We start on Mount Olimpos at an elevation of 8500ft via the gondola. It feels like cheating to so easily ascend the mighty peak, but the views are spectacular, the sea stretching out beyond the jagged peaks to the horizon. Quickly descending from the barren summit to more fertile forests, I discover my travel plans to be flawed as our legs are not prepared to shoulder a pack while descending 5000ft. By nightfall we already feel the lactic acid working on our muscles, and long-silent joints are vociferously articulating their discontent. We make our one and only fire and settle down to a night's sleep.
I don't even like beer! Jana and I are lightheaded as we search for the next trail marker. I remember clearly my Grandma Jo telling me that she only has a craving for beer when her body is short on electrolytes. So when Jana mentioned a craving for the drink, I immediately assessed and diagnosed the chemical imbalance and prescribed the proper medication. But a beer on an empty stomach and little water is not held well, and after a bottle of Efes (Ephesus) Jana is quite tipsy, and I am not thinking as clearly as I would like when we have lost our trail. The packs do not help our situation as they together weigh fifty-five pounds. Oh the mistakes one makes.
Wandering along the beachfront at night should be pleasant, but right now it is just grating. We have walked seventeen kilometres (11 mi.), Jana has a headache, my hips are giving me hell, and we are starving. Every food establishment is closed, we have not seen a market, and the small hotels that line the road are not open. Definitely a low point on our travels, but hope was in sight; a brightly-lit sign, "restaurant" written in English, and they are open! Buffet-style, soup, salad, kofte (meatballs), sweet pastries that look like hair, and the most delicious french fries I have ever partaken of, and to make it even better, Jana realizes halfway through our meal that it is Thanksgiving! A Turkish Thanksgiving, eating as much as we possibly can, minus the Turkey. Yes yes, make the necessary joke at this time, whatever the variation may be:) Truly fantastic, we stuff ourselves with meatballs and other unfamiliar foods. We warm ourselves by the fire, ignorant of the coming night. Foolishly choosing to forego the tent, we slap our bags down on the sand, listening to raki-intoxicated Turks singing in the darkness at the water's edge. And we wake up in the morning fairly soaked. The sea has become dew on our bags, and we are freezing, especially Jana with her $20 piece-of-crap summer bag. Sore limbs are the signature of the day.
I am lying in a 2300-year old sarcophagus. The Lycian for whom it was made is long gone, and now only my body is absorbing the musty air, but I will not exit by the stone door at my feet, representing the way to Hades. The inscription on the tomb is Greek as these people were absorbed into the Athenian League present during the Classical Age of Athens when Plato, Socrates, and Alexander the Great made their mark on our world. After our dew-soaked morning, we made our way down the beach on the next leg of our journey. Nineteen kilometres were planned, but after just two we are lured away to the Mediterranean. Two hours later, full of pomegranate juice, crackers, and sun, we pull our aching legs away from the water. I have already made the executive decision to abandon the rest of today's hike. Our unconditioned legs have had it with us, Jana is walking like a toddler, and I want time to read. The next kilometre is full of Lycian tombs, and we both lie down in the burial chamber to rest in peace. We continue on through the ruins of a Byzantine church, crawling along an overgrown path, followed by Dog, our canine companion for the morning. The parallel swamp has made the former city a jungle, but we eventually emerge into an orange grove. The fruit is ripe and plenteous as the Lycian Peninsula is fertile land for agriculture. Wandering through I come across an abandoned tomb, cast aside in neglect, a mere rock in the orchard, and history goes marching on. We settle on a party pension in the present-day village of Olimpos, but thankfully the season is quiet. The rest of the day is filled with hammocks, coffee, bad wine, dry chicken, and a fantastic fire. I realize that many of the things I mention seem trivial and prosaic, but on a hike the simple things of life are once again appreciated for their fundamental greatness.
The next day is rugged. A rugged hike and rugged beauty occupy our day as we made an arduous transit from Olimpos to Adrasan, a distance of 17 km. We wind up walking ten, hitching a ride from a friendly Turk for the other portion. We drive by an elderly man sitting on the side of the road, a goat's horns in his hands, and he is still strong as the animal attempts to free itself for an attack. By nightfall, the animal was undoubtedly a sacrificial symbol of Abraham's act of faith. Already exhausted by the start of the actual sixteen km hike, we eat crackers with peanut butter, a real treat in a country that does not sell Jiff or Smucker's. The Cape of Gelidonia is infamous for ship wrecks, and the pirate coves that infest its coast are exquisite, the blue bays demanding
photographs while the pine forest falls down the steep slopes like vines, resting on the ground, incredibly intertwined, lovely, and we are so tired. But the views are fantastic, and every time we stop the scene is just magical. At nightfall we arrive at the tip, the lighthouse and imminent islands creating a stunning scene as the sunset fades to the west. Ibuprofen numbs our disgruntled legs, and wine revives our spirits as the night is broken by the intermittent light of the tower. We have loads of soups and oatmeal waiting to be enjoyed, but fire proves elusive as I discover the olive branch to be remarkably resilient to heat. A shame that this conundrum could not be put to better use in Palestine, Sudan, or Kashmir. Cheese, olives, sausage, and wine with complimenting Haribo gummy bears constitutes our jerry-rigged dinner. Tonight I let Jana sleep in my bag, hoping that she will actually have a good night of sleep in that wonderful piece of my life. Charles Schulz's Linus may have his blanket, but I have my sleeping bag, and to be honest, there have been months where I have discarded the conventional blanket on the bed for my trusty REI mummy bag.
The next day we are treated to a bayram meal by Kadir. He is the friendly beer-swigging farmer who gave us a ride into town. In the morning I had attempted another fire, this time utilizing pine fuel, and I came to the conclusion that just maybe Gelidonia is not meant to be burnt, the wood fireproof. Is that possible? I do not know, but we head off early, skipping my pre-hike ambition of swimming out to the islands. The water is fantastic, and the opportunity to go swimming in December is not to be missed. I find a cliff to jump off, doing the necessary backflip
from twenty-five feet to get my adrenaline fix. Shortly after, Kadir pulls up and we abandon another canine friend to get into his car. Quickly I smell alcohol, anxiously scrutinizing the road for how high the cliffs are. Kadir reassures me by grabbing the beer resting on his emergency brake, giggling a bit as he looks at me and takes another gulp. The beer is that treacherous Efes that had bamboozled us a few days earlier. But we do get to his farm, and we have a tasty meal of well-cooked lamb, cucumbers, tomatoes, and bread served by his wife and three daughters. Thankfully no marriage offers are made. Kadir then drives us to the next town where we can catch a bus home, continuing to drink his beer as we traverse the fifty-foot cliffs that descend into the sea. By this time I am fairly confident that he holds his alcohol well, and that we are not being exposed to any additional danger besides the usual peril inherent with Turkish driving. We arrive safely, but not before receiving an addition to our heavy packs. Somewhere on the trip he began to name vegetables, and Jana affirmed each type with "Tamam", Turkish for "Ok". What we had unwittingly agreed to was approximately ten pounds of vegetables that we duly lug home and are at present attempting to consume before they rot.
We are running after our bus. Having four hours till our bus left, we committed that cardinal sin of oversleeping, pulling out our sleeping bags in a quiet corner of the terminal and catching a few winks. What follows is the proverbial walk of shame as the foreigner walks down the aisle, irritated eyes following our procession. We then embark on the bus ride from hell, literally, as we are cooked alive. Outside the temperature is 32F, but inside it must be 100F. I wake up multiple times with sweat dripping down my face, my neck sopping, and to make matters worse, somebody near us has apparently soiled themselves. Combined with the heat, I will simply say it was a long trip. Coming home was sweet, and I am thoroughly enjoying my Starbucks Cafe Americano as I write this. Scrolling through the pictures of my trip, I am reminded, oddly enough, of Just Married, a comedy starring Ashton Kutcher and Brittney Murphey. Estranged by the end of their honeymoon, Kutcher is taken aside by his father who sagely speaks of marriage as consisting of pictures and the time between pictures. Generally we do not take pictures during bad times. We just do not take pictures of people when they are crying, unless you are a news agency. Then it is okay for some inane reason. Anyways, we take pictures when the sun is out, moods are good, and beauty and happiness are present. These pictures are no different. The good times are captured indissolubly in megabytes while the low points will slowly disintegrate into distant, remote feelings of haze. Scrolling through my album an uninformed stranger would think we had a flawless trip of fun and beauty, but if he only knew I think he would question why we went at all! Traveling is so much work, and I have quite often found travel to be more work than fun. All things considered, when I look back on my pictures I am wrapped up in nostalgic happiness, the bad times fade, and I bask in the warm memories that my travels have created.
To see a proper misrepresentation of my trip, go to my facebook page and look at the pictures:)
http://www.facebook.com/#/album.php?aid=2044446&id=1257302680&ref=mf
