Mt. Olympos, not to be compared with the more heard of Greek Mt. Olympus, towers almost 8000 ft above sea level, surrounded on the east by prized beaches and touristy towns while mysterious brown peaks dominate its western flank. My first view of this impressive mountain was from the sea, as I (Austin) went for a morning dip off the long, sandy beach of Cirali. Literally I was treading water and letting the layers of dirt peel off when I glanced inland, and saw the intimidating peak rising steeply into the heavens, with strong slopes dressing its side like a warrior fit for battle. My heart sank because I was already worn from thirty days of Kate Clow's torturous trails, but at the same time I felt a pulse of focused energy and a readiness to conquer, similar perhaps to a matador when he first sees the bull he is to fight.
Fast forward two days: we camped near the shoulder of Mt. Olympos, under the shade of marvelous plane trees, whose thick trunks and towering heights brought us peace and gave us courage. The alarm clock on summit day sounded at 245 am, and with a quiet intentionality we set for our goal. Besides the constant crunch of rocks beneath our feet and the occasional 'beep beep' as I checked the GPS, silence was our companion, but my, the visual sensations filled in the gap, with stars scattered against the midnight blue, a setting moon highlighting the peaks to the west, and the ever looming silhouette of Mt Olympos towering in front.
We stopped for a quick breakfast of soft cheese and crackers, which awakened our spirit to converse, and the remaining few kilometers flew by, until we stood on top of the world, gazing reflectively on weeks of trails past, and looking ahead to upcoming mountains, and our finish, the endless beach city of Antalya. Summiting symbolized a powerful climax of our journey, a trek that had pushed our physical, mental and spiritual limits while ultimately leaving us as stronger and more whole individuals. Never did we think such a journey could overwhelm our hearts with so much fullness or richness of spirit and identity. I think we can both confidently say that we have matured and grown in great stride as a result of difficulties, deep conversations, intimate prayer, and ultimately, the road of grace that our Dad loves to walk with us. On that mountain top, as we ran around ecstatically and gaped at the endless views and savored the fiery sun's rise above the infinite Mediterranean, we celebrated not only the ascent of a mountain, but the accomplishment of a magnificent trek, whose paths had shaped us just as much as they had once been shaped themselves over the centuries.
The remaining five days of the hike finished in a spirit of wonder, joy, and frankly, fatigue. It took a few days to recover from our long ascent, and that same day as we had summited we got fairly drenched in a rainstorm and worn out by tedious downhill trails. Views of Mt Olmpos blessed us from a plethora of lookouts as we headed toward Antalya. We had one tragically long day coming into a Russian dominated resort canyon full of swimming pools and signs saying it is forbidden to camp there. Naturally, we ignored them, and upon trying to re enter the canyon after re supplying in a town four kilometers away, an alert security guard caught us trying to sneak back in. Fortunately for us, Turkish hospitality trumps local protocol, and we ourselves once again with a 'too helpful' guide and a campspot.
The last two days were easy and somber, as we realized our beloved lifestyle of moving in the rhythm and beauty of nature would soon be over. We danced by the fire our last night, and reflected on all the adventures that had passed. Our return to civilization was anti-climactic, apart from finding a Coldstone in Antalya and all you can eat Chinese near Fethiye. We debriefed our time where it all started: the village of Ovacik, only two hundred kilometers away from our finish by bus. There we took an A/C blasting, amenities filled pension to unwind (not recover, I say; our bodies were so attuned to walking we didnt feel sore, on the contrary, we were frantic to keep hiking!). Ovacik should be named London in Turkey; the Brits had taken over, and signs for a Full English breakfast (with pork!) and other English delights saturated the main street. By the end of our three days there, with stomachs swelling from pork, Chinese, and wine, we stumbled on to our bus to Izmir and said goodbye to the greatest adventure of our lives.
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