The first room on the inside of the refuge looked something like the inside of a New York City bodega; a counter stood covered with boxes of things like candy bars, bananas, and lip balm. Printed Mount Olympus t-shirts in various sizes and pastel colors hung for sale from one wall, most of them printed with the number 2917 for the number of meters to the summit. On another wall there was the evening’s dinner menu: stew, spaghetti, salad. A smiling, sinewy Greek man behind the counter greeted us. He looked as though he summited the mountain every other day, just for kicks. We chatted for a while, and found out that in the peak season — May through October — he and his small staff don’t go down the mountain at all. And he gave us the rundown: 10 euros each for the night, no shoes allowed inside, and no bags allowed on the beds. There was basic plumbing, with running water coming from the snow that melted and ran from the mountain top; he lightly suggested we might find the freezing cold showers more uncomfortable than staying dirty, and we nodded in understanding.

Having paid for our stay, we were led to a cubby where we could store our bags and trade our sneakers for slippers. A young woman dressed in layers of brown sweaters then led us through another room with several picnic-style tables and a fireplace, finally directing us to a large open dormitory. She told us it was one of several, and that the refuge could sleep up to 110 people. Seven or eight wooden bunk beds were lined up side by side along a wall, under windows near the high ceiling, and most were unclaimed and empty, as was the rest of the large room. When our hostess spoke, she did so with lightly accented, perfect English.

“The bathroom is downstairs, in the basement. There are blankets, two for each person, in the closet. Dinner is available until 9 o’clock; lights out at 10. I hope you enjoy your time at the refuge.”

Rachael and I chose two lower bunks next to each other and “made” the beds with the wool blankets from the closet, which were scratchy and reminded me of something you might find covering a horse in a barn. At least we would definitely be warm when we went to bed, and warmth was a growing concern: I changed out of my hiking clothes, which thanks to all the uphill walking had gone from soaking wet to very damp. My change of clothes included a pair of shorts, a lightweight sweatshirt, and socks with a neon lipstick kiss print on them. I had forgotten that I might have to wear my dry outfit in public and I was sort of mortified to walk into the main room, but my hesitation was overruled by a growling stomach. It was time for dinner.

Rachael ordered the stew and I got spaghetti. With food in our possession, we settled onto a bench in the dining room near the fireplace. Given the minimal staff, I was impressed with both the taste and the temperature of the food. Re-energized, our conversation turned to the next morning and the remainder of the hike. Although my knee was throbbing and I was exhausted, I was determined to push onward. My father’s book deserved a pilgrimage to the top, and we agreed to press on, to do our best, even though it was hard to know what kind of effort it would require the further on we got. Information about the final ascent had been minimal and difficult to find, in both blogs and books, and we must have sounded unprepared, because a man at our table asked if we needed advice about the hike to the top.

“Are you going to stick with Skolio or attempt Mytikas?” he inquired.

He was a Greek-German, in his 40s, and doing the climb for the fourth or fifth time. He explained our options, and we were glad to hear them from a seasoned expert: the three highest of the 52 peaks in the Olympus range were at the top of the A4 trail. They were all considered the summit, and were only separated by the difference of a few meters. Skala was the first point at the top, and from there one could go left across a narrow ridge to Skolio peak, the second highest point. From Skala, hikers could also go to the right and ascend to Mytikas (whose name means “nose” because of the shape of the peak), the highest point at 2,917 meters, where there was a book for people to sign who made it all the way up. Mytikas was also the legendary site of Zeus’s throne. The man was smiling and gesticulating as he explained the various routes, and then his tone became serious. “It is not hiking from Skala to Mytikas,” he explained, “It is called rock scrambling.” He moved his clawed hands up and down, as if scratching an imaginary back, to illustrate. “It is technical climb, and if it’s a crowded day you must wait, or you can be hit by falling loose rocks, and you can fall.” Rachael and I looked at him, waiting for him to clarify that when he said fall, he meant slip backwards a little bit, or lose footing. I didn’t want to believe he meant fall to our deaths, until he said, “people die here, climbing Mytikas.” His smile returned, and he said he thought we should still do it. I laughed. Rachael shook her head. He added, “You can do Skolio instead…” — ‘yes, yes, Skolio,’ I thought, whilst waiting for him to continue his comment — “for Skolio there is just a small ravine to jump over.” I nodded, trying to mask my horror.

I was suddenly struck by one fine thunderbolt — how one can be both excited and unprepared for a journey. I wondered if I would have brought us there if I’d known what really happened at the top. A typical tourist destination this was not, and it was one step beyond “off the beaten path.” But the truth was we were there. The plan was to get up and go — to do our best. We still had hours of a steep hike left before we chose our route to death.

We played Tavla, a game similar to backgammon that I had learned in Turkey, and chatted with a few of the other refuge guests. I hadn’t anticipated the awkward convergence of many members of the unofficial international hiker/climber club, having never been a member before myself. Many people seemed to be there to climb alone, and sat quietly near the fireplace for warmth. Caught up in our board game, we barely noticed as many other people floated off to retire to the dorm rooms. Our friend, the Greek-German, had stayed to advise us on our game (insisting the Greek variation was the “real” way to play) as well as our hike, and it was only when the lights suddenly shut off that I remembered the warning we’d been given about “10 p.m. lights out.” In an instant we were thrust into pitch blackness and dead silence, a quiet reminder that we were only visitors to the refuge and to the mountain. “Well, goodnight and see you in the morning!” said the Greek-German, and we parted ways.

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