Without too much trouble we found the Greek Alpine Club, which I imagined would be an outfitted hub for hikers, full of maps, gear, and friendly advice about the hike. In reality, the one-room building was manned by a chubby young man who had no information, no maps, and explained that he was unable to store our bags overnight because he was leaving to go on vacation the next day. The key piece of information he did relay was that we better hurry if we wanted to make it to refuge A, the overnight sleeping compound on the main trail, before dark, and that we’d have to get a $40 taxi to reach the base of A4, the most popular trail, which was partway up the mountain.

After leaving the GAC, we quickly found a cheap hotel and bought a room for our bags, since it would be impossible to lug everything up the mountain and it was cheaper (not to mention, less cruel) than the alternative, which was to hire a donkey to carry our bags. Also, we’d have somewhere to shower the next day before taking a bus back to Thessaloniki and then another, overnight coach that would return us to Istanbul. The other possibility, one I didn’t really want to consider, was that we’d have to turn back that evening if my knee couldn’t take the hike. I had injured it three months earlier while running across a street in Istanbul to avoid six lanes of oncoming traffic and despite the pain that took weeks to dissipate — from what turned out later to be a torn meniscus — I had managed to avoid going to a hospital. That day, in Litochoro, the pain was its usual level of slight twinge every few steps and I hoped it would stay that way. I was determined to carry the book to the top of the mountain and capture a photo to give to my father. He hadn’t climbed Olympus himself, but the book’s journey would be the next best thing.

As we dropped our bags on the beds in the hotel room, Rachael noted that time was ticking, and we had only a few moments to prepare ourselves for the hike and the night. It was small and musty, but a window swung open to expose a view of one side of the mountain, rocky and ragged, its peaks obscured by some puffy clouds. It was hard to believe that while our luggage was lying on sponge-like beds for the night, we would be sleeping in a refuge on the side of Mount Olympus. I put on my Nikes and yanked out overnight necessities: a change of clothes, an extra layer in case it got cold, an ace bandage for my knee, a toothbrush, my camera, and Robert Graves. I was ready.

We had just enough time to stock up on fuel in the form of moussaka, meat, and potatoes from a restaurant on one of Litochoro’s main streets. The one other necessity that was still missing from our itinerary was a flashlight; Rachael and I agreed that if we bought one, we probably wouldn’t need it, and vice versa. After lucking upon a cheap plastic version in a corner store and choosing some nuts and figs as a snack for the trail, we hailed our second taxi for the day. He knew exactly where we wanted to go: Prionia, the name of a small area of land bearing nothing but a casual restaurant, a public restroom, and a water fountain at the base of the A4 trail.

I had experience hiking, with trips to Mount Mansfield in Vermont with my summer camp, and school hikes in the Berkshire Mountains where I grew up. Hiking is like walking, just at an incline, was how I rationalized the projected two and a half hour, six-kilometer trail distance to the refuge that would gain an estimated 900 meters in elevation. The start was steep and woodsy with brown leaves, pine needles, and twigs covering the wide, clear-cut path. There were others just ahead of us, their steady footsteps and heavy breaths reassuring us.

The trail seemed steep from the beginning, my thigh muscles burning within a few minutes. It was hard to imagine the hours ahead, but I tried to keep pace with Rachael, an avid runner in much better shape than me and my bum knee. We passed several groups coming back down; they looked fresh-faced and sweaty but invigorated. “How much further?” they would ask giddily, surely noting that we looked like we’d just set out. We’d give an estimate in minutes based on how far we’d come. “Ten minutes!” “30 minutes!” and they often picked up their pace to a jog, somehow dodging the skinny trees and roots in their path. Sometimes people would stop for a chat, all of us offering breathless advice about the remaining distance. The difference was that they were going down, while we were going up. It could be said that those we met were all at the same point on the mountain as us, but not really. I was jealous. I hoped the next day I’d be the rosy-cheeked, accomplished mountain climber bounding down the trail.

There were teenage boys but also families with small children, and I wondered how far they’d gone, if they’d made it to the summit, and so I asked one Swedish woman, who was walking behind a blond, cherubic child who couldn’t have been more than six. “She made it to the top!” she said proudly. Fueled by competitive energy, we pushed on. The scenery and sounds remained the same — a twisty path, tall oak and shorter strawberry trees, and the swish of light wind and light vibrations of footsteps. Several times we had to jump to the side of the path when groups of donkeys caught up to us. Led by a human guide, they stomped single file, one laborious step after another, carrying heavy loads of gear and supplies. Occasionally, one lone straggler would fall behind, and we’d cheer him on as he worked to catch up to the group. Sweaty, even though the air had cooled, muscles tingling, hungry and thirsty, but right on time, we finally saw the edge of a wooden fence and a small building in the distance that we knew must be refuge A.

A modest but sturdy-looking building made of grey stone and wood, the refuge and its grounds were crawling with hikers; most looked like seasoned climbers: sinewy but strong and properly attired with long underwear and wind breakers for their night on the mountainside.

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