Between Farm Life and the Lycian Sun
Cold canyon water, dusty trails, too much Adana kebab, and the strange joy of getting grungy.
There’s a very specific kind of ambience that’s palpable when something is ending, when departing a place. It’s an air of silence, a loud stillness, that the last times you’ll spend with the people around you are in the current moment.
Our last morning on the farm felt like a very light but real version of that. Or at least, it felt like that in my head.
Aalia made sourdough pancakes and I made eggs while everyone moved slowly around the kitchen, still a little sleepy, in weekend morning mode. Amanda, Estelle, and I decided we’d spend our day going to Saklikent - a national park conveniently only a 10 minute drive from the farm. Ali was kind enough to drive us and so we began in Saklıkent Canyon, where the day immediately turned into chaos in the best possible way.
The water was so cold it felt violent. Not refreshing cold. Punishing cold. Within minutes our feet were numb, our toes bright red, and we were gripping onto each other like baby deer trying to survive a river crossing. Estelle, Amanda, and I basically formed a human chain through the rapids while laughing and screaming every time the current shoved into our legs.
At one point Amanda completely wiped out into the water, which honestly felt inevitable given how far into the canyon we had gone, further than anyone else felt safe to go. And because Amanda fell in, I voluntarily (not voluntary at all) had joined her (got pulled in). It was one of my favorite days of our whole trip.
What I remember about the Canyon and Saklikent most isn’t the nature or adventure itself. It’s Estelle.
The hike afterward gave us hours to just talk and joke around together, and I got to see this really goofy, warm side of her that made the whole day feel easy. Somewhere between the freezing water, the aching feet, and the endless walking, it became one of those days that quietly warms you. Sharing our perspectives of the farm, the different people there, and more worldly perspectives.
That evening, after our hike, we came across a babushka making gözleme. And the way she packed our order up with such care it almost felt emotional. Little vegetables packed up like a child’s school lunch. Some salt sprinkled into paper and wrapped tightly in case we wanted more as we ate. Tiny gestures that felt very nurturing.
Thirty thousand steps later, bonding moments with Estelle (and the canyon waters), our last day and night on the farm came to an end.
Leaving the farm the next morning felt surprisingly clean emotionally. There was still an aura of stillness, but it all felt right. Our time on the farm had done exactly what needed to be done without us realizing it. After moving so quickly in the weeks before, the farm forced us into routine and presence again. Shared meals, slower mornings, repeated faces. We felt and found comfort in enough stillness to actually miss movement again.
So naturally, the first thing we did after leaving was devour a giant Turkish meal. No surprise.
The first restaurant we went to kept bringing appetizer after appetizer like they were trying to test our limits. Yogurt dips, beet salad, mushrooms with melted cheese, breads, fries, spreads covering every inch of the table.
Then the Adana kebab arrived and unanimously entered into our hall of fame ‘wow meal’ list. Smoky, rich, slightly spicy, unbelievably tender. The kind of meal that makes conversation stop for a minute because everyone’s too busy smiling and appreciating the full mouth feel.
Our waiter somehow made the whole experience even better. Every table loved him. Huge energy, huge smile, constantly joking around. When he brought dessert over he announced kunefe like it was a magic trick reveal. “Surprise!” I laughed so hard it caught me off guard. The entire feast ended up costing around thirty-three dollars, which somehow felt insulting considering how happy it made us.
Our two days in Fethiye became this strange transition zone between comfort and adventure. We kept pretending we were going to have productive days planning our next steps. Instead, almost every day somehow became coffee, pastries, reading, wandering, then accidentally eating another massive meal.
But our fun and glutinous adventures would come to a close as we mentally prepared for the Lycian Way - Turkey’s most popular hiking trail stretching over 300 miles along the country’s southern Mediterranean coast from Fethiye to Antalya.
Preparing is generous wording, honestly.
The day before the hike we bussed all the way to Antalya (3+ hour trip) for camping gear, entered what can only be described as a Decathlon-induced stress spiral from the lack of adequate equipment they offered, then bussed all the way back.
No lightweight options. No proper water bladder. Questionable sleeping setup. Total exhaustion. But by that night, all our equipment sat piled around us in the room like physical proof that this hike was actually happening.
We watched an episode of The Good Place, cuddled up, and tried not to think too hard about the fact we’d soon be voluntarily sleeping outside for multiple days.
The Lycian Way began exactly how we hoped it would. I say it somewhat ironically for Amanda, but I really did love and laugh at our chaotic start.
The morning itself was a disaster.
ATM issues. Bag storage problems. Missing buses. Heat already setting in before we’d even properly started walking.
But within ten minutes of leaving Ölüdeniz, the start to our Lycian way, behind, everything started settling. To our right was bright blue water, ahead laid a quiet tree-covered trail, and above us was the glaring sun and paragliders floating through the sky like confetti. Step after step, we climbed up until the world suddenly turned into birds, wind, dirt paths, and the sound of our backpacks shifting against our shoulders.
At the first climb on our trek, a man sold us fresh pomegranate juice so tart it sparked the biggest smile on my face. I was baffled how he got his juice all the way up the mountain.
Higher up, villages seemingly appeared out of nowhere like something imagined by a child. White buildings peeking through greenery at impossible elevations. I remember thinking: how are people living up here?
We climbed up so high, walked miles, and there are people up here… living? Do they all hike up here?
Then eventually realizing as we were foot to gravel, ahead of us, a bus stop. A full transportation system running basically through the whole hike we had done so far, through the mountains, and somewhat shattering the illusion and magic of the initial places we were hiking through.
But what a dream the hike was, uncompromisingly beautiful. Somewhere along the trail I got my first bee sting, bought some pine honey from a tiny roadside shop for two dollars soon after, talked to all the cows & sheep we passed by, and watched women herders yell at (and throw rocks at) their goats like an exhausted elementary school teacher. Everything felt absurdly alive and raw as we walked to our campsite.
That first sunset overlooking Butterfly Valley almost didn’t feel real. Purple skies, glowing water, warm wind, gözleme arriving at the table while the cliffs lit up orange beneath us.
The following days became a mix of beauty and mild suffering. Heavy sun. Sweaty clothes. Not enough water. Construction zones where there should’ve been trails. Amanda slipping down a hill trying to reach a secret beach. Us entering full survival mode while hiking hungry and dehydrated because we convinced ourselves we should wait to eat until reaching the beach. Then finally jumping into freezing blue water like two overheated deprived hikers being reborn. This night we demolished an all-you-can-eat buffet (our reward for camping for free). Two full plates each. Two sutlac (Turkish rice pudding dessert) each.
At one point Amanda became convinced the waitress was taking away the sutlac, so she panic-commanded me to sprint over and secure them immediately. Turns out… the waitress was literally just reorganizing them. We are deeply unserious and troubled people when it comes to food.
Throughout our first days of the Lycian way, we found and held onto so many quiet and precious moments. We spent hours talking about mortality while hiking through the heat, thinking about and talking about all our loved ones (pssst..you), discussing books we’ve read and are excited to read, and most importantly - sharing our appreciation for each other and the beautiful journey we’re on.
We found the most breathtaking hidden campsite near Alinca (the last city on our first leg of the hike). No description can do justice how idyllic the campsite was - perfectly flat ground shaded by a big beautiful 100+ old olive tree, a clear view of the crystal blue waters on a beautiful sunny day. It was the perfect site read to spend time opening our creative minds. We planned to hike 5-10 more miles this day, but it felt refreshing to realize we’d stumbled upon something special, and spend time enjoying it rather than rushing onto the next section.
That night, we quickly started forming rules for our travels including (1) always ask locals. Don’t assume we know.
We subsequently broke the first rule we made the very next day when we assumed we knew the bus schedule of our transport back. So after waiting an hour and 45 minutes for a bus that came every 2 hours, we began our journey back home. As disappointing as it is to break our first rule and fail immediately, knowing that tonight we finally got to shower again and sleep in a proper bed, nothing could ruin our day. Unfortunate for all the people that were on the 2+ hours of bus rides we had to take, no amount of happiness could offset their curse of having to sit next to us.
By the time we finally reached Kaş, I think both of us needed civilization again. And showers. Dear God, showers.
Four days of sweat and sunscreen and trail dust washed off in about fifteen emotional minutes. We felt human again.
Our subsequent days started off with slow mornings. Laundry. Haircut. Reading by the water. Poke bowls and light bites that were good but not quite big enough for our appetites.
One evening we climbed above the town at sunset and watched the lights slowly flicker on below us while boats sat quietly along the coastline. Greece visible in the distance. Wedding music floating up through the streets.
It felt romantic in that very simple way travel sometimes does when nothing huge is happening. Just being somewhere together.
We then spent our days swimming in cold crystal-blue water and lounging and our nights eating lots and lots of sweets (tres leche and sutlac) and watching tv.
A drunk man at our dessert shop repeatedly threatened to “pow pow” me if I didn’t propose to Amanda next year, which was oddly threatening for a man whose last words to me were “namaste”.
Somewhere between the farm, the trail, and Kaş, I started noticing a pattern in how this trip keeps unfolding.
The best moments almost never come from the big organized plan. They come from impulsively gouging down an all you can eat buffet you stumble upon, panicking over rice pudding, trying a new place, getting filthy and exhausted and then laughing about it once we reflect back on our days. And maybe that’s what I’ll remember most from this stretch of Turkey. Not just the places. But how deeply alive everything felt while moving through them together.
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