These days, it’s easier than ever to see the world. Borders blur, flights crisscross the globe, and GPS makes sure we rarely lose our way. But not everyone travels to collect new places. For some, the real joy lies in returning—to a landscape that becomes familiar, to a rhythm that deepens with time. For the last ten summers, I’ve done just that. Each year, I load up my car with a tent, worn-out hiking boots, and a couple of maps held together by tape, and drive northwest—into the heart of the Pindus mountains, to a wild stretch of Greece known as Tzoumerka.
They rise like a forgotten kingdom, veiled in clouds and fir forests. They are less known than Zagori or Meteora, and that is part of their appeal. What you lose in tourist infrastructure, you gain in silence, in authenticity, in a sense that you are stepping into something older and less scripted.
Instead of the usual descent into Epirus through Ioannina or Arta, I always choose the dramatic, winding road over the Baros Pass—one of the highest paved mountain roads in the Balkans. At nearly 1,900 meters above sea level, the pass connects the regions of Thessaly and Epirus, twisting through alpine meadows, dense fir forests, and sweeping ridgelines that feel almost un-Greek in their scale. There’s a moment near the summit when the road hugs the cliff edge, and below you, a wild emptiness opens up—ravines, forests, rivers—and in the distance, the stone-built villages of Tzoumerka cling to the mountainside like secrets waiting to be discovered. That’s when I know I’m almost there. That’s when the excitement begins.
Tzoumerka isn’t a single village, but a rugged network of them, scattered across steep slopes and clinging to the edges of cliffs. Syrrako and Kalarrites are the crown jewels—twin stone settlements built centuries ago by proud and prosperous Vlach shepherds. Until recently, they were connected only by a narrow mountain path.
Tzoumerka doesn’t soften its edges. The terrain is rugged, the rivers run fast and cold, and the gorges cut deep through the mountains—but that’s exactly what makes it special. The real soul of this place reveals itself on foot, along narrow trails that wind through forests, connect scattered villages, and lead to hidden waterfalls and stone chapels perched on cliffs. Our days here follow a simple rhythm: hiking, swimming in icy streams, and eating in mountain taverns where the food is honest—grilled meat, fresh cheese, wild greens.
The best hike of all is the one to Strogoula, the dramatic peak that towers above everything. The trail begins at the Pramanta refuge—our nightly base, nestled in fir trees below the cliffs—and climbs steadily upward, offering wide views of the surrounding mountains and valleys. It’s demanding in places, but never punishing, and the reward at the summit—2,112 meters above sea level—is a sweeping, unforgettable panorama of Epirus that makes the effort feel small.
We always end our trip the same way: one final night under the stars. As night falls, the sky opens wide—clean, endless, studded with stars—and we settle into the quiet, wrapped in the stillness of the mountains. The world below may keep spinning, but up here, on this lonely mountainside, time slows to a whisper, and we fall asleep with the rare, grounding feeling that—for now—this is exactly where we are meant to be.
Written by Dimitris Papageorgiou
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