This is Take a Hike, a series of stories and adventures set in the outdoors. Today we’re hiking through the Parnonas Mountains of Greece, picking mountain tea and drinking tsipouro with a rag-tag group of mostly pensioners.

I watch Athens give way to a vast urban plain, where oil is refined. The smell of the air is toxic, but I know what lies ahead; I know that home is just a few hours away. The airport feels distant already.

My godfather speeds along the highway. We pass a Shell gas station packed with cars. “Next one,” he grumbles. I nod.

Half an hour passes. My godfather is leaning forward in anticipation of something. He drives while scanning the road ahead, seemingly agitated. Then, he smiles; the car slows. We pull off onto a nearby exit and park at a dimly lit two-pump gas station, the store’s sign flickering feebly beneath a single moth-swathed streetlamp. A lone attendant comes out and asks my godfather how much; he tells him to fill it up. “Ella.” He motions me up, flicking his fingers in the air. He opens the driver’s door and gets out.

We walk away from the fluorescent lighting towards a chain-link fence that separates the gas station from some untamed land. He peaks over the fence approvingly, wafts his hand at his nose with gusto. “Smell it?” he asks. I sniff the air; by the time it hits me he’s already announcing it. “Orange blossoms.”

He scans my face as I take in the perfume-scented air and lights a cigarette. I peek over the fence and see acres of fruit trees ahead. The attendant whistles; my godfather stamps out his cigarette.

That night we arrive at the only place I can call a second home with any validity: Astros. His house there sits equidistant from the mountains and the sea, each about a mile’s walk out the front door. Towards the ocean he maintains a small plot of olive trees; closer to the mountains are his grapevines.

I rest easily that night, comfortable in the house’s natural warmth and smell. It’s important that I get some sleep; the next day will be exhausting.

—

The dry and craggy mountains give way to lush forest as we make our way south. We are abandoning the Greece that most people envision (dusty fields laden with olive groves and ancient, half-crumbled statues) and entering a new place. We are approaching Sparta.

We are on our way to a cafe in a small village, where we will rendezvous with our fellow plunderers: Mitsos, Alexis, and Antonis. The roads here are thin, steep, and windy; I hold my breath as the car veers in and out of the mountain’s curvature, worried that at any moment an encroaching vehicle will round the bend at the wrong angle.

Christos is in his 80s but has a youthful charm and light-blue eyes that always look wet with tears. He hums cheerfully in the passenger seat as my godfather suddenly brakes. “Ey!” he shouts, but by then my godfather has already come to a stop at the cliffside. He gets out of the car unceremoniously and steps over the steel guardrail and into the brush. He wields a pair of garden clippers. He bends over for a moment and then holds up a wad of crumbly-looking stems. Christos says Aah and exits. I follow.

Within 15 minutes, two bags full of mountain oregano line our trunk. But this is just the preamble to a much larger operation—and a far greater prize.

The Parnonas Mountains run north-and-south through the Peloponnese, separating the Greek prefectures of Arcadia and Laconia (AKA Sparta). Go to the western (Spartan) side and you’ll experience a 5-10°F rise in temperature; stick to the northeast (Arcadian) side and you might encounter wine grapes. We are sticking to where the wine is made.

Parnonas is where Dionysos (allegedly) once galavanted, guzzling wine and hosting cultish festivities beneath the pines. The area certainly fits the part; the slopes are gradual and are covered by dense pine and oak. Foxes dart slyly through the brush, alongside mountain shepherds transporting their flocks of sheep. Hiking this terrain is at once enchanting and anxiety-inducing; you feel like something (or some naked diety) could jump out at you at any moment. Nowadays you’ll find more than just nature here; hiking enthusiasts from all over Greece and elsewhere come, looking to temporarily experience mountain lifestyle.

Our party has gathered for what some might consider selfish reasons: to gather mountain tea. It has long been held by Greek grandmothers (and more recently by scientists) that tsai tou vounou (its scientific name being Sideritis syriaca) carries powerful health benefits. An international market for the stuff has even emerged; were it not so difficult to grow in the wild, we might have already seen more of it in the U.S.

Come summer, Parnonas is practically bursting with sideritis. The fuzzy green blossoms are ripe for the picking at this time, though only at the mountains’ highest slopes—the plant needs ample breeze and a specific soil type to thrive. Fortunate for us (though not for our sun-exposed necks), we are hunting at its peak season in July. By the end of our trip, we will have gathered enough tea to last us all a lifetime; though, as all Greeks must note, we will have worked up an appetite in the process.

—

We ascend as far up the mountain as we can in our small-yet-mighty Toyota hatchback. The men joke with one another and recall past stories while I try to keep my stomach under control. Although the windows are left open, it is not enough to combat the heat or the plumes of smoke from the three separate cigarettes being puffed away at.

Occasionally my elder companions turn to me, stifling their flagrant banter to suit my apparently innocent ears. They ask how I like Greece and if I’m enjoying my time there. “Of course,” I insist, pointing out the many legitimate joys in the country. “Life is relaxing here. In America, life is fast… we never pause to think. Here at least you can take things slow.” I make an outwards pushing motion with my hands. “Siga-siga”; Slow it goes. “Here, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

The men nod away at my comments, having learned long ago what to expect from American outsiders. For legitimate and perhaps selfish reasons, Antonis scoffs. “Yeah. Do what you want, except find a job.” A political scandal erupts inside the car; I sigh and check out of the conversation, but I’m happy for their company nonetheless.

We finally arrive at our stopping point, a small hut that seems out of place in the forest-covered mountainside. Apparently, somebody’s home; as we stop, a weathered man wearing stained trousers and a wool cap emerges from inside. He sees our brigade exiting the cherry-red hatchback and approaches us. “Where you coming from?” he asks. My godfather and his fellows make brief small talk, giving each other their names and such. He nods his chin at me. “Who’s the kid?” he asks the others. “My godson from America,” my godfather provides simply. The shepherd nods and grins at me. “Does he speak Greek?” he asks the others. I take the opportunity to speak for myself; “Yes.” I extend a hand to introduce myself. “Angelis,” I say, as the other men (my godfather aside) have taken to calling me. “It’s a pleasure,” I add lamely.

The shepherd grins toothily and clasps my hand. “You like Greece?” he asks in English. I nod vehemently. Apparently, the man is content enough with my answer and with our intent. He invites us over to a picnic bench, where we share a quick yet efficient tsipouro, the prerequisite high-proof distillate made from grape pomace. We linger there for a few minutes before saying goodbye, and then we are off and away—on foot.

The trail is wobbly and uneven. I watch as my godfather and his friends (none of whom are under 50) maneuver capably enough, but I still worry; one false step and our excursion might end in a trip to the hospital. We hike for about an hour, my companions breathing heavily and firing anecdotes at one another. I skirt around the edges of the group, watching the terrain change and absorbing the experience.

We reach the literal peak of our journey and the valley opens up before us. The view is stunning; grey peaks capped by the faintest proof of snow rise up in the distance. Below us lie winding, forest-covered mountains. From up top, one can sympathize with the ancient assumption of forest nymphs and demi-gods creating mischief below.

The wind is persistent but gentle, coercing all of the plants of the same pale-green/silver hue to dance. Our nonstop conversation ends there and each of us claims a canvas duffel bag and garden shears. We begin our work.

Much of the vegetation is oregano or an annoying, thorny weed that clings to your socks. The rest is what we’re after: mountain tea. Bees dance between our working hands, eager to spread pollen from the flowering buds.

The picking itself is unremarkable. We keep to ourselves mostly, bent over gathering the tea, occasionally pausing to smell the fresh air and observe the majestic scenery surrounding us. Occasionally, one of the men shouts to announce an untouched alleyway of mountain flower. I work quickly, but the view is too gorgeous and me too green to keep up with the others, my godfather especially. By the time mine is half-full, I see he’s already filled his first bag and started on a fresh one.

We become separated, the promises of untouched bounty straying us from our paths. I work alone for a while, until I hear loud shouts from up ahead, down a steep slope. I descend carefully and find Christos. He’s bent over, shielding the sun from the screen of his flip phone, waving it in the air on occasion. He sees me, shouts and grins; “Angelis!” He holds up his bounty to show me. I wave and come down to him.

“Where is everyone?” he asks. I shrug. He stands up and gestures down at the valley. “You won’t find this in Chicago,” he notes. I laugh and agree (even though I’m not really from Chicago).

I keep Christos company, and we fill our arms with tea until there is no more to be had in that area. While the 80-year-old’s shown nothing but stamina and joy thus far, he is showing signs of fatigue. After failing to alleviate his phone worries, he eases down on a rock to rest. I crouch beside him. He blinks and stares at me, his watery eyes scanning my face. “Tell me again, who is your father?” I explain again—cousin to my godfather, left home for America when he was 20. He nods, but still looks at a loss. “When was the last time he came to Greece?” he asks. “When my grandmother died,” I respond. He nods absently, perhaps trying to remember her or her funeral. Christos is part of a generation whose memory is composed of faces and stories, and he doesn’t recall meeting my father, if he has. My face bears no recollection to him. I clear the air and ask what the annoying thorny bushes are called. His blue eyes spark, and he is back to transmuting his thoughts at his normal rapid-fire clip.

The conversation ends when his cell phone rings abruptly. “Finally!” he announces. It’s Mitsos, who’s somehow claimed enough reception to return the call. Christos stands, shouting into the earpiece to combat the impossible connection. He spins in a circle, relaying instructions on how to find him, until he spots something. He ditches the earpiece and shouts; “Eh, Vasilis!”

I turn to where he’s looking and see my godfather in the distance, clad in his blue mechanic’s overalls. He looks up and adjusts his grip on his prizes to wave; he’s filled his second bag already. Christos returns to the phone. “Vasilis is here. Don’t worry; Angelis and I will come get you!” He pushes END decisively with his thumb. He sighs and smiles at me. “I’m only getting older, Angelis.”

“All of us are,” I offer.

He laughs and slaps my back, a small yet powerful force. “C’mon. Time to get out of here and relax.” I nod in agreement. I know exactly what he means.

When you go to relax in Greece, inevitably you are going to have a good time. You have a coffee, go on a hike, or go to the beach; you dance, throw a party, or go for a walk in the city; or, you sit somewhere where the view is nice, the food is good, and the company is full.

We meet up with my godfather. He eyes my smaller bounty and wrinkles his mustache. “That it?” he mocks. I grin and fire back, claiming one of his bags and adding it to my own; “Better watch it, old man.”

He laughs throatily and grips my shoulder with his free hand. We walk together. I keep most of the haul for myself, half-suspecting that he’s worn out by now. But if he is, he reveals no sign of it. “Let’s go have a tsipouro,” he decides.