Georgia: Powder and Politics

It all started, as many good ski stories do, in an airport at an unreasonable hour. During a short stopover in Munich, I finally caught up with Brett Ploss, a financial advisor from Indiana and prolific writer for SnowBrains. Months earlier we’d met in Santiago, Chile, bonded over stories of skiing and long-haul flights, and half-jokingly floated the idea of skiing in Georgia.

We boarded our flight to Tblisi around 2 a.m. and landed just before sunset, stepping into a country perched between Europe and Asia. The song “Georgia on my mind” drifted through my mind, although obviously it was about a different Georgia.   A rental car, a vague route, and a sense of curiosity later, we were off on what turned into a full-blown odyssey—treacherous roads, Russian spy ships, absurdly good food, and great skiing. I’ll get to each, in turn.

From Tbilisi to the Black Sea and into the Caucasus Mountains

The drive eased us into the country—rolling hills, scattered villages, the mountains slowly asserting themselves. Our first stop was Bakuriani, a small, no-nonsense ski town tucked into the Lesser Caucasus. They had well-prepared runs and wide views stretching across the Caucasus. It felt refreshingly unpolished—and incredibly affordable at about $40 for a full day of skiing.

By late afternoon, we pushed on to Borjomi, where we spent the night. Borjomi sits deep in a narrow, forested gorge and is famous across the region for its naturally carbonated mineral water, drawn from artesian springs fed by meltwater filtering down from glaciers high above the valley. The town had a calm, slightly faded charm—quiet streets, steep hillsides, and an ever-present entourage of friendly, well-kept street dogs. After a long travel day, it was exactly the right place to slow down.

Motsameta Monastery, near Kutaisi — We stopped here en route to the Black Sea. Clinging to a cliff above the Rioni River, this 8th-century monastery is named for the martyred brothers David and Constantine, local nobles executed after refusing to abandon Christianity during an Arab invasion.

We left the “lower” Caucasus Mountains behind and continued west toward the Black Sea. Near the coast, we drove straight onto the beach and stepped out into a cold, gray seascape. Not far offshore, Russian patrol boats were moving along the coastline. As we watched, they suddenly altered course and accelerated in our direction. That was enough sightseeing for us. We got back in the car quickly and left, the moment shifting from curiosity to survival.

As we pulled away from the beach, the image stuck with me—the low, angular profile of those vessels, the way they turned in unison and accelerated toward us. Two weeks later, I saw an Associated Press story about a Russian intelligence ship that had broken down off the coast of Syria. The article described a spy vessel packed with signals-intelligence gear, briefly drifting out of control with flames and black smoke pouring from its stack. The accompanying photo showed exactly the ships that had chased us off the Georgian beach.

AP Photo of the Russian ship that caught fire off the coast of Syria, about a week after we saw it (or one like it) off the coast of Georgia. John Leicester writes about it in this Associated Press story.

Brett photographing the Russian vessels shortly before they turned and headed towards us.

That encounter made more sense once you understand the geography—and the history—we were skirting. Abkhazia and South Ossetia are internationally recognized as part of Georgia, but both have been under de facto Russian control since the brief 2008 war. Russian troops remain stationed there, borders are militarized, and what Moscow calls “independent states” function in practice as forward military buffers.

It was a sharp reminder that traveling through Georgia—especially its borderlands—isn’t just about scenery. You’re moving through a country still living with the consequences of occupation, where even a quiet walk on a winter beach can brush up against great-power politics.

Heading north, we skirted the edge of Abkhazia, Georgian territory occupied and controlled by Russia. The landscape remained beautiful—green valleys, distant peaks—but there was a subtle tension to the drive, a reminder that Georgia’s geography and geopolitics are inseparable.

By the time we reached Mestia late that evening, the last hours of driving had already felt like a rite of passage. The road twisted upward in long, serpentine loops, threading through narrow canyons and deep gorges as we climbed steadily into the Caucasus. In places, winter runoff had chewed away at the pavement, leaving sections washed out and reduced to a single, crumbling lane. On one side, the rock wall pressed in close; on the other, the ground fell away abruptly into a dark gorge hundreds of feet below. There was no room for error, no shoulder, and very little margin for second thoughts.

Each turn revealed another wall of mountains, another glimpse of snow-covered peaks.

It was harrowing and adrenaline-spiking, the kind of driving that forces complete focus, but it was also exhilarating. Each turn revealed another wall of mountains, another glimpse of snow-covered peaks catching the last light of day. When Mestia finally appeared, stone Svan towers rising out of the snow like sentinels, the sense of arrival was profound. In just two days, we had crossed endless fields of wheat and barley, beaches, borders, and multiple mountain ranges, and now the Caucasus closed in around us with Russia just beyond the ridge. It was immediately clear we’d reached somewhere special.

Magnificient Mestia

Mestia is small, remote, and quietly captivating with several outstanding restaurants. Rising throughout the town are Mestia’s iconic Svan towers, medieval stone structures that give the place its unmistakable silhouette. Built between the 9th and 12th centuries, these defensive towers once protected families and entire clans from invasions, avalanches, and feuds. Today, they stand like weathered sentinels, scattered among houses and fields, anchoring the town firmly in its history and giving Mestia a timeless, almost mythical feel—especially when dusted with fresh snow.

Medieval stone towers make up the skyline of Mestia. Built by the Svan people between the 9th and 12th centuries to defend families and clans from invasions, feuds, and avalanches, the towers give this high-mountain settlement its unmistakable silhouette.

Georgian cuisine is hearty, generous, and deeply comforting, designed for cold climates and long conversations. Evenings in Mestia were easy and unplanned. We usually ended up at Cafe Laila or Sunseti, the kind of places where skiers, guides, and locals all drift in without much thought. Plates of khinkali, kubdari, stews, and fresh bread arrive quickly—hearty, filling, and perfect after a long day on snow. Bottles of local Georgian wine followed just as naturally, often made in traditional qvevri, clay vessels buried underground, giving the wine a deep, earthy character. Between the food, the qvevri wine, and the low hum of conversation, it was easy to forget how remote we were, even with the Caucasus looming just outside the window.

Adjaruli Khachapuri, a boat-shaped bread filled with melted cheese, topped with a raw egg and a knob of butter. When it arrives hot, you stir the egg and butter into the cheese and tear off pieces of the crust to scoop it up. Rich, messy, and a perfect slope-side dish to eat at lunch.

Skiing in Mestia revolves around two very different but complementary resorts. Hatsvali, just above town, is smaller and more intimate, with well-groomed runs weaving through forested terrain and excellent views back down into the valley. It’s ideal for warm-up days, storm skiing, and relaxed laps. Tetnuldi, by contrast, is expansive and dramatic. Most of its terrain sits above treeline, opening into wide bowls that are perfect for freeride skiing.

With deep snow, minimal crowds, and huge natural features, the terrain beyond the groomers feels limitless. We found long, fall-line runs through untouched powder, natural half-pipes carved by wind and snow, and wide-open valleys that delivered thousands of vertical feet in a single descent.

Brett Ploss about to drop down into a chute and into powder heaven. Beyond, Mount Ushba towers over both Georgia on this side, and Russia on the other.

One place in Mestia deserves its own footnote—and probably a pilgrimage: Mountain Kebab. I’m not exaggerating when I say it may be the best shawarma in the Caucasus. Simple setup, no frills, just incredibly good food. Nikita, a Russian snowboarder behind the counter, turns out kebabs that are perfectly spiced, generously filled, and exactly what your body wants after hours on snow. I even packed one up to take onto the mountain—a literal mountain shawarma, eaten on the slopes with cold fingers and zero regrets.

Nikita’s (not his real name for obvious reasons) story stayed with me as much as the food. He’s Russian, but he fled the war because he couldn’t bring himself to fight—or kill—his Ukrainian brothers, and because staying and protesting would likely have cost him his life. We talked for a while, then he pulled out a bottle of vodka. We did a couple of shots right there in the shop—for peace, and for an end to the war. It was one of those moments travel gives you when you least expect it: standing in a small mountain town, eating an exceptional kebab, sharing vodka with a stranger, and realizing that skiing, food, and politics can collide in ways that feel quietly human and oddly hopeful.

Nikita and I sharing shots of Georgian vodka: a toast to peace in Ukraine and an end to the Russian occuption, to the mountains, and to finding unexpected human connections far from home.

From Tetnuldi to Tblisi

After two outstanding days skiing Tetnuldi, we packed up in Mestia and pointed the car east, beginning the long drive across the country toward Gudauri. The route cut back through valleys and gorges, climbing and descending repeatedly as the Caucasus slowly rearranged itself around us. It was another full day behind the wheel—winding roads, changing weather, and long stretches where the mountains felt endless.

En route we stopped at the Ananuri Monastery, where the Georgian Military Highway begins its steady climb into the high Caucasus. Perched above the turquoise waters of the Zhinvali Reservoir, the site felt like a clear marker of transition—leaving the lowlands behind and heading into more serious mountain territory. Stone towers and thick defensive walls rose sharply from the hillside, while the courtyard offered a quiet pause before the road tightened, climbed, and pulled us deeper into the range.

Faded but powerful frescoes line the stone walls of the Ananuri Monastery, depicting saints that have watched over this fortress monastery for centuries, their colors softened by time and candle smoke.

Ananuri dates to the 16th and 17th centuries and is a fortified monastery complex rather than a single church, built by the dukes of Aragvi to control this strategically vital route. With its twin churches, watchtowers, and ramparts set against snow-dusted peaks and vivid blue water, it’s one of Georgia’s most recognizable landmarks. Historically a military stronghold and today a natural roadside stop, Ananuri captures just how quickly the landscape—and the mood—shifts as you move from valleys into the high Caucasus.

We rolled into Gudauri as night fell, and booked ourselves into a local guesthouse. The evening bristled with après-ski parties, a very different scene from the one we left behind in Mestia.

Tetnuldi had set a high bar. Gudauri, by contrast, felt busier and more developed the moment we arrived. Sitting along the Georgian Military Highway and much closer to Tbilisi, it draws a steady mix of locals, tourists, and day-trippers. The terrain is still impressive—especially the north-facing slopes and the accessible backcountry—but it carries a different energy.

Gudauri also carries a recent and sobering history. In 2018, a chairlift malfunctioned catastrophically, accelerating downhill out of control and ejecting skiers from their chairs. Dozens were injured in the incident, which was widely reported at the time. Seven years later, that chairlift remained closed, effectively closing off the best runs.

Gudauri — Georgia’s most developed ski resort, with large hotels, modern lifts, and dense clusters of buildings spread across open ridgelines, a clear contrast to the quieter, village-based feel of the resorts around Mestia.

After skiing Gudauri for day, we made an evening push into Tbilisi, navigating city traffic late at night and eventually collapsing into a crowded dormitory in the city. Sleep was brief and restless. By early morning, we were back on the move again, boarding a flight to Munich just as dawn broke over the city. Legs sore, heads full, and minds still somewhere high in the Caucasus, the trip ended the way it began—moving quickly, with the sense that we had packed more into our Georgia visit in a week than either had in other countries in a month.

Read Brett Ploss' article about this trip in SnowBrains!