Olympians

Olympos is a resonant name: it conjures the grand pantheon of the ancients; a mountain so high it scrapes the heavens; the athletic contest where muscley dudes were/are revered like gods; and that goofy stop-motion animation in "Clash of the Titans."  The internet tells me there were at least twenty places named Olympos in the classical world.  We went to the ruins of Olympos, member of the Lycean League (a strategic union of wealthy city-states), and its eponymous neighboring mountain.

The ruins mostly date from the Hellenistic era, and you can find the usual Roman settlement box set of buildings -- amphitheater, baths, temples -- and lots of tombs.  The city was built on both sides of a river in a steep valley leading to the sea, making for a greener, more sheltered landscape than other ruins we visited.  Some areas were cleared and buildings have been partially reconstructed; in other areas the forest has grown back, and we crept under branches and through vines to reach unexcavated, recently discovered structures.  This sort of jungle treasure hunt was a fun contrast to other sites where we baked under a cruel sun.

At this point in the trip, we were in a nice groove of taking our time and swimming in the afternoon, and we knew we wouldn't complete the entire trail.  I mapped out a final week of hiking to take us from the beach up to the top of Mt. Olympos (over 7,700 ft) and back to the sea, AND allowed us to be somewhat lazy.  (Somewhat.)  How, you ask?  The teleferik!

Yes, friends, there is a state of the art cable car that will whisk you to the top of this majestic mountain.  There you will find a Starbucks cafe, a novelty bungee-bounce trampoline, and a forest of selfie sticks.  Jean-François and I were the only hikers that morning among the chattering families and scores of Russian women all identically duck-faced with the same mediocre lip-enhancement plastic surgery.  (Medical tourism and aesthetic procedures are big business in Turkey.)  It was pea-soup foggy, so we began the descent into a spooky, desolate rockscape.  When we reached tree line, we met magnificent cedars -- cedars laden with 3-ft diameter limbs.  We wound around behind the ridge line and continued down dramatically pitched coniferous forest.

We reached what ended up being the most charming guesthouse of the hike, napped in exhaustion, and woke up to a delicious dinner.  The food was simple but good, and abundant, and the guy running the place was the epitome of hospitality.  We watched the pink light fade, and collapsed to sleep.

We hiked two more jaw-droppingly beautiful days in the mountains, passing only two small villages, one with absurdly large plane trees growing in a riverbed. After such bucolic environs it was a surprise to find a thoroughly developed tourist operation at the mouth of a deep canyon.  The course of the river had been landscaped into enormous stone-lined pools, with kitschy driftwood statues, cafes, and a small bird-only zoo.  In a bit of a stupor after hiking all day, we got an overpriced gin and tonic, sat on a glider where we could soak our tired feet in the cold water, and celebrated the end of our hike.

After a dinner featuring the largest portion of salmon ever (basically an entire fillet) and a solid night's sleep, we returned to the canyon to swim and poke around.  For a reasonable fee you can rent a wetsuit and helmet and make your way up the quarter-mile of astonishing water-worn stone.  It was a nice cherry on top of all the beautiful places we were able to go.

descending Mt. Olympos

Tourists? Equestrian club with paparazzi?

Jean-François gazing in awe

Umm, what?

Göynük Canyon

If we ever break up, he can use this for a Tinder photo.

pretty pretty

mountain refuge

Ents?

the final little mountain hostel

one of many detailed friezes at Perge

part of the impressive system of canals and fountains at Perge

Hot and Cold Turkey

From May 8, week 3 of hiking:

After the first few days, we realized/accepted that the weather would be hot as shit.  Water is heavy but essential, and sources can be far apart or run dry.  Jean-François possesses a camel-like metabolism and determination, but, of course, a human form.  I explained the concept of drinking games, with the aim of injecting some fun into the imperative to hydrate.  Perhaps fifty times a day, we round a bend or climb some rocks and a view of the sea is revealed.  "THE SEA!" cries the first to notice, as though we have been searching for it for months.  And we drink.

Another recurring game is saving turtles that insist upon crossing the road.  Hesitant little hemispheres -- they seem to sense the rumbling of trucks winding up the mountain roads and grow increasingly indecisive.  We've also spotted a few of their sea turtle cousins, floating tranquilly in the pellucid aquamarine.

I'm currently writing in the tent, perched above the sea.  This is our third night camping.  The first started well but was interrupted around midnight by hot, violent air.  50mph winds bellowed angrily, trying to rip apart the tent.  Finally at 5am I decided we might be blown away, and we packed up, found a sort of hippie-hobbit-bungalow, and waited out the storm.

The second time camping was great, except the increasing chill as the night went on (we were up at about 3,000ft).  I had thought we could get away without taking sleeping bags on this trip, but, sadly, no.  We shivered even as I arranged raincoats and travel towels over our huddled limbs.

Tonight, I hope, the third time's the charm.  A level spot, low wind, low altitude, layered up, and (fingers crossed) no animals will come to steal our trash.

*Note: It was indeed the perfect night of camping.

on the way to the best camp spot

St. Nicholas a.k.a. Santa Claus church, Demre

too charming a juice stand to pass up

I love this map for many reasons, but mostly because of the mix of cartoon illustrations and grafted on photos of actual animals 

poppies, ruins

Lycean tombs at Olimpos

Talk Turkey

There are many sobering statistics about the dire effects of climate change.  I would like to contribute the fact that I sweated through my shirt at 8am, not even going uphill.  It has been rather warmer than expected for springtime -- blazing sun, 85F by noon, and often we walk long into the afternoon.  Contributing to our struggle is the inclusion, pretty much everywhere we sleep, of a wonderful Turkish breakfast.  You don't just wake up and hit the trail when a beautiful array of tomato, cucumber, olives, cheeses, bread, butter, jam, honey, eggs, tea, and occasional guest stars such as homemade carob syrup or bee pollen or roasted chilis are set before you.  And neither Pixleys nor Frenchmen are fast eaters.

If the trail isn't so rugged as to require undivided attention, le lesson français commence.  I try to carry on conversation, whether about our surroundings, life experiences, specific points of grammar or theology -- all with the sophistication of a five-year-old who hasn't quite learned the past tense, frequently identifies "him" as "you," and misgenders your mom.

Lunch is a delight.  (Except the one time we had to eat in the sun by the side of the highway.)  The last week or so we've been following the coast.  We find a place to jump in the water, then sit in the shade and picnic.  It is magically cool; precious salts and minerals are replaced as we savor tinned sardines like cartoon alley cats; Jean-François utilizes his surgical precision with the knife to peel cucumbers and apples; and somehow the chocolate manages not to melt until out of the package.

A few days ago, we were isolated from any kind of market, and "had to" get lunch at a restaurant.  Situated on a long outstretched arm of dock next to ancient Lycean stone tombs, we sheltered from a strong wind as the old cook lit some branches in the open fireplace and started to grill chicken.

Yesterday we kayaked around ruins of old villages that were submerged after an earthquake, like, a thousand years ago.  But anyway, the lunch!  Perfect fresh cucumber-tomato-pepper salad, delicious roast eggplant with garlicky tomato sauce, crispy fries, chicken kabob, fresh orange juice, again adjacent to tombs and the turquoise sea.  There were even nice French honeymooners to talk with.

we did not fail the test of the divorce-canoe

the dock

the cook

TOMBS!

cool old stuff

the best part of waking up is an egg inside your cup

The Second Long Walk

When I first met Jean-François walking the Camino, I assumed our conversation would follow the usual pattern of hello-where-are-you-from-why-are-you-walking-have-a-nice-day.  But we started talking travel, and before long he was telling me about sailing in Greenland, backcountry skiing between alpine refuges, and medical missions in Afghanistan.  I don't usually read articles or books with titles like "Top 100 Places to Go" but when he told me he'd read about a hike in Turkey that's supposedly one of the most beautiful in the world, I thought, "Well, maybe he's onto something."

The Lycean Way winds around cliffy-mountain fingers that reach into the Mediterranean from Turkey's southwest coast.  There are Bronze Age ruins, Ancient Greek ruins, villages abandoned a hundred years ago after forced relocation, family farms perched on hilltops, luxury hotels with infinity pools, traditional guesthouses, terraced olive orchards currently dotted with red poppies and dandelions and various purple flowers, and the platonic ideal of beach tucked into every cove.

The route was pieced together by a British woman (enthusiastic hiker and Turkophile), linking old donkey trails with remains of Roman and medieval roads, and forging some rough connectors.  From Fethiye to Antalya is 540 km.  We're here for five weeks; the first week we've averaged 12 km per day -- because even when the gain is reasonable, the grade is often very steep, with scree and rocks of all sorts to navigate.

There were large populations of Turks in Greece and Greeks in Turkey; unfortunately, many lives were lost and entire villages abandoned in the early 1900s.

looking down down down from Faralya

Jean-François hiking into the mist

spring is in full swing

1,000 ft down and up, abruptly

baby goat tree

Patara ruins

Mon Cheri

As previously predicted, I did indeed gaze upon glaciers, revel in the technicolor cornucopia of the supermarket, and enmesh my toes in grass as well as beach sand.

But enough burying the lead.  You guys: I joined my companion in France, and everything is très excellent.  Allow me to introduce you...

- Name: Jean-François (fact check: he is French)

- Age: 66 (not a typo)

- Meet cute: walking the Camino de Santiago, discussing our mutual interest in poetry and type-two fun  (-Is that redundant?)

- Profession: author, surgeon (retired)

- Enthusiasm for consuming cheese from a rucksack:

off the charts

A common and legitimate question is, aren't you worried he'll die or get sick?  This is not a new concern for me, I thought of this often even as a newly-married 23 year old.  Now, as then, such thoughts are eclipsed by the dazzling sense of fun and warmth that radiate from the man in question.

We have eaten so very much cheese -- it has essentially replaced dessert at the end of the meal, and served as the main course in the form of fondue and raclette during two weeks in the Alps.  And I tried unctuous Mont d'Or for the first time.  Who knew spruce bark could do so much for a cheese?

hiking near Chamonix

backcountry skiing and trying not to die (for me anyway)

Carcassonne is home to a medieval walled old city, and delicious cassoulet

home at Ile de Ré

Febrilary

The end of February has been a momentous time these last several years* -- it's the end of austral summer and most contracts in Antarctica.  As my first seasonal gig it set the timeline of October - February.  So this time of year means a return to green grass and grocery stores and, if you know what's good for you, glaciers.  Four years ago (previous Leap Day), a friend and I hiked up the Rees River valley in New Zealand.  The sunny days were almost painfully beautiful; we also spent a day at a refuge hut playing cards with our ten new best friends while waiting out a deluge of rain.

*this is the ninth time; my near-decade of seasonal life paused for a year back in Michigan, but don't worry, I still had a temporary food service job that fluctuated with seasonal tourism, and regularly involved cleaning bits of dough and canned tuna out of the sink.

The following year was when covid threw a wrench in everyone's plans, threatening plague and breaking down society.  I couldn't go to Antarctica, so I sought escape in northern Alaska.  A few months of burger flipping and truckers ranting about climate change hoax passed surprisingly quickly.  Despite the sense of the world collapsing, a friend and I decided to tie a bow on our Arctic winter with a ski-road-trip to Denali and Homer.  Much like my first season way south, I thought way north would be a one-timer, but the endearing familiarity of decrepit infrastructure and lackluster food combined with stunning scenery and unique recreational opportunities reeled me back in.

Some coworkers live here year-round, but I stuck to my usual cycle.  Four months is a good amount of time to thoroughly enjoy a place but not grow too discontent with repeatedly jamming a giant pipe cleaner into the fryer oil drainpipe to dislodge carbonized old hunks of chicken.  Four months is also when you qualify for a sizable bonus.  So once I reached that date, another friend and I headed to ski in Denali and I gave winter camping a try.

In partial honor of a significant birthday, last year involved a great deal of travel.  The end of February found me, finally, back in Michigan, to thoroughly wash my socks and dream up what would come next.  An apartment! Unlimited avocados and fresh pastries! A dating pool > 5! Swimming laps at a pool!  But, best laid plans, or whatever Bobby said...

It's the end of February and, as usual, it's about time to pack up, take a long flight, and do some fun stuff.  I will visit a glacier -- in the Alps! -- with more than a friend for company.

Crossing the frozen Koyukuk to climb up to tree line on the base of Coldfoot

Headed north past Sukakpak to our company's perfect little cabin on the edge of Gates of the Arctic National Park

Jace and Lars did the cooking while I blazed a trail on skis

Boos!

The Koyukuk winding south

Looking back down on camp 

The iPhone SE is not known for its photography, particularly in low light, but there's a smattering of aurora

Today's murder mystery on the trail: who dumped the body?!  Will they senselessly kill again?!

The Short Month

You can, alas, ski too much.  Or rather, if you ski for three hours and then go to work several days in a row, you will likely grow quite fatigued.  But it's tough to let warm days go by without enjoying the snow.  The sun has rebounded with shocking speed, we've traded pink-fringed sunset mountaintops for bright midday glare, and (lately) you don't even really need a jacket.  A few of us crossed the frozen Koyukuk to snowshoe-flail a path up the base of Coldfoot Mountain, and upon return found a bit of slush in our footprints.

We've started meeting in one coworker's room to listen to jazz and drink home brewed blackberry hooch.  Club 26 features a string of xmas lights and a few fake succulents for ambience.  Tonight we burned incense and pretended it was sophisticated cigarette smoke.  We're also planning a "funeral" for a departing coworker, to celebrate her time here, to have an excuse for a good dinner and party, to maybe read aloud some poetry and build a small igloo of ice blocks that another coworker has been carefully molding and stockpiling.

Aaaaaand...I'm getting pretty jazzed to go to France.  In about three weeks I'll leave this diesel-soaked boreal paradise of endless deep-fried delights, and have a crack at la vie en rose.

snowshoe crew

some aurora super solid for sure

Overflow on the creek -- not because it's warm, but the weight of the ice is squishing it out the edge

It's back, baby!

on the plateau