"If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine; it is lethal." -Paulo Coelho

Ürgüp is silent. I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains of our first-floor cave room and began to prepare our coffee—water boiling in the kettle, ground beans measured into the French press. I let Z sleep since he works late so often. We found our way to breakfast at the Serinn House and enjoyed an outstanding spread of eggs cooked to our liking, a Turkish assortment (olives, fruit, etc.), and freshly made gözleme (a traditional crispy flatbread made of thin, unleavened dough filled with various ingredients and cooked on a griddle.)

First things first - No, we didn't do the hot air balloon. A few reasons: 1) We're on a budget, and that can be exceptionally pricey, and 2) I had a strange previous encounter with hot air balloons that made me hesitant to try it again. The only time I’ve been in one was to jump out of it while skydiving! It was a beautiful, untouchable memory that I cannot possibly fathom replacing. I also find the concept wild—a fire in a fabric sheet inside a wicker basket with no brakes or turning mechanism - yikes!!

There are many guided tours, from luxe (and crowded) to more remote. We prefer our own time and pace and are willing to do the hard work for the rewards. No strangers to long days and hard miles, we set out on foot from Ürgüp as a challenge. How far could we get on our own two feet, and what could we see? Our first stop was the Church of St. Giorgio. It was small and set into a tiny corner of a town, without any signage. We traced our fingers on the walls and gazed up at the frescoes, still so visible in the arches. It was a quick spark that would illuminate the rest of the day. We walked along dirt roads, avoiding highways, cutting through farmland and old hard-pack between homes.

A dog trundled up to us from under a Mulberry tree, her appearance a surprise as she was unlike the dogs we usually see. Kangols are muscular and short-haired; she was round and had long hair, looking more like a mix of a husky and an Australian shepherd. We wondered what she ate, surely not mulberries, to be such a happy size. She kept trotting after us, her ear tag tinkling along with her steps, keeping pace.

We crossed roads, streets, and streams, and she kept right alongside us. Z started giving her commands in Turkish. Whether she understood the words or just the intention, she stayed, came, sat, and moved alongside us. There’s something ingrained in both Turk and dog—a relationship as old as time. Dogs have been companions and protectors in various civilizations, including the Hittites, Phrygians, and Ottomans. The nomadic Turks who roamed the steppes of Central Asia before settling in Anatolia relied on dogs for herding and guarding livestock, fostering a deep bond between humans and canines. The Anatolian Shepherd, known for its loyalty and strength, is one of the ancient breeds that emerged from this region, reflecting the practical and revered role of dogs in pastoral life. In Ottoman times, dogs were not only pets but also street guardians, particularly in Istanbul, where they were often fed and cared for by the community. Despite the challenges and changes over centuries, the relationship between Turks and dogs remains emblematic of loyalty and service, with these animals continuing to be cherished in modern Turkish society.

There was something magical about watching man and dog pick up threads of a long-lost fabric, weaving it back and forth without thought. We’d enter a cave, she’d enter. Seek shade and shelter and watch the front. We picked up three more dogs—a mom and her two pups along the way, and they followed, forming our own tailor-made pack. Ziya and Gül (the first dog) often led, with me and the three dogs in the back. In and out and up into cave homes we went, the dogs following suit. I know I’m talking about the dogs, but the caves, the dogs, the heat, the wind, the burrs that stuck to us, the sand winding into our socks, squinting into the horizon, running our hands along the rocks, dipping our fingers into cool water—but this is what makes real Cappadocia. We walked the way the original inhabitants did - not by balloon, not roaring through on an ATV or in an air-conditioned Land Rover - but with our feet caked in dust, sweat on our skin, the sun in our eyes. Our feet found the same footholds they used, our hands fit into their handholds as pull ourselves inside the homes, enjoying the same cool respite they did. We loved how they used the pigeons - animals and humans sharing space, doing work. The pigeons still flitted and fluttered, nesting in the pigeon holes of ancient homes, wondering if we were back to fill the space with laughter and long stories, firelight and food.

We climbed fully inside the homes—massive boulders with tiny entrances, hand and footholds carved in the rock and smoothed by use and time. You enter, stand, and climb, bracing one foot behind you. Literally enter a rock. How is it possible to carve this much? To not carve too much? How much time did this take? It’s cool and damp inside, with moths flitting in the mud. Outside, some homes are numbered in Arabic—we laughed and considered if it’s 135 Chicken Way since there are numbers and a chicken drawing. Others have beautiful motifs and patterns in brilliant blue and iron ore red. There were no art supply stores - all pigments were made by crushed elements - beetles, ore, mud, plants, gems.

Inside, the layouts are beyond impressive. Space to sleep, rooms carved out for privacy, other areas for gathering. Carved niches for storage, cisterns for water, shelves carved in the wall for storage, treasures, closet space. The ever-present pigeon holes. There’s not a single person out here as I sit at a cave entrance, Gül panting beside me. My fingers knit into her fur, and the sun bakes the valley as I look out at the grass waving in the wind. You’d have seen whoever was coming. They’d know it was your proud home. Your dogs would be climbing steep rock entrances to sit and guard, facing outward, timelessly.

After some time we dropped the mom and her pups in the heat. Gül kept running ahead, leading the way. She'd lay down in muddy water, waiting, as if she knew we were going to Ortishihar and that we'd be good on our word to buy her lunch. We found our way through a canyon; empty cave homes gave way to a different feeling. Other dogs guarded trails that forked off from the main road, launching themselves out of thickets and bushes, aggressively barking and following until we'd brandish large staffs at them and yell. That too, felt timeless. Our dog, us, wanting passage in peace. There was something that shifted as we approached a steeper canyon. There was a little more recent trash, that didn't seem quite like trash. A styrofoam tray out by a rock, relatively new and licked clean. A particular stacking of wood that seemed intentional, but sly. We finally came up to a cave home to discover rugs rolled and stored, water jugs in a row, and a pair of pants drying, hung on a fruit tree. We stepped back down quietly, now noticing that the empty upper caves had some reinforcements—pipes for airflow, a ladder here and there, newer markings.

With awe and admittedly a little fear, we realized these were still occupied cave homes. We were somewhere in a thin space where ancient history had slid right into the present. You could fall off the face of the earth here and never, ever, be found. We were surprised how quickly we entered civilization after exiting the canyon where people were living. We found our way upwards to the town - we were there to make good on our deal to Gül and were in dire need of refreshments. The restaurants seemed cheap and thin, packed with tourists angling for a selfie with pigeons crowding in for crumbs. We left our road dog outside as she’d threaten the seemingly useless chihuahuas the owners had procured and bred. We drank our tea a bit frustrated; Gül deserved to have a nice meal too. We promised that if we went back out and she was there, she’d have the meal of a lifetime. We walked out feeling a bit dejected, only to have her come loping out of a nearby parking lot where she’d been napping in the shade. Z left us to rest roadside while he went to get kofte, fries, and water for her. She deserved that meal—we were somewhere around mile 10 after all!

We were tired, and the sun was starting its long slope toward the hills but we still had miles to go. I jokingly asked if it was going to be a 20-mile day. We picked a few remaining sites, having Gül with us meant we wanted to avoid a long stretch of highway—but it’s a toss-up with the trails that could force us to backtrack in the dark. We chose the Hallaç Monastery and kept walking. The thunderclouds built ominously. We found ourselves at the monastery as a few cars pulled away, leaving us delightfully alone. After 15 miles, we were simply unfit for human company. We strolled into the courtyard of the monastery, our wild dog scouting ahead. Z poked his head out of a window high up, and a pigeon flew into a hole set in a painted wall. I ate dried figs and watched the shadows move across the walls. I turned a corner and stepped into an inner courtyard or sanctuary. Massive columns, carved from the rock, stretched into the sky. Who, how, with what? The sheer volume of physical work astounded me. The foresight to map out and sculpt structures this size. The added flourishes of doors, windows, and paintings - it’s overwhelming when you imagine the work it would have taken to create.

We walked along a trail through rolling grass and rocks. Gül ran between us, tongue lolling, still in the game. “Me too, me too”, I thought as thunderclouds built on the horizon. We’re going to clock 18 miles (the dog too), and we’re all tired and hungry. Trails gave way to the streets of Ürgüp, and we wondered what we were doing with the dog. We crossed the street and began up the hill to the hotel. Gül paused, and the sky split open with lightning. She gave us one last look and turned. She deliberately crossed the main street and slowly walked back in the direction we found her this morning. Z stood watching for what seemed like 10 minutes until she turned out of sight.

The dogs, the day, the miles—it was a deeply authentic and moving experience of Cappadocia. Heading off the beaten path is harder, and the outcome was uncertain. In the beginning I wondered if we were going to see the things we sought - I couldn’t have asked for a better adventure. We had a fantastic dinner at Asımın yeri complete with live music, great service and fantastic food. We walked back slowly towards the Serinn House and tucked in for the night, filled with awe and exhaustion.