halgurd-Sakran, but the only infrastructure we note is the 12-room Halgurd Resort at the base of the mountain, where we’re the only patrons.

The plan is to drive as high as we can on the peak, then pedal in search of rideable footpaths. When spring snowbanks lick over the dirt track at 7,500 feet, we pull over. While we gear up, Rekan Rasool, our local guide, fires up a stove to brew tea. A liaison for the U.S. Consulate in Erbil, Rasool, who’s as stocky and flamboyant as a Lucha Libre wrestler, moonlights as an adventure guide. He also heads up an outdoor group for Kurds, Rock Ur Bones, which counts more than 8,000 members. He’s slowly building an outfitting business, with a fleet of 29er mountain bikes and enough camping gear to take expeditions up Halgurd, and talks of adding kayaks, climbing gear, even a houseboat. He sees the mountains as Kurdistan’s greatest untapped resource. ‘Everyone thinks only of oil or war when they think of Iraq. But they’d change their minds if they could see this’, he says, gesturing at the mountains before us.

But vestiges of the past are everywhere. Anti-personnel landmines dating back to the 1980s Iran-Iraq War freckle the border mountains, making exploration tricky . Locals mostly know the safe spots; a rudimentary, rusted-out map with red no-go zones and skull-and-crossbones symbols sits on the verge of the road. But the ordnance is constantly shifting with rain and snowmelt. Last year, Rasool found a mine 100 yards from where we’re parked. He shows me a piece of shrapnel that lodged in the side of his Kia SUV when local men disarmed the device by plinking at it with rifles.

After the descent from Safin, we roll into Shaqlawa, a hill station of 25,000 that draws Iraqi tourists with its Mediterranean climate and scores of restaurants. It’s Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, which most people observe by fasting from dawn until dusk.

After dark, which is when we go out, the streets are swarming and cafés overflowing. Dinner is the usual Middle Eastern fare — chicken and lamb kebabs, rice, soup, flat bread — after which we fall into the procession of locals strolling the cobbled main street. Men with Elvis Presley bouffant haircuts, the vogue in the country, and pointy brogues bubble hookahs on open-air patios, while families tuck into shoe shops and cell phone stores. More women wear jeans than headscarves, and children drag their parents to the ice cream shops on almost every corner. It’s like a Rated G version of the Atlantic City boardwalk, complete with American muscle cars cruising laps, including one particularly tricked out black Chevy Camaro. Sometimes, even on riding trips, it’s not always about the riding.

On our next to last day in Kurdistan, we explore Sar Murid Canyon, the easternmost stop on the trip, less than 10 miles from the Iranian border. From where we park amidst smashed-out concrete bunkers, slabs of limestone adorn the grassy hillside like half-tumbled dominos, and stone armaments on the cliff walls testify to centuries of civilisation.

We climb the canyon following a mirror-clear, spring-fed creek. The chasm necks down to 20 yards across, then opens into a broad vertiginous valley that stair-steps northward beneath a fortress of rock. This is the riding we’ve been seeking: strenuous but manageable, and in a silent, wild setting. For a moment, it’s tempting to imagine adventure tourism taking root in Kurdistan

The chasm opens into a broad valley winding north beneath a fortress of rock: this was the riding we’d been seeking: strenuous and in a silent, wild setting.