What Samaria You?

My friend Penny is an honest-to-God, real-life Southern belle. She says things like “y’all”---and “all y’all,” should the plural be needed--- and she knows a hell of a lot about heat, hats, humidity, and fanning oneself in an effective and attractive effort to stay cool. So when we planned our recent trip to Greece, while I was out here in California walking increasingly long miles in order to prepare for our excursion, she was doing the same, but in 100-degree weather, with even a short, five-minute stint in the sun turning underclothes to puddles. She was a real trouper. One of those steel magnolias.

We had planned---besides visiting the Acropolis, the ancient agoras, and the site where Socrates was supposedly jailed---to travel to Crete and spend the bulk of our vacation in ancient towns where we could easily walk to the Mediterranean, collapse, and submerge ourselves.

But first: The Gorge.

We had done our homework. The Samaria Gorge is an extremely popular 11-mile hike that begins some 4000 feet above sea level and drops until it meets the gorgeous, black-stoned beaches of Agia Roumeli.

It was said to be rigorous, but we had been training for it.

It was said to be hot, especially in July, but we had hats.

It was said to be treacherous, but we had…well, we had stupid ideas that we were invincible.

Before beginning our descent---in fact, even before getting off the early-morning bus---we had the fear of God put into us. Thomas, an experienced hiker, all sun-leathered skin and 165 pounds of wiry, taut muscle, gave us our “pep” talk. He warned us, in his heavy German accent, that if we had problems---bad knees, weak hearts, sloppy ankles, wobbly balance, or any condition that might make the hike a disaster, we should keep our fat asses on the bus and ride on back to Chania. If we had doubts? Stay on the bus. If we had a headache? Stay on the bus. If we had a small blemish in the middle of an otherwise pristine forehead? Stay on the frickin’ bus! What part of “Stay on the bus!” don’t you understand? No one is going to help you. No one is going to rescue you. You’ve all heard stories of the happy fat donkeys who will carry you out, should you tire? There are no donkeys, fat or otherwise! Get all ideas of salvation out of your head. If you start this hike, you will damn well finish this hike or be left to die in The Gorge!

Okay, so maybe those weren’t his exact words, but that’s what I remember him saying. Ask Penny. She was there!

And…well, we got off the bus.

Thomas had told us that for all eleven miles, we should watch our feet. Did we want to take a picture? Stop. Take a picture. Then walk on, but watch your feet. Did you hear a bird up above? Stop! Look for the bird. Say hello to the bird! Walk on, but watch your feet. Did you need to grasp your chest in pain at the difficulty of the trail? Fine, but stop first! Grasp your chest, catch your breath, start your defibrillator, if need be, but then Move on! And Watch. Your. Feet!

Poor Thomas. I’m sure he thought we were all quite thick---gigglers in the back of the class, extremely poor students who just chose never to listen. Penny and I saw several people within the first twenty minutes or so who ignored his advice, and gravity, we saw quickly, is a vengeful bitch. One gal slipped and nearly took five fellow hikers out with her.

We watched our feet.

Very quickly we separated from others as the trail dropped out beneath us. Penny and I chose to go at our own pace and would allow faster hikers to pass. We also chose to move quietly, so we would step aside and let loud, boisterous groups move past as well. We fell into a decent rhythm, and within four hours, we were at Samaria, an ancient town whose stone buildings and walls still stand. We stopped for a fifteen-minute lunch, refilling water bottles at the spring and watching the endangered kri kris come to eat from the hands of hikers who offered leaves from the trees overhead.

I might mention here, in passing, if you will excuse the pun, that we used the WC. I relished the opportunity to try to relieve myself whenever we passed these services, as we had been told that there would be only five sites over the eleven miles to do so. All hikers had been warned not to head off trail for “personal business,” so every WC we passed was a shrine, the devout gathering quietly in line to offer up the proof of their faith that there would, indeed, be another WC down the trail. Okay, maybe a couple hours down the trail, but still…Our gratitude was infinite. I was vaguely amused at the fact that at lunch, I was not pious. I was unable to offer up much at all. Looking back now, I might have taken that as some kind of an omen.

Or not! Because, then---we were off again!

And damn it, just three short minutes after leaving Samaria, I was almost run off the trail by a Greek riding a happy fat donkey while leading another right behind him! Neither the man nor the donkeys looked, however, as though they might even slightly entertain the idea of offering someone with a sore knee or a twisted ankle a lift out.

So on we went. We hadn’t been moving steadily lower for quite some time, so the excruciating and unremitting crash to our knees and the need to use our quads was no longer an issue. We were cruising through an area that ran right down the middle of The Gorge, and we were watching our feet always, as the trail wound up, over, and around what appeared to be dry river rocks. The sun was baking down on us directly now, as the trees cowered close to the cliffs in an effort not to shrivel up completely.

Five and a half hours in, Penny and I had a slight difference of opinion. It appeared to me that the ducks, left as a trail indicator, led right. Penny saw ducks signaling a left. I followed my ducks, Penny hers. I found a group of hikers throwing rocks at the trunk of a small tree, obviously delirious from the heat. I mean, who, if they were of sound mind, would choose to stand in 100 degree heat and throw hot river rocks? Good lord!

I doubled back and found Penny and…Well, here’s where everything gets a little fuzzy. I mean, first my hands got fuzzy and then my feet got fuzzy. I thought my legs felt very strange, so I told Penny I was going to sit down, and I shakily sank onto a rock off to the side of the trail. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and the next thing I knew, I was viewing an artistic fresco, a scene with many shadowed figures standing over me. The sun streamed up behind them, as if they were all standing in a Grecian tableau vivant, their heads glowing with some strange but significant religious symbolism.

Penny says now I had been “gone” for about a minute. She said my eyes were open, my lip was twitching, and one hand was shaking, yet I just was not of this world. But you know Southerners: They can easily spin a right good yarn.

A gentleman from the UK dug out some electrolyte solution he had stashed in his pack, and he mixed up a liter for me, demanding that I drink. I was lying on my back in a field of hot stones, my legs now elevated. Hats and hats and hats and hats waved at me---yes, worshiping me, the Goddess Wussy! A handsome Greek man tugged off my shoes and socks and massaged my disgusting, dust-covered calves and feet with a cooling gel.

Most of the fresco folks moved on when they saw that these two heroes had brought me back to life. I mean, why stand around in the heat just to stare at a heap on the side of the trail? Yes, I had been resurrected, but no one seemed to believe it would happen twice.

Penny was discussing the BP oil spill with our heroic Greek, and how it had finally been capped. I took this as a sign that any real danger had passed, and I would probably live. In her best Southern style, Penny also mentioned that I would do just about anything for the kindness of a handsome stranger. I could almost hear her eyelashes batting.

We still had a quarter of the hike to complete, and those damn donkeys were nowhere to be seen. I stayed supine for the full twenty minutes the Greek had demanded, and by then the electrolytes were kicking in. I stood up shakily, and Penny asked if I would be able to hike out.

Well…Sure! Hell yeah!

Actually, I felt just fine, given that we had been hiking for frickin’ EVER in 100 degree heat! Penny carried my pack a ways, until she saw that I was able to function, and soon we came to the last WC. I was pleased to see that my offering to the gods of urine was far more substantial. I soaked my head with water from the spring.

And we walked on.

And on! And...well, you get the idea.

We passed the infamous Iron Gates, the name given to the narrowest portion of the Samaria Gorge where the walls are just ten feet or so apart. A tiny stream was running now down the middle, and it was amazingly refreshing. We were still a mile and a half from the beach, but we left the national park and immediately encountered a small café where Penny actually kissed the glass of the refrigerated case holding the ice cold Cokes.

As Penny says, Southerners sure do love their Coke!

And we walked on.

At three o’clock, we were finally sitting at the Kri Kri Café in the tiny town of Agia Roumeli. The waiter came over, took one look at us, and said, “You hiked The Gorge! So, did you pay them, or did they pay you?” I’m sure it was a joke that he told to every hiker who staggered out of the park, but it really made me think. We had actually paid to enter that park and to use that trail! I watched the faces of the other hikers who came after us, and there were many. None was smiling. Not one. They were haggard and bruised, and more than one of them was bloody, but they were not happy hikers.

It would be three full days before Penny or I could take a step up or down without a quick reflexive gasp. And yet…I’d do it all over again without a second thought. I was absolutely certain that this was so seven and a half hours after we had begun our trek, just as we finished the hike and flinched as we tried to bend our legs without wincing to sit on hard, wooden chairs.

I had no red, wrinkled, crying baby to show for my seven and a half hours of labor, but it’s there within me. I’ll treasure it always.