We had passed the waypoint late in the night after a tough 30-mile day, after walking through cold and empty desert. We were too tired to stop. The Caspian Sea beckoned. So we kept on through the dark.
We returned the next day. The wind blew across the limestone buttes where early humans had left their Stone Age drawings of extinct wild oxen and of dances and of voluptuous women — the wind like some primordial ache in its howling. It raked an abandoned oil well, stripping the land to the raw. It was the end of something. It was the end of the Caucasus.