Wolf in the Night: My Baptism into Wild Greece
The year 2000, a turning point. It was that year when I met the woman of my life, Soula Boscoupsios. Born in Belgium to Greek parents, she won my heart in the picturesque streets of Mons, where we were pursuing our respective studies in architecture for her, and contemporary art for me.
Originally from the small village of Volakas, nestled in the mountains of northern Greece, she took me there in the summer of 2001. We were 20 years old then, and in my adventurous spirit, a somewhat crazy idea was born: I would set off alone, to conquer the mountain. The destination? Falacro, the highest peak.
One morning, armed with my tent, some food, water, and, at the villagers’ suggestion, an imposing Rambo-type knife – just in case, they said – I set off. Despite Soula’s protests, the call of adventure was too strong.
The path to the mountain was far “from being a walk in the park. I had barely left the village when I was greeted by a yellow snake marked with black spots. The animal” had risen on its path, ready to defend its territory. I thought for a minute, then, determined not to return to the village so quickly, I gathered my courage and continued.
On the way, I encountered shepherds, wild dogs, and sheepdogs, whose appearance told stories of epic battles – scars, missing ears. I finally reached the recommended spot for camping. I set up my tent, made a fire, devoured a can of food with bread, all while admiring the sun setting on these wild mountains.
At 9 PM, darkness enveloped me. I went into my tent and found myself alone with my book, the silence of the mountain, and the knife within reach. I heard dogs barking in the distance. First a few, then a dozen, then twenty. It seemed like the sound was growing, getting closer. Then suddenly, the noise was there, very close.
The night filled with this sinister sound, the noise of the dogs became more and more intense, and I realized with a shiver of horror that they were heading towards me. The tent shook with the echo of their approach, I was frozen, knife in hand, ready to strike at anything that dared touch the tent. The dogs passed on each side of the tent, the night filled with their barking, it was a concert of canine fury.
I was then convinced they were chasing a wolf. The previous evening, returning to the village, I had glimpsed a wolf silhouette, and the villagers had told me about their presence in the area. That night, I felt like my tent was the stage for a chase between the pack and its predator.
Once the dogs had passed, calm gradually returned, giving way to a night of frightening silence. I was there, alone, still clutching the knife, my heart pounding. That night, I struggled to fall back asleep.
The next morning, up at dawn, I resumed my walk. A scarred puppy, with a fierce look, followed me during my hike, but I pushed it away on my return so it wouldn’t follow me back to the village. Upon returning, I recounted my adventure. The villagers had also heard the dogs during the night, and that’s when they understood my story. Yes, I may have sought adventure a bit, but at least it will remain etched in my memory forever. It was my baptism into wild Greece, the Greece of the mountains near Bulgaria.
And if I had to do it again, I would, because the best stories are those lived in the unexpected, where we confront nature, where we forget ourselves to better find ourselves. And these stories, once lived, are engraved in us forever.
