Alan and I took a few days off for R&R in Taos, NM. Taos is one of our favorite towns, one that we often think of retiring to, if and when we can no longer manage a place like 4Fords. We stayed at the Inn at La Loma Plaza https://www.vacationtaos.com/, ate at the fabulous Love Apple, took 2 awesome hikes and generally relaxed. We watched Jerry Arizona YouTubes in our room. Jerry’s videos chronicle his backpacking, hiking, and climbing adventures in the Southwest, and he’s very good and pretty funny.
We watched one about his worst near-death experiences while in the backcountry. It reminded me of my first similar experience.
It happened when I was in Crete over the 1971/72 holidays. I had flown to London to meet my parents, then on to Crete. We stayed in Heraklion for a few days, then my dad gave me the keys to a rental car (I was too young for an international license) and told me to catch up with them at the airport 8 days later for the flight back to Athens.
I had made vague plans to meet up with S., a college friend of my brother and J. He was living in the village of Loutro on the south coast of Crete with a bunch of hippies. We’d exchanged a couple of postcards: “Hey I’m coming to Crete, would love to visit”. “Sure, we’re in Loutro, come!” (Ahhh, the travel plans of youth.) I drove across the spine of Crete, a tiny dirt road at the time, which took several hours. Never saw another car, but had wine, bread, cheese and olives with some shepherds at the highest point. Here’s the link to part of this amazing route today: Road to Hora Sfakion . The road ended in Sfakia, and I parked the rental by the post office to ask if I could rent a boat to take me to Loutro (no ferry in those days). The postmistress was wonderful; she explained that all the fishermen were out and wouldn’t be back until after dark, but that, if I wanted, I could leave the car there and walk the 6 mile sheep trail used by the postman every week. That sounded good to me, so I packed my trusted Frostline kit backpack with a few things (I remember an ounce of pot, a couple of good books, a bathing suit, a canteen, a small first aid kit I always had on hand, and a camera).
The trail was decent, smooth, about 12″ wide, but it crossed a very steep, very exposed 45 degree slope covered in a mix of shale and loose dirt. At the bottom was the turquoise water of the Mediterranean, but it was about 1000′ down. You can see what it looked like in the picture below.
I was cruising along, about halfway there, and took a short break to eat some Smarties (the British ones, like M&Ms), and drink some watered down ouzo the postmistress had filled my canteen with. It was a beautiful day, the kind you see only in the Mediterranean, not a person around, just me and the trail.
When I went to sling my backpack onto my shoulder, the strap broke. The pack slipped down, pulling me with it. We started sliding, pack first, me, head down, following. The scree was sharp and there was nothing to grab. I caught a glimpse of blue water glittering very, very far below with nothing between me and it, and was sure I was going to die. I tried to get the pack off my arm, but the strap was caught. It felt like we slid faster and faster for a long way; it was probably about 200′. The pack stopped in a jerk, caught on the sharp edge of a rock and tiny sage bush sticking up through the scree, and my body caught on the pack.
It took me 5 minutes to catch my breath, slow my heart and think about how to get out of there. Very, very slowly, I got my foot jammed against the rock and slipped the pack off my arm. I thought about letting it go to splash into the sea, but didn’t want to lose everything, so I took a shoelace (early carabiner!) I had tied to the outside and used it to reattach the shoulder strap. But I didn’t put it on yet, thinking it might pull me over backwards. I wiped off a few small cuts with a bandana also tied to the outside of the pack, but was too nervous to get out the first aid kit. After that, it took me a long time, maybe an hour, to cautiously climb back up. I did it by moving on all fours, heading crabwise and at an angle to the trail, and moving the pack ahead and to one side of me in small pushes. Each step required me to dig into the scree with my foot (I was wearing Keds, shorts and a tank top, by the way), until it was buried 5-6″ down and felt a little solid, then doing the same with the other foot and one hand. The other hand would balance the pack and push. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as organized as it sounds, but whatever I did, it worked and I eventually reached the trail. It felt like an Interstate. I sat and shook like a leaf for quite a while.
After tending to the cuts with bandaids, I got the pack back on and set out, making Loutro after another hour. I was covered in dirt, minor cuts and bruises, but in one piece. I found S. He took one look at me and we went swimming, leaping off 10′ cliffs into the perfection of the Mediterranean. All fear gone, a 17 year old’s sense of immortality restored.
May all beings be safe, be happy, be healthy and live in peace.
4Fords Journal 