On top of everything else, my son is falling into heat stroke. We’ve been dragging our packs and too little water up the dusty mountain trail for hours, the Turkish sun lying like a dead weight on our heads. Our shirts, our shorts, even our socks are sodden with sweat. We haven’t seen another hiker, another human, since we started up the trail, and we’ve been half lost or worse for almost as long. Now this. Gordon stops, stunned, in the trail. He is flushed a dark red, and he complains that his heart is running out of control. He’s no longer sweating. He can’t walk any farther. I’m only in a little better shape.
But we can’t stop here. The next water is over the mountain we’re climbing. If we’re on the right trail, that is – something I’ve come to doubt as we slogged up the endless ascent, trying desperately to match our guidebook’s landmarks to the trail we’re on. There are no signposts, and we can’t expect a park ranger to come along. We’re deep in the Turkish mountains on a trail that hardly existed a few years ago, a trail that few have heard about, let alone hiked.
if nothing else, heat stroke is a good excuse for a break. We drop our packs and fall onto them, hoping
for a breeze. Two days ago, I was practicing law in
was intrigued. I’ve traveled in
trail sounds delightful. The
We’re sold. How can we go wrong?