Paths Crossed: Kalymnos 2026

Spring revival. Year 13 of climbing and community on a Greek island.

I knew that the guy on the crag was from Switzerland because he sounded exactly like my other Swiss friend who is not on the island this spring. Before my partner and I tied in, checked our knots, locked in our belay device, and exchanged quickdraws from harness to harness—we were about to start up a bouldery 6B climb that goes through a hole at the top of a cave—we got chatting with the Swiss man and his partner.

I cannot remember why, but I introduced them to the expression, “Not today Satan.” When would such a phrase come into play, they asked? Perhaps when fighting not to fall off the crux of a climb you’ve nearly sent. Or if you’re about to lose your footing hiking down a scree-filled goat path after a super successful climbing day. In these cases, whisper to yourself firmly: “Not today Satan.” Highly entertained by this, the guys told me they’d do their best to slip said expression into conversation once back in Alpine territory.

It’s always fantastic to be standing among a group of climbers from a mishmash of countries and cultures, united by a common language around something we love. That’s the magic of our little climbers village on Kalymnos. Within a stone’s throw (no one is throwing stones, and in fact helmets are still the way to go on a crag), you’ll find yourself in conversation with people from Colorado, New York (my answer of the day), and Canada; Venezuela, Italy, and Norway; Spain, Lebanon, and Slovenia; Austria, Germany, and Switzerland (I still lapse and mix up friends’ of the last decade’s dialect/country among the aforementioned three—but share in sweeping laughter and bountiful beers at the taverna and it won’t matter much.)

I’ve been back on Kalymnos for the better part of May. It was the best decision I could have made after my last season, even though the two-day journey from the western U.S. felt like a ridiculous one beforehand. (Living in Berlin for over a decade, the travel time was three hours, and, true story, I’ve paid 4.99 euro one-way during the heyday of EasyJet/Ryanair.)

I have been coming to this island for 13 years now, and May is one of my favorite months to spend here. The hillsides are still lushly green, bright-pink oleander lines the road on either side, and magical purple butterflies sail all around the crag. There is still a chill in the air and the occasional rainstorm wildly whips itself into a spectacular sunset. Strawflower, spanish broom, wild thyme, and poppies abound. One day last week I stood fascinated by a new-to-me insect, the spoonwing lacewing.

I’ve been ordering my daily dose of freshly squeezed orange juice, citrus from the neighboring village of Vathy sweeter than I’ve ever had. The olive bread is freshly baked by the local grocer, and the community, the collective care of neighbors, this place—it has reignited a spark, reminded me of who I am and what I have built in the best of ways.

When the water laps at my feet on my go-to rocky beach, I marvel that I’ve stood here across over a decade of moods, life events, heartaches, and triumphs. While I was here this month, my intrepid and civic-minded aunt Mimi died back in Boston, the last standing of my mom and her sisters at a mighty 4 feet 11 inches. It has been a goodbye to my maternal line, who will remain a force in my life, those who steeped me in a ferocious love traced to the center of my grandparents’ house on Long Island—the heart, the hearth, the foundation. The steady source I feel so grateful to have received.

Last week, I was able to share in a beautiful memorial online organized by my brother, where I did my best to deliver 1600 words as to what Mimi meant to me. While this and another fresh cold has informed some of the time here, it has been notable to observe how feeling through life’s inevitable complexities within an environment that feels firm, supportive, and resourced makes all the difference. Many things I came back to Kalymnos to put to the test were perfectly tested, and it has set into stark contrast the shapes and stories that I can leave behind in this life. I have also seen how the work I have been quietly sitting in the dark with has begun to germinate within and without.

And then there is the climbing—it should have been obvious, but I recently remembered this is something that empowers me, teaches me, and lights me up through and through, even though I’ve not made myself accessible to it consistently or year-round. I am climbing fantastic 260-meter multipitches, getting back on the “sharp end” (and my god, how happy that makes me even if not done often), admiring every scrape and bruise as the result of doing something I love, and feeling my fingers crimp limestone inside my dreams at night. So good.

*To learn more about how to support the community here, visit Rebolt Kalymnos, a nonprofit run by friends who are tirelessly working to keep climbing safe and fun in this world-class destination for the sport.

*Photo of the purple butterfly captured by my friend Liem.