The dock is deserted as I step off the ferry. Granted, I did just catch a quick mid-morning ride down the coast; most monks on Athos, Greece’s Orthodox Christian peninsula, will retreat to their quarters in the daytime heat. But to now be the only pilgrim making his way up the dusty stone pathway – which, as far as I can tell in the glare, snakes its way between a collection of hillside structures before cresting over a jagged peak onward toward the monastery Stavronikita – is a bit daunting. At each of the other monasteries I visited I arrived with a group of other pilgrims, the vast majority Greek, Romanian, or Bulgarian; but nonetheless together, sweating and sore from crisscrossing the holy landmass on foot, by boat, and by overstuffed van seeking opportunities to commune with monks, venerate sacred relics, and be immersed in a lifestyle that has largely remained unchanged for a thousand years. Until now, I’d benefitted from the guidance of these devout Orthodox Christians, some of them on their third, twelfth, even fiftieth pilgrimage to the peninsula. 

With the mechanical sputter of the ferry engine quickly fading behind me, I sheepishly approach the compound.