Ammi Midstokke: Solitary alignment in the mountains of Greece

“You’re going alone?” someone asks me with the concerned tone of the unenlightened. This is usually followed with a list of the dangers of outdoorsing by oneself: Bears, twisted ankles, violent criminals who apparently also love the backcountry and long distance running, and more bears.

While all of the above are indeed risks, I’m willing to accept them for the bliss of solitude in the mountains. One should also prepare for such possible outcomes: Pepper spray for the criminals, jiu-jitsu for the bears. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

It also stands to reason that I sometimes do things that exclude other people by the sheer stupidity of my ideas. This is not accidental.

On this day, I have decided to venture from the lowest point of a deep gorge to the highest point of a nearby mountain range. My maps say it will be somewhere between 15 and 1,000 miles, and between 5,000 and 1 million feet of elevation gain, but I have packed most of a bag of potato chips, so I feel ready.

The day began with a descent into the Vikos Gorge – a canyon that boasts a world record for its depth and narrowness. There are places within that never see the sun, where strange plants from eons ago still grow. At the bottom, near a spring, is a tiny monastery perched on an emerald plateau in a bend of the canyon. The water pools here in iridescent blues, before spilling down the river on its journey toward the sea.

I pick my way up the dry river bed above the spring, toward a trail I know climbs the opposite wall of this crack in the earth, emerges briefly in a small village of stone streets and leaning houses, then winds its way toward the Astraka Mountain Refuge. First, it will pass four more springs, a herd of horses and mules grazing on the steep slopes above the tree line, and beneath the towering cliffs of Astraka itself.

I have peered through a telescope at those cliffs for two years now, wondering how to get around them and to the top of the mountain. Last week, I had found the trail carved first by wild goats and then by wandering shepherds and, later still, by hikers. What looked impossible from a distance was moderate once near. Like tiny ants winding through gravel, a friend and I wound our way between the cliffs and to the tilted plateau of the ridge. We had made our way to the summit, down the other side, and into a valley of lakes settled between the rocky peaks of the Tymfi mountains.

But I discovered Astraka is not the highest mountain in this range. Another nearby peak called Gamila is. Which made me think I ought to return and try to get from the lowest point to the highest point in a single day. All I needed was some potato chips.

Now alone, I pass that trail and zig zag beyond the horses and toward the refuge perched in a saddle of the mountains. They are closed for the season now, the last of their wares loaded onto the backs of mules. They came clattering by me earlier in the morning, and by the time I reached the refuge, the owners were hammering closed the windows and locking the doors. Beyond this point, I would likely only run into mountain goats.

I am convinced that all mountains have their own personality, and the Tymfi are no different. These ones display the vulnerable reality of their crumbling demise. Between great towers of rock, stones sift through the narrows like sand through an hourglass. Time is wearing them down. As I run by, I hear a few stones clack their way down in a distant, unseen avalanche, settling at the bottom of the wash to rest with the others. Someday, even these thousand-foot walls will be worn smooth. Perhaps the earth will become one perfect sphere, a glass marble for the cosmic gods to play with.

Because I am alone in the wilderness of my head (arguably far more dangerous than the wilds of nature), I imagine celestial giants at a raucous game of marbles, rolling planets together until something marvelous like the Big Bang happens. I compose a poem about this, in which the gods are wearing sandals and white robes, as I suppose all gods do. I also make a grocery list, fantasize about the lamb I plan on eating later and draft about 14 new book ideas that are terribly inspiring and creative, but will likely be forgotten by the time I descend.

As I am leaving the draw beneath Astraka to climb another draw, I see a wild goat that is not bothered by me. It is a Balkan Chamois, noted for its stark face markings of black and white, and it seems to prefer solitude as well. It watches me trot up the grassy ravine, climbs a rocky outcropping, and says nothing as I begin my ascent.

Were I hiking with someone else, surely there would have been some discussion. Should we go this way? Maybe the trail is over there? Perhaps this would be easier? And if it were a man – I mean no offense to my many male outdoor companions – I would wish they could be more silent on route suggestions and less silent on equal rights.

Beyond 6,000 feet, my slowing is noticeable. Muscles seem starved for something I cannot give them and even my snacks don’t sound exciting. I trudge my way across scree fields and grassy slopes. The terrain is ever-changing here and a perfect mix of runnable turf and playful scrambling. Above me, three hawks circle on the wind and I can hear their wings.

For hours, I speak to no one, just lose myself in the solipsism of contemplation. This is a practice we offer ourselves far too seldom. I wonder how we ever think of anything new when we are constantly bombarded with external messaging, and then our thoughts about what we have just passively consumed. How many hours of solitude does it take to have an original thought?

For a long time, I can only watch my feet and think about where to place them next, and I think this is an apt summary of most of my life. It is not until I reach the summit and stop to rest that I look out at the horizon, a circle of mountain ridges that taper into agricultural fields and rivers, forests that hold millennia of stories I’ll never know.

Only then do I see all the possibilities.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com