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Column: Remember the gorge

Part of the Samaria Gorge in Crete
ROMEO BELARMINO PHOTO Part of the Samaria Gorge in Crete

On a sunny day in June 1991, my wife and I found ourselves trudging through something called “the Samaria Gorge” on Crete.

Prior to our arrival on the fabled island that gave us Europe’s first civilization as well as El Greco and Zorba the Greek, Phyllis and I had never heard of the Samaria Gorge. But as we drove around, we kept running into gorge enthusiasts who urged us to set aside a day for a hike through that geological wonderland.

We were assured that even though the length of the trail is 17 kilometers (roughly 11 miles), it is all downhill, and therefore no great strain for anyone who was in even moderately good condition.

Although both of us were leery — we’re not that big on long hikes — we decided to be adventurous.

We boarded a tour bus that took us high into the White Mountains to the starting point for the descent into the gorge. Before taking off, our guide herded us into a restaurant where, on his firm advice, we ordered a hearty breakfast.

“You don’t want to be doing this on an empty stomach,” he warned. “And don’t worry about the calories. You’ll be burning them off soon enough.”

The guide told us the jaunt would take “about five hours, maybe a little longer.” And with that, we commenced our journey down a narrow and very steep footpath.

After we had walked a hundred yards or so, I paused and glanced back up the mountain. I had to crane my neck in order to see the entry point high above us, and I suddenly realized that for me at least, it was already too late to go back.

I checked my watch and said to Phyllis, “Let the record show that the Point of No Return is about a minute-and-a-half.”

“Well put, Yank!” said a hiker to my left in a cheerful voice with an accent that was unmistakably Scottish. I thanked him for the compliment and introduced myself. He said his name was Allan MacLeod, but quickly added that he preferred to be called Cloudy, in deference, perhaps, to the weather patterns that hover over his native land.

His wife, Caroline, and Phyllis soon joined in the conversation and in no time at all the four of us became boon companions, fellow travelers ambling down the mountain in casual harmony.

Thanks in part to the amiable company we had, the early phase of our trek was a Greek version of happy trails. The downhill route was indeed hiker-friendly, and along the way we passed rivers and creeks shimmering in the sunlight.

We also encountered plenty of wild goats and an assortment of other mountain critters. And for those who preferred flora to fauna, large clusters of resplendent wildflowers greeted us at almost every turn.

But the most dramatic sights were geological. As we descended ever more deeply into the gorge, the towering granite walls of the canyon took on a majestic presence.

When we were about halfway through the gorge, we stopped at a concession stand for lunch. By then, we had been walking at a fairly brisk pace for nearly three hours and, downhill or no, we were in need of a sit-down.

In the course of our conversation over lunch, we learned that Cloudy was a true-blue Highlander, one of those proud Scots whose clan could be traced back through the medieval mists to the 11th century.

In fact, he told us that he periodically gets together with other MacLeods at clan gatherings. That inevitably nudged us toward the subject of ceremonial dress, and I confessed to him that there was something about the wearing of kilts that had always puzzled me.

“Oh really,” said Cloudy in a scornful tone. From that and his look of disdain, I could tell he assumed I was going to bring up that vapid old saw about what, if anything, is worn under a kilt.

Which was precisely my intention, and having set him up, I delivered the corker. “Well yes,” I replied, “and I hope you can enlighten me. What I’d like to know is what do Scottish transvestites wear?”

After a rollicking laugh that turned his face bright red, Cloudy said, “Oh, am I going to have fun with that one! Leave it to a Yank to ask a truly insolent question.”

While our pre-lunch hike had certainly qualified as a vigorous workout, it had not been terribly daunting. But now, things changed.

Not long after our return to the trail, we reached the bottom of the gorge, which meant that we no longer had the luxury of walking downhill. Yet we still had about four miles to go, and during much of that stretch, we tramped through a narrow riverbed over sharp rocks and stones. Adding to our discomfort was the rising heat of a summer afternoon on an island that is only about 150 miles north of Africa.

With every step I felt heavy fatigue settle in like barnacles on a ship’s bottom. And toward the end, I had to cope with aches in my thigh and calf muscles. Phyllis was also hurting and so were quite a few other hikers.

But we persevered and eventually staggered across the finish line at Aghia Roumeli, a coastal village on the Sea of Libya. And from there we were transported, first by ferry and then by bus,  back to our hotels.

I would hesitate to describe our experience at the Samaria Gorge as “fun” in the conventional sense. Words like “bracing” or “challenging” come much closer to the mark.

But as classical scholars like to say about translating Homer or Cicero, once you complete the arduous task, you feel better for it.

During the rest of our stay on Crete, we socialized quite a bit with Cloudy and Caroline, and by the time the four of us left the island, we had become good friends. In fact, three years after our chance encounter in the gorge, the MacLeods joined us on a delightful holiday in Tuscany.

And for many years thereafter, we maintained the friendship with letters, occasional phone calls and Christmas cards. In the cards to us, Cloudy always included a few personal lines of good cheer and warm wishes, and invariably signed off with this robust exhortation: REMEMBER THE GORGE!

We do, Cloudy, we do.