Mount Olympus. The home of the gods. The mountain that I read about in every Greek mythology book as a kid. To think that where I placed my feet, someone thousands of years ago was doing the same.
Foggy, damp and chilly. That was my experience with Mount Olympus and truth be told I wouldn’t want it any other way. The fog made the experience so much more dramatic, it took my breath away. The cover of mist was like a screen that had been dragged along the peaks of the mountains, perhaps by the gods themselves. I felt like I was being draped in a shawl of dew.
It was a long trek. Constantly going up and down, hearing leaves crunch underneath our shoes, seeing our labored breaths color the air, hear the sound of rain on the trees above us. I won’t lie, I got chills. I could have lied down on the floor the whole day and listen to the trees get peppered with drops of rain. I could have stayed for hours feeling the rain patter on my face and drench me to the bone. I could have stayed for days on Mount Olympus. Each rise and fall of the land, no matter how small, was a treasure, something worth exploring.
The Ancient Greeks weren’t wrong in feeling some sort of otherworldly magnetism to this mountain. It’s as if the mountain is a living, breathing force. It sucks out all the elements in the atmosphere and concentrates it in its general area.
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Asia London Palomba, Reporting from Greece 