Island of Crete, Greece
August, 2013
We had spent the first few days of our honeymoon laying in the sun, playing like giddy children in the gentle, clear water, and trying all of the quaint, family-owned, water-front restaurants near our villa–the obvious activities for a vacation in a beautiful Mediterranean village. But the dry, rocky mountains at our backs had been beckoning to my husband since we had first arrived. He would never be satisfied until we had explored and conquered at least one of them. To me they looked rather dull and uninviting at, but as the days passed the barren landscape began to have a draw on me as well. Finally, one morning, when Tyler again raised the idea of venturing into the mountains, I agreed to (to his great surprise) to make an expedition.
By the time we had eaten breakfast and set out, however, it was already late morning and the sun was well up and as we headed away from the refreshing sea breeze the heat became oppressive. But we plunged into the desert hills nonetheless. We had a vague idea about finding a gorge we had heard about that was supposed to be a few miles inland. But the trail we thought would lead to it soon began a steep ascent and, though we suspected it would not lead to the gorge, we decided to see where it would take us. We passed through an olive grove and up past a few houses before we broke out on the side of the base of a mountain with our little village and the brilliant blue ocean sprawled out below us.
We continued on this rocky trail as it wound up, along the side of the mountain. Here in these vividly barren mountains little grew except for some coarse, stunted little bushes and shrubs, but the air was filled with a wonderful herbal aroma that rose from the dry, shriveled plants. The scent was elusive at times and pungent at others. Those warm, fragrant wafts of air further contributed to the feeling of adventure–the smell was foreign yet familiar, soothing yet evocative.
The path led steeply and quickly up the mountain and we soon found ourselves scrambling up the crest and onto the crown of the first small peak of desert mountains which extended as far as the eye could see. The steep face of the mountain fell away before us and we could see the tiny dirt path we had come up by snaking down it and on through the olive groves. Beyond the olive groves we could see the small cluster of white washed buildings lined up along the vibrant Mediterranean blue which stretched on infinitely beyond them. It was a strange contrast to see–that endless blue which through its very intensity seemed to cry of refreshment and life. And yet, at the edge of the blue the dry, empty world began. A world that could not receive the life of the sea–though they touch for a moment. And here we stood–in this other endlessness of dry and crumbling rock.
Something about that contrast–and maybe the fragrance in the air–made me feel invigorated, curious, expectant. I needed to see more of this crumbling land. And so we headed back down off the peak and onto the trail that continued into the heart of the mountains. The path followed the curvature of the mountain we had ascended and we anxiously awaited to see what would appear beyond each bend. We seemed to be gradually ascending again with a deep gorge appearing below us and another craggy mountain on the other side of it. We realized we had found the gorge we had been seeking, but were instead passing over top and along side it. Through this mountain pass we could see more hills in the distance–some appeared to have cultivated olive groves on them which piqued our interest–who could be farming out in this barren, alien land?
A few more bends and curves and the trail and we once more found ourselves with a clear view through the pass; but this time another world had appeared on the other side. It was like looking through a veil on a time and place from ages past–a fantasy that would pass in a moment. Beyond the high walls of the mountains we were passing through, the land seemed to open out onto more rolling mountains. And perched on the edge of these–with the gorge winding past underneath–was a tiny village of square, rambling houses–bleached white and shining in the sun. But more surreal still was the sharp peak–like a finger of rock which loomed over the town. A narrow path meandered out of the city and up the hills to the peak and then wound up the side of it to the narrow summit where rested a small white building–a monastery, we excitedly speculated.
We stood there, staring, for a while, marveling. We turned to each other, hardly believing the other could be seeing the same thing through the veil. But we were. And tired, and hungry though we were, we wanted nothing more than to press on to this place before it vanished. But we had already hiked several miles and it was at least another three to the village. We were out of water and had no money to purchase food or water if we made it to the town. And so, with great reluctance we turned around. But I was the first to say, “We are going back tomorrow. All the way to that town. And we will climb that rock tower and visit that shrine.” Tyler looked at me with surprise. “Really? You will want to come all the way out here again?” I looked at him with eyes that I can only imagine looked bewitched and said firmly, “Yes.” There was no question in my mind or his–we had to visit that town. If it was still there on the morrow, that was.
The next day we rose early; we packed extra water, food, and money for our trip. This time we found the path to and through the gorge we had been looking for. A wooden sign pointed into the gorge with the single world “Pefki” on it. We decided this must be the name of the town we were pursuing. When we reached the gorge we found ourselves entering into the cool shade of the rock walls rising high on either side. The rock was bare but had beautiful streaks of various shades of reds and yellows and the artistry of time had worn and carved its face into beautiful, interesting forms. Through the gorge ran the smallest trickle of a stream and around it had sprung up life. Grasses, shrubs and even some small trees filled the canyon. We followed the faint gurgling of the stream further into the shadows and as the shadows grew so did the stream. At one point a smaller path broke off of the main one and meandered down and into a cluster of small trees. We had to see where it went, of course. Inside the shelter of the trees we found a small, round pool of water–cool and clear. The water trickled over moss covered stones and frogs swam around the pebbled bottom. The air here was particularly sweet and refreshing. We spent a few moments absorbing the beauty of this secluded place and then continued on our way.
After following the trail deeper into the gorge, through rocky, mossy, damp places illuminated only by light filtered green by the trees above, the path began to climb upward again. Soon we were scrambling up a steep, narrow path that somehow wound up the wall of the gorge. Suddenly we were above the gorge and bathed in the bright, hot, desert sun. We had covered a significant portion of the distance to the town, Pefki, on the hillside; further than the day before. We could now see the whole path laid out before us. To our right–across the gorge–there still rose a sheer wall of mottled rock. We were catching our breaths and appreciating the view when I heard a distant sound coming from the rock face. My eyes instinctively scanned the flat face and were snagged upon movement halfway up. Goats! Four goats were hopping around on invisible niches in the rock wall.
After watching in bemused amazement for a few minutes we continued on our pilgrimage to the mysterious town and the distant mountain-top shrine. As we walked we discussed the possibility of whether the town was actually inhabited and what we would find on top of the peak. We made up our own history and mythology for the origins of this place that had captured our fascination.
Finally, we reached the outskirts of the town. We passed rambling shacks with vegetable patches; a dog here and there lying in the sun. Up a cobble-stoned path, under the shade of olive trees we climbed. We entered the town, walking down narrow streets with houses on our left and a low wall on the right, beyond–the gorge, the mountain pass, and far, far in the distance a sliver of blue ocean. Some of the houses were dilapidated, but others had fresh, brightly colored doors set into clean, white-washed walls. Vines climbed over the walls of private gardens and heavy clusters of grapes dangled down into the street. We picked handfuls and ate as we walked. The streets were empty. Silent. We walked as ones afraid to break a spell or wake the dead. When we spoke it was in whispers.
Though the town seemed deserted the occasional sign of life continued to present itself–a massive Greek urn with potted flowers, glimpses of carefully tended gardens, a cat resting on a wall. We wandered the empty streets, climbing higher into the town by way of staircases joining the street levels. The first person we encountered did not fully confirm to us that we had not entered a dream. We were climbing one of the aforementioned staircases when we pulled up short at the sight of an old woman asleep in a chair on her door step. We peered at her from around the corner. She was dressed traditionally–skirt, shirt, headcovering–all black. The hair that showed beneath the cloth was pure white. We waited, but she did not move. We passed quietly by, watching her as we went, but she did not stir or make a sound.
We were still speculating over this scene and, whether we had indeed been transported back in time, when we found the street we were on opening out into a sort of stone-paved patio, shaded by a huge tree and looking out over the valley below. Under the tree were several tables and chairs set with tablecloths and silverware. The door to the building closest to this layout was open and a chalk board stood alongside it with meals and prices written on it. Faint sounds of kitchen activities drifted out to us. We looked around, but no one was in sight. We peeked in the doorway just as a young man walked out.
The sight of someone so fresh and alive took us completely off-guard. But after a moments mumbling and confusion we asked if we could have lunch on the patio and a moment later we were seated under the tree, looking at menus. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch there, all the time marveling, delighted at the strangeness of this experience.
When we had finished our meal and felt thoroughly refreshed, we knew we had to complete our journey. The rock thumb with loomed over us, beckoning us on. We climbed up through the rest of the town–not encountering a single soul as we went. Another wandering path lead up, out of the town, over grassy hills, towards the rocky pinnacle. We followed this, occasionally looking back to see the miles we had traversed and the small town growing ever smaller. Beyond the rock that we pursued the grasslands ended–or rather harsh rock had been forced up through the earth, or perhaps the earth had worn away from them thousands of years ago. They formed impressions against the sky and enticed us to investigate. But we would not be distracted. We would make this pilgrimage that had undoubtedly been made by many before us. Finally, we were at the base of the rock. The path had no pity for the pilgrim and climbed as steeply as could be allowed–a small rail separated the path from the sheer drop on the outer edge of the path.
And so we climbed. Feeling every step to be full of meaning and wondering what that was. The sun was overhead now, and we climbed straight for it. Our legs were strongly protesting long before we reached the top and, when we at last stepped out onto the flat pavement at the top, they trembled with exhaustion. But there was no place for weakness here. We had reached the top of the world and below us was a detailed map of the many miles we had traversed. Though the view was beyond magnificent we were drawn to the small white building which occupied most of the peak. Two small windows and a wooden door between them. A bell hung from a little arch on the roof and the rope to ring it hung down beside the door. Tyler grasped the rope and rang the bell–breaking the bright silence which had engulfed us and signaling the end of our pilgrimage. We held our breaths as we tried the handle–it opened. Inside, a small room, candles, icons, the cross, and the face of Christ. It wasn’t a monastery; it was a shrine. We felt the devotion, the sorrows, the prayers of generations, and we were silent. When we stepped back into the bright sunshine we stood for a while and marveled at the world below and this small, white shrine quietly above it all.
Snapshots of a Traveler's Life 