| The old man in the cafe in Hania laughed as our party of four struggled to rise from our chairs. ‘Ah! Samaria!’ he chortled, guessing correctly as we coaxed our aching and protesting muscles into action, one day post-gorge. Silly tourists, you could almost hear him saying. Hiking the breathtaking Samaria Gorge is a highlight of a visit to Western Crete. However, you need to be able to walk downhill stretches on stony terrain for between five and seven hours, and accept that the area may be closed in rainy weather due to the danger of flash flooding. Nonetheless, travellers of all ages and from every corner of the globe descend on the area in droves each summer, just to walk this track. From the starting point, high in the White Mountains of Western Crete, it’s about eighteen kilometres to the Libyan Sea on a trail which varies from a challenging descent on loose stones to well-made and easy-going tracks. Along the way, hikers can expect to traverse rushing mountain streams and pass a precariously balanced rocky scenario where the sign says, mysteriously, “No Singing, No Whistling.” We scuttled past these highly-strung rocks, hoping no-one would break into strains of La Traviata right at that moment. As for whistling – forget that; there are better things to do with your breath. And although curious, it seemed wise not to find out the consequences of disobeying the sign. We followed an ominous trail of blood, which led us to a fellow walker sitting on a rock bathing her tortured feet. Discarded sandals lay nearby. The message was clear. You need hiking boots up here. Keeping our eyes on the uneven track, we halted at intervals to take in the stunning views. Tall pines and other conifers and patches of snow bedecked the chilly upper slopes; vivacious wildflowers carpeted the ground mid-way; and finally we beheld the impressive sight of the Portes (gates) towering overhead. The constant downhill action on unstable steps sure was thirsty work, and walkers fell upon the first mountain spring with glad cries. Nothing in the world could taste better than that first swig of cool clean spring-water. The springs are situated at the two and four kilometre marks. After a while, the trail flattens out. You ford a mountain stream, maybe stop and eat an orange along the way and take the opportunity to gaze at the scenery. But not for too long; there’s a deadline to meet if you’re taking the last boat out of Agia Roumeli at 3.30 pm. This boat is timed to connect with buses to various destinations, such as Hania and Rethymno and even as far afield as Agios Nikolaos on the eastern side of Crete. Of course, if you have opted to overnight in the village of Agia Roumeli, where the trail finishes, there’s less rush. The abandoned town of Samaria is situated half-way along the trail. The town’s residents were forced to leave their homes when the gorge was declared a national park. Now there are only ruins, but they are most picturesque, especially in Spring-time. While tucking into your packed lunch, you can admire swathes of poppies and other wild flowers, which smother the surrounding terrain in multicoloured hues of yellow, pink, purple, white and red. The area boasts rare birdlife and is also the dwelling place of the not-easily-spotted Cretan ibex. Nowadays, there's a heliport, mules to rescue injured or exhausted hikers and a doctor stationed in the old town. After lunch, you still have eight kilometres to go, so it’s best to limit this break to thirty minutes, before leg muscles get the chance to stiffen up. I must admit, at this stage I had a hearty wish that at least one hotel had been left open amongst the ruins, complete with butler bearing a silver tray loaded with goblets of nectar. What a fantasy - you can’t even camp in the gorge, firstly because it’s a national park, secondly, you could be swept away in a flash flood. There’s nothing else for it but to push on bravely, or pay a fee and take the mule option. We decided to push on bravely. The trail became rockier and large boulders made walking more challenging and quite slippery. Tottering downhill like frail centenarians, we kept in mind that rescue by mule would hardly be the most comfortable ambulance ride, and it would certainly make an inglorious end to the adventure. Eventually, we came across far-flung stepping stones over gushing (and icy) mountain torrents, necessitating some giant-sized leaps between them. Those walkers of short stature looked on in despair as the more gazelle-like amongst us jumped across relatively easily. Luckily, several tall Sir Galahads lent a hand and all was well. Later, we discoverd that wasn’t the proper crossing at all and the real one was a cinch. Oh well… As you continue the steep descent, the gorge walls become sheerer, in some places looming over 500 metres high. The wind can really whistle through here, which adds yet another dimension to the already dramatic surroundings. Eventually, the gap narrows to three metres at the “Portes” (Gates) as you clamber over the precarious rocky pathway in single file. Meanwhile, seeing those cliffs looming above in a somewhat menacing way, it seemed as if we humans were really part of a long, straggly ant-trail. Teetering in line on your stepping stone behind the person in front, and trying to take in all this grandeur of nature without falling into the water isn't easy. We all wobbled our way through this narrow passage, remarkably without anyone getting wet. It's at this point a team of mules came upstream, looking for potential customers. But there was no way any of us was giving in, now that we’d got this far. It's amazing how much energy returned to flagging minds and bodies as the gorge opened up, and the end was in sight, the thought of food-and-beer-filled tavernas at the other end enough to make us gallop along the track, past all these people sitting with their feet in the water, gazing serenely up at the Portes. We did a double take. They gazed smugly back at us. Who were these people? ‘Oh, those are the Lazy Samarians,’ a fellow walker said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You mean there’s a lazy way?’ He nodded and moved off briskly. The "Lazy Samarians" walk a mere three kilometres from Agia Roumeli, along a flat path. Are you ready for more shocking truths? They'd been lolling about, soaking up the sun on the river-bank, dabbling their toes in the water and tucking into picnic lunches, while we faced hazards galore, such as imminently falling rocks, possible drowning, skidding on loose stones and breaking a vital bone or two. Blisters, sore feet, aching legs, clenched buttocks, total exhaustion…you name it, we had it. And we hadn't been able to whistle or sing all day. We remarked to each other that huh, those “Lazy Samarians” haven’t really experienced the whole thing at all. But, darn it, do they have to look so happy? Once you exit the gorge proper through the gate, you must produce your ticket. This is to ensure that everyone who entered has left the park. Don’t lose your ticket! I had a bad moment when I’d mislaid mine temporarily, and never did find out what punishment I would have to bear. Surely I wouldn’t have to climb back up again? Shortly afterwards, there was our first glimpse of the Libyan sea. Pink-flowering oleanders lined the path as we walkers strode on with purposeful gleams in our eyes, like trek-ponies who know when home and the nosebag are nearby. We marched into the little town of Agios Roumeli, past the beckoning tavernas, hotels, shops and cafes. Like wooden soldiers at the end of a campaign, we trudged, stiff-legged, towards the hot black sand and the lure of the limpid sea. Stripping off boots and sweaty socks, we dashed across the boiling hot black sand and plunged into the cool, clear water. Our feet sizzled and then sighed as they shrank back to normal. We’d done it - walked the length of the Samaria gorge, from snow-flecked mountain top to sun-soaked sand. It’s just as well I didn’t know about the ‘lazy Samaria’ excursion; I might have been tempted to take it. And apart from the gorgeous (no pun intended!) and varied scenery, I’d have missed the camaraderie and mutual encouragement along the way, the brief friendships we forged. Later that evening, the glow of satisfaction we felt of course had nothing to do with the exotic cocktails we sipped in one of Hania’s waterfront tavernas, watching yet another amazing sunset. Not at all! And even though our protesting leg muscles seized up for several days, it was a small price to pay. Ah, Samaria, one day I’ll return. Er, perhaps it'll be the lazy way next time... For further information visit www.west-crete.com/samariagorge.htm Back to TheTraveler.
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