Rock-Hewn Churches and Ancient Trails: Trekking Ethiopia's Tigray from Mekelle

Ethiopia's Tigray region demands thorough preparation, especially for its combination of high altitude (2,000-3,000 meters) and surprisingly variable climate. When my partner Leila and I planned our trek, we quickly realized this wouldn't be your typical hiking experience. The region's remoteness means medical facilities are scarce, and the terrain combines steep escarpments with high-altitude plateaus that can challenge even experienced trekkers.

After my previous experience with altitude sickness in Nepal, I wasn't taking chances. I invested in a reliable altitude sickness medication and started taking it 24 hours before ascending above 2,500 meters. The dry highland air also demands serious hydration—my water purification system proved invaluable, allowing us to safely refill from local water sources without contributing plastic waste.

The terrain requires sturdy footwear with excellent ankle support. Many paths to the churches involve scrambling up near-vertical rock faces using ancient handholds and natural features. While some churches have added safety ropes in recent years, many remain accessible only via traditional routes used by priests for centuries.

The churches of Gheralta represent the crown jewels of Tigray's rock-hewn heritage, and reaching them requires equal parts determination, respect, and physical stamina. After a bumpy two-hour drive from Mekelle, we arrived at the small community of Megab, where we met our local guide Haile—a former shepherd who grew up scaling these very cliffs.

"Teanastëllën," he greeted us with a warm smile, using the Tigrinya welcome. "The churches have been waiting for you."

The ascent to Abuna Yemata Guh remains one of the most exhilarating and terrifying experiences of my trekking life. After a 45-minute hike across scrubland, we faced a near-vertical 200-meter rock face. Haile pointed out ancient handholds and footholds worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims' hands and feet. No safety equipment here—just faith and focus.

My chalk bag borrowed from my rock climbing days proved unexpectedly useful for maintaining grip on the smooth sandstone. Halfway up, on a narrow ledge barely wider than my feet, I paused to catch my breath. Below, the landscape unfurled in a tapestry of ochre, sienna and gold, punctuated by the green of acacia trees.

The final approach requires crossing a natural rock bridge with sheer drops on either side—not for the faint-hearted. But what awaits inside transcends the physical journey: 800-year-old ceiling frescoes depicting biblical scenes in vibrant colors preserved by the dry mountain air, all illuminated by shafts of light from small windows cut into the rock.

Three days into our trek, we arrived at the small village of Degum, where a community tourism initiative has created a model for sustainable travel that deeply resonated with my own values. After years working in development, I've seen too many examples of tourism that extracts rather than enriches—Degum stands as a powerful counter-example.

The village cooperative manages simple but comfortable guest houses built using traditional techniques and local materials. Solar panels provide basic electricity, and meals feature local ingredients prepared according to regional recipes. What makes this approach special is that income is shared among community members and invested in education and healthcare projects.

My solar lantern became an instant hit with local children who gathered around our guest house at dusk. I demonstrated how it charges during the day and provides light at night—a small but meaningful cultural exchange about renewable energy.

Our host Kidane arranged an evening coffee ceremony, Ethiopia's time-honored ritual of hospitality. We sat on low stools as she roasted green coffee beans over hot coals, filling the air with an intoxicating aroma. The beans were ground by hand using traditional tools before being brewed in a clay pot called a jebena. The resulting coffee—served in small cups with plenty of sugar—was unlike anything you'd find in Seoul's trendiest cafes: intensely flavored, slightly smoky, and deeply connected to the land and people around us.

"Coffee was born in Ethiopia," Kidane told us proudly. "When you drink it here, you drink it at its source."

The trails connecting Tigray's churches and communities aren't marked on any map you can download. Navigation here relies on local knowledge and sometimes just faith that the faint path beneath your feet will lead somewhere meaningful. After our fourth day of trekking, I learned to trust the landscape's subtle language—following goat paths that wound efficiently around impossible terrain and recognizing the small stone cairns that occasionally marked significant junctions.

My offline GPS navigation tool provided peace of mind in the most remote sections, allowing us to mark important waypoints and track our journey without cellular coverage. However, I found myself using it less and less as the days passed, preferring instead to rely on Haile's intimate knowledge of the terrain.

The most challenging aspect of trekking in Tigray isn't physical but cultural. These are living religious sites, not tourist attractions. During our visit to Maryam Korkor church, we arrived to find a baptism ceremony in progress. Rather than barging in with cameras, we waited quietly outside until invited to witness the celebration—a reminder that respectful distance sometimes offers the most authentic connection.

We encountered priests who had lived in isolation for decades, maintaining ancient manuscripts and traditions. Some spoke only Ge'ez, the liturgical language of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Communication happened through layers of translation—from Ge'ez to Tigrinya to English—a beautiful reminder of how many voices and perspectives shape our understanding of places.

"These churches survived because they were hidden," Haile explained one evening as we watched the sunset paint the cliffs crimson. "Now that more travelers come, we must ensure the spirit of these places survives too."

Trekking through Tigray's semi-arid landscape quickly reveals the region's environmental fragility. Water scarcity is a daily reality for local communities, and climate change has intensified drought cycles. As responsible travelers, our practices matter enormously in such a vulnerable ecosystem.

I've adopted a strict pack-in, pack-out approach to waste management on all my treks, but Tigray demanded even more mindfulness. Our group carried all non-biodegradable waste back to Mekelle, including used batteries and packaging. For toileting, we followed backcountry principles—at least 100 meters from any water source and burying biodegradable waste.

Water consumption requires particular attention. I found my collapsible water bottle essential for maximizing capacity without bulk. When staying in communities, we were careful to use only the water allocated to us, knowing that every drop has been carried—often on someone's back—from distant sources.

Firewood is another precious resource. In villages where we stayed, cooking was done communally to minimize fuel consumption. We supplemented our meals with dried fruit and nuts that required no preparation, reducing our environmental footprint while maintaining energy for challenging hikes.

One evening near Debre Damo monastery, I watched a local farmer carefully constructing stone bunds across a hillside—an ancient erosion control technique that's being revitalized to combat desertification. These small interventions, multiplied across countless hillsides, are helping communities adapt to changing rainfall patterns. It was a powerful reminder that sustainability isn't just about what we as travelers do or don't consume—it's about supporting communities' own resilience strategies.