The Climb - Selime Monastery

I sighed with relief as I reached the first landing platform of the vertical tunnel to the lookout point. As I caught my breath, I looked down to see a speck of light dancing in the darkness – the torch from Matt’s iPhone. His calls to me echoed up the narrow shaft, carved by Christian monks 800 years ago. All that was left of this once exquisite stairway were smooth slabs of disintegrating rock, so badly worn, that it was hard to distinguish one step from the other. (It would now be better served as a water slide for the rain.)

Matt urged me to turn back, “We’re not even sure this is the right one!” “This has to be it!” I said, as I evaluated the plausibility of what the man said at the ticket office below – “narrow passageway that leads up.”

We were certainly climbing up, but, I really wasn’t sure this was it. All I knew was that I couldn’t ignore this palpable desire to see where this tunnel was leading. It was as though I was entranced by the romanticism of the moment, walking in the footsteps of religious men before us.

As Matt followed in close pursuit, I examined the walls, feeling along the dust and gravel, hoping to find a grip in the dim light. I stood there, desperately trying to decode the sequence of footwork needed to continue. After a moment of thought, I leapt over the large gap beneath me and onto the next platform.

One by one, I grasped the tiny holes bored into the stairs, and imagined the warm glow of endless candles they must have contained. Matt pleaded with me, “I don’t think we should go any further.”

But, it was too late. We had reached a literal crossroads. It’s either go up and continue forth into the rabbit hole or forever wonder if we were in the right tunnel. We chose the path of the Mad Hatter and plunged further into darkness.

“I see light!” I exclaimed. “We’re almost there!” We crawled up the final steps with the excitement of a marathon runner, only to find another chute, impossible to climb. Matt and I looked down the burrow we emerged from, dripping with chalk. What had we gotten ourselves into – we were alone, inside the womb of a rock, with only a fragmented sentence from the man at the ticket office to guide us. Reality set in and our hands began to shake. The only way out was down. Matt went first.

I watched as he made his way, strategically placing his hands and feet gingerly on the crumbling stairs. Just as I was about to follow suit, six feet down, he froze. All four of his limbs were stretched out, vibrating with nerves. His chin buried in his chest.

“Are you okay?” He responded with a deep inhale and I knew something was wrong. I stood quietly and watched his movements. He was looking straight down, and at that moment, he recognized how far he could fall with one ill placed step. I waited patiently, praying that he would regain his composure. Not a moment too soon, he slowly began retracing his steps downward once again.

It wasn’t until we popped out onto the second floor of the church that we allowed the gravity of the situation to wash over us. My hands were still shaking, but oddly enough, I had a huge smile on my face. “Well, that was most insane, idiotic, and awesome thing we've every done.” Nevertheless, we made it out of there unscathed, with shaken nerves, an element of danger and one hell of an experience.

DEAR MOMS: 
We don't mean to scare you with this post. Please don't worry. We've learned our lesson and won't be doing this again. :)

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