Tales Of Crete -- Samaria Gorge -- 1.

Tales of Crete Samaria Gorge - 1 by Jack Schimmelman I was with my friend, Jill, in Worcester, Massachusetts on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1978. We were sitting in her living room awaiting the magic hour when the calendar would turn over once again. As we were about to celebrate in a most carnal manner I said I wanted to meditate at midnight. Before Jill would light my fire, I lit a candle, closed my eyes and the scene of a beautiful beach floated through my soul. I was looking down upon pure white sand set against azure water, surrounded by dry, brown mountains. I stood on the edge of one of those mountains. After a few minutes of inhaling this scene, I opened my eyes and made love to Jill. Jack and Jill. The next day I returned to my home on Martha’s Vineyard. The following April I was on Crete. I had always wanted to go to Greece and some friends on the Vineyard convinced me that Crete was the place to be. They gave me the name of a good friend on that magnificent island who they knew would offer me a place to stay. After spending four days and nights in Athens, visiting the Acropolis, and after speaking with a 16 year old man who regaled me with stories of how he fought in Lebanon as a Christian warrior, I took a boat that first stopped at Santorini and then went on to Crete. The trip to Santorini took 12 hours and I slept on deck in my brand new sleeping bag, kept awake by the bright firmament slowly rotating above me. I don’t believe I had ever seen such intense stars as I saw on my first Aegean new moon night at sea. After staying on Santorini for a few nights, I continued onto Crete, which took 6 more hours. I arrived in Crete at Iraklion. I promptly took a bus to Chania where lived my friends’ friend. That Chania family took me in as their guest where I experienced for the first time the legendary Greek hospitality. After a few days, I said goodbye, gave whatever presents I could find and took a bus to what I hope would be the Samaria Gorge, considered to be one of the natural wonders of the world. The bus driver motioned to me in the middle of a mountain road that I had arrived at my destination. I got off expecting to find the opening to the gorge. Instead, I found a mountainside with no sign of my destiny. Across the road, I saw a sign with a small arrow that said Samaria Gorge, 16 kilometers. Oh. So, I walked. And walked. Then walked some more. Finally, I arrived at the entrance of my fate. It was a beautiful sight. It was impossible. At my exhausted feet was the beginning of a path no wider than me and another sign which had another arrow pointing slightly down with yet another measurement that read “16 kilometers.” Again. The

path was littered with rocks and pebbles. This part is called Xyloskalo. I don’t know what that means, but it might as well scream “are you nuts!” With backpack securely hung on my back, sneakers firmly grasping my feet, I began once again to walk. I had to move slowly as I could easily have slipped and fallen. Indeed, Greek tourist guides will casually tell you that there are always a couple of deaths each year of people trying to walk down this tortuous trail. The path would continue to wind and bend at this narrow pace for half the distance, 8 kilometers. All the while I would be graced with the most amazing sights while keeping my balance. At one point, a man was climbing up the path and I had to stand to the side, my back against the rocks to let him pass. That was fun. (Xyloskalo!) At 8 kilometers, I reached the flat area of the gorge, which was bordered by the cliffs on either side going straight up. It was the village of Samaria, now abandoned, except for hikers like myself. A stream, which must have always been there, makes itself known in this area. It is rocky, of course. Most people camp in this location due to exhaustion. I keep going. The sounds of the gorge echo from rock to rock until you believe you are in nature’s rendition of Halloween. I hear birds and other unidentified species calling, cajoling, creating a cacophony of songs filling my eyes. If you listen carefully, you can still hear the whispers of partisans and resistance fighters who hid there from the Nazis during the Second World War. Eternal. Beautiful. Elegant and haunting. I am in a petrified forest where I expect to see denizens from a Midsummer Night’s Dream dancing in eternal moonlight. I encounter a Cypress tree that is 2,000 years old. I walk along the stream, which becomes wider and wider until I have to walk in the very shallow, icy water, while navigating huge boulders. Indeed, I have to walk on the massive, slippery stones in order to move forward. The temperature may be rising towards 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but I am not aware of it as I am sheltered from the sun by massive rock formations rising on either side of me. Finally, I get to a sign, which merely says coca cola, 500 feet. Another arrow. It points towards a bottle of coke. I go and get my reward, for at the bottom of this natural wonder there is a merchant selling ice cold coca colas to those pilgrims who have dared to take up the challenge. Coming further out, I wander through the rock formation that has created nature’s gate. Past the “iron gates” I see the sapphire Libyan Sea. I am in Agia Roumeli. There are two hotels on either side of this tiny village. I stay in one of them. The next day I take an old American army ship from World War II, which serves as transportation on the southern coast of Crete, to the next village, which is due east. Once at this new village, which has more amenities, I get out and rent a room for less than 100 drachmas (36 drachma to a dollar) a day. I stay there for 4 days and read the story of Merlin the Magician who conjured during King Arthur’s time. Finally, I leave my room, and start walking on the main road to locations unknown. Quickly, I meet two young people, one French guy and his girlfriend, a beautiful Swiss (French) girl. They tell me that they will take me 2

to the most stunning arrangement of sand and ocean. It is named Damnoni, near Plakias. You could not go there by car. There were no paved roads leading there, just dirt paths, upon which you find goats, sheep, donkeys and sometimes people. Nevertheless, we start down the main road, hoping to find a ride which will get us close enough to walk in. Nobody picks us up and we need to go 36 kilometers. At the end of the first day, after 18 kilometers, we find an old farmhouse and ask the owner if we can stay there. He is drooling upon seeing my Swiss lady friend. He says yes for a small price, which we gladly pay. We theorize that he will drool all night. The next day at dawn, after ingesting honeyed tea and toast graciously offered by our perpetually drooling host, we continue our walk. Another 18 kilometers. Towards sunset of the second day, we come to the rim of a mountain and look down. It is the very same beach from the exact perspective I had seen in my vision the previous New Year’s Eve in Worcester. I would live on that beach, naked as a new-born babe, for six months.

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