Between Storm and Stillness

Daily miles: 31.0 | Total miles: 11,903.24

I had planned to get up at 5 a.m., hoping to make it up the mountain before heavy rain arrived. But the night had other ideas. A thunderstorm hit around midnight, with rain pounding on the roof while thunder rolled through the valley. Sleep felt impossible. At one point, my sister suggested moving the van—there was so much water rushing across the road that it felt safer to change our spot. We did. I finally fell asleep sometime around 1 a.m., deeply tired and grateful for even a few hours of rest.

When I woke at 6 a.m., the day began not with urgency, but with acceptance. Cold coffee, layers chosen carefully—warm enough for rain and mountain air, light enough not to overheat on the climb. I wore two headlamps, one facing forward and one backward, and a red light on my vest for visibility. At 7 a.m., I stepped into the dark. The rain had stopped, but the world was soaked—wet roads, puddles everywhere, the quiet aftermath of a storm.

I wound my way through the narrow streets of Leonidio before the road tilted upward, leading me into a gorge alongside the Dafnon River. Mile by mile, I climbed. Behind me, the town slowly revealed itself in the soft light of dawn. I felt better than in the days before—not perfect, but noticeably stronger.

Fog drifted in gentle, shifting layers, and then—almost suddenly—I saw it: the Panagia Elona Monastery, built into a sheer cliff on the slopes of Mount Parnon. Partially veiled by fog, it felt suspended between earth and sky—a place of stillness carved into rock. As I stood there, taking it in, a huge rainbow appeared, stretching across the valley. It felt like a quiet reminder: even in uncertainty, beauty insists on showing up.

Higher up, I noticed goats resting in a cave across the mountain, along with a few houses and a single car clinging to the steepness. Life, finding its way everywhere. It stayed dry for about seventeen miles, with only light drizzle when I walked through the fog. At mile seventeen, my sister appeared with ginger tea—perfect to warm my hands. Nearby, I found what was likely the horn of a male goat. I held it to my head for a moment, smiling at the thought—perhaps I could pass as a mountain unicorn after all. Fitting, I thought, for a Capricorn making her way through high places.

Just before reaching Kosmas, a small mountain town perched at the top, I started seeing patches of snow along the road. Of course, I had to stop, form a snowball, and throw it as far as I could. Small joys matter. When I arrived in Kosmas, the weather turned quickly—rain mixed with small hail, fierce wind, and within minutes I was soaked and cold. From then on, my phone stayed sealed in a zip-lock bag and my hands tucked into gloves. No photos—but some moments are meant to be held, not captured.

Pine trees, snow patches, vast views fading into layers of grey fog as far as the eye could see. The mountain felt raw and alive. Only once I descended back toward the olive groves did I meet someone—a man sitting outside his house. We spoke briefly. When he touched my hands, he said, “You are ice cold.” He was right. We smiled, took a photo, and I continued on.

Beneath the olive trees, the fields were covered with poppy flowers—soft, delicate, unexpected. Beauty again, quietly waiting at lower ground. The sky looked heavy, ready to pour, and the air smelled like rain. But luck was with me. I made it through town and reached the gas station where my sister was waiting. The moment I stepped into the van, the rain began.

Coffee first. Then a warm dinner. Phone calls, messages, a bit of social media. One more coffee. And finally, rest.

Another long day. Another lesson in timing, patience, and trust. Adjust, accept, continue.

Thanks for checking in. Andrea