By

John D Locke

On the boundary between Thessaly and Macedonia, ancient kingdoms of Greece, lies the even more ancient home of Zeus: Mount Olympus. From the shores of the Thermaikos Sea, where juts the southern arm of the Bay of Katerini, rise wave upon wave of limestone crags, culminating in the multiple peaks of Olympus. Weathered by centuries of sun and frost, snow and melt-water, the awesome cliffs of Mytikas (Home of All the Gods), Stephani (Throne of Zeus), Skolia, Profitas Ilias, Agios Antonios, and Kalogiros still look as if they are a recent eruption of rock from the coastal plain.

In this isolated, high-altitude zone live many unusual plants, their distinction preserved by their separation from similar environments. It was to see these alpine flowers that I had journeyed from further north with a party of friends who came along for the exercise that the climb would afford.

On a scorching day in June, we climbed stiffly from the truck that had brought us the 117 kilmetres fron Thessaloniki to Litochoram: the latter being a village of some 5000 inhabitants and gateway to the eastern ramparts of the mountains. It was early afternoon when we arrived and the white-washed houses drowsed like their owners in the searing sum. Nothing moved in the streets but us. A café in the square was open, and we gratefully sought its shade to have a snack and a cool glass of beer before setting out to climb 9500 feet to the Home of the Gods.

After our refreshments, we set off by the path which crossed a stream to the north of the village. Almost at once, we cane to a wider, dirt road which wound away from the coastal plain and up towards a rock-girt gorge that framed a view of the mountains.

The shimmering, bone-dry air sucked a scent of myrtle from the scrub while the white-hot sun beat down mercilessly on us. The packs chafed our unaccustomed shoulders as we bent our backs to the uphill task. Far above, the welcoming shade of the woods mocked us. It took us two hours to reach the trees where we paused to look back over the plain towards the sea.

Where an overhanging ledge of rock shelters a spring-fed pool, a rock-strewn track leaves the dirt road and ascends steeply into the woods. A train of mules, with bead-embroidered halters, and heavily laden with logs descended this track without a slip.

Encouraged by their example, we branched off and climbed with renewed energy towards the hut at Stavros where we were to spend the night. Stavros, at 3000 feet, is the lowest of the refuges established on the mountain by the Hellenic Alpine Club.

Although the track was steep and treacherous with loose rocks, it wound through shady woods which afforded relief from the burning sun. We were all out of condition and made frequent halts to regain our breath and ease our aching backs. In this sun-slashed, deep green shade, all was silent in the furnace of the afternoon. While we climbed, our thirst grew. It was not until we were two-thirds of the way to Stavros that we found a stream, and that in an unexpected place. The woods had thickened and there, along the crest of a ridge, ran a rill of pure, cold water. The stream had been covered with limestone slabs; possibly to keep it clear of leaves but more probably to lessen evaporation. We sat beside it for half-an-hour, drinking deeply and feasting on the small, sweet wild strawberries that abounded there.

Once past the ridge, we saw that the gorge, by which we had entered this realm of the Gods, had widened considerably. Its walls now towered above us making the height that we had so laboriously won seem insignificant.

When we reached Stavros, the soft, yellow light of evening was upon us. It was too early in the season for the gut to be open but there was a spring of water and a small upland meadow, we needed no more. We threw ourselves gratefully on the soft grass and prepared our evening meal. While eating this, we heard a clanking sound that heralded the arrival of a mule hung about with bells and ancient, iron-bound, wooden water bottles. It was followed by its brigand-like master who eyed us suspiciously as he filled the bottles from the spring. After lighting a candle at the shrine above the spring, he departed, more silently than, he came, to his shelter high above in the gloom of the forest.

We slipped into a dreamless sleep under the stars and woke when the first rays of the sun streaked our meadow with gold. Eager to be on our way before it got too hot, we hastily washed and breakfasted, further lightening our packs, which had weighed about 80 pounds, by jettisoning our surplus tinned food at the hut. The thought of lighter packs being much more attractive than the prospect of extra food.

As we climbed, the character of the woods changed from pine forests to mixed conifers and broad-leaved trees typical of more temperate regions. The birds were awake and chaffinches, robins, titmice and blackbirds could be heard all around.

Each turn of the path showed, framed by trees, a new aspect of the peaks of Olympus. It seemed incredible that snow could lie up there while down at our level, wave upon wave of heat-rippled air shimmered from the ground. Those peaks seemed so close although, in reality, they soared 4000 feet above.

One thousand feet below, in the gorge to our left, was a deserted monastery, Agios Dionyssios. Situated in splendid isolation, hemmed in by tree-hung cliffs and facing the snows of Olympus, it must have been a place in which it was easy to contemplate the insignificance of man.

There were many flowers by the path: Smyrnium perfoliatum and Sweet Pea (Lathyrus sativa) were common, as were several species of Rock Rose (Cistus sp.). In the woods I could see the blue orchid, Limodorum abortivum, but there was no time to stray so far from the path to photograph it so I hurried to catch up with the others who had started the descent to the last spring of water for many miles.

This spring, called Prioni, is at an altitude of 5000 feet and gushes forth a considerable volume of water. It is the sole reminder of the snowfields whose edges melt and soak straight into the limestone rock far above. Prioni is in a delightful dell and we lingered there for an hour, bathing our feet in the icy water.

The climb up from the spring is very steep but it was not long before we could see Hut A where we would spend the night. Although the refuge was in sight all the time, it took us another three hours to reach it, crossing precipitous tongues of snow in the process.

Hut A, which is run by the Hellenic Alpine Club, stands on a promontory at 7000 feet at the head of the gorge up which we had come. The ground falls sheer in front of the hut and affords superb views from the terrace to the coastal plain. The resident guide made us most welcome and was not put out when we drank him dry of beer within the first hour. As a substitute there was a pot of Olympus (made from a local herb whose name, if regret to say I did not discover) simmering on the wood-fired stove.

Although the evening shadows were sweeping across the mountains, I took a late stroll in the vicinity of the hut to see what flowers were to be found for this is one of the richest locations for alpine flora in the whole region and there would be little time available for exploration in the morning.

Jankaea heldreichii, which is endemic to the region, grows on the rocks below the hut, and although it was not in flower, its close rosettes of hairy, spotted leaves are very distinctive. At the fringe of the woods, the hut is on the tree-line, Daphne mezereum and Daphne laureola were in flower; while, here and there, bright in the gloom of the woods, ere spikes of the yellow Orchis pallens.

The rocky ledges were splashed with the colours of everlasting saxifrage (Saxifraga sempervivum), red-headed spurge (Euphorbia myrsinites),and candytuft (Iberis intermedia). The short turf was starred with the royal blue of Gentiana verna, the sky blue of Campanula glomerate, and the violet of Aubretia deltoidea. The flower that I most wanted to see was elusive. Although it is only a humble violet, it is a very distinctive one. Until, recently, it was thought that Mount Olympus was its only home, but then a diligent search revealed specimens growing on Mount Athos to the south, and in Bulgaria to the north. I had given up hope of finding it that night, when suddenly I saw it, in startling contrast to the evening-shadowed rock. There was no mistaking Viola delphinantha with its very long-spurred flowers, unique in the violet family.

In the morning, at first light, we set off on the twenty-five mile hike over the top of Olympus and down into its western foothills. The 3000 foot climb to the peak was mostly over screes and there were few flowers to be seen: just a few clumps of alpine toadflax and Saxifraga aizoon.

Once the plateau at the crest had been reached, the temperature dropped sharply and freezing rain whipped our faces. The precipices to the north, particularly the 2000 foot one on the west face of Mytakos made an imposing sight, but scudding clouds obscured the distant view. We climbed the peak, Skolio (9570feet), in the hopes that the sky would clear but there was little to be seen apart from Viola sinensis sheltering in the rock crevices at our feet.

Turning our backs on Mytakos, we started on the long downward journey. On the shifting screes, the paths were hard to distinguish and, as it turned out, we took the wrong one. The track we took led to a large snowfield and it was a joy to glissade down the long slopes. At the lower edge of this snowfield, the ground was carpeted with twin-leaved squill (Scilla bifolia), gentians and Crocus pallasii, the latter even thrusting through the snow. In the watershed we had now reached, acid moorland overlaid the limestone, and lousewort was common.

We followed a stream which left the watershed through a narrow crevice in the rock, and stumbled down an ever-steepening gorge whose rock walls closed in on us. The weather and the situation were depressing, particularly as we were now certain that we were too far north of our intended route and were unable to leave our present path without retracing our steps.

Then, in an instant, our depression was forgotten – the gorge widened, the clouds disappeared, and in front of us spread a beautiful and tranquil valley. We had reached, unintended, the Xerolaki. Looking back we caught our last glimpse of Olympus. This was a fitting place from which to emerge from the Home of the Gods.