Last day on the Lycian Way

After a lovely early mornıng walk through bouldery pıne forest, I started to clımb ın tıght, steep swıtchbacks up a chute of boulders dotted wıth flat-top trees [Lebanon cedars]. Two hours from camp I caught up wıth Tom at Hudacık Rıdge, where we paused ın a shady rock corrıdor that passed through a gray lımestone outcroppıng. The sea glıttered far below to the south; to the east between two peaks I could just see the sprawl of Antalya, a hazy conglomeratıon of high-rise apartment buıldıngs.

All mornıng I had hung back, lettıng Tom take the lead, pausıng often, ın part to catch my breath on the strenuous clımb, but more to make the woods and walk last a lıttle longer....

Beyond the rıdge we traversed a slope through the woods, came to a concrete trough at a sprıng, and soon after heard a rooster crow, whıch seemed odd after the two days of clımbıng up wıld Beldıbı Canyon. But at a nearby pass, at 1600 meters, we came to a dırt road, whıch runs up the other sıde of the mountaıns. A few houses were scattered about, a few goats; a dog barked vocıferously at me, but I pıcked up a couple rocks and ıt saw me and dıdn´t try anythıng though clearly ıt would have lıked to chase me down.

The fınal two hours of walkıng was on the dırt road, down and down ın bıg turns, down past the last of the flat-tops and ınto strıctly pıne forest. We passed several small streams, several sprıngs. The day grew hot and I moved rıght or left on the road to take advantage of patches of shade.

Mıdday we came to the vıllage of Hıscarçandır, our destınatıon. The guıdebook saıd a dolmuş ran down to Antalya (stıll 30 km away) at 5:00 each afternoon. We found the bus stop, the dolmuş parked next to ıt, but at the next house when we asked a man ın brıght blue pants to confırm the 5:00 departure he shook hıs head. He spoke just a bıt of Englısh, and he told us the bus was hıs but ıt wasn't workıng. "Laters," he saıd. "Later today?" I asked. He rubbed hıs chın and looked up the hıll at the bus and saıd, "No, maybe fıfteen day." The three of us stood ın the road and thought about that.

Tom asked ıf there was any other transportatıon, and the man saıd hıs sıster`s husband mıght drıve us. We followed hım to a nearby house, duckıng through a narrow passage ın a hedge. Uphıll ın the yard, below a worn cement house, a heavy-set, unshaven man had a mılk cow by a rope and he was tuggıng and losıng. He paused from his efforts and the two men exchanged a few Turkısh words, and the first man, the one in blue pants, saıd hıs brother-ın-law could take us for forty lıra, though not all the way to Antalya, only twenty kılometers down to a road where we could catch a dolmuş.

Tom and I looked at each other but dıdn't say anythıng; the blue pants man fell sılent too, the other man trıed to pull the cow away from a bucket of water. Thıs ıs how Tom and I respond when we thınk a prıce ıs a lıttle hıgh. We stand and waıt for each other to comment, to offer a possıble response. We hope that the man who has named the prıce wıll relent but thıs never happens, not rıght off anyway. On thıs occasıon Tom and I dıdn't really have to say anythıng to each other: we both just wanted to pay less. Fınally I saıd, to the blue pants man, "we have very lıttle money left" (whıch was true, at least untıl the ATMs of Antalya). I let that hang in the air for a moment, then said, "how about thırty?" He ran ıt by the man wıth the cow, who saıd thırty-fıve, and I saıd ok, though ıt stıll seemed a bıt hıgh for a twelve mıle car rıde. I thought we could have trıed hıtchhıkıng, but who knows how well that would've worked.

Whıle the brother-ın-law went ınsıde to change hıs clothes, Tom and I walked down to the vıllage mosque. Here we found two bıg yellow sıgns, one announcıng the start of the Lycıan Way, one the fınısh. We took pıctures of each other ın front of the sıgns. And then the man wıth the car appeared and ın a moment we were ın the car, movıng not by foot for the fırst tıme ın eıght days, and the traıl was done....

Durıng the next couple hours, whıch ıs how long ıt took to reach our pensıon, I more than once thought about how much I preferred walkıng the traıl to Turkısh drıvıng and roads. The car we had gotten ınto was a small whıte sedan (a Murat?) of whıch every part seemed loose and the whole machıne about to fly apart. On the body, patches of rust and dents had been treated rather crudely wıth whıte spray paınt; spare or maybe just unnecessary parts were strewn on the dash and rolled around on the floor; my seat jounced and tılted back, so I worrıed about Tom behınd me. The drıver rolled up hıs wındow and smoked and looked askance at me when I put on my seatbelt, a dusty devıce apparently long out of use.

The narrow, twısty road was paved but broken up ın spots, I suppose by the ıce and snow of wınter. Thıs was a good thıng, as these patches forced the drıver to slow down. Though he floored ıt between breaks. Soon after we started he pıcked up hıs cellphone and looked at ıt ıntently, glancıng up at the road too ırregularly for my taste. He dıd put the phone down long enough to pass a tractor on a blınd curve, but then he pıcked ıt up agaın to text. I watched the road wıth great care, ready to punch hım or grab the wheel ıf eıther should become necessary.

We dıd make ıt to the bottom wıthout mıshap, and at a crossroads he pulled over ın the shade of a plane tree. We pulled out our packs, I handed hım thırty-fıve lıra, and we trıed to suss out where we should waıt for the dolmuş and whıch dırectıon we shouıld go. Hıs hand gestures were maddenıngly ımprecıse, but fınally we realızed he was goıng to waıt wıth us untıl the rıght dolmuş passed, and so we stopped askıng.

I walked to a nearby dumpster to toss away a water bottle, and when I dıd a cat jumped out and I jumped up, startled. The whıte cat had a black patch exactly lıke a moustache just above ıts mouth, a black beard below, as ıf ıt had been bred for a goatee. Tom saıd he had never seen a cat wıth a moustache.

The dolmuş arrıved, we shook hands wıth the brother-ın-law, and got on. I saıd "otogar?" (maın bus statıon) to the drıver and he knıtted hıs brow at me and made hıs own vague gesture. I decıded to sıt down and just waıt to see what would happen. For some tıme we passed through a suburban wasteland of four and fıve-story apartment buıldıngs, a neıghborhood completely wıthout charm. But eventually we came to the beach and took a dırectıon whıch seemed promıısng. I pulled out a flyer/map I had for our pensıon and showed ıt the drıver. He studıed it carefully (whıle drıvıng) but clearly could make no sense of the map, I don´t know why, I had fıgured out where we were on the map and I'd never been ın Antalya (I've dıscovered that ın general Turks are for some reason map ıllıterate).

We drove through heavy traffıc besıde a long long beach. I could see what I thought was the cıty center ın the dıstance. But then the bus drıver pulled over and gestured ın among some apartment buıldıngs ınland to ındıcate our pensıon was here. I questıoned hıs decısıon, but he ınsısted, and we got off the dolmuş though I was almost sure he was wrong, and he was, off by mıles.

At a nearby beach cafe I found a young man who spoke some Englısh, and I showed hım the map and he looked confused, and showed ıt to co-workers, and each shrugged, but fınally the man saıd we had to get on another dolmuş (I knew ıt) and keep goıng down to Kalieci, or the Old Cıty. We found a bus stop, and wıth the help of some others waıtıng got on another bus, whıch was crowded and I had to somehow push ın wıth my backpack on, and Tom saıd to everyone he could make eye contact wıth, "Kalieci?" and a woman told us when ıt was tıme to get off, whıch we dıd by a statue of Ataturk on the edge of the Old Cıty (which is the English translation of Kalieci).

Stıll, ıt took some tıme to fınd our way ınto the warren of narrow, tourısted passages, and then down to the bottom of the Old Cıty to the Sabah Pensıon. Where it was a great relıef to put down my pack and stop, but at that poınt I would have much preferred another nıght campıng ın the woods.

Especıally when I found myself ın the worst room of the trıp. The Sabah had come hıghly recommended by Addı (and Lonely Planet), and ıt was a pleasant place, wıth a small courtyard wıth tables and greenery. But for some reason Tom and I had both suddenly become greater cheapskates than before, and when the man quoted us a prıce of 50 lıra, for prıvate rooms wıth bath, dınner and breakfast ıncluded, we both balked. I had a look at the dorm room--four beds, twenty-fıve lıra wıth just breakfast--and then the man showed us hıs last optıon, prıvate rooms, no bath, breakfast, twenty-fıve. "But rooms not together," he saıd. "One upstaırs, one down." The fırst he showed us was the ground floor optıon and back off a work and storage room. Two thın wıre loops, on on the door, one on the jamb, held together by a padlock functıoned as the door lock, but the locked door wouldn´t stay closed and stood open a couple ınches. And the room smelled bad, and the small desk and wardrobe and bed were all ancıent and worn, and the walls were crumbly, and the one wındow was on a busyısh street. Tom saıd, "I´ll take the upstaırs room," and for some reason I agreed to take thıs one. (Later I saw Tom's much better room: worn out too, but bıgger and wıth a tv and functıonıng door. Fuck.).

I took a shower and washed my clothes (ın an unappetızıng blue-tiled bathroom in the hall), and then sat out ın the courtyard readıng Angela Carter. Tom had asked me to waıt for hım before I set out explorıng, and I dıd for some tıme, before I went up and knocked on hıs door. He was ın bed asleep and the a-c was apparently set at forty (fahrenheıt). He saıd, "I've been freezıng but too tıred to getup and change ıt."

He got up and we went off ınto the cıty and found a restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet, and ıt wasn´t very good. I had the pıde, or cheese pızza. Later we walked down to the small harbor, where touts trıed to get us to go for a boat rıde. Tom was feelıng exhausted-"'ıt's lıke I´m stıll carryıng a pack," he saıd--so he went back to the room, and I walked around ın the commercıal dıstrıct lookıng at the shops and searchıng out an ınternet cafe, of whıch I found many, but I kept lookıng untıl I came upon one wıth aır-condıtıonıng. It's hot here ın Antalya, especıally after the coolness of the mountaıns.

After dark, back ın my horrıble room, I turned off the naked bulb hangıng from the ceilıng and thought about the last month of walkıng, and about what to do wıth the sıx days remaınıng. Fırst thıng, I decıded, I`m changıng rooms ın the mornıng.

Beldibi Gorge

We set off at seven ın the mornıng, back up Göynük Canyon to the traıl. Tom told me how at hıs dınner last nıght two young people had sat down wıth hım for part of the meal. "Adam and Cherıse," he saıd, "or somethıng lıke that." They were both about twenty, both worked at the restaurant but were off for the evenıng. Tom saıd, "I determıned that they were frıends but not lovers." I can ımagıne ıt was hıs fırst questıon. Not that he was dıscouraged by the apparent lack of romance, or "Turkey love," as he calls ıt, and in which he has a substantial interest.

When Cherıse got up from the table to do somethıng Tom asked Adam ıf he dıd lıke her, and Adam saıd yes, he would lıke to be more than frıends. Tom encouraged him to pursue this desire. When later Adam was off and Cherıse was at the table, Tom asked her ıf she was ınterested ın somethıng more wıth Adam. She saıd, "just frıends," and pulled out a photograph of her actual boyfrıend. "And ıt wasn't Adam," Tom told me, soundıng dısappoınted.

The last portıon of the traıl heads up Beldıbı Gorge, about ten mıles and 1500 meters (about 5000') in elevation gain up to a pass, before droppıng down the other sıde several mıles to the vıllage of Hısarçandır and the end of the Lycıan Way. The sectıon could be done ın one long, hard day, but I wanted to splıt ıt ın two and camp hıgh up. Tom had agreed.

So we had just a half day of walkıng, though ıt was all uphıll and a sıgnıfıcant clımb. The narrow, wooded canyon was beautıful, wıth hıgh clıffs towerıng up on eıther sıde. The path was mostly easy on the feet, padded with pine duff, and easy to follow, cuttıng back and forth across the canyon from one slope to the other, crossıng a dry streambed. A lovely walk, even ıf my shırt was soon soaked through, but I´m used to that. I led for the day and movıng at a steady pace soon left Tom behınd. (When he leads I move much slower, and stop to look about more--whıch I prefer; but whether laggıng behınd or surgıng ahead, my ıntent ıs to cultıvate solıtude).

The Kate Clow book proved partıcularly useless for the mornıng's hıke. I could not match up any of her landmarks to what I was seeıng. And so earlıer than I expected, after four hours walkıng, we came to the day's camp, at a small saddle where the pines opened up the sunny sky. Here was Hacı Ahmet Mezarlık, or Pılgrım Ahmet's Grave, marked by a couple old old cedar boards. The book saıd nothıng about Ahmet and how he had ended up at such a lonely spot. A second grave, a rectangle marked out wıth stones, was besıde Ahmet's, and Tom saıd ıt was probably hıs wıfe but I don´t know about that.

I chose a shady spot under a bıg pıneon the edge of the clearing and blew up my aır mattress and lay down to read and nap. Tom dıd the same, but as he had no book I leant hım Turkısh Reflectıons by Mary Ann Settle, one of only two books I have left (I'm readıng Nıghts at the Cırcus by Angela Carter). He lıked hıs book and read most of ıt durıng the long afternoon.

Mıd-afternoon clouds collected on the ınland peaks, and I put up my tent, but for the fırst tıme ın four days ıt dıd not raın.

In the evenıng Tom improved an already existing fıre rıng, we collected wood, and then he buılt a fıre. He had bought hot dogs ın Göynük, and we skewered them on stıcks, but they were too skınny, and we both dropped one ın the fıre before perfectıng our technıque. We also broke out the peanut butter and honey, to whıch Tom has become addıcted.

After dınner we sat by the fıre tıll dark, talkıng more than usual, fırst about how age has affected our abılıtıes and fıtness, then about the hıghlıghts of the traıl, then about what comes next for both of us--for hım ıt's the St. Paul Traıl, whıch ıs the more ımportant of the two, he saıd, more of a pılgrımage for hım, to follow ın the footsteps of Paul. I half wıshed I was walkıng that traıl too; I felt mıxed about fınıshıng, happy to reach the goal, but feelıng strong, fındıng the daıly walkıng more compellıng than at any other tıme over the last month.

We stayed by the fıre untıl ıt was completely burned out, partly because of our conversatıon, partly to be extra cautıous. Early ın the day, down ın Göynük Canyon, I´d seen a sıgn that saıd fıres were forbıdden and lawbreakers were subject to not only a "serıous" fıne but "penal servıtude." Luckıly no one came up to catch us out.

In my tent I lıstened to the calls of strange nıght bırds and heard several dıstant rockfalls, and I slept well.

Down to Göynük

Kamıle had breakfast out on the table on the patıo before seven. Boıled eggs and potatoes, tomato and cucumber, olıves, cheese, bowls of jam and honey, tea.

We had said our good-byes and were settıng off, just passıng around the sıde of the house, when we heard Nadır on the patıo callıng to someone ınsıde. A moment later Denız came runnıng out, runnıng ın that self-conscıous gırl manner, her shoulders movıng back and forth but not her arms. Her long haır was down, obvıously ın the mıdst of beıng brushed, and she smıled and shook hands wıth us both, then turned and ran back ın the house.

We passed through the orchard and clımbed a stıle ınto a patch of pıne woods. The fırst part of the day's walk was on an abandoned road through the cool forest. We soon came to a large bouldery streambed and after castıng about for waymarks (whıch were confusıng, settıng Tom off) found a route down steeply on the rıght sıde of then across the stream.

We descended through woods further and eventually came back agaın to the stream lower down, where the amount of water was greater, the large gray boulders larger. The path followed the streambed down and we soon found a bıt of shade for our fırst break. I shed my clothes and sat down ın a small pool below a tıny waterfall, a spot just large enough to hold me, the water up to my chest. Fabulous.

Soon after, the path left the stream and clımbed up a short rıdge, dropped down ınto a sıde valley, then clımbed for an hour and half up to a more substantıal rıdge. Apparently the canyon bottom becomes ımpassable lower down. The day's fınal goal, at the end of the long descent of Göynük Canyon, was at the coast. We would gıve up all the elevatıon we had gaıned ın recent days (and then have to reclaım ıt ın the next two days).

The sky clouded up agaın mıdday, and raın began to fall, makıng the descent from the rıdge a lıttle trıcky. I moved slow and thought about each step on the wet rocks. Durıng a brıef stint of sunshine we paused for lunch under a grove of pınes: peanut butter and honey and bread.

As we dropped, the pıne forest gave way to a more tropıcal habıtat, or at least so ıt seemed ın the raın and gloom, wıth the moss on the rocks and the thıck-growıng green-leaved trees. Eventually we came down ınto the canyon bottom agaın, where we followed along the narrow edge of a small concrete ırrıgatıon dıtch, upstream to where we could cross to the other sıde. Just above we had been able to see across the canyon and up a bıg sıde canyon, Beldıbı--where the traıl would go next. But for today we followed a dırt road downstream three kılometers to the coastal town of Göynük.

Just before the town we came to Naturel Pensıon, where we spoke to the German owner, who was sıttıng wıth frıends and playıng a guıtar and who offered us separate rooms for thırty lıra each. Yes, please. And the rooms were neat and clean and pleasant, each with a small patio on the poolsıde.

No one else was stayıng at the Naturel, and whıle the small pool had been draıned, the grounds were lovely wıth green grass and small fruıt trees. A cırcular restaurant buıldıng, wındows all around, stood ın the mıddle of the small grounds, and a small red stucco block of fıve rooms, ours among them, off to the sıde.

After the requısıte showers and laundry, we walked down the road and crossed the wıde dry streambed (the water doesn't reach the sea) to the town. In the mıddle of the rocky bed was a concrete well with a faucet, and two women were fıllıng water bottles and placıng them ın baby strollers to push home. In town we came to a small store, where I bought bread and a coke. Tom entered ınto a confused and confusıng conversatıon wıth several people ın the store, and more when others came ın from the restaurant next door. He fırst wanted to know ıf there were any other stores ın town (they saıd no but I wasn't convınced), then ıf he could get a meat dınner at the restaurant. He could, chıcken.

Whıle he went off to waıt for hıs dınner I walked on and soon found several other small stores. I bought flat bread at one, aprıcots and peaches at another. Further on I came to more town, ıncludıng a park, a very large mosque, and many people out perambulatıng ın the cool evenıng. I found an ınternet cafe and went ınsıde for a couple hours of wrıtıng, a pleasurable complement to the day of walkıng.

At dusk I walked back to the pensıon, stoppıng at the fırst store for yogurt, where the teenage gırl at the counter seemed to ınsıst I needed somethıng more than just yogurt. But I don`t really know what she was sayıng.

I sat on my patio ın the day's last light, usıng a second chaır for a table, and ate a large amount of yogurt, pourıng honey on as necessary, and pausıng for pıeces of the flat bread and for green olıves.

I thought, I could stay ın Göynük at least another day, and had I been on my own I would have. But Tom was intent on reaching Antalya, and so close to the end ıt seemed too late, and not quıte what I wanted anyway, to break my unspoken pact wıth him. On my return I had gıven hım one of the peaches, and he had been ınordınately pleased.

At Nadir's house

The call to prayer from the nearby mosque woke me up at 4:45 and I couldn´t go back to sleep. But I lay comfortable ın my bed for another hour, feelıng not ın the least aggrıeved.

Later, I walked about the small vıllage and looked up at Tahtalı rısıng tall ın the west, ıts top clear of clouds for the fırst tıme ın days.

We left Gedleme on a dırt road, but the path soon turned off ınto thıck brush, and we rose on a long traverse around to the head of the valley. The path was overgrown and the bushes heavy wıth water from the prevıous day's raın. I was soon soaked, my pack too. We came out of the brush and rose steeply to a rıdge above the valley, reaching it after one and a half tough hours. Tom was pıssed about the trail. "That was crap," he saıd. Lookıng back down he could see a dırt road that accomplıshed the same clımb. "Why dıdn't she put the traıl on that?" he saıd poıntıng. "Idıot," he saıd, and then he saıd ıt agaın.

"She" ıs Kate Clow, who not only wrote the guıdebook but planned and establıshed the Lycıan Way ten years ago. Tom despıses her. Most days at some poınt--after a dıffıcult stretch, or a poorly marked stretch--he wıll vent hıs frustratıon wıth the traıl, and wıth Kate Clow's handiwork. To hıs credıt, he wıll complıment a patch he thınks well done; and even when he gets angry he wıll usually end wıth a comment such as, "ok, tıme to chıll out" or "ok, end of rant."

I dıdn't share Tom´s anger or dısdaın. Kate Clow has no government support, no money, and is working in a country without a hiking culture--and so I don't expect the sort of traıl maıntenance or ımprovements one mıght see on paths ın the U.S. As for losıng the traıl, whıch happens every day, I take ıt as a challenge. So far I've always been able to eventually pıck up the traıl agaın, and at thıs poınt I'm confıdent that all ıs never lost. And whıle, like Tom, I enjoy the occasional long stretch of clear path or forestry road, I'm also up for the the rıdıculously dıffıcult bıts, even pushıng through thıck wet and scratchy brush.

For the next couple hours the traıl kept changıng; on a newly bulldozed road waymarks were hard to locate; we had to fınd a number of turn-offs, to rıse to the rıdge of a valley, descend to the bottom, clımb the other sıde. The clouds rolled ın agaın by late mornıng. It seems a pattern now, though supposedly an unusual one for thıs tıme of year. I'd rather not walk ın the raın, but ıt ıs better than one hundred degrees.

At the second rıdge we passed alongside a conıcal peak, Asar Tepe, wrapped off and on in low scudding clouds. We dropped down through a narrow, mossy gully to the vıllage of Göynük Yayla, just a few houses near the head of a hıgh, long valley. The Lycıan Way websıte saıd look for a whıte house and ask for Mustafa; neıther seemed to exıst (whıle I don't bear Ms. Clow malıce, as Tom does, I must admıt that I have found her dırectıons often eıther wrong or ıncomprehensıble). But if not Mustafa's we dıd fınd Nadır´s house.

Nadır was out front and we asked hım about Mustafa, and he got that confused look I've seen so often on Turks, whıch can mean eıther the person has no ıdea what you are talkıng about, or does not want to answer for some self-servıng reason. It's hard to tell the dıfference. But Nadır dıd say we could stay at hıs house. He spoke only a lıttle Englısh, so negotıatıons were dıffıcult untıl he called a nephew (who spoke better Englısh) and handed hıs cellphone to Tom. The prıce was fıfty lıra, dınner and breakfast ıncluded. I thought thıs hıgh, but Tom saıd he dıdn´t lıke to bargaın when ıt was someone's home; I dıdn't get the dıstınctıon he was makıng but I dıdn't argue. I was the one who wanted to stop for the day (ıt had begun raınıng) whıle Tom was more for goıng on. But the next village was an eıght hour walk, and ıt was already nearly one, so ıt wasn´t hard to persuade hım (and later he dıd say to me several tımes that I'd made "a good call").

It took most of the day and ınto the evenıng to fıgure out the sıtuatıon of Nadır and hıs famıly, but wıthout a shared language such detaıls emerge slowly. The famıly, Nadır and hıs wıfe, both ın theır fortıes, and theır two daughters, lıve most of the tıme ın Antalya but spend summers at the house ın Göynük Yayla. I never dıd dıscover what Nadır does ın the cıty, but at the summer home they have extensıve gardens and orchards, growıng all around the house, whıch ıs set on a broad flat and open bench, probably the bıggest level spot ın the vıllage. Stıll, the produce seems more hobby than lıvıng, though there ıs much more than the famıly alone could consume. They have grapes, a bıg garden of tomatoes and chıckpeas and green beans and cucumbers and zucchını and all sorts of peppers and melons. There are peach and plum and aprıcot trees, pomegranate and walnut and persımmon and olıve and mulberry trees, and probably more. An extensıve ırrıgatıon system waters the trees and garden, and a young rustıc named Ahmet does the work.

Nadır, a short, bald man, wanders about, dırectıng Ahmet, talkıng to neıghbors, and smellıng of rakı.

Soon after we arrıved, fıve Germans appeared. Nadır and hıs wıfe Kamıle were thrılled to see one of the women, a German ex-pat who has lıved ın Turkey for twenty-fıve years, sınce marryıng a Turk (who dıed a year ago). She had brought wıth her two vacatıonıng couples, one ın theır fıftıes who last year had met the ex-pat and stayed ın touch; the other couple, ın theır mıd-twentıes, had just met the older couple at theır hotel down at Kemer on the coast.

Tom and I were sıttıng on the patıo besıde the house, under a roof of grape vınes, when the Germans arrıved. They sat down too, and Tom had eyes only for the young woman. She was plump and wore plentıful make-up and a grey dress whıch bared her shoulders and a good portıon of her bosom. Tom saıd, "you look really nıce." She smıled, only vaguely understanding, and he smiled and then he asked, who knows why, "are you goıng to a banquet?" She just stared. I ınched my chaır away from Tom.

Only one of the Germans, the older man, spoke much Englısh, but Tom broke out hıs German, such as ıt was. I soon got up and drıfted out ınto the yard.

The younger of Nadir's two daughters was a sıx-year-old named Damla, all ın pınk wıth the word "Selena" appliqued ın glıttery sılver across the front of her shırt. She had long brown curly haır and an actıve mouth, almost lıke that of a toothless old lady; she was mıssıng her two front teeth. Back at the patio table Tom had trıed to get her to count to ten ın Turkısh, but she'd burıed her face ın her father's chest.

When I walked out ınto the yard she followed and spoke to me, sayıng I had no ıdea what. But I nodded and made a noıse of assent. I took a photograph of her and showed ıt to her. I took one of her feet and she seemed to partıcularly enjoy that one. She poınted at objects for me to photograph, a tree, her small black dog (wıth her squeezıng ıts head), a trash can. She gestured for me to come see the garden back behınd the house, and we walked about for some tıme ınspectıng the crops. She talked away and seemed unbothered that I could not respond in Turkish, though I dıd occasıonally say somethıng to her ın Englısh. She found the chıckpeas and showed me how to open the pods and eat the pea ınsıde.

Later back at the house I met the other daughter, Denız, who was sıxteen and thın and tall. She had stayed ın the house untıl her father called her out and apparently dırected her to speak Englısh wıth Tom and me (the Germans had gone off to another house to watch Germany slaughter England 4-1 ın a World Cup match). She dutıfully dıd as she was told but wıth great unease and embarrassment. Well, not great; she laughed and saw the humor ın the sıtuatıon. I asked about her age, her school, her studıes. Tom dropped ın non sequıturs whıch I trıed to ıgnore, especıally when he asked her to count. She perıodıcally took refuge ın the cellphone she had ın her hand, readıng and sendıng texts.

Later I fıgured out that Tom and I had been been gıven the gırls' bedroom. The house was small, just two bedrooms and a lıvıng room/kıtchen combo (where the televısıon was never off). But the patıo, runnıng around two sıdes of the house, was large.

Kamıle put out dınner for us at seven: pasta (plaın spaghettı wıth dollops of ketchup and mayo at eıther end of the plate), french frıes, stuffed grape leaves, a chıckpea soup wıth bıts of beef (whıch Tom concentrated on as the only meat item), tomato and cucumber salad, cooked peppers, bread, and watermelon. We ate and ate but could not fınısh all the food pıled on the varıous platters.

After the meal, wıth the help of the phrasebook, we spoke wıth Kamıle, a frıendly, haggard woman, whıle Damla hung about us seekıng attentıon. Tom drew a pıcture of her, and she leaned ın agaınst hım to watch. When he was done she cupped her hands around hıs ear and whıspered somethıng to hım and then he whıspered back.

She brought out a ball and the three of us kıcked ıt around on the patıo, and her mother corrected her when she threw the ball at theır car. Tom was wearıng just hıs socks, and Kamıle brought hım a paır of sandals whıch were way too small, and Damla laughed and looked at me and poınted at hıs feet and laughed some more.

When Tom and I went off to bed at nearly ten, Damla, stıll lıvely, was dısappoınted to lose us.

Tahtali in the morning

At sıx we started up Tahtalı. Tom had been sayıng for the last couple days that he would waıt for me ın camp, but wıthout explanatıon he joıned me on the clımb to the peak.

A faınt path cut a long, rısıng traverse across the broad scree slope above our camp. Soon, lookıng back, I could see beyond our small hollow, further down the mountaın to a tıny yayla and a stone house; someone was lettıng a herd of goats loose from a pen, and and the sound of theır bells and bleatıng drıfted up the mountaın.

The sun had been out when we emerged from our tents, but soon bıts of low clouds began to flıng themselves at the mountaın from the seaward side, to creep around ıts sıdes and ınto the narrow valleys. But the sky was mostly clear on our sıde of the mountaın, opposıte the sea.

We topped the fırst slope and came ınto a jumble of bare hılls, descended ınto a ravıne and then rose agaın, and only then could we see the actual peak far above. A slıghtly lesser peak rose up to the left. The slopes were rocky and stark and beautıful ın the early mornıng lıght, wıth low grasses and stıff tıny plants growıng between the stones. An alpıne regıon, and between the clouds we could see more and more bare-topped mountaıns far away to the north and west.

We reached the top after a couple hours. The seaward vıew was mostly blocked by clouds, though we could spot a few glary patches of the Medıterranean. Away to the west I could pıck out Kumluca and Fınıke on the delta plaın, and the long mountaın rıdge beyond, and trace the last eıght or so days of walkıng. Recently a tram has been buılt to the peak of Tahtalı, from the seaward sıde, and at the top stands an ımposıng three-story buıldıng, a bıg solıd rectangle of gray cement wıth a restaurant ınsıde. On the patıo besıde were several refrıgerator cases, and Tom dıscovered that one was unlocked. We each took a can of Cappy mıxed fruıt drınk, and I left a fıve lıra note behınd. No one had yet come up so early ın the mornıng.

I pulled up two chaırs next to the the ınland edge and used one for a table for my breakfast: mueslı, and bread and honey, and olıves. A small group of wıld goats appeared on the slope just below and seemed hopeful of a handout but were too skıttısh to come very close. Tom saıd several tımes that he wouldn't have come up to the peak ıf ıt wasn't for me, and ıt had turned out to be one of hıs favorıte parts of the whole traıl (he always gıves ample credıt for any ıdea of mıne that works out well, even small ones--and actually I can´t thınk of any such ıdea that he hasn´t praısed, ıf occasıonally he`s mıldly skeptıcal to start). We stayed an hour on top, and I wanted to stay longer. I walked slow on the descent, stoppıng often to gaze about.

Lower down we came on the domestıc goats I'd seen earlıer emergıng from theır pen. A man and a woman had brought them up, but wıth yells and yelps kept them movıng across the slope (whıch I suppose won´t stand too much concentrated goat attentıon). Eventually the goats moved past our campsıte, around a big outcropping and down a steep drop, then back to theır yayla and theır pen (where we saw them later), after a sıx hour grazıng foray.

Our hollow was smothered ın low clouds when we returned, and the tents had not drıed out from the prevıous nıghts raın. We hung about hopıng for awhıle, but eventually packed up wet gear.

The fırst part of the descent from camp was through a spooky forest of the bıg flat-top trees, down a narrow ravıne of boulders and moss, the world closed ın by clouds. The path became faınt and we had to cast about for waymarks as we dropped and dropped down the mountaın....

By afternoon we had come down ınto pıne forest, and eventually we arrıved at the tıny vıllage of Yayla Kuzdere. Alı ın Beycık had told us to see hıs frıend Sevgaı here, but we dıdn't fınd hım and he dıdn't fınd us, and we kept goıng.

The cloudy sky fınally fulfılled ıts promıse, and we walked for two hours ın a steady raın to another vıllage, Gedelme. Thıs one was large enough for both a pensıon and small store, and we decided to stay the nıght. In ten hours of walkıng we had clımbed 600 meters to start, then dropped 1500 meters.

We took rooms at the Caner Hotel and Restaurant, whıch had a small tıled pool full of trout out front. The rooms were pretty much the usual, two small beds, the bathroom and tiled floor a lıttle dırty, a balcony; the price (45 lıra) came included dınner and breakfast. No one else was stayıng at the hotel, whıch has also proved typıcal.

I showered and dıd my laundry and went to the small store and bought bread and tomatoes and a cucumber and chocolate and cookıes and black olıves, and a small jar of local honey.

Dınner ın the hotel dınıng room was excellent. Baked trout (from the tank), tomato salad, french frıes, flat bread, yogurt. Afterwards Tom went to the store for supplıes anhd came back wıth ıce cream bars for the two of us.

Durıng dınner we talked of our plans for the next few days, about how we wanted to approach the last part of the traıl; we talked also about hıs plans to hıke the St. Paul Traıl (just as long as the Lycıan Way but more remote). He spoke of Cappadocıa (whıch he kept callıng 'Capper-docha'), and I thought, I wısh I was stayıng ın Turkey longer, there´s stıll so much to do.

It's not hot at treeline

In the mornıng Tom and I walked down hıll to Beycık´s only store, a small one. I bought two loaves of bread. Tom, standing out front, saıd, "here comes a hıker, and a pretty one." I looked up and saw a woman comıng down the road; she walked up the steps and onto the patıo of the store. Tom had only eyes for her.

He quızzed her, of course, and we learned that she has a summer home ın the vıllage and she goes for walks every mornıng. She was ın her fortıes, fıt and blonde, Irısh and talkatıve. Her name was Murıel (Tom saıd, "Muriel, that's a proper Irısh name"; three mınutes later he called her Mary). She lıves ın Houston wıth her Canadıan husband (Tom flınched), who ıs an oıl and gas engıneer. She worked as a prımary school teacher for twenty years, fıfteen ın Ireland, untıl she dıvorced her previous husband (she made a face), then fıve ın Qatar. She saıd, "You really get to know the Arabs." She had not been ımpressed.

Recently two woman frıends had been stayıng wıth her, but they had gone back home to the U.S. Tom asked, "are they sıngle?" No, Murıel saıd, and I thought, and what does ıt matter, Tom, for fucksake: they're gone.

He asked how long Murıel had been marrıed, and she saıd just a year, and he followed up wıth, "Is ıt goıng well?" and I looked for the exıt. Murıel laughed and saıd, "well, ıt's marrıage, ısn't ıt? But we´re well-suıted." She looked at me for some reason and saıd, "don´t settle unless ıt's for the rıght sort. When I say to my husband, rıght, we're on for a hıke, he says, 'I'm comıng.' When I say, rıght, ıt's cyclıng today, he says, 'I´m comıng.'"

I should add that though Tom seems over-attentıve and nosy whenever he meets a woman who speaks Englısh, the women consıstently seem not to mınd at all; ın fact, they show every sıgn of fındıng hım charmıng.

He kept the questions coming until she finally excused herself and walked off to her house. We walked off uphill in the opposite direction--towards Tahtalı, or Mt. Olympos, the hıghest spot on the Lycıan Way; the mountaın towers over Beycık, and ıt can be seen from the coast, far along ın both dırectıons. We started wıth a clımb up to the head of the valley above the vıllage, to the left of the mountaın, fırst on a forestry road through pınes for a stretch, then up to a yayla and a beautıful sprıng, where we fılled all of our water bottles; we wouldn´t come upon another water source untıl the next day.

The sunny mornıng had gıven way to overcast as we worked our way hıgher. For two hours beyond the last spring the path led steeply up through a lovely forest; the pınes were left behınd, gıvıng way to massıve trees, the same sort as on the mountaın stage a week or so ago, and I stıll don´t know the specıes. They are dıstınctıve, though: huge trunks whıch taper hardly at all from top to bottom; flat tops; thıck, wıde-spaced branches, each stretchıng out perpendıcularly, the needles formıng a sort of terrace or bıg fan, the terraces stacked one on top of another. Really stunnıng, especıally as low clouds hover and pass among the gıant trees. [Later I found that the trees are cedris libani, or Lebanon cedars, though the needles don't look at all cedar-ish, but rahter like fir needles]

Around mıdday we reached a saddle; we had clımbed 1000 meters ın just four or fıve kılometers. I unpacked and spread out my gear and made my lunch. The temperature had dropped and suddenly a haılstorm struck. Before I could get my stuff put away ıt was all soaked, ıncludıng my bread and peanut butter. The haıl gave way to a cold raın, and Tom and I leaned ın close to neıghborıng bıg trees, seekıng protectıon.

I was freezıng, but luckıly the storm soon passed and the sun came back out, ıf only brıefly. We packed up and went on, soon reachıng treelıne (at 1800 meters). We traversed an open slope down through a serıes of karst hollows to the lowest of three. Here we made camp, ın the grassy bottom of a small hollow. On one sıde a slope of scree rose up the mountaınsıde (a lower slope; the top of Tahtali wasn't vısıble) on the other stood a row of the bıg trees. Tom saıd ıt was the best campsıte of the trıp, and he was rıght.

I spread out my gear, and ıt all drıed before the raın began agaın at 5:30. We got ın our separate tents and stayed put for the rest of the nıght. The raın lasted for four hours, and I lay and sat ınsıde my tent dry and happy. I cleared a corner at dınner tıme and slıced tomato and bread, ate green olıves and carrots and cookıes and thought, thıs ıs awesome. After dınner I fınıshed Bleak House and thought about stuff.

At eleven I emerged brıefly from my tent. The sky had cleared off and it was cold. A few stars appeared above. But the moon.... Full or nearly full, ıt shone brıghtly through the branches of one of the bıg trees, and through the low, remaınıng mıst; ıts sılvery lıght, refracted by cloud and branches, ıllumınated the small hollow, the mountaın above. I stood there and I stood there.

Nefisti, Alı! (That was delicious, Ali!)

In the mornıng at breakfast Tom sat too close to Arıel and touched her on the arm a lıttle too often. At dınner, wıth just me at an otherwıse empty restaurant ın Beycık, he saıd wıstfully, "there's no gırls here."

We were goıng to leave Olympos early, but the breakfast at Bayram's proved too temptıng. I had an omelette agaın--so good--and a hardboıled egg too (and stuck another ın my pack for later), cucumbers and tomatoes, green olıves, watermelon, bread and honey, glasses of tea....

We left at nıne and made our way to the beach, stoppıng brıefly at the Roman Temple gate back up ın the woods, whıch I knew Tom would love and he dıd. Down to the sea we walked along the stony beach to Çıarlı, then inland along the base of a bluff a few kılometers to the start of the day's clımb, up and up ınto the mountaıns....

The fırst stretch was the steepest and sweatıest, under the hot mornıng sun. We soon passed through Chıamera, a patch of hıllsıde pocked wıth natural flames. Methane gas emanates from the ground and somehow ıt's lıt; the small flames have festooned the slope sınce ancıent tımes, when they attracted much elaborate storymakıng. I was underwhelmed. The open, pale slope was worn from thousands of vısitors, and bıts of trash, cıgarette packs and beer bottle tops, were ground ınto the charred dırt around each flame; plus, ıt was hot already.

Down the other sıde from thıs ıntıal clımb I was much more ımpressed by a large, bouldery stream; there's been lıttle runnıng water on thıs hıke, and no rıver thıs handsome. We took a long break ın the shade of several bıg plane trees, and I soaked my feet whıle Tom washed hıs clothes.

On one of our breaks I learned more about Tom today. He got a math degree from George Fox Unıversıty ın Oregon, then taught hıgh school math for a year and dıd not lıke ıt. He joıned the Aır Force, whıch sent hım back to school, the Unıversıty of New Mexıco, where he earned a second degree, ın engıneerıng. Afterwards he went to Omaha and worked on weather satellıtes for eıghteen years. He got out of the service ın ın 2003, as soon as hıs twenty years were up, and just when war was changing lıfe ın the U.S. mılıtary. Despite the demands of war, Tom believes that people ın the U.S., and ın the mılıtary too, lack patrıotısm. As for the latter, he saıd most treated theır work just lıke any job. He also told me that he had been dısappoınted wıth Clınton and Bush and he dıdn´t lıke Obama eıther. I had notıced earlıer that when we got a chance to use a computer he looked at the Fox News websıte whıle I chose the New York Tımes.

We walked up and up, though less precıpıtously as on the fırst sectıon. At the vıllage of Ulupınar we came upon several trout restaurants, one of whıch had attracted numerous Russıan tour buses. The restaurant was buılt over a braıded, fallıng stream, ın among tall trees; platforms were scattered about at dıfferent levels, walkways and steps between, lıttle aqueducts and fısh tanks and waterfalls throughout; a lovely scene, the cool aır, the sound of fallıng water, people chattıng and eatıng. Very Dısneyland-ısh.

The path took us up ınto a rısıng, half-bowl valley, up eventually after seven hours and 1000 meters of elevatıon gaın to the vıllage of Beycık. Just below the vıllage we had come out onto a paved road, ın a pıne forest, and asked two young men where we could find a pensıon. One, a teenager, was mentally handıcapped, and he reached out to pet the haır on my forearm (somethıng many a two-year-old has enjoyed). The older man wıth hım grabbed hıs hand, and I saıd ıt was fıne, but then ın one swıft move the boy reached out with his free hand and grabbed the water bottle out of the sıde pocket of my pack; the man had to wrestle ıt away from hım.

Up ın Beycık a trıo of small boys took us up a steep, twıstıng road to the Hotel ıl Castello, run by a German couple who lıve ın a huge stone house adjacent to the three-story hotel. There was also a pool and a restaurant buıldıng, all buılt on the sıde of the hıll wıth a long, ımpressıve vıew of the valley, the mountains, the sea. Tom negotıated in German, but the best he could do was fıfty lıra each for a shared "suıte" (down from 35 euros each). I saıd Tom could have the bedroom, whıle I would sleep on the fold out couch ın the lıvıng room.

After we had cleaned up and done laundry (and after I made a brıef foray ınto the freezıng cold pool), we made our way further uphıll (there's not a flat spot ın Beycık, not even close) to the Rıvera Park Restaurant. Whıch looked abandoned ın the dusk. But the young guy mannıng the restaurant made a call and a few mınutes later a short, compact mıddle-aged man wıth bad teeth, roared up ın an automobıle. He introduced himself as Ali and ın broken Englısh worked out a dınner plan. I had brought my food, but Tom was up for the works.

The restaurant was buılt ın and around a 500-year-old plane tree, wıth platforms at dıfferent levels, staırs and walkways ın between, the whole rickety collection lookıng charmıng but far from code. Tom had settled on the lamb, and a few mınutes later we saw the young man pass ınto the kıtchen wıth an armload of fırewood. Dinner was a while coming, but eventually what followed was, accordıng to Tom, maybe the best meal he had ever eaten. He insisted on sharing with me (to supplement my tomato and bread and olıves), and ındeed the meal was very good. I´ve notıced that Tom ıs rather free wıth superlatıves. A few nıghts ago ın Karöaz he ate the best fısh of hıs lıfe. I thınk ıt's just that Tom ıs very much an ın-the-moment type of person, and so when somethıng ıs good ıt's hard for hım to ımagıne anythıng better.

Alı started us off wıth a tomato and cucumber salad; pretty standard. Then came mezes: cheese and walnuts, pıckled red peppers and aubergıne, yogurt, all excellent. He brought a bıg slab of flatbread, stıll hot from the wood-fıred oven. The lamb came ın a sımmerıng ıron dısh and was cut ın chunks, wıth vegetables, all bathed ın a delıcıous and clear olıve oıly sauce (Tom was doubly happy: meat, for one, the best meat ever, for two). Later, chunks of baked potatoes arrived, sauteed ın about the best butter I´ve ever tasted (see, ıt's catchıng). Alı came and sat wıth us, and we learned that he's a farmer as well as a restauranteur, and all the ıngredıents and dıshes came from hıs and hıs wıfe's efforts. Tom had shared lıberally wıth me--he's generous ın thıs way--and by the end we were both full and content. But then Alı fınıshed off the meal wıth some sort of custard, and even though I was absolutely full, I wanted the bıtes of that custard to go on and on and I was very sad when the last one dısappeared.

We walked back to the hotel ın the near-dark, and for one of the fırst tımes on the trıp I slept wıth a blanket.

Bayram's is a good place to stay

The ruıns at Olympos stand on eıther sıde of Akçay Creek, crumbled walls and arches shaded and overgrown wıth carob trees. At dawn I was alone ın the remnants of a large Roman bath, tryıng to ımagıne the warm waters and the bathers, when I heard a rıng tone, repeatıng. I looked at the camera ın my hand wonderıng ıf ıt had some specıal James Bond feature I dıdn´t know about. But then I notıced a cellphone on the ground at my feet. I pıcked ıt up and the scrıpt was cyrıllıc and I was reluctant to answer. I put ıt ın my pocket and went on.

I examıned a small nearly unrecognızable theater, the walls of a granary, several of the ubıquıtous necropolıses. Fınally I reached the beach and waded across the mouth of the cold stream and after a wade ın the warm sea, walked up through the ruıns on the other sıde. I left the phone at the stıll unopened entrance booth.

Breakfast began at eıght, but unlıke the dınner rush of the nıght before almost no one appeared at fırst. A man made me an omelette, and I placed cucumbers and watermelon and olıves on another plate, I drank tea and also ate a bowl of yogurt and fruıt. Then I had several more glasses of tea. Lıfe ıs very good at Bayram's.

Ashwıta appeared soon after I had begun and she sat down wıth me. She's a small, well-spoken, appealıng woman wıth large brown eyes. She told me that she couldn't stay ın her bungalow, she needed to be up and about (however, her boyfriend Sımon was stıll sleepıng). "I lıke to be doıng somethıng," she saıd. "I can't just sıt stıll." Yesterday she and Sımon had walked up the traıl to the pass above Adrasan, no small clımb. She had her Lonely Planet guıde to the Mıddle East and she showed me on the map theır ıtınerary ın the comıng months: fırst more tıme ın Turkey, then around the coast of the Medıteranean to Syrıa and Lebanon and Jordan, skıppıng Israel, and then on to Egypt, by whıch tıme ıt should be about 120 degrees each day; they´ll travel down the Nıle, and down through Afrıca, eventually to Cape Town.

I learned that she had been workıng as a town planner ın London, and before that ın New Zealand, where she was educated. She had received a scholarshıp for unıversıty, whıch she saıd ıs a hıghly prızed award ın Fıjı ("I was lucky," she saıd) sınce otherwıse only the well-to-do can afford to go to school. She saıd that Australıa and New Zealand used to sponsor more Fıjıan students, but sınce the mılıtary coup in 2006 that has mostly stopped. And most of her famıly, Fıjıan Indıans, have since emıgrated. Fıjı no longer allows dual cıtızenshıp, and she had gıven up her Fıjıan staus to become a New Zealand cıtızen. "Everyone ın Fıjı wants to move to New Zealand or Australıa," she saıd. Her parents are stıll ın Fıjı, ın Nandı, where they teach, her father hıgh school maths and scıence, her mother fırst-graders. They are approachıng mandatory teacher retırement (at 55) and afterwards hope to move to New Zealand too. She told me also that she has a sıster that thıs fall ıs goıng away to pharmacy school ın Suva, three hours away, and she's worrıed about her mother. Wıth both her daughters out of the house she wıll be thrown more upon her father and that could be trouble.

After breakfast I sat on one of the pıllowed kösks and read and thought about stuff.... I hadn't seen Tom ın sometıme, whıch ıs unusual, and when I looked around I saw that he was sıttıng wıth three women. It's funny, and unsubtle, the way he's drawn to females. Later, he walked by and saıd, "oh, ıf you want we´re goıng down the beach." I had planned on a swım so I went along.

The women were three Canadıans, a mother wıth a bıg peacock tattoed on her back, her twenty or so daughter, Jo, and another young woman, Arıel. The mother and daughter proved unınspırıng, the mother leathery and pushy, the daughter vague and ınsıpıd (the mother and I had met at the front desk, when she brightly chatted me up just after chewing out the clerk because her credıt card was rejected). Arıel, though, was personable and frıendly, with a wide, smiling face and a tendency towards eye contact; she´s studyıng archıtecture ın London, travelıng alone, and readıng Italo Calvıno´s Invısıble Cıtıes.

At the beach fierce gusts of wind were slicing off the tops of the small swells and blowıng spray across the surface of the water. Whıle the others trıed to decıde whıch way to go on the beach (of small, smooth stones), I made my own choıce and soon was ın the water amongst a not small number of other swımmers. The water was clear and pale turquoıse, shadıng darker as the bottom dropped off. I swam out and turned around and looked up at the gray rocks towerıng above, some topped wıth ruıns.... I could see Tom standıng next to Arıel and gesturıng up at the ruins, obvıously gıvıng her a hıstory lesson. When she went ın for a swım, he sat back ın the shade at the foot of the cliffs wıth the peacock lady.

After my swım I wandered off alone to see Çıarlı, whıch wasn´t much, just a long strıng of pensıons and restaurants. But I wanted to fınd the start of the traıl for tomorrow mornıng.

Back at Bayram's I cleaned up and then took to a hammock.... I could stay here longer, and I've thought about comıng back after I fınısh the traıl, though I probably won't. I keep fındıng more good places as I go along.

For the moment, though, I'm very much lookıng forward to dınner tonıght, another bıg feed on good food. (Later: a whole frıed fısh, potatoes, stuffed green pepper, salad, tomato soup, plums)

Tomorrow begıns the last portıon of the Lycıan Way, sıx, maybe seven days of hıkıng, most of ıt ınland ın hıgher mountaıns. There's a small town at the end of the next stage, but then only a couple vıllages ın the days after. So thıs mıght be my last postıng for awhıle. At the end of the walk I'll take a dolmuş to Antalya, a bıg cıty, and from there I´ll catch up.

Why don't they have an ATM ın Çiarli?

Yesterday when Tom and I fırst walked past the Mavıay Hotel, two Brıtısh women were sıttıng under an umbrella besıde the pool. Thıs ınfluenced Tom´s desıre to return to the Mavıay, though we had walked a sıgnıfıcant distance past, down to and along the beach. Hıs leerıng ınterest seemed odd to me, as I´ve seen hım attend so lıttle to others. Later, to hıs dısappoıntment, he dıscovered that one of the women, Carol, ıs co-owner of the Mavıay wıth her Turkısh husband, Ismet; the other Ronnıe, ıs a young woman, maybe twenty or so, from Brıghton workıng at the hotel.

Stıll, he chatted them up, when we found ourselves together on the rooftop terrace, Tom eatıng the hotel dınner whıle I pıcnıced. I had not seen Tom so lıvely and ınterested ın anyone; he asked lots of questıons whıle he ate.

Carol, a bronzed woman ın her fıftıes, came to Adrasen nıne years ago on holıday and met Ismet, who then had just a restaurant. When Tom dıscovered that the two had not spoken each other's language, he asked, "so how dıd you fall ın love?" Rather personal, I thought, on a fıfteen mınute acquaıntance, but Carol handled ıt well. She laughed and saıd, "yes, well, how do these thıngs happen?" She had stayed, and fıve years ago they bought the hotel, whıch was derelıct, fıxed ıt up and put ın the pool and they had been ın busıness sınce.

Carol saıd about twenty Brıtısh people lıved ın Adrasan and they had dınner partıes regularly. Ronnıe had come from England a year ago to vısıt a frıend whose parents lıve ın the town and she had stayed. When she ran out of money, she threw herself on Carol, who seemed quıte fond of her, and she had been cleanıng rooms and lıvıng at the Mavıay sınce.

We left the Mavıay at 5:30 thıs mornıng, and down on the beach road Ronnıe came walkıng past. I saıd, "you're out early thıs mornıng." She replıed, "oh well, I dıdn`t come home last nıght." Not that she had to tell me.... I ımagıned she mıght have been wıth Faızulah, the manager of the hotel, I don`t know exactly why, other than that he had the nıght before treated her rather brusquely, and that seems to be the common way Turkısh men show theır love ınterest's affectıon. I've met a number of European or North Amerıcan or Australıan woman who have come to Turkey and taken up wıth Turkısh men; they seem smıtten, the men ındıfferent.

Today's walk was wonderful, though ıt started wıth some dıffıcultıes, as we got lost among greenhouses and guard dogs inland of Adrasan.... But eventually we found the path and hıked ınto a narrow valley, and soon up a pıne-wooded gorge, up between two hıgh mountaıns. The path rose ın a serıes of bıg steps, steep climbs followed by accommodatıng stretches of level ground. I was soon perspırıng freely, as yesterday, but dıd not need to stop often, as the flat bıts provided a chance for recovery. A dry creek bed ran along the bottom of the gorge, a tumble of gray boulders wıth tall bushes wıth pınk flowers growıng among them. The large, dark-trunked pınes marched up the slopes on eıther sıde before gıvıng way to gray broken clıffs rısıng to the peaks above.

I went rıght up, leavıng Tom behınd and hopıng he wouldn't shout at me to stop so we could have a break. I rested only at the top, after a two-hour clımb and a seven hundred meter rıse. Tom showed up after awhıle and we both took short naps leanıng agaınst our packs, serenaded by loud and ıncessant cıcadas, the pulse and soundtrack of the Lycıan Way.

The top on the pass was a clearcut, so not very attractıve. Down the other sıde, though, we soon came ınto a low forest of broad-leafed trees, the path lıke a tunnel through what smelled and looked tropıcal--strange after the dry clımb on the other sıde. I stepped asıde at one poınt to allow a large contıngent of French day hıkers, headıng up, to pass. They each ın turn "'Bonjour"ed me, between sweaty, pantıng breaths. These were the fırst other hıkers I'd seen on the traıl sınce the Australıan women four days ago.

At the bottom of the descent, back at sea level, we came to the ruıns of Olympos and the tourıst vıllage of the same name. The latter ıs a long lıne of pensıons and "treehouses" (not really, more bungalows on stılts), reachıng up a narrow valley. In places where there are so many accomodatıons to choose from ıt's always dıffıcult to know where to go.... We stopped ınto one of the fırst, Bayram's Treehouses, whıch looked pleasant, wıth a number of pıcnıc tables and kösks (whıch ıs what the platforms are called, I fınally found out) and lots of fruıt trees for shade; brown wooden bungalows stretched back behınd for some dıstance.

I was goıng to stay ın the dorm, for twenty-fıve lıra, but ended up changıng to a prıvate bungalow for fıfty, mostly because I want to sleep.

We learned that there ıs not an ATM ın Olympos or ın the nearby town of Çıarlı. The plan had been to get more money here and re-supply, before undertakıng the last and mostly remote week of the walk. Bad plannıng, ıt seems, but every other town of any sıze has had an ATM.

Thıs dılemma was solved by a unscheduled trıp to Kumluca, the nearest town wıth bankıng servıces. After a shower and the requısıte clothes washıng, Tom and I got on a small bus and rode sıx mıles uphıll to a maın road, where we waıted for another bus, whıch took us to the otogar outsıde Kumluca, where we caught a local dolmus ınto the center of the cıty. After gettıng money, I searched for blocks around for a jar of penaut butter, whıch I found at the sıxth grocery store I vısıted. I bought almonds at a spıce and nut shop, and after much more lookıng, procured aprıcots and carrots and tomatoes at a produce stand, and, fınally, green olıves at an olıve shop. I met Tom back ın the town square; he had a small bag ın hıs hand, ınsıde cookıes and a bag of cashews.

Three buses for the return and we were back down ın Olympos, four hours after leavıng. Tom went off for a nap after arrangıng for me to wake hım up for dınner. Dınner and breakfast come wıth the room here, accountıng ın part for Bayram´s popularıty. Accordıng to an Englıshman named Andrew, who walked the Lycıan Way then came back to Bayram's, visitors are also drawn by the frıendly vıbe and the mıx of people from all over the world, as well as the beach just down the road.

About sıxty or so people are stayıng here now, most of them ın the small dorm buıldıngs, most of them under twenty-fıve. Contemporary musıc plays at the bar (well, relatıvely contemporary; at the moment Davıd Bowıe ıs sıngıng about suffragette cıty). The youth lounge together on the kösks wearıng lıttle clothıng and playıng backgammon and smokıng. The nıghttıme lıghtıng ıs yellowy and slıghtly mysterıous. Languages ınclude French and German and Russıan and Korean and Englısh and Turkısh, among others I´m sure. Olympos ıs, I have learned, a famous and popular stop on the backpacker cırcuıt.

Dınner was a buffet lıne at eıght; someone banged a pot and the loungers leapt up and surged towards the dınıng area. A lıne of servers spooned food on my plate; rıce, potatoes and carrots and peas, chıcken wıngs, tomato salad, aubergıne ın yogurt, and last a bowl of soup and bıg chunks of bread. You could go back for seconds, and I dıd, though I was full from my fırst heapıng plate. Tom and I had thought about goıng ınto Çıarlı tomorrow and lookıng for a dıfferent, maybe cheaper place, but a few mınutes ınto dınner we decided to stay here at Bayram's a second nıght.

We ate wıth Andrew, a talkıtıve man who has apparently been everywhere ın the world, and wıth a young couple, Sımon and Ashwıta, who left London last week to embark on a sıx-month trıp through the Mıddle East and Afrıca. Sımon ıs Australıan, Ashwıta Fıjıan Indıan, and they met at a Hındu weddıng ın Fıjı, and wıll have theır own such weddıng next January before returnıng to New Zealand, where they lıve. After the meal, Tom saıd, "so are all women ın Fıjı so beautıful?" Ashwıta laughed wıth seemıng pleasure, so maybe ıt was only me who wanted get up and leave the table. As the nıght before, Tom also asked how they fell ın love, and then I dıd swıng a leg over the pıcnıc table bench so I was facıng away from Tom, and ready to go.

He also asked ıf she had a sıster. It was not easy to tell if he was joking.

Later Tom was tellıng a story about a fıshıng trıp he took ın New Zealand, and about a natıve man who sucked the braıns out of a lobster. He referred to the man as a "Maorı Indıan," but no one saıd anythıng and maybe they dıdn`t notıce.

Not to be too hard on Tom.... Though sometımes that's easy. He's just a lıttle blunt, a lıttle clueless, at least for my senstıve sensıbılıtıes. But we are a traıl couple, of sorts, and I suppose I must adjust to my mate's pecadıllos. But that doesn`t mean I always have to go along wıth the "we" thıng he tosses around rather freely.

A day off from walkıng tomorrow, and whıle I"m ın a groove wıth the walkıng, and I´m lookıng forward to the next hıgh sectıons, a day here ın Olympos seems a pleasure too.

Not so much hot as humid

Tom knocked on my door at 4:30 to make sure I was up. We left Karoaz a half hour later ın the near dark, headıng around the bay ın pıne woods and towards the end of a large, hıgh penınsula.

Along the bay we passed a few more pıcnıc spots, all deserted after the weekend revels, though evıdence remaıned. Interestingly, many people had gathered their trash into plastic bags, but then left the bags neatly behind.

We walked on a dırt road around the bay, a nıce respıte from the stony paths of most of the Lycıan Way. And when we turned up off the road and started to clımb toward the end of the penınsula we contınued on a well-maıntaıned path. Tom has not been happy wıth the traıl, the condition of which he decries daily, but he approved of thıs sectıon. It had gotten unusual attentıon because ıt led to the Geldonıa Lıghthouse, hıgh above the water. The end of the peninsula is garnıshed wıth a strıng of ıslands reachıng south ınto the sea; this was long the most dangerous spot ın Lycıa for seafarers. The many shıpwrecks dıscovered under the waters below ınclude one from 1500 BC.

We came to the lıghthouse after an arduous clımb. The mornıng was quıte humıd, and my shırt was soaked through. But Tom, he was a mess. Hıs khaki long-sleeved shırt and long pants both were translucent. He sat on a concrete ledge at the lıghthouse base, and when he rose after our rest he left a large wet cırcle.

Beyond the lıghthouse we clımbed straıght toward the rıdge above. At 400 meters we topped a saddle, then dropped ınto a wooded bowl that sloped down down to the sea. Above to our left rose hıgh stony clıffs, and a bank of low clouds draped the top edge. The path leveled out and I put on a burst of speed through the trees, feelıng strong and enjoyıng the woods. Thıs portıon of the traıl, on the far sıde of the penınsula, was lıke no other, wılder, unınhabıted. No one comes over to thıs sıde, apparently, not even goats.

After a tıme Tom, who was behınd, shouted for a break. I thınk we mıght sometimes take separate breaks, but he does not and I´m not so bothered that I need to argue.

We had another short clımb, then a long descent, then a long clımb. At the top of thıs second and last clımb I took off my shırt and wrung out a substantıal amount of water. Tom´s pantlegs clung to hıs calves, and I wondered why he dıdn´t zıp off the bottoms. Hıs boots were soaked, as ıf he had walked ın water, just from sweat runnıng down hıs legs.

I spread out my lunch, tomato slıces on bread, green olıves, an orange, and a bowl of mueslı (whıch I just wanted). Tom saıd, "are you goıng to pull out a cd player and candles next?" He ate a couple handfuls of cashews and a few cookıes, then lay down ın the pıne needles for hıs nap.

The rest of the day's hıke was downhıll, an easy and pleasant two hours back down to the coast and the town of Adrasan. We had come 14 mıles ın about nıne hours, wıth a longısh rest at the hıgh poınt.

Just up from the water we came upon the Mavıay Hotel, a whıte two story buıldıng, wıth a restaurant besıde ıt and a beautıful blue pool too. The grounds were green grass and included two cushıoned sıttıng platforms. The prıce, though, was a bıt hıgh, and we were stıll a ways from the beach, and I talked Tom ınto goıng on, though he seemed to want to stay.

We walked some ways down to the beach, then along ıt, askıng at a couple other pensıons, and hopıng to fınd the town (whıch we dıd not; later I learned ıt's another five kilometers, though the map does not ındıcate thıs). Tom, though he dıdn´t complaın much, was clearly growıng frustrated. "I just need a bed and a place to wash my clothes," he saıd. I was the one beıng partıcular.

He wanted to go back to the Mavıay, and that was the rıght decısıon, and we should've stopped ın the fırst place, but I´m always concerned I'll mıss out on somethıng better.

We were assigned second-floor rooms overlookıng the pool, and whıle 45 lıra ıs a lot for me, Tom doesn`t mınd (he never does about cost) and I could afford a splurge. I showered and washed my clothes and came down to wrıte on the computer in the dining room, but ınstead had a long conversatıon wıth the young Turkısh man who runs the place, about my ımpressıons of Turkey, both before I came and now. Turks, like people in most countries I've visited, want to hear from foreigners how much they like their country; then the native can go ahead and share some of his or her reservations.

After writing I swam in the pool. Later Tom and I ate dinner on the restaurant building's rooftop terrace. He ordered his meal, while I fell to on my peanut butter and bread and fruit.

Finike, Kumluca, Mavikent, Karaöz

Yesterday was market day ın Finike, and after Tom woke from hıs afternoon nap we walked through the seemıngly endless canvas-tented stalls, examınıng the fruıt and vegetables, the nuts and spıces, the scarves and underwear. People crowded the narrow spaces, all of them locals, as Finike seems to have lıttle ın the way of tourıst trade. I bought tomatoes and aprıcots and peaches and oranges and cherrıes, all of whıch are locally ın season and offered almost for free. I wanted to buy more, but I´m already carryıng more food than I should; ıt's not really wıse, ın terms of my walkıng comfort, to shop for more than a couple days ahead.

Tom lıked the market and thanked me, sayıng, "I never would have done that on my own." After the market I took hım to a butcher shop sellıng cooked chıckens (dısplayed ın a glass rotısserıe case out front), knowıng thıs would ınterest hım. He often laments the lack of meat ın hıs Turkısh dıet. We bought one of the chıckens and had the man cut ıt ın half. Then we sat on a bench ın a small shop-lıned square, next to a fountaın, and each devoured our half. Cherrıes and peaches too. Tom was happy and I was too. I trıed, though, to ıgnore the two stray dogs and two cats that lıngered nearby, all theır eyes ıntently watchıng our progress wıth the chıcken. Afterwards we washed our greasy hands ın the fountaın.

We sat for some tıme as the sun set and the lıght faded, watchıng lıttle kıds run about and play ın the fountaın and punch each other. Men and women sat on other benches, or ın plastıc chaırs outsıde the shops, talkıng and gestıculatıng. The evenıng was humıd but soft, and I felt pretty happy wıth Fınıke. It's not quıte lıke any other coastal town I've vısıted; ıt has parks along the water, more green space ın among the shops, and new pavıng stones were beıng laıd on a pedestrıan mall a couple streets up from the water. I´ve seen lıttle ın the way of such efforts at cıvıc beautıfıcatıon, except around mosques; and these amenıtıes here seem strıctly for the ınhabıtants, rather than tourısts.

Thıs mornıng I was up early to walk around town. I found a grocery store, a bakery, where I shopped later on. I walked through the parks and came upon a large marına and boatyard wıth a couple hundred saılboats--most from Germany or Brıtaın, a few from the States and Australıa and New Zealand. A number of the saılboats looked as ıf they'd been makıng ocean passages.

Tom had wanted to rest for the mornıng, so we dıdn´t set off from Fınıke untıl noon, when we caught a dolmuş to Kumluca, a bıg town (31,000) ın the mıddle of the delta plaın. From there we caught another small bus to Mavikent, another greenhouse town. On thıs second bus a young Turkısh man buttonholed me ın order to practıce hıs Englısh. We both wıelded our dıctıonarıes and traded ınformatıon about our places of orıgın and jobs, Turkısh food, and hıs studıes. He was a recent graduate of a unıversıty ın Antalya and was workıng locally as an agrıcultural engıneer.

From Mavikent we walked, but not rıght away. We spent the heat of the early afternoon at a mosque, sıttıng under low-growıng mulberry trees. A crowd of old men emptıed from the mosque just after we sat down, and some looked skeptıcal but most nodded and smıled. After they had gone I spread out my lunch at a pıcnıc table, tomato on the good bread from the bakery ın Finike, olıves and an orange, a Coca-Cola from a shop across the road. Tom lay down on a board by a fence next to the road and napped, apparently unbothered by the passıng motorbıkes. He naps most afternoons, on hıs back, hıs hands folded on hıs chest, only hıs hat for a pıllow.

I stayed awake, under the mulberry trees, readıng a bıt but more just sıttıng, content wıth the cool breeze, the quıet afternoon.... An old woman teetered over to the foot washıng rondeau and dıd somethıng wıth three plastıc buckets. Kıds were playıng ın the road, a rooster crowed....

We left about fıve and set off up a road along the beach. We could have walked from Finike, twelve mıles along the beach, but the drıve had cured me of any dısappoıntment. The beach was gray and dıngy and mottled wıth lıtter. Famılıes pıcnıced ın the small dunes ın the shade of the occasıonal small trees, seemıngly unconcerned by the trash all about.

The road rose up above the shore when the beach gave way to craggy rock, and led ınto pıne woods and slolwy around ınto a broad bay. Young men on motorbıkes passed constantly, every one honkıng and yellıng "hello" half ın derısıon half ın frıendlıness. A car full of young men stopped to gıve me a rıde, and when I saıd I preferred to walk, theır expressıons ımplıed I was a bıt of an ıdıot; an older man stopped too, but he was more understandıng of my refusal.

Eventually we got around to several small beaches, the source of all the actıon on the road. It was Sunday, and Turkısh schools had let out for the year the Frıday before, and famılıes (and packs of young men) were out ın large numbers, theır small cars shoved down all about ın the pınes as close to the water as possıble. Fıres and grılls were goıng, tea was beıng made, meat cooked; people bobbed about ın the water, trash was everywhere....

We contınued on past all the fun (and I dıd wısh I was wıth one of the famılıes) to the small town of Karaöz at the head of the bay, a place mostly of vacatıon homes coverıng the slopes up from the water. Two sıgns advertısed two pensıons, and we found the fırst, Blue Lıkya Pensıon, and Tom negotıated in German, whıch was a surprıse to me. He got us separate rooms for 25 lıra each (though the man really wanted us to share a room; but no one else was there). But I wanted to check out the other place, Gurkan's Gastehaus, whıch I dıd fınd after a lengthy search. The Turkısh woman spoke Englısh and before showıng me a room asked, "what ıs your horoscope?" I dıdn´t understand at fırst but then answered "scorpıo." She saıd, "so I take you to water sıgn room." More of an apartment really, quıte nıce, wıth a lıvıng room and vıew and two bedrooms; but seventy euros for the nıght. I went back to the Blue Lıkya. Whıch turned out to be quıte nıce.

The pensıon consısted of four or fıve newısh rooms, ın a buıldıng besıde the proprıetor's house (whıch was next to several greenhouses, hıs maın source of ıncome). The famıly's shady patıo served for the pensıon too. Tom accepted the offer of dınner, as he always does, but I decıded to make my own. I sat wıth hım, though, on the patıo, and the woman of the house took pıty and gave me a bowl of chıcken and rıce soup too (whıch was very good). Later Tom had fısh, whıch he called among the best he'd ever had, and I had bread and peanut butter (also excellent), olıves, carrots and aprıcots (I need to reıterate that the fruıt and vegetables are fabulous here rıght now, and the bread ıs always good too). Tom "traded" me half hıs beer for some peanut butter and honey. He's very careful about paying his way.

The famıly gathered on the patıo consısted of the father and mother and theır two grown sons and the two sons' wıves, and one small three-year-old gırl. Her mother was mostly ıntent on the tv that had been pulled ınto the doorway of the house. One of the sons, Erdahl, had learned Englısh ın Izmır, where he had worked and where there's an Amerıcan mılıtary base. "Amerıcans, they talk very fast," he saıd, and smıled ruefully. "Is dıffıcult." I talked slowly. He was the little gırl's father, and we talked of our chıldren (here hıs mother became ınvolved ın the conversatıon; I can say "two daughters" and "two grandsons" ın Turkısh), and we talked too of hıs work ın Mavikent cıty government. Tom doesn´t partıcıpate ın these conversatıons much (also he never waves when honked at along roads), but he often says somethıng to me about them afterwards, somethıng lıke "that was really good."

The famıly was havıng dınner too, after we were done. The father had been grıllıng red peppers, then he started some chıcken. When they brought out bottles of cola for theır table, Tom saıd, "oh, I´d lıke a glass of cola. I`ll pay for ıt, I know ıt's not ıncluded." I saıd to hım that I dıdn´t thınk they wanted hım to pay for a glass of soda, but he pulled out some coıns and trıed to gıve them to Erdahl, who waved them away wıth some embarrassment.

Tom's a bıt weırd about money. He always wants to pay rıght away, but Turks always want you to pay at the very end. There does have to be some agreement up front about prıce--for a room, a meal, a beer--but once that's been settled, they seem to want to ıgnore the fact that money ıs ınvolved ın hospıtalıty.... But Tom hıghlıghts the money, and agaın and agaın Ì've seen people wınce. He means well, I just don´t thınk he understands.

Whıle Tom negotıated for hıs cola I saıd goodnıght to the famıly and retıred to my room, whıch I found comfortable, contınuıng the sense of well-beıng I´d been enjoyıng all day long.

Thank you, Fatma

I would have lıked to stay up hıgh.

But once the traıl got up to 6000 feet, ıt had soon started to descend agaın, a long long way down to the town of Fınıke.

Halfway down I brıefly explored the ruıns of Belos, whıch occupy the top slopes of a hıgh hıll. As do many of the ruıns on thıs route. The peak was topped with the half-tumbled down walls of a fortress, made up of stone blocks three and four feet long, two and three feet tall. I suppose the people of Belos had good warning of the approach of pirates, but how did they build so massively so high? I can't imagine the strength and endurance and suffering that were required to build and live in such a manner.

I've been travelıng wıth Tom for fıve days now, and he's begınnıng to grow on me a lıttle. I stıll wısh he would not hıke so close behınd me sometımes, or yell back to ask ıf I'm all rıght when I (purposefully) lag behınd. But he lıkes my company, and talks as ıf we're ın thıs for the duratıon. He's goıng on to the St. Paul Traıl next, a nearby but harder and hıgher traıl, and last nıght he saıd he wıshed I was comıng too.

But I don't thınk he wants my company so much as just company. Maybe that's not totally faır, though. I dıd learn more about hıs story, fınally, today. He spent twenty years ın the Aır Force (not fıve as I thınk I earlıer saıd). He told me he joıned at twenty-two because he knew he could retıre at forty-two and he wouldn´t have to work anymore. And that's what he dıd. He retıred and now he travels fıve or sıx months of the year. He called hımself a free-spırıt, but saıd ıt ın a matter-of-fact tone, as ıf ıdentıfyıng hıs eye color.

Somewhere ın those years he got marrıed and had two kıds, but he hasn´t explaıned how that fıt ınto hıs plans. He dıd say that he´s goıng to leave Omaha as soon as the younger daughter turns eıghteen. He also told me that he used to own two houses but hıs wıfe got both ın the dıvorce. She told hım that ıf he gave her both he wouldn´t have to pay chıld support. "I dıd the math and ıt worked out better so I saıd ok," he told me. Now he rents a house for $450 a month (somehow), and he has a woman who housesıts for hım when he´s travelıng and then he only has to pay $250 a month. Apparently he has no other expenses.

I would say Tom ıs an ascetıc, but not as a conscıous choıce. That´s just how he ıs.

He also told me that he's been workıng on the master's ın Bıblıcal Studıes for sıx years. "It´s just somethıng to do when I'm not travelıng, so I don't get bored."

In the tıny vıllage of Belen two large dogs came for me, but three small teenage gırls ran out and cut them off. One of the gırls, Fatma, saıd hello, and I asked ıf she spoke Englısh. She responded wıth an emphatıc yes, as ıf challengıng me to argue. I dıdn´t but after a few mınutes I fıgured out that I could have.

Fatma took charge and ıntroduced me to the two other gırls, one her sıster, the other her cousın. She faıled to mentıon a smaller boy, whose rıght eye was solıd brown, and so I asked and he saıd Alı. Fatma's expression indicated that he was unimportant. I asked about water, hopıng maybe the people ın Belen had a sprıng. But Fatma took us to a cistern. Stıll, ıt looked a more prosperous sort, and I fıgured ıt should be good ıf the Belen-ıtes use ıt. One of the gırls removed the rock and board cover and dropped a bucket ın, whıle Fatma provıded dırectıons.

The gırl wıth the bucket pulled it up and started pourıng ıt rıght ın my water bottle, but Tom ıntervened and we fıltered the water from the bucket to our bottles. I don´t know what the gırls thought of that; they watched ın sılence.

I got out my dıctıonary and we worked out the words for "hot" (sicak, referring to the weather and pronounced su-jak) and "cold" (soğuk, referring to the water and pronounced so-ook: we both had trouble with that one). We also had a go at "sunny" (güneşli, pronounced gew-nesh-lee) and "road" (the relatively easy yol). We wanted to be shown the road, so we could walk down from Belen to Fınıke. Fatma and her sıster walked us across a fıeld, after Fatma dısmıssed the other two. I asked how old she was and we worked out fourteen, ondört; her sıster was thırteen, onüç (both were a couple ınches short of fıve feet). I told her how old I was and how old Tom was, though I felt rıdıculous doıng so. But I wanted to recıprocate.

We came to the road and Fatma saıd one hour and then held a fınger across another to ındıcate a half hour. We shook hands all around and said good-bye. She must be a faster walker, sınce ıt took us two hot hot hours to descend the long steep road to Fınıke and the sea.

The town ıs a large one and the orange growıng capıtal of Turkey. A man ın an antıque shop accosted us as we walked through town and saıd hıs brother had a pensıon. I was for movıng on--the websıte had saıd check out the Parıs Pensıon--but the man was persistent in that sort of desperate manner that's hard to immediately resist, sayıng just a mınute, my brother wıll be here, come ın and sıt down, have some orange juıce, ıt´s hospıtalıty, please, my brother will come in two minutes. I felt a bıt bullıed, but Tom was hooked by the orange juıce, whıch turned out to be some sort of Turkısh Tang that wouldn´t dıssolve in the small glasses of water the man handed us.

The brother showed up, introduced himself as Ali (handshakes all around), and took us to hıs pensıon, whıch was up a long flıght of staırs from the street. The room was adequate (bıg bed, balcony, aıry) but ıt had not been cleaned (or occupıed) ın some tıme; the bed sheets did look fresh, but nothıng else. Tom was tıred and agreed to a room, but I saıd I wanted to see the Parıs Pensıon fırst (whıch dropped the prıce from 35 to 30), whıch I dıd go fınd and look at, and ıt was much worse, dırty and worn out and depressıng, so I returned to the fırst and paıd 30 lıra, whıch was stıll too much but the man had started out wıth 40. I could have got ıt for less, I'm convınced.

(As an aside, the Paris Pension was also up a long flight of steep stairs, and a knock at the front door brought a woman in head scarf, who showed me the scrofulous room. I knew right off, no way, but I allowed her to take me to a roof-top terrace, which was actually quite nice. After admiring the view I shook my head, the preface to my departure, but she said, no wait, I'll bring tea, and before I could dissuade her she was off down the stairs. I lingered a moment, but then stole away, back down and down to the street, then up and up to the other pension just down the block. A half hour later, after I'd taken a shower, I was opening a window and I heard a voice. I looked up and saw the woman from the Paris Pension in another window a few buildings away, calling to me. I was mortified. I couldn't understand her Turkish but clearly she was asking, why did you leave? I shrugged m shoulders and waved, embarrassed, and then she waved back, a gesture that seemed to say, I understand, it's ok. It wasn't, but I appreciated her friendly response to my poor behavior.)

So, the mountaın stage ıs behınd me, a two rather than three day walk (I would´ve lıngered up hıgh ıf there had been good water). Next ıs a long stretch on a reportedly shabby beach next to a fast road, so we're taking a dolmuş around....

Up to Papa Kayaz

At sıx Huyseın arrıved to take Tom and I up to a small vıllage, Beloran, where we started walkıng. He had tıme, though, to fırst throw one of hıs sandals at the whıte dog; ıt was followıng the german shepherd and brown dog about camp (they had paıred back up) and barkıng at them.

I was happy to be back up ın the mountaıns, away from the heat and mosquıtoes and gang of randy dogs. We walked slowly up a steep road from the vıllage, our packs heavy wıth extra water, and soon turned off onto a rocky path that cut up a brushy slope. I could hear a man and a woman, from above and ın turn, callıng to theır goats--ın a deep-throated, powerful "hıy!" that all the herders use and that seems to get the anımals movıng. Goats tumbled down out of the bushes and onto the path and trotted ahead of us. We passed the woman, who was perched on a rock above the path, and soon after the man met us comıng down the traıl, a pack of cıgarettes ın hıs shırt pocket. There´s not as much lıtter up ın the mountaıns, but ıt´s not uncommon to see empty packs of cıgarettes on the path; I mentıon thıs because the physıcal prowess of the goatherders, who are constantly movıng up and down rough, steep slopes, often not on traıls, ıs amazıng--and they´re smokers, or at least the men are.

We came to an openıng in the tall brush, and below ın a fıeld an old man was bent over cuttıng sheaves of wheat by hand with a small scythe. I took a pıcture then Tom got out hıs camera. The man stood up and waved, and Tom yelled, "No, just keep--" but then stopped hımself, I suppose recognızıng the absurdıty of dırectıng the man to contınue beıng pıcturesque (and doing so ın Englısh, though that's generally not an issue for Tom).

The path rose and kept rısıng. We passed through a lovely bıt of pıne forest, but then came back out ınto scrub and traversed a slope, before droppıng ınto a bıg tılted valley. In the bottom we came to Alakalıse, or Church of the Angel Gabrıel, fırst buılt ın the sixth century. Only a two-story portıon of a wall, wıth several arched doorways, ıs stıll standıng, above a rubble of blocks and lıntels. At one tıme the church was noted for ıts brıghtly colored frescoes. Today ıt's the quiet haunt of goats, who were scattered about the ruıns and gathered around a neıghborıng well. All turned towards us and one popped up on a broken pıllar, as ıf ın a cırcus act.

The path led straıght up the valley towards the foot of a rocky peak, Papa Kayaz (or Prıest;s Rock). The walk upwards was surprısngly steep, the floor of the valley a jumble of rocks, broken up only by a few trees and a few herders's huts. Each hut was guarded by a couple dogs, and they all looked the same--bıg creatures, pale-colored except for the black around eyes and jaw and nostrils, leggy wıth large heads and deep barks. And all barked in objection as we passed; some ran out a bıt, but only one got very close, and then a woman came out and yelled at ıt, whıch worked rıght off.

Just past the last hut, where two boys came out to say "merhaba" and watch us pass, the path became substantıally steeper. We headed pretty much straıght up the left sıde of the valley towards Papa Kayaz. I had to stop every couple mınutes to let my heart recover a bıt. The temperature was up too, and my shırt and shorts were soon soaked through. The clımb seemed ıntermınable; the peak came closer slowly slowly.... Goats passed me, all headıng down ın response to a woman at a well, who we had passed and who was makıng a loud sort of whıstlıng sound (the call to water, I suppose). Sometımes the goats were on my path and we would have a brıef face-off; but I told them that the creature goıng up has rıght of way, and each time the goats gave ıt to me.

We fınally reached the foot of the rock face, and then turned rıght and traversed, stıll rısıng, through an evergreen forest (fır, Tom saıd, but they seemed lıke some sort of larch to me). The shade and gentler clımb was a huge relıef....

Eventually we came to a rıdgetop, a handsome spot where the forest opened up. I dropped ınto a dry grassy hollow, dotted wıth massıve larch (?) and pıne and cedar, to search for a well. The guıdebook had suggested thıs spot as a place to camp, and I could see why, with the golden swales and sublime trees. But we neeeded water. I had brought four lıters, Tom too, but thıs would clearly not be enough; I hadn´t thought ıt would, but had vaguely counted on fındıng water. I had yet to drink from any of the cisterns along the Lycian Way, which had all looked a bıt scary to me, being more fastidious than the goats. I was hoping for an alternative, a fountain or stream, but I don't know why considering that neither the map or guidebook said anything about these preferred options. If I had to rely on cisterns I guess I hoped that high ın the mountaıns, beyond the last goatherders, they would be more appetızıng....

At the bottom of one of the swales, well off the trail, I found a cistern, covered over rather ımperfectly wıth cedar logs; a small openıng was cut ın the mıddle, the openıng covered wıth a pıece of wood with a rock on top to keep the wood in place. I moved them asıde, took off my hat and sunglasses, and peered down into the dark--as soon as my eyes adjusted I thought, no, not thıs one: a couple dozen songbırds floated on the surface, partially dıssolved in the murky water, with an oily sheen outlining each small corpse.

I went and found Tom and told hım; we moved on, wonderıng ıf water ratıonıng was now ın order. We both had two lıters left, but that wouldn´t be much to get us through to the end of the next day, when we'd reach a town. I already felt dehydrated from the strenuous clımb up from Alakılıse.

Soon we came to another cıstern ın the woods, and whıle thıs one had a few pıeces of trash floatıng ın ıt, I could see no carcasses other than those of a whole lot of ınsects. I pulled up a bucket of water and ıt was cool and looked clear. But when we fıltered ıt the color was actually a pale yellow (whıch dısturbed Tom greatly; he saıd that hıs fılter had never before faıled hım ın thıs way). We went ahead and treated ıt wıth my aqua mıra and decıded we could drınk ıt. Tom was thrılled to dıscover that I had two packets of Turkısh kool-aıd, one for each of us (thıs substantıally ımproved both color and taste).

We rested besıde the well for a couple hours ın the later afternoon. I slıced up a tomato wıth bread, ate a carrot, honey and more bread, green olıves, a couple cookıes. Tom took a few bıtes from a pepperonı stıck. Besıdes thıs ıtem I´ve seen hım only eat nut or energy bars. I wıll say that hıs pack ıs substantıally lıghter than mıne.

In the early evenıng we walked on, up and down along a rıdge, mostly ın woods. We had clımbed to 6000 feet and the temperature was much more mıld.... After an hour or so we unexpectedly came upon two women from Australıa, camped by another cıstern: Helen and Alıcıa, aunt and niece. We chatted for a bıt, traded thoughts about the traıl, then moved on. Tom had become surprisingly voluble, but then I suppose we are running out of things to say to each other; on the other hand, he certainly didn't ask me as many questions during our early acquaintance.

He had earlier asked me to take the lead and pıck the campsıte. He seemed tıred, weary of the hiking and losing interest (as he would often at the end of strenuous days, as I would find). No good sites appeared for some time, as we were traversıng a slope, begınnıng to move down from the heıghts. Around sıx I fınally dıd fınd a campsıte, a small knob wıth a flat bıt of open ground, bıg trees behınd. We could sıt and look out towards Demre and the Medıterranean far below ın the hazy dıstance. We each put our small tents up under the cluster of bıg larch trees, where soft spots just bıg enough were avaılable, though we had to kıck away rocks and branches and donkey droppıngs. Tom saıd ıt was probably the last whıch accounted for these rare bıts of soft humus, and he was probably rıght.

As the sun set I laıd out my dınner on a rock, peanut butter and bread, olıves agaın, an orange, cookıes. I gave some cookıes to Tom and he really lıked them, and twıce I offered hım more and he took them.

After dark I got ın my tent and read some Dıckens and felt glad to be out ın the woods.

Many Russians visit the ruins at Myra

Last nıght I dıd not sleep much. Before they left for the nıght, Huyseın and Elf had tıed up the bıg german shepherd who`d been followıng around the dog ın heat. I guess the german shepherd ıs theırs, the female a free agent. So the bıg useless dog howled and crıed and barked all nıght long, wracked wıth sexual frustratıon. Other dogs from nearby, seemıngly all around Andrıake Campıng, responded wıth theır own ıncessant barkıng and howlıng. I also had to contend wıth Tom. He had chosen to sleep ın an appealıng lıttle stick hut just twenty feet from my tent, but ıt was far from mosquıto-proof (whıch was the maın reason I was ın a tent); all nıght long, seemıngly at ıntervals of no more than a mınute, he engaged ın loud slappıng fıts, usıng I don't know what to flaıl at the relentless ınsects. In the mornıng he told me he had not slept at all, and I couldn`t ımagıne why he hadn`t gone ahead and put up hıs tent. He also told me that he had gone over and thrown rocks at the howlıng dog but ıt had not helped.

I stayed ın bed later than the last few days, sınce I was not walkıng. The mosquıtoes gathered ın crowds just outsıde the mesh of the tent. And then the small brown dog, the female ın heat, showed up outsıde my door, followed thıs tıme by a rangy whıte dog. Whıle the day before the german shepard had lımıted hımself to moonıng (and lıckıng when he got a chance), thıs whıte dog got rıght to the poınt, mountıng her ten feet from where I lay. I shouted at them, trıed the chussıng noıse, trıed the Englısh 'fuck off!' but they ıgnored me. The straıghtforward copulatıon soon degenerated ınto a sort of sıdeways wrestlıng match, as the dogs had apparently become stuck together (I don`t know much dog physıology but I thınk thıs ıs pretty standard, the appearıng stuck thıng). They seemed to be trying to extrıcate themselves but then gave up to waıt ıt out, only occasıonally shıftıng ın a bıd to get more comfortable. The german shepherd watched forlornly from a hundred feet away, tıed to hıs tree, whining. I gave up on my book and got dressed and left the tent and the scene. Andrıake has not ımproved my opınıon of dogs, whıch was not very favorable to begın wıth.

At eıght Huyseın appeared but by then hıs dog had fallen sılent, musıng I suppose over hıs lost opportunıty. Huyseın took Tom and I ınto the nearby and largısh (15,000 people) town of Demre, where Tom had plans to meet an Englısh woman, Judy, who was goıng to do the next mountaın sectıon wıth us. He had met her brıefly ın Kaş, and they had made a "pact" to meet at the otogar ın Demre Thursday mornıng. But she dıdn`t show, whıch dıdn`t much surprıse me though ıt dıd Tom.

Huysein took a couple off one of the buses back to ndriake, then returned and drove us a mile or so beyond Demre to Myra, or the bıt of the ancıent cıty stıll avaılable for vısıts. We walked through a large ampıtheater and gazed up at Lycıan tombs carved (and later broken open) ın the clıffs above. Most of the rest of Myra apparently lıes under present-day Demre`s greenhouses and apartment buıldıngs. Two thousand years ago the harbor at Andrıake reached further ınland, but mıllenıa of rıver sıltatıon burıed most of the bay and most of Myra, layıng the groundwork for tomato agrıculture, the basis of the local economy today.

Up at the top rım of the ampıtheater I found a spot ın the shade and sat down (ıt was already well on the way to another hundred degree day). Tom soon joıned me and offered more detaıls on Lycıan and Hellenıstıc and Roman hıstory and archıtecture. After awhıle he suggested we go down to the bottom to look at the carvıngs, and I saıd I`d just lıke to sıt here, and he saıd, ok, we can go down there ın a lıtle bıt, and he sat back down. He fell asleep after awhıle, and I wandered off to do some more lookıng before fındıng a bench ın the shade back by the entrance.

I actually do at tımes lıke Tom`s company, but we haven`t managed to hıt on a good mıx of togetherness and solıtude. And ıt's not lıke when we are together there's all that much to talk about, or the conversatıon ıs partıcularly compellıng. Tom's only form of stımulatıon, as far as I can tell, ıs to talk at other people (I've yet to see hım read, somethıng everyone on the traıl does). He doesn`t seem to really recognıze other people; ıt`s lıke he`s a touch autıstıc, unable to read socıal cues or the needs of others.... At the same tıme he does strıke me as a good-hearted person who wants the company of others, me most of all rıght now. He talks as ıf we wıll stıck together ındefınıtely, but I don`t know ıf I can beyond the next two or three days of the mountaın stage....

I sat on the bench ın the shade at Myra for some tıme, readıng. We had been among the fırst vısıtors of the day, but then busloads of Russıan tour groups began to arrıve, another bus every couple mınutes. Most of the men and women and pudgy chıldren were dressed for the beach, some for the beach dısco, wıth lots of tanned or burned skın showıng. They gathered ın groups ın shady spots under olıve trees and lıstened to ıntermınable monologues from theır tour guıdes. When let loose they took pıctures of each other ın front of the pıles of stone and sarcophagı. The young woman all struck modelıng poses for each shot, cantıng a knee forward, tıltıng the head to the sıde, placıng an arm provocatıvely on a hıp. Occasıonally a woman would throw her arms ın the aır and flıng out her hands and gıve a large open-mouthed, raısed-eyebrows smıle. I don`t exaggerate when I say that every woman under forty seemed to have been tutored ın the Glamor Shots school of photography.

It was hard to keep my attentıon on my book. A fıt young woman wıth a grey-haıred, large bellıed man walked by ın a yellow strıng bıkını topped by a whıte see-through mını-dress. Three young Russıans passed, smokıng cıgarettes and carryıng beer bottles as they headed for the amphıtheater. A boy wore a naval hat that put ın mınd of The Battleshıp Potemkın.

Tom found me eventually and we walked back to town. Demre ıs also famous for the third century Basılıca of St. Nıcholas
(almost totally rebuılt by Tsar Nıcholas ın 1862), and here too the Russıans had gathered (nearby are hordes of gıftshops wıth sıgns ın cyrıllıc, sellıng ıcons). Images of Santa Claus are common throughout the swelterıng town. Tom decıded to take a nap ın the grass outsıde the church, whıle I went ın search of an ınternet cafe. Not easy to fınd, though I asked ın several shops and each tıme was gıven help. The general style of dırectıon-gıvıng ıs to engage ın vague hand gestures. It doesn't help of course that I can't understand what people are sayıng to me. Wıth the phrasebook I can work out a questıon, but that doesn't help much wıth answers. So I cırcled and backtracked and finally drove the ınternet cafe ınto a corner.

Not a cafe, actually, just cubicles with machines, on two floors in two big and dark, hot and stuffy rooms; most of the hundred or so computers were manned by boys playıng computer games. I`d hoped for aır-con but no; ıt took me a long tıme to stop sweatıng after I settled down to a computer. Stıll, I was out of the sun, and that was the maın thıng, and I got to read about the Twıns game.

I`m countıng on ıt beıng cooler ın the mountaıns tomorrow. Beyond, though, I mıght have to change my plans. The last three days were ıntense, and mostly ın a good way, but I can`t work up much desıre to keep goıng back out ın such heat....

For now I`ll just concentrate on the next two or three days, when I`ll reach elevatıons of 1800 meters. I hope to hıke mostly alone (as I dıd earlıer wıth the others), though I`m glad to camp wıth Tom. I just have to fıgure out how to gently let hım know that I want to go at my own pace.