The Seasonal Journey of Hemshin Shepherds in Vercenik Valley

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Every May, a centuries-old rhythm begins once again for the Hemshin shepherds of Turkey’s northeastern Black Sea region. With festive celebrations and the sound of the traditional tulum, shepherds like Kadir guide their flocks from the coastal village of Pazar toward the high pastures of the Vercenik Plateau. This movement, known as transhumance, is more than a migration; it's a living tradition shaped by ecology, memory, and ancestral knowledge. Each year, the journey is an orchestration of cultural rituals, ecological assessment, animal care, and community dynamics.

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Kadir, known among his community as the "yalnız kurt" (lonely wolf), is not only a seasoned shepherd but also a bearer of traditional ecological knowledge. Before the flock moves, he travels ahead to the Vercenik Plateau to assess the snow cover, inspect any damage caused by bears, and evaluate the emergence of fresh grass. His observations determine the readiness of the plateau for grazing and guide the decisions of other shepherd families. These observations are based not only on visual cues but also on inherited knowledge, such as the smell of thawing earth, the return of certain birds, and even the behavioral cues of animals. The migration cannot be completed in a single journey. Instead, it unfolds over four distinct ecological stages. The first stage begins in the winter settlement of Pazar, a humid lowland area rich in tea terraces. Here, livestock give birth and graze on the edges of cultivated fields. The climate is influenced by the Black Sea, with heavy fog and frequent rains creating lush pastures even during the cold months. Families live in solid houses made of stone and wood, equipped with tools for processing dairy products and storing winter fodder. In early May, the preparations begin. Wooden churns (heneci), cheese and butter casks (kadina), copper buckets (ketoh), cauldrons, and pots are packed. Kadir brings only his wooden crook, clothes, and the hair goat tent equipment. The flock, made up of goats, sheep, and a few cattle, is decorated with colorful fabrics and bells. As the journey begins, tulum music fills the air and villagers gather to mark the departure with song and prayer. The headman of the village determines the exact departure date, often consulting both the weather and ancestral calendars.

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As the weather warms, the flock starts its ascent, camping for short periods in forest clearings along the Fırtına Valley. At each rest stop, Kadir pitches a temporary tent made from goat hair in larch forests. These shelters are simple about 8 square meters—supported by wooden sticks and built in just a couple of hours. Camps are placed on slightly elevated terrain to avoid flooding from the valley’s unpredictable rains. They graze the animals carefully, avoiding wild tea plants whose caffeine content agitates the goats. The valley is known for its biodiversity. Kadir observes the budding of certain flowers and the behavior of forest creatures, using these signs to gauge the coming weather. He avoids areas prone to avalanches or flooding, using generations-old knowledge of microtopography. Streams from snowmelt are both a blessing and a risk; they nourish vegetation but also make the terrain treacherous. The presence of wolves and bears is a constant concern, so kangal dogs accompany the flock for protection. By June, the flock reaches Ortayayla, a once-permanent village now largely abandoned. The remains of old stone houses suggest a time when dozens of families lived here. At 2090 meters above sea level, Ortayayla marks the second stage. The community stays for about a month, waiting for the snow to melt further up the mountain. During this time, family members mow wild grasses with sickles and gather linden and elm leaves to dry for winter fodder.

Kadir uses this stop to assess the next level. He prepares the hamlet or "mezra" at 2350 meters, checking the structural integrity of stone shelters built without mortar, only stacked by hand. These hamlets are isolated stone structures used seasonally for 15–20 days. Each family has its own unit, spaced hundreds of meters apart. The stay is timed precisely with snowmelt and the appearance of fresh vegetation. If grass is scarce, they feed the animals dried plants like ‘şortah’ (Rumex spp.) stored from the previous year. The route between Ortayayla and the mezra is breathtaking. After passing Kale-i Bala, a Byzantine-era castle perched above a steep valley, the path narrows and winds along cliffs and ridges. There are remnants of old trade routes, abandoned stone structures, and beehives carved into rocks. The plateau opens into a field of blossom flowers, where rye and barley grow in harmony with wild species. The contrast between cultivated patches and untouched nature is striking.

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This region is also rich with beekeeping traditions. More than 300 beehives line the transhumance route, and Hemshin families, including Kadir’s, produce flower honey along the journey. Beekeeping is both a livelihood and a tradition. As the flock grazes and disperses seeds, new flower species take root along the route. The local tea flower (Thymus longicaulis), known as "çay çiçeği," is collected and brewed in iron teapots, symbolizing shared heritage and community. Tea drinking is a ritual in itself, punctuating labor and offering moments of pause. By late June or early July, the journey culminates at the Vercenik Plateau, where families reconstruct shelters damaged by bear attacks or avalanches. Though hardships are inevitable, the spirit of communal labor and celebration transforms the plateau into a hub of pastoral life. The houses are built from stone walls and tree bark roofs, which must be repaired annually. Some are entirely rebuilt with fresh wood carried on foot or by mule. Children assist in rebuilding, learning skills passed down through generations.

Elderly villagers and children return to Ortayayla to mow hay for winter fodder, using sickles to harvest and animal manure to fertilize the land. Fields are divided into stones, and the hay is dried in open areas before being packed into storage huts. This activity, called “yağmi,” occupies the entire summer. Hay from lower altitudes is carried back to feed animals once they descend from the high pastures. This vertical migration is deeply entwined with environmental rhythms. The appearance of certain flowers signals key seasonal shifts. For instance, the blooming of the "salep çiçeği" (Orchis mascula) marks the beginning of the return to the lowlands, as snow begins to reappear on the upper slopes. Kadir and his family prepare gradually, checking the skies, the behavior of birds, and even the taste of fresh herbs.

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The return journey retraces their steps, but the direction changes the mood. It is a more somber time, filled with reflection and preparation for the winter ahead. Bears may have visited their shelters during their absence. Beehives are checked and honey harvested. The last herbs are collected, and the landscape is slowly left to rest. Today, despite modernization, this intricate cycle of movement, ecology, and tradition remains alive among Hemshin families. Some families have introduced solar panels and mobile phones to coordinate tasks, but the essence of transhumance remains intact. Roads have not reached many of these plateaus, preserving the slow rhythm of travel on foot.​ It’s a story not just of survival, but of harmony with nature—carried on through footsteps, memory, and the soft ring of bells echoing across alpine meadows. This cultural landscape, shaped by both human and animal labor, stands as a living archive of resilience, adaptation, and connection to the land.

 

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