Good morning, my name's Sarah. Did you know that you snore AND talk in your sleep?" Sander grinned from behind his coffee cup, watching me try to butter up the big bearded guy next to us, who was in control of the breakfast table's only salt shaker. With Asia and it's deliciously cheap ramshackle bungalows well behind us, it had been time to suck it up and go old school: dormroom accommodations. This landed me, predictably, toe-to-toe with the worlds most amusing sleep talkers, farters, droolers, mumblers, coughers, and snorers. The big bearded guy eyed me maliciously, so I recovered smoothly with something like "...but it's okay, I have a brother, and you're only HALF as bad as that loud bastard in bed three". It worked! The salt shaker was mine, and that's how we met Ted and Becky. With these two Americans, who both live and teach in Switzerland, we exercised our mutual adoration of good food and Scrabble from the rooftops of Istanbul. Imagine, if you will, four new friends linked at the elbows skipping through cobblestone streets in slow motion, to 'Good Day Sunshine' by the Beatles ... Ted's beard flowing majestically in the summer breeze. After a moment like that, how could we possibly part ways? They were in Turkey to hike the famed Lycian Trail, one of the "best walks in the world" according to Becky ... and how about we just go with them? 'Yeah,' I thought, 'a walk! Let's do it. We have no hiking gear, no closed-toed shoes, and we've been drinking beer on the beach for 2 months...' How hard could it be? Did I google it? No. What does it say?
.... [The Lycian way] is a 509km long rocky mule trail/foot path around the coast of southern Turkey, from Fethiye to Antalya. The route is graded medium to extremely hard; it is not level walking, and has many ascents and descents as it approaches and veers away from high cliffs over the sea. It is easier at the start and gets more difficult as it progresses. Should be attempted in February-May or September-November; summer in Lycia is too hot ....
Yup. Sounds like a "walk", doesn't it? Expecting a mild meander through the grasslands we bought hiking boots, 1/4" sleeping foamies (skipped the tent), and were 'gifted' socks from the guy who found boots big enough for my size 39 (gasp!) feet. Off we went. In the middle of June. With Sander's backpack stuffed full of important but nonessential hiking items (like my exotic collection of Cambodian horror flicks and a toothbrush) left in a lockbox in a hostel, we had one 18kilo pack and one Dora The Explorer knapsack, which we borrowed from Ted, full of food for four people.
Day One featured spectacular views of the Mediterranean from teetering seaside cliffs, very sore quads, and a brilliant orange sunset from a goat-herders shack. I spent most of Day Two maintaining my motivation by imagining myself racing Freddie Murcury on a stairmaster and wishing I'd packed at least one sparkly sweatband. Midday break rolled around and the temperature hit 43 degrees celsius. Predictably, I was sitting in my underwear with my feet in one of the trail's drinking water fountains, while everyone else lounged in the shade. Right as I started washing my only athletic-bra in a ziplock bag full of soapy spring water, a 19 year old Swiss boy trekked by. Readers: meet Luke. Fresh out of Switzerland's mandatory military training, carrying twice his weight on his back, and grinning ear-to-ear while doing it ... he hiked with us for the rest of the trip. That evening saw all five of us sneaking one-by-one into a posh seaside resort for showers and then sleeping open-air on the beach with the tide breaking at our toes. Well, Sander and I did. Ted, Becky, and Luke camped on a grassy plateau in their snazzy tents, from where we could still hear Ted's illustrious snoring. For Day Three we were up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am to beat the heat on a climb that would take us up over 900m in a mere 3km. We put nine hours of solid hiking in that day, with a single break for midday tea at a home nestled near the peak. During our wicked climb, we stumbled upon the only other person insane enough to climb in mid-June: Roc, a Slovenian trekking solo with a classical guitar strapped to his bulging backpack. He charmed the local family with his serious musical skills before taking off, keeping a wildly aggressive pace for a guy who looked like the love child of Harry Potter and John Lennon. Meanwhile Luke, the boy of boundless energy, played soccer (an empty 2L pop bottle as the 'ball') with the youngest son. We rolled into a tiny town late that evening, hungry, tired, and chaffed in unspeakable places. Thankfully, the first person we asked (in charades and broken Turkish) for direction to a camp site, invited us to set up on the flat-top roof of his corner store. We offered him money, he refused, and cooked us dinner instead. With a birds eye view of the cutest town on earth, we settled in and devoured all of the sweet snacks we'd bought from the shop. If I have to eat three chocolate bars to say 'thank you' for your hospitality, so be it. We bypassed a portion of the trail by hitching a ride with a local bee-keeper in the back of his sticky pickup truck to the next town, which is perched on the best sandy beach Turkey has. A mostly empty 18km stretch of sand gave the four of us ample space to set up camp, nestled between huge dunes, and watch the stars blaze as the night hours ticked by. Having taken a vote and the time to inspect Ted's blistering toes (most of which were in danger of falling right off) we pulled off the trail and rejoined civilization. The Internet, hot showers, and relatively comfortable beds awaited all. We gave our legs a much-needed break by sea kayaking over the ruins of a sunken city, and hoisting well-deserved pints all the way to our lips. Exhausting work, that bit. Having developed a bum like an underage rockstar after days of sweating into my ugly hiking boots was as good an outcome as one could hope for. Sander and I bid our companions goodbye and are headed for the 'faerie chimneys' and bizarre sweeping hills of Goreme, central Turkey, for more vertical punishment. We have hiking boots now, after all.
Slaughter.
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