Gabriel lives out in the countryside, in the Ardèche region of France, and he has been passionate about mountains and Russian culture for several years. In May–June 2026 he set off alone for three weeks across southern Russia, on nothing more than an electronic visa, for a route well off the beaten track: the spa towns of the Caucasus, Crimea, and above all a childhood dream — climbing Mount Elbrus (5,642 m), the roof of Europe. He sent me his account with his 32 photos, and I wanted to share it almost exactly as it is, because it shows a Russia you rarely see: the South, with barely a foreign tourist in sight, just as it is today.
| Traveller | Gabriel, from the Ardèche (France), solo |
| When | May–June 2026, about 3 weeks |
| Entry into Russia | Electronic visa (e-visa) |
| Flights | Lyon – Istanbul – Mineralnye Vody (≈ €600 return) |
| Route | Mineralnye Vody › Pyatigorsk › Kislovodsk › Krasnodar › Bakhchisaray › Sevastopol › Terskol › Elbrus |
| Getting around | Train (overnight and daytime), bus, cable car, on foot |
| Goal | Climb Mount Elbrus (5,642 m), the highest point of the Caucasus and of geographical Europe |
| Result | Summit reached solo, in fine weather |
What follows is Gabriel’s account, with his own tips and his own photos. I’ve tidied up the text so it reads smoothly, but everything he tells is his. Thank you, Gabriel, for sharing it.
A childhood dream: the roof of Europe
It all began with a spontaneous fondness for Russian culture around 2018 — perhaps more for its mystical soul than anything else. I started reading, made a few friends online, painstakingly learned to decipher Cyrillic, then took the plunge on my own in 2025: two weeks on the e-visa. This year, 2026, a little more relaxed thanks to that experience but more on edge because of the spreading conflict, I took the risk of visiting the South and of trying to fulfil one childhood dream among many others: climbing Mount Elbrus, the roof of geographical Europe.
I had also long wanted to see Crimea, which I’d been hearing about since 2014, and where Tolstoy drew part of his inspiration and maturity. A conflict France once took part in, and to which I feel a tiny bit connected: I lived four years in Le Puy-en-Velay, whose statue of the Virgin was cast… from Russian cannons taken after the defeat at Sevastopol!
Getting ready: tickets, e-visa and cash
I booked my tickets in early March, sensing that oil prices were about to rise with the new conflict around Hormuz, and I routed via Istanbul: €600 for the four return flights with a checked bag up to 23 kg, which is fair. A Lyon–Istanbul–Mineralnye Vody. I applied for an electronic visa, which this year has been extended to four weeks — great! Around fifty euros. In the application I roughly listed all the cities I planned to visit and the names of a few hotels and apartments I’d booked (not all of them — there were quite a few — but the itinerary was clear).
After fairly careful preparation, I managed to buy my train tickets with a European card (with an invisible commission that adds €15–20 to the price). Buying a ticket to Crimea online, on the other hand, was impossible: I had a Russian friend buy it for me, and sent her euros in exchange (she travels to Europe sometimes, so we help each other out).
Since I didn’t have a bank card that works in Russia, I also stockpiled the newest banknotes I could get from ATMs (definitely not over the counter, where they’re very crumpled!). €50 notes seemed the best suited for exchange, and generally the least worn. Part of my circle was (very) worried about me heading off alone into a country partly at war, but I reassured them: it would all be fine.
Setting off and arriving in Mineralnye Vody
I left in late May from Lyon, with a six-hour hop in Istanbul — where I changed about €400 into rubles over the counter at nearly 17%: painful… The layover ran an hour and a half longer because of a delay, but I had an incredible seatmate on the plane: a Russian woman who lived in Europe and spoke perfect French, heading home to see her family. That didn’t exactly amuse the customs officer in Mineralnye Vody, who asked whether we knew each other and why we were chatting like friends!
He was almost funny in how suspicious he was, sighing softly as if I were bothering him just by being a foreigner. One of my Russian friends reassured me afterwards: “Don’t worry, I’ve been travelling for over ten years and they’re always like that — it’s their job, they have to be wary.” I mention it to reassure Europeans coming in or out of Russia during this conflict: it’s normal for customs officers to be a bit more attentive than with Russians, it’s routine. Otherwise, I always felt I was in a safe country to travel in.
On arrival, I switched on my phone. I’d taken a roaming option at €35 with 15 GB of data. I got a text from a Russian operator asking me something or other, and even without replying I was unblocked after 24 hours: it’s a 24-hour block put in place, I was told, to stop enemy drones from using the local network. I later understood it’s best to try connecting to each operator in every new place; that way, after 24 hours, each one is “normally” active. In hindsight, a well-prepared eSIM before you leave makes things much simpler.
Pyatigorsk, the spa town
I met up with a friend and spent a few days in Pyatigorsk (25 km away), a lovely spa town watched over by its famous Mount Mashuk.
There’s plenty to see and do. These southern towns, on the edge of the Caucasus, were historically places of leisure and cure for the aristocracy under the Russian monarchy, and grew up around those activities — even if the Soviet years shook things up a bit. I gathered that these places remain anchored, at least unconsciously, in the Russian collective imagination as beautiful destinations, a kind of “exotic holiday”.
Lucky enough to live, to my taste, in the most beautiful country in the world (the French are chauvinistic, aren’t they?), I sometimes thought: “poor them, they don’t have our wealth of landscapes!” But I sincerely admired the effort local authorities put into creating beautiful pedestrian avenues, parks, flower beds and grand statues.
A little trip up to the summit of Mount Mashuk (993 m), then, on my last full day, a visit to the sulphurous underground waters, a beautiful turquoise blue…
…before heading back down the pretty pedestrian avenue, lined with bronze statues telling the town’s history.
A good number of the restaurants are Georgian or serve Georgian dishes (Georgia is very close), which I love. It’s where I discovered their pear lemonade, and became a big fan!
Kislovodsk and its enormous park
On the third day I headed to Kislovodsk: honestly, it’s worth it! The weather was better, and the town felt even more pleasant.
About the park, my friend told me: “It’s the biggest park in Europe, 966 hectares, almost 1,000!” — “No, you mean 100 hectares?” — “No, trust me, one thousand!” I do the maths: 10 km²! For the nature lover I am, it’s a real gift. Little electric buggies carry those who want to cross it, otherwise you’re in for kilometres of walking. My best day in that town was the one where we strolled through the park and simply sat on a bench in the “Valley of Roses”.
We also took the cable car to see the rest of the park but, honestly, nothing sensational for a Frenchman who has already seen plenty of wonders at home. The many mineral-water taps, though, each with a different cocktail of minerals, are really worth the detour. It’s generally free — you just need a cup, often a little paper one they sell for next to nothing.
I still had to change euros into rubles: I went with my friend to a branch of VTB bank. Having her as interpreter was priceless, as almost no one speaks English. I handed over €400 and my passport, the teller gave me the rubles and a receipt. On the way out I do the maths: impossible — he gave me more than the day’s rate, the error in my favour for once (89.25 rubles/euro instead of 84.9), about +5%! Not huge, but I checked several times. Thank you, VTB — I won’t forget it!
On to Krasnodar: no signal, and trust
The first week goes by fast: my friend has to head back to Moscow, and I carry on west. I’d misread the timetables and end up stuck in Mineralnye Vody for a night (train tickets at 300 rubles, about €4 — you can’t complain!). Except my rental is 3.5 km from the station, it’s 11 pm, and the mobile network is more or less completely cut: no way to call a taxi! So I set off on foot with over 16 kg; 40 minutes later I’m there, the offline GPS still just about working. One striking detail: in a poorly lit alley, I see a young woman calmly crossing to get some fresh air, not changing her demeanour at the sight of me. That’s when I think: we really are in a far safer country than people imagine!
An important detail: several times I rented apartments in advance from France with a foreign card, then, simply via WhatsApp (you also need a good VPN — it’s vital!), the owners would give me the code to a little key box fixed next to the door. People leave the apartment keys in a plastic box with a simple number code! I think it’s brilliant: trust reigns, it’s so lovely.
The next day, on to Krasnodar by train. For the first time in my life, I catch sight of the twin summit of Elbrus: quite a moment, since it’s my final goal in two weeks’ time! In Krasnodar, still struggling for signal, I eventually order a Yandex taxi: an Armenian driver of incredible cheerfulness, chatting to me about everything through my phone’s translator.
Krasnodar and its extraordinary park
This time, three days at a hotel to get the famous registration document, which I had to have within seven working days of arriving: I’m just in time thanks to the weekends. Very happy to have three nights in a three-star hotel for the price of a budget place near an airport in France…
My Russian friend advises me to visit Krasnodar’s park, with a precise route to make the most of it. Krasnodar is noticeably hotter than the other cities, and it’s only early June! (Most buildings and apartments seem air-conditioned, which is a relief.) So I set off to explore this truly enormous city park.
What follows is a wonderful walk, through spots each more grandiose or original than the last. Without exaggerating, it’s the most beautiful and richest city park I’ve seen in my life! I have a modest background in landscaping, and I can see there’s a level of effort here that’s been seriously thought through, organised and carried out. The zones are very varied, several have water — fountains, water features where parents bring their children for the start of the long summer holidays (three months, the lucky things!).
My friend had booked me an entry to the “Japanese Garden”, a little haven of calm within the big park: a mise en abîme of natural beauty. I spent part of the afternoon there, enjoying the little paths and their refreshing tea drinks.
I was able, remotely via Telegram, to send my hotel the missing documents for my registration. I came to realise that very few Westerners — or foreigners of any kind — come now, and that several establishments simply no longer knew how to handle it. Unlike Moscow and especially St. Petersburg, where I’d come across some Asian visitors, here, throughout my whole trip in the South, I don’t recall seeing a single foreign tourist — except once in this park, a group whose guide was speaking English.
I finish the route towards the lakes, the huge water structures and the great tunnel-screens, genuinely immersive. For a free park, I find it admirable!
Heading for Crimea
After another day of sightseeing, I board the overnight train to Simferopol this time! The carriages are fairly new and clean, and the fares affordable (around €36–38 from memory). Hard to sleep, but you can rest, and there’s air conditioning when the train is moving. At 5 am, we stop. We don’t set off again, and around 6–7 am I sense some commotion without understanding a thing.
We were just past the Kerch bridge, the one linking the mainland to Crimea. A young teacher who spoke English eventually explains that the train ahead of us had had a problem and no one knows what we’re going to do. (I later learned online that a Ukrainian drone had struck the train ahead of us, killing and wounding the assistant and the driver…) Around 10 am, after a light meal, we’re invited onto buses to reach Simferopol: three hours of discomfort, standing, but I was on good form, and a bit of adventure is stimulating! At the ticket office I struggle to buy a new ticket; a friendly Russian man invites me to follow him since he’s also going to Sevastopol. That welcome help was most pleasant.
I get off at Bakhchisaray, where I again have to struggle without signal to find my Crimean friend. My first naive-tourist reflex? Pull out my phone and photograph the station… Two people shout, not happy at all, and I quickly realise it’s aimed at me! A uniformed employee points to a little “no cameras” sign: oops. “Izvinite, izvinite, ya frantsuz, ya ne ponimayu russki!” She relaxes instantly on realising I’m an absent-minded tourist, and I even thought she was hiding a slight smile. I knew sensitive sites were off-limits for photos, but I’d never have thought of a train station…
Bakhchisaray
I was able to visit the public part of the monastery, carved into the limestone cliffs.
Then the Khan’s Palace…
…and the picturesque rocks overlooking part of the town. There’s still plenty more to see!
My friend didn’t dare come with me to Sevastopol because of the daily drone attacks, mostly at night. I noticed that women are more stressed by situations of war than men… I feel for everyone, in any case.
Sevastopol and the Black Sea
A little bus took me into this big port city, where I was the only tourist. People clearly weren’t in a very cheerful mood and looked at me with a tiny bit of suspicion — I only understood at the end: since there really are no tourists, an oddball with a mountain backpack is almost suspicious in that context. I also saw, for the first time in my life, a queue of cars more than a kilometre long waiting to fill up, limited to 20 litres per vehicle. I sincerely feel for these people.
A friendly man in his fifties tried to help me find my hotel with three words of English and suggested the trolleybus; I thanked him warmly, explaining that I preferred to explore on foot, even if it meant a 30-minute walk. “It’s changed since I left with my comrades in 1856!” (a nod to the Crimean conflict that involved France). First night at the hotel: the woman at reception wasn’t thrilled to see me pay in cash, but no site would take cards on the spot, not even Ostrovok, through which I’d actually booked. Once again, I note that no tourists come through. An alert in the night: heavy machine-gun fire in the distance and a drone explosion. That stressed me far less than the TV switching itself on with a message blaring the instructions and listing them on a red screen!
The next day was the best of the trip so far. I crossed the pretty pedestrian waterfront, the famous monument to the sunken ships, and the Black Sea! I’d wanted to see it for a long time. Around me, almost nobody at 10 am; I imagine these great squares are packed in summer, but there, barely one or two people. Many shops are closed. I pass some souvenir stalls, turn back a little out of compassion and to bring small things home to my loved ones. The vendor, who only speaks Russian, is delighted to give me details, and even, sadly, shows me on his phone the dome of a historic building still smoking (still standing), evidently hit by a drone recently…
I carry on to Chersonesus, a vast reconstruction of an ancient Greek city (modernised and Christianised), with a strong cultural side, museums… and free! Very few people; that peace suits me completely.
I then continue on to a beach further along: it’s hot, I’ve walked a lot. This “Black” Sea is maybe a touch darker than the Mediterranean I know, but I wouldn’t bet on it: it’s fine, a bit cool, around 20–21°C. I walk back (no signal out there, so no Yandex taxi), passing along the seafront again, this time at sunset. A lover of sunsets, I take lots of photos with my middling smartphone, and I stay grateful for this lovely natural event.
This time a few dozen people are around, probably locals coming to enjoy a little downtime by the sea after a hot day. 41,000 steps in the day: I’m wiped out! In the night, a drone explodes and wakes me, but it doesn’t really put me under any pressure — it feels like fireworks! I found out later, on the map that tracks them, that it had been shot down just a few hundred metres from my hotel; there were two in all in my area. I almost struggle to explain my lack of fear in the face of these explosions!
Plenty of lovely things are still left for me to explore in Sevastopol, notably the naval museum and everything to do with the war and the siege of 1853–1856, but I sense I mustn’t linger too long: the fuel shortages and the attacks could well strand me on the peninsula for a while, and I do still want to attempt Elbrus!
Back to the mountains: Terskol
I take the overnight train again, shifted by six hours to avoid crossing Kerch at night. Along the way, a kind acquaintance shows me her dacha (little country house) after some seasonal shopping: I’m in the country’s most agricultural zone, whose latitude allows market gardening and the growing of all sorts of fruit, cereals, vegetables and pulses — impossible in the rest of the country.
Very grateful, I take the train to Pyatigorsk, then, the next day, a bus to Terskol (1,000 rubles + 100 for the luggage). Happy to be rolling towards the “real mountains” this time! We stop at a checkpoint (probably the border of the Kabardino-Balkaria republic). An officer boards the bus, I understand nothing, I follow half the passengers who stand up. After a scanner, they ask for my papers, then my “registration”; a bit stressed, I hand over my digital visa. The officer sees everything is in order, smiles and tells me it’s fine — I think she sensed my stress and was all the warmer for it.
We set off again, and I’m delighted to be approaching, then entering, the mountains! We climb a wide valley that slowly narrows, with fairly rustic infrastructure: the yellow steel gas pipes crossing the torrents, the big rust-coloured electricity pylons in a 1960s design. My excitement rises as I spot the snow on the peaks, then the glaciers. Terskol, at last!
I eventually find the way to my apartment, a nine-storey building rashly built in the river’s secondary bed — the big boulders all around prove it sometimes turns into a devouring torrent. I know the mountains: these buildings won’t survive the floods that will come once or twice a century. Another plastic key box next to the door, with a code given over WhatsApp: I really do love this simple, functional set-up!
Climbing Mount Elbrus
Note: I have over 15 years of solo mountaineering behind me and I know my level. Please don’t take my account as a how-to guide: it’s a report. If almost everyone goes through a high-mountain guide service, it’s because it’s necessary. For park access, entry fees and the “propusk”, it’s best to look into things seriously beforehand. As an example, I’d already done Mont Blanc (4,811 m) in a single day, car-to-summit-to-car, with an 11 kg pack.
In the late afternoon, I rent my high-mountain gear at “Koshki Tut”, a very good address (a bit pricier than expected), rated 5/5 on Yandex, and rightly so: impeccable service. They found me a young woman who spoke superb English and seemed to have real sporting experience, not just a translator. Full kit at 5,000 rubles a day: I feel emboldened, despite my own forecast of a 40% chance of success.
After a good night in a real bed, I take my time then walk to Azau in the late afternoon. It’s about 2 km to reach the big car park after Terskol, from where free shuttles run up to Azau, a sort of ski-resort village. I get my cable-car pass: 4,000 rubles to go up to Garabashi station (3,847 m) and come back down the next day, park entry fees included. The infrastructure is modern, and you can tell the safety is too, which is reassuring. Most of the cabins are empty: few visitors at this time of year, above all for lack of foreign tourists.
Very happy to “cheat” and gain altitude this fast — something I’d never done in 20 years in the mountains — I ride the three sections up to Garabashi.
After a little picnic beside birds that look like our Alpine choughs, I look for the keeper of the “barrels” huts (3,750 m): no one. It’s a generous guide who helps me out, and I settle in alone in a “tube” for 2,500 rubles. I add myself to their “ratrak” (a converted snow groomer) for 14,000 rubles: I was ready to do the 1,900 m of ascent on foot, but I preferred to give myself every chance and save the “alpine style” for next time. Acute mountain sickness (a headache) stays moderate but keeps me from sleeping; I rest 8 hours all the same.
The summit, alone on the roof of Europe
The ratrak leaves at 2 am, terminus and stepping onto the glacier at 2:40. The headache has almost gone — perfect! I slowly overtake the few rope teams on the slope. Dawn breaks very early compared with France, and the sun appears between the two summits, over the sea of clouds below, at 4:19: what incredible beauty! The purity of the air, the ice, the snow, the colours and that lovely spread of little white stratus clouds turning into a sea far below… It really is magical.
The distance between the col and the western summit isn’t very long, but it’s the hardest part: the breathlessness is even more intense than on Mont Blanc, and muscular capacity drops to 60–65%, at 51% of atmospheric pressure. From my photos, I took 2 hours 15 for 300 m of ascent; I can’t even explain that slowness! I grind on, but patiently I finally reach the summit, windy as it should be… and above all alone!
So happy to reach this summit I’d awaited for so long, and above all to have it to myself for my thirty minutes up there. Incredible! I think of my friends, of the people I love, and of all the Europeans lower down than me. I’m very grateful: the mountain is always demanding and makes you turn back more than one time in two, but today, superb weather, a trouble-free climb and nobody at the top (a few years ago people spoke of 500 climbers attempting Elbrus every fine morning in summer).
I take a few photos quickly because, at around −22°C and 50–60 km/h of wind, my hand freezes very fast on the touchscreen. After thirty minutes, another climber approaches the summit: I give up my spot and head down, having fully lived what I’d hoped for. A little slump on the way down, probably a lack of sugar; my backup water bottle is frozen, but the thermos is still hot.
At the col (around 5,300 m), I meet an energetic Armenian, ski-touring gear on his back, who takes it into his head to accompany me. A bit weak, I come down to the machines’ access limit, around 4,700–4,800 m. He strongly urges me to come down by snowmobile to the cable car’s top station: after already denting my pride a little, I accept and hurtle down 1,000 m of descent in ten minutes, fingers crossed — impressive to race straight down the slope on a machine that sometimes slides sideways…
A little euphoric, still incredulous at the feat, I find the warmth of full sun on the snow again, take a few photos, then ride the three sections down, not without sharing my victory with my loved ones thanks to the relay antennas installed in recent years. Free shuttle, then a walk to Terskol to arrive around 11:45, just in time to return my gear and avoid a second day’s rental! Coming down by snowmobile saved me 5,000 rubles, which makes the little supplement go down much more easily. I get my passport back without a hitch: an employee was curious to look at it, another sign that they don’t see many foreigners any more. Too bad for them, all the better for me! An afternoon of rest, Tarkhun, Georgian lemonade and good food!
The journey home, and one last surprise
A laborious trek the next day to find the bus to Mineralnye Vody (the airport), which passes at 2:10 pm. I give the driver 1,200–1,300 rubles in cash, telling him to keep the change: my banknotes will be no use to me back in France anyway! You’d think he takes the speed bumps aggressively, like ramps to launch off… I seriously admire the quality of the suspension and tyres!
The next morning, departure from the airport: but impossible to get a Yandex taxi at 4 am. No question of walking 5.5 km — I don’t have time! I go to the railway station to wake a driver dozing in his seat, sign lit: 500 rubles, and off we go to the airport. One last little adventure at passport control: where the others go through in 30 seconds, the young woman scans my passport, tenses up on seeing I’m a foreigner, calls a colleague, asks which city I live in, rescans every page three or four times… I stood there about eight minutes, people leaving the queue behind me! Deep down I was amused, even if stressed: the officers are probably under a bit of pressure right now.
Soon on the plane, I admire Elbrus in the distance… then the plane does a U-turn and passes a few kilometres from the twin summit, which I can photograph through the opposite window: utterly improbable! Only the summit, nothing else, and to think I was up there two days earlier! Thank you, chance!
Five hours’ wait in Istanbul (their prices are outrageous: €12 for three mini baklavas!) and back to Lyon at the start of a heatwave. The verdict: wonderful and intense. Three magnificent weeks rich in friendship and adventure, just as I needed, in discoveries, in remote corners of Russia that remind me of the deep countryside I come from: people a little rough around the edges, but very good-hearted. Thank you to everyone who helped me in Russia!
And you? If you’ve travelled to Russia recently and want to share your experience, tell me about your trip here: I’ll publish it in this section, with your name or anonymously, whichever you prefer.
