Spoken of with great enthusiasm is a trail in the south; The trekking path, stunned into place by the vision it over looks, was used to link the ancient Lycian civilization. Where the Aegean meets the Mediterranean, the seas turn turquoise and I am here. With me is a tent, a tourist map, three liters of water, a head of broccoli, a loaf of bread, a friend, and no plan. An old man of the road once said "The departure is everything," so now we depart purposefully off the paved road and up the cobbled steps of a ghosted village; it feels light to walk the first steps of the trail.
Over the hill-crest into the descending sun, my shoes are tied tighter and a scarf is knotted to my head for shade. Some others catch up to us; where has the isolated wilderness gone? They tell us we are not on the path; my confidence is sucked away by theirs.The others declare, with the tone of someone seeking to gain something, "the path you follow leads to nothing." I walk with a grin in the direction they discouraged, to find the nothing.
A perfectly lonely cove of sea crushing over rock, carved by life and the tide, is what we see from the paradise camping place under the lone tree. The innocent water is white with the sunshine reflecting off the sea-floors silent bottom. The sight so clear the water could be one meter or one mile deep. I leap into the purity, the purity, the purity.
There is a new phase of the moon and a new search to find the path we seek; back through the ruined village, the ghosts yield to lizards. We see a sprayed arrow, a written sign, and a red strip above a white; you symbols, must be the guide. We stride with near certainty through the painted pine path. Half a days walk empties out into a place with delicious-thick milkshakes and advertisement beach-umbrellas; we swim and rest for a while in this place where nature has been tamed by the comfort-holiday goers. But blessed is the nature which is never lost to those who are looking.
Where's the path; what's the plan; why is this gap in the trail so wide. We hitch a ride, it's not cheating, a golden archway (with no fries) gives me the Lycian sign. We are back with the red and white trail marks, we walk the evening path; it soon leads to a couple of brothers making a coffee of the Turkish kind. We share an orange and then some more, with them we share the place we sleep. A pair of Germans share it too, but their plan is to fast for ours, our none.
Now, with the Brothers Turkish, we walk, we walk, we walk; However, the trek is in solitude, silencing and isolating is the incline. Our energy grows low, our food is low, we enter into a village; the perfect place it is.
First the figs the figs the figs purple and pink and delicious and the green marbles, yes the grapes, dangling from their twigs. Then the goats horn, the Turks call this pod from the tree, tasting of chocolate and bark; I am ripe from fruit but the Turkish meal is not complete without bread. We find some bread with hospitality, so we eat again, a villagers lunch. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumber, black olives, green olives, cheese, cay (is tea), cay, cay, and bread. Then it ends in green walnuts creamy with the trees oil that also is giving us shade.
In the place we stop for the entrance of this night, a tortoise is moving to find its resting place too; perhaps my large pack makes it think we are alike? The load on my back I carry all day is now supporting me as I lean my-self against it; me and the tortoise are alike.
Early rising is the rhythm of these days; the cliffs to the east hide us only until the dial shows ten. These towering cliffs provide perspective all day that thankfully shrinks the self. The sun shine retreats to shadow as we sink into a valley. There is little development and many others to meet.
The morning light does take longer to reach this protected spot, just as the tourism and cement has taken longer, but in mid day the sun does shine, and in mid day the concrete will pour. Though, with pleasure, night will fall again because all is subject to the cycle of the stars.
Here the way is lost again for days, this time on purpose; We walk around the circles of peace-minded-people. They make music, share, and pass around the tools to forget. We wait for the right moment to find a sea-cave; the west facing opening loves most the days last light, in vain for how it makes her water glow. And another adventure leads up a path where trickling water grows, we climb up to where it swells and falls, we swim and rise above its pools to where it falls again. We go up the strengthening stream with the moss getting life from its bottom and jewelry with the beads of water on its top. The butterflies capture all noise to be just silence floating through the air.
We sleep not far from the red and white strips and again follow their way, to soon perhaps, but of course not. The steep climb is exaggerated by the rust of the valley's rest. The steps require great care for I am not the goats; this path is theirs and I spill my steps and wish I had their milk.
Step, step, step, I can feel each step in my knees, shoulders hips, and back. Each movement makes me find worthlessness in the valuable supplies and gadgets I carry. Summer is ending, leaving with the long days, and leaving with our time on the Lycian Way. We and the trekking path agree, in a different direction we will soon stray.
It is the final day of walking and our feet need a wash. A mirage of a ruined city appears spilling into the sea. I insist we leave the path and go directly to the sea; naive enough of me, I lead us to the only piece of land blocked off from the sea. I have no choice but to heave my pack over my head to cross the surging river emptying into our bath. We pass this obstacle and at last find the oasis of undisturbed beach for miles and miles and miles.
Over the hill-crest into the descending sun, my shoes are tied tighter and a scarf is knotted to my head for shade. Some others catch up to us; where has the isolated wilderness gone? They tell us we are not on the path; my confidence is sucked away by theirs.The others declare, with the tone of someone seeking to gain something, "the path you follow leads to nothing." I walk with a grin in the direction they discouraged, to find the nothing.
A perfectly lonely cove of sea crushing over rock, carved by life and the tide, is what we see from the paradise camping place under the lone tree. The innocent water is white with the sunshine reflecting off the sea-floors silent bottom. The sight so clear the water could be one meter or one mile deep. I leap into the purity, the purity, the purity.
There is a new phase of the moon and a new search to find the path we seek; back through the ruined village, the ghosts yield to lizards. We see a sprayed arrow, a written sign, and a red strip above a white; you symbols, must be the guide. We stride with near certainty through the painted pine path. Half a days walk empties out into a place with delicious-thick milkshakes and advertisement beach-umbrellas; we swim and rest for a while in this place where nature has been tamed by the comfort-holiday goers. But blessed is the nature which is never lost to those who are looking.
Where's the path; what's the plan; why is this gap in the trail so wide. We hitch a ride, it's not cheating, a golden archway (with no fries) gives me the Lycian sign. We are back with the red and white trail marks, we walk the evening path; it soon leads to a couple of brothers making a coffee of the Turkish kind. We share an orange and then some more, with them we share the place we sleep. A pair of Germans share it too, but their plan is to fast for ours, our none.
Now, with the Brothers Turkish, we walk, we walk, we walk; However, the trek is in solitude, silencing and isolating is the incline. Our energy grows low, our food is low, we enter into a village; the perfect place it is.
First the figs the figs the figs purple and pink and delicious and the green marbles, yes the grapes, dangling from their twigs. Then the goats horn, the Turks call this pod from the tree, tasting of chocolate and bark; I am ripe from fruit but the Turkish meal is not complete without bread. We find some bread with hospitality, so we eat again, a villagers lunch. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumber, black olives, green olives, cheese, cay (is tea), cay, cay, and bread. Then it ends in green walnuts creamy with the trees oil that also is giving us shade.
In the place we stop for the entrance of this night, a tortoise is moving to find its resting place too; perhaps my large pack makes it think we are alike? The load on my back I carry all day is now supporting me as I lean my-self against it; me and the tortoise are alike.
Early rising is the rhythm of these days; the cliffs to the east hide us only until the dial shows ten. These towering cliffs provide perspective all day that thankfully shrinks the self. The sun shine retreats to shadow as we sink into a valley. There is little development and many others to meet.
The morning light does take longer to reach this protected spot, just as the tourism and cement has taken longer, but in mid day the sun does shine, and in mid day the concrete will pour. Though, with pleasure, night will fall again because all is subject to the cycle of the stars.
Here the way is lost again for days, this time on purpose; We walk around the circles of peace-minded-people. They make music, share, and pass around the tools to forget. We wait for the right moment to find a sea-cave; the west facing opening loves most the days last light, in vain for how it makes her water glow. And another adventure leads up a path where trickling water grows, we climb up to where it swells and falls, we swim and rise above its pools to where it falls again. We go up the strengthening stream with the moss getting life from its bottom and jewelry with the beads of water on its top. The butterflies capture all noise to be just silence floating through the air.
We sleep not far from the red and white strips and again follow their way, to soon perhaps, but of course not. The steep climb is exaggerated by the rust of the valley's rest. The steps require great care for I am not the goats; this path is theirs and I spill my steps and wish I had their milk.
Step, step, step, I can feel each step in my knees, shoulders hips, and back. Each movement makes me find worthlessness in the valuable supplies and gadgets I carry. Summer is ending, leaving with the long days, and leaving with our time on the Lycian Way. We and the trekking path agree, in a different direction we will soon stray.
It is the final day of walking and our feet need a wash. A mirage of a ruined city appears spilling into the sea. I insist we leave the path and go directly to the sea; naive enough of me, I lead us to the only piece of land blocked off from the sea. I have no choice but to heave my pack over my head to cross the surging river emptying into our bath. We pass this obstacle and at last find the oasis of undisturbed beach for miles and miles and miles.
