Beyond the Monasteries: Hidden Caves and Secret Viewpoints in Meteora

Before diving into Meteora's lesser-known treasures, proper preparation is essential. This isn't the Greece of beach umbrellas and tavernas—it's a landscape of sheer drops, unmarked paths, and sometimes challenging terrain.

I based myself in Kalambaka, the main town below the rocks, staying at a small guesthouse run by a local family who shared hand-drawn maps of paths their grandfather once used. While the monasteries operate on strict schedules (and dress codes), the wilderness between them follows no such rules—except those of common sense and safety.

For navigation, I relied on a combination of offline maps and a dedicated hiking GPS which proved invaluable when phone signals disappeared between the massive rock formations. The device's 8GB of internal memory allowed me to download detailed topographic maps of the region before arrival.

Physical preparation matters too. While you needn't be an elite athlete, comfortable navigating uneven terrain and handling some light scrambling is necessary. I spent the month before my trip doing stair workouts and hill training hikes—and was grateful for every minute of preparation when facing Meteora's steep ascents.

Finally, timing is everything. Fall offers the perfect balance—summer crowds have dissipated, temperatures have dropped to comfortable hiking levels (I experienced pleasant 65-75°F days), and the changing foliage creates a stunning contrast against the grey stone pillars.

My fascination with Meteora's caves began when I spotted a tiny opening in a cliff face while flying my drone near the Great Meteoron monastery. What appeared to be merely a shadow revealed itself as a perfectly carved doorway when viewed through my drone's camera. I later learned this was just one of dozens of hermit dwellings scattered throughout the formation—many predating the famous monasteries by centuries.

Accessing these caves requires a combination of research, local knowledge, and sometimes pure serendipity. The most accessible cluster lies along what locals call the 'Hermit's Path'—an unmarked trail beginning near the Monastery of St. Nicholas Anapausas. I set out at dawn with my headlamp illuminating the path, which proved essential when exploring the darker recesses of these ancient dwellings.

The caves themselves range from simple indentations to elaborate multi-room complexes with carved altars and faded Byzantine frescoes. In one particularly moving space, I discovered finger-worn grooves in the stone where countless prayers had been said over centuries. As someone who works with clay, I found myself running my fingers along these same impressions, feeling a connection across time with those who sought solitude in these extraordinary spaces.

The most spectacular cave I discovered required a challenging scramble up a near-vertical path marked only by faded red dots. Known locally as 'Badovas' or the 'prison cave,' it features a natural opening that frames the monasteries perfectly—nature's own viewfinder that few tourists ever glimpse. I spent nearly two hours here, watching light transform the valley below while imagining the hermits who once called this austere space home.

Meteora at sunrise is magical—that's no secret. What remains hidden from most visitors are the viewpoints where you can experience this magic without jostling for tripod space with dozens of other photographers.

My favorite discovery came on my third morning, after a local ceramic artist I'd befriended sketched a route on my map leading to what she called 'Dragon's Back'—a narrow ridge offering 270-degree views of both the monasteries and the Pindos mountains beyond. Reaching it required a 45-minute pre-dawn hike with careful navigation around several false paths.

I arrived just as the horizon began to glow, setting up my travel tripod on a precarious but stable rock outcropping. The lightweight carbon fiber construction made carrying it up the steep path manageable, and its stability proved essential for capturing long exposures as the light gradually transformed the landscape.

Another remarkable viewpoint lies directly opposite the famous Holy Trinity monastery but requires navigating what locals call the 'goat stairs'—a natural formation of rock steps leading to a plateau that few tourists ever reach. I spent a peaceful evening here, watching sunset paint the monastery walls gold while a shepherd moved his flock through the valley below—the only sounds being distant bells and the occasional call of circling ravens.

Perhaps my most treasured discovery was a small cave opening positioned perfectly to frame the Roussanou monastery at sunrise. I found it by chance while exploring an unmarked path and returned the next morning with my drone. The resulting images—monastery emerging from dawn mist, framed by ancient stone—remain some of my favorite photographs from Greece.

These viewpoints offer more than just photography opportunities; they provide the increasingly rare gift of solitude in one of Greece's most visited destinations.

While researching Meteora's history in a dusty corner of Kalambaka's library, I stumbled upon references to a structure called the 'Skete of St. Antonios'—a smaller monastic dwelling that predated several of the main monasteries but had long since been abandoned. Most modern guidebooks mention it only in passing, if at all.

Locating it became my mission for two full days. After several false starts and dead ends, I finally discovered the narrow path leading to its remains—a route beginning behind Agios Stefanos monastery that quickly disappears into thick forest before emerging on a rocky outcrop.

What awaited wasn't the intact structure I'd imagined but something far more atmospheric: stone walls partially reclaimed by nature, doorways opening to sky instead of rooms, and a small chapel space where fragments of centuries-old frescoes still cling to crumbling plaster. Standing amid these ruins, with valley views that rivaled any monastery's, I understood why this location had been chosen—and wondered why it had been abandoned.

Exploring required careful footing and my trusty hiking boots proved their worth on the uneven terrain. Their Vibram soles provided crucial grip on smooth rock surfaces that have sent many unprepared visitors sliding.

The most extraordinary feature was a perfectly preserved cistern—a testament to the engineering skills of medieval monks who carved channels into the rock to direct rainwater into this life-sustaining reservoir. I spent hours photographing the play of light across these ancient stoneworks, marveling at how they'd withstood centuries of Meteora's harsh weather.

The skete offers something increasingly rare in our hyper-documented world—a chance to discover something that hasn't been photographed thousands of times before. I encountered not a single other visitor during my exploration, making it feel like a personal discovery in a landscape otherwise defined by established tourism routes.

Long before Instagram made Meteora famous, rock climbers discovered its potential. While commercial climbing now focuses on a few popular routes, I was determined to find spots where local climbers go to escape the crowds.

My search led me to Ziogas, a grizzled climbing veteran who runs a small gear shop in Kastraki. Over Greek coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in, he sketched locations of several 'local only' bouldering areas on my map. These weren't the established routes featured in climbing guides but smaller formations perfect for bouldering—no ropes required, just crash pads and good spotting technique.

The most remarkable area, which Ziogas called simply 'The Garden,' lies in a hidden valley accessible only through a narrow passage between two massive pillars. Here, dozens of perfect bouldering problems range from beginner-friendly to expert-only overhangs. I spent a full day here with my crash pad, which provided essential protection when attempting problems beyond my skill level.

For those seeking roped climbing without crowds, Ziogas directed me to the north face of Pixari pillar—a massive formation that most tourists never circle completely. Here, several moderate routes established in the 1980s offer spectacular climbing with views across to monasteries. I'm no elite climber, but the solid handholds and well-protected routes made for an unforgettable day on the rock.

What makes Meteora's climbing unique isn't just the quality of the rock but the surreal setting. Where else can you chalk up your hands while bells ring from centuries-old monasteries above? Or top out a climb to find yourself eye-level with a building constructed by hand over 500 years ago?

While climbing, I met Dimitris, a local who has established dozens of routes throughout the area. He shared stories of climbing alongside monks who occasionally venture out from monasteries to scale the same rocks their predecessors once climbed using only ropes and determination—a living connection to Meteora's original purpose as a place where humans challenge themselves against stone and gravity.

Perhaps my most treasured Meteora experiences came after dark, when day-trippers had departed and even the monasteries fell silent. While official rules prohibit wandering the formations after sunset, local guides whispered of exceptions for serious photographers who respect the landscape.

Armed with this knowledge and my night photography gear (whose exceptional low-light performance has revolutionized my night photography), I ventured out on a moonless night to capture Meteora as few ever see it. The camera's incredible ISO performance allowed me to capture the Milky Way arching over the monasteries without the light pollution that plagues so many destinations.

I discovered a perfect spot for night photography on a flat rock outcropping locals call 'The Priest's Table'—so named for its altar-like shape. From here, the Great Meteoron monastery was perfectly positioned against the northern sky, occasionally illuminated by distant lightning from storms over the mountains.

The real magic happened around 3 AM when monks began their pre-dawn prayers, and tiny windows in the monasteries glowed with warm light against the star-filled sky. I captured a time-lapse sequence showing these lights appearing one by one—human devotion awakening while the world slept.

On my final night, I hiked to a remote hermit cave with a natural opening that perfectly framed the stars. Setting up my camera for a long exposure, I sat in contemplative silence, understanding for the first time why Byzantine hermits chose this place. The absolute stillness, broken only by occasional night birds and the whisper of wind through ancient stone doorways, created a meditative atmosphere unlike anything I've experienced elsewhere.

These night sessions required careful planning—headlamps with red lights to preserve night vision, extra batteries against the autumn chill, and precise knowledge of safe paths. But they revealed Meteora's true character: not as a tourist attraction but as a place where the boundary between earth and sky, human and divine, seems remarkably thin.