Article by Harrys Pourouzidis
Cover photo by Nikos Kakagias
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
It is well known by now that Pixelscape wakes up and sets off before dawn. This time, the reason for our outing was primarily mountaineering, and only afterwards photographic.
The goal was to climb to the summit of Mount Voras, better known to most as Kaimaktsalan, a place loved by hikers and winter sports enthusiasts, but withholding one secret with a dark past.
We travelled for about an hour before our first stop, hoping to steal a little bit of the grandeur of the sunrise as it glittered on the waters of the Agra River and immediately afterwards, we continued northwest.
It is well known by now that Pixelscape wakes up and sets off before dawn. This time, the reason for our outing was primarily mountaineering, and only afterwards photographic.
The goal was to climb to the summit of Mount Voras, better known to most as Kaimaktsalan, a place loved by hikers and winter sports enthusiasts, but withholding one secret with a dark past.
We travelled for about an hour before our first stop, hoping to steal a little bit of the grandeur of the sunrise as it glittered on the waters of the Agra River and immediately afterwards, we continued northwest.
Unlike previous outings, this route had very few stops before we reached our final destination. An unexpected mist over the plain between Voras and Paiko gave us the excuse for a brief photoshoot, and then we were back on the road again, until we reached the artificial lake of Panagitsa. Jumping over the roadside barrier, we saw the lake’s low water level. It may have narrowed our photographic possibilities, but from what little it had left, it still offered us a few reflections to imprison forever inside our digital cameras. With no further delay, Voras was calling us.
Unlike previous outings, this route had very few stops before we reached our final destination. An unexpected mist over the plain between Voras and Paiko gave us the excuse for a brief photoshoot, and then we were back on the road again, until we reached the artificial lake of Panagitsa. Jumping over the roadside barrier, we saw the lake’s low water level. It may have narrowed our photographic possibilities, but from what little it had left, it still offered us a few reflections to imprison forever inside our digital cameras. With no further delay, Voras was calling us.
Stepping out of the car in the final days of September, the cold gnawed at my spine while the sun played hide-and-seek with cotton-like clouds.
“Don’t dress too warmly or you’ll regret it, and don’t forget to bring a change of clothes for the summit,” came the wise words of the more experienced hikers.
And thus I left behind the heavy coat and gazed far ahead, towards the high horizon and the uphill path, thinking about the way before me. My legs received the command from my brain to begin, while the brain itself, thanks to the psychological support of my mountaineering friends, had already taken care to fill my body with positive energy, faith, and confidence that the summit could be conquered, however difficult the climb seemed to my untrained body.
The landscape swept me away with its low vegetation and earthy colours. Brown, green, orange, and yellow painted the canvas of nature around us. Set against the blue and white of the sky, every step of the climb became, at least mentally, a little less difficult.
Our company was joined by Stavros, a very good doctor and photographer, with whom I shared alot as we walked. Dimos and Nikos had long since vanished from sight.
My eagerness to talk, brought on by this new acquaintance with Stavros, had the unfortunate effect of raising the difficulty level of the climb. The panting came and went without mercy. My knees were numb and my breathing heavy, forcing us to stop countless times. I felt as though the mountain air was laughing at my condition.
From time to time, the voice of Dimos or Nikos would drift down from above, asking whether we were all right. But behind their laughing masks, they were probably wondering, “Where did we find these wrecks?”
Gasping, and after much toil and torment, we finally saw the chapel of Prophet Elias standing bright white before us, gazing over both Greek and North Macedonian land.
As fate would have it, we reached that summit on 30th of September 2023.
Turning the clock back exactly 107 years, on September the 30th 1916, the Serbs would emerge victorious from a many-day, many-dead battle against the Bulgarians in the middle of the Great War.
The ground was soaked in blood, and the lifeless bodies of thousands of young soldiers lay tangled together, one on top of another. The sight was repulsive, and the silence was as deafening as the shells and gunfire that had come before it.
Just below the chapel, which Greece granted to the Serbs so they could honour their dead, there is an ossuary where the bones of those unfortunate souls are buried. The bones of people whose living hands no one now knows which flag they once saluted.
Young men were lost because the “blue bloods” decided to duel over land, prestige, ideology, theological differences, and whatever other nonsense the human mind has invented through the centuries.
With heavy feelings and an exhausted body, we ate a snack to regain our strength and changed clothes, taking off the shirts soaked with sweat so that we would not catch cold.
The descent looked easy and enjoyable, but my mind had been seeded with a strange sadness, a tribute I had to pay in return for all the beauty offered to me by the mountain of lost souls.
