When Kartini nervously takes to the trail, the wis
A heart problem. Bum knees. Vertigo. Arthritis. A thoroughbred city gal. Not exactly the makings of your typical mountain climber or jungle trekker. In fact, I feel very pleased with myself when I walk 10 (flat) city blocks in the concrete jungle I call home.
The catch is, I love to hike. Admittedly, I’m not very good at it. Okay, I’m downright lousy. I seem to have a knack of choosing the hardest path, or simply going off the trail every half-hour or so. Plus, I’m slow. The problem is not merely lack of stamina. Lack of confidence – cowardice, timidity, call it what you may – means that I stop and think for the longest time about how (if!) I should execute that next step, be it on a high and narrow ridge, or on a steep slope where the soil crumbles with your every step.
Never having benefited from trekking tips and know-how that others gained from their time in Guides/Scouts, Outward Bound courses and the like, I try to make up for the gaping hole in my backcountry knowledge by jumping at every opportunity to hike that comes my way. Living in Singapore, a small city-state sometimes dubbed “the air-conditioned island”, such opportunity does not exactly come a’knocking every weekend. Thus, I find that my hiking experiences are often closely tied up with my fondest travel memories.
I learned to build a fire, on an island off the Vancouver coast. I discovered that flies are an essential part of hiking in summer, at least in the Tatrys in Slovakia. In Turkey, I was taught how to choose which rocks to step on (i.e. those solidly embedded in the ground) in order to avoid slipping down the literal slippery slopes.
In fact, that last tip alone probably saved me from many potential broken ankles and nasty falls, especially on my latest trip: a six-week jaunt around Turkey in the summer of 2001. That particular pearl of wisdom was gleaned from an Ozzie hike guide in Olimpos, and proved invaluable for the other hikes I did in Turkey.
Olimpos: The Chimaeras & The Lost City
The hike to the Lost City was absolutely amazing – not because of especially spectacular scenery or wildlife sightings, but simply because it was so hard that it pushed our limits. I found this sentiment echoed by other people I met later, who had done the same hike at different times. And we all agreed, Pete the Ozzie hike guide made all the difference between a grueling, miserable trek and a fun if challenging hike.
Pete worked for the hostel (Bayram’s) and took groups on this hike every other day or so. It was to be a six-hour affair, climbing up to the ridge that towered over the treehouses in the valley, to a lovely place high in the hills where we would stop for lunch. Then we could either climb further to see The Lost City (some ruins) that are up there, or make our way back down and end up on the beach.
So one sunny and excruciatingly hot day, five of us found ourselves walking to the trailhead, getting acquainted with one another… Already I’m trailing behind, having difficulty talking and walking at this pace. I start to panic. I think, “What on earth is this Singapore girl thinking, going hiking with four Ozzies who probably grew up with the bush in their backyard!? I must be mad.”
But then I think back to the previous night. I recall swearing at the others as they rushed up the hill to the Chimaeras, perhaps afraid that the Eternal Flames would choose that night, of all nights, to go extinct. (As it turned out, the flames per se were none too impressive, most reaching a height no higher than our waists. The hike up and down turned out to be the highlight of the night for many.)
Then I found myself alone in the dark, looking up at the blanket of stars, a half-moon and only half-dark sky. The only sounds were those of crickets, cicadas and my breath. How I savoured the solitude in the blackness that enveloped me. Time stretched out as I captured that moment in my heart. It renewed my zest for hiking, made me hunger for more.
So, mad woman or no, I would hike with these four Ozzies in the blaring light of day. What does not kill me will make me stronger. My breath, my heart is thumping in my ears, and we’ve barely started. Oh no, what have I gotten myself into? This is rather embarrassing, though I’d always known that I would be the person who keeps “the sweeper” (Pete) in constant company, i.e. the last one on the trail. This is precisely why I prefer to hike alone.
Unfortunately, the books were right this time when they said “hiking alone is ill-advised (in Turkey).” The paths can be rather tricky and confusing indeed, since they are seldom well-marked. On this particular hike, I went off the trail about five times, even after Pete had taught me to look out for the piles of stones that mark the trail. For some reason, my inner compass preferred to follow the mountain goats – it was the paths that they had made which I kept straying onto. Thankfully, I was always the last in the group, so I had Pete for company throughout the climb up, and to point me towards the correct path every time.