By the light of dying cell phones, we made our way to our bunks and retrieved two things: the now-valuable flashlight, and our damp, soiled clothes from earlier in the day. We tiptoed out to the fire, whose embers still bore tiny flames, and laid the clothing on the hot stones, with the hope that they’d dry by morning and that we’d wake up early enough to remove them before they were found.

Retiring to our beds, I read a few pages of Robert Graves by flashlight until my eyes stung with exhaustion, and I decided to visit the bathroom before sleep. I ventured down to the basement alone, which was a scary enough place the first time Rachael and I had visited it together with the lights on. I knew the sinks were to the left along a concrete wall with windows up high, and that the toilet stalls were straight ahead. My feet padded across the concrete floor. The flashlight’s jerky movements on the walls and floor, checking for hiding creatures, reminded me of a movie called The Blair Witch Project, in which a group of campers are terrorized by some kind of unnatural being. I placed the flashlight on the sink, beam pointed at the ceiling, hoping it would act sort of like an overhead bulb. It did not. Luckily, I emerged from the squat toilet stall unscathed and without having fallen in, but as my clumsy hand reached for the faucet, I knocked the flashlight to the floor and found myself, for the second time that night, in sudden unexpected darkness. I dropped to the floor, crouching and waving my arms wildly for the flashlight parts, which I had heard scatter as it hit the floor. When we went out of our way to buy the flashlight earlier in the day, I imagined needing it in an emergency if we got lost on the trail before dark. I couldn’t have fathomed that I would be crawling around on a concrete floor, in a pitch-black basement, desperately feeling for springs and batteries without the aid of light. After a few moments I gave up, ran back up the stairs clutching the bottom half of the flashlight and one battery, and flung open the door into the dormitory. By comparison, a room full of sleeping strangers felt like civilization, and I limped to my bed. I fell asleep hoping that the many liters of water I had consumed that day to rehydrate would stay put until morning.

We awoke just after sunrise, which was early enough to allow us a leisurely pace at getting ready and leaving, but too late to avoid letting other people see our sweaty garments by the now-cold fireplace. To add insult to injury, our clothes were not dry and we had to dress in them anyway. After a quick breakfast of Greek yogurt, banana and hot chocolate, we set off from the refuge, and the staff waved and smiled as we filed out in packs. I was comforted by the relative number of people walking behind and ahead of us.

Our first obstacle was crossing a vertical, dirty mound of snow. I thought about how just the day before we’d been baking in the sun down at sea level. Now, I wore a fleece and dug my treads into the snow to make it to the other side of the path. I looked down at my Nikes in the snow and dirt and remembered that the shoes are named for Nike, the goddess of victory; I hoped I could channel her assistance to keep our momentum moving forward and upward. As the trail got steeper and rockier, I understood why many people climb with walking poles and special shoes. I felt feeble with my lack of gear. My knee hurt within a few minutes, and ached as the incline continued to gain. Rachael took the lead which helped me push on despite the pain, and we tried to take a few breaks. Our phones were dead, and without watches the passage of time became arbitrary. We walked through patches of yellow flowers and up stone steps that seemed to have been cut by the gods themselves. After what seemed like ages of walking, we reached a sign that had a “you are here” circle. When I saw that it claimed we were about 1/4 of the way between Refuge A and Skala, I took in a sharp breath and released it slowly. Looking back, I saw the building we had slept in looking like a doll house tossed on a hillside, tiny and out of place. A small stone bench sat near the sign, probably placed there for other novice hikers discouraged by the marker. On the bench sat a man and a boy, looking weary, walking poles leaning between them on the stone. We needed a break, too, and struck up a conversation. They were a father and son, the boy was ten-years-old. He had done plenty of climbing and hiking on mountains in their home country of Austria, but Olympus was the highest yet. They were satisfied with how far they’d come and were resting before turning to go back down. They asked if we were continuing on. “It gets much steeper, exponentially more steep,” said the Austrian dad. We said yes, we would continue. I was not yet satisfied; it was too late to give up. We said goodbye and continued.

About an hour later, after giving myself a pep talk with each step, I regained energy as we broke out above the tree line. Without the obstruction of the forest, I suddenly felt like we were on the side of a grey glacier. The air had cooled, the only source of relief. Clouds were no longer just above us, but parallel too, and a few lonely mountain goats scoured the rock for some kind of sustenance. What, I could not imagine.

The trail had by now all but disappeared; a narrow crooked line like a pencil run through sand was all that marked our way. The packed dirt we’d been walking on up to this point gave way to rock shale and large stones. Crumbling under each footstep, the terrain sometimes forced us on all fours, but even taking the path like an animal couldn’t prevent a fair amount of slipping. It wasn’t dangerous here, but still incredibly steep, and the frustration of taking five steps, but only moving up one, was hard to ignore. A great friend, Rachael gave me permission to quit but the encouragement to push on. My knee was screaming at me, nonetheless, I ignored it and we kept moving. I knew there would be time for rest at Skala, the third highest peak, before deciding whether to continue to Skolio or Mytikas.

After three hours of climbing to the clouds, yesterday’s and today’s sweat mingling in our clothes, hands and knees dirty from the ground and face red with exposure, we reached a sign that told us we had made it to Skala. From our new vantage point, we could see many of the other lower peaks in the range, and the vastness that was Olympus. There were larger boulders set up in places perfect for reclining, and Rachael and I each took some time to take in the feeling of what it was like to be on top of Greece. To the left, we could see the ridge that led to Skolio and the supposed ravine. In front of us, and to the right, a dark gray leaf-shaped piece of rock jutted upward, which I knew must be Mytikas.

From where I was standing, it was hard to imagine anyone other than a god standing on it, much less scaling its walls to get to the perch. I watched tiny colored dots moving on the rock, and realized those were people doing the rock scramble. I thought of Icarus and Daedalus and my father. I would not climb Mytikas. I would not fly too near the sun, I would not be defeated by my own hubris; it had taken me far enough. I took Greek Myths Volume II out of my bag and held it in the sunlight. I didn’t need to sign my name in someone else’s book when I had my own, the one I shared with my father.

Cincopa WordPress plugin