October 2014

Preface

Arrived at Ljubljana airport only to find that Visa apparently has no love for Slovenia. Not only was my card denied when trying to pay for my rental car, but the ATM told me I had “insufficient funds” (somewhat oxymoronically, since it was a CREDIT card, but never mind.), so there I was, stranded with 50€ to my name, but the lovely Anja at the rental car company didn’t only find me a bus that could take me to my final destination, but actually drove me herself the 12 kilometres to the village from which the bus left. Gob? Smacked.

So I got to Karjanska Gora in the end, but of course I still had virtually no money, and was unsure how hotel management would react. I needn’t have worried. The receptionist didn’t even let me finish before insisting that I get myself to the restaurant and have a hot meal, and not concern myself with such trivialities as payment.

At first glance, not the best of experiences, but on the other hand my faith in people has been given a real boost, and that can’t be bad, right?
Day 1

Travelling up through the country yesterday I had the impression of immense natural beauty paired with a run-down, slightly decrepit society, as if Austria had its own East German equivalent in Slovenia, which I guess is essentially the case. Waking this morning in picturesque Karjanska Gora, that picture was reinforced by the low hanging clouds that shrouded the already muted colour palette in their grey mist, and the eerie stillness of the place, with not a movement to be seen. It was as if I had stepped onto the scene in a horror movie.

As I fiddled with my Garmin to at least let some anonymous satellites know where I were (ok, I know that’s not how it works, but that’s how it felt), a low voice right next to me mumbled something guttural, and I looked up and straight into the face of a gaunt being that shuffled towards me. I fair jumped out of my skin, and it wasn’t at all fair on the poor mailman who only wished me a good morning.

I hurried out of the village and up the valley floor, muttering at the clouds that the forecast for today had read sunny, and didn’t they have places to go? My bad mood (and the clouds) soon dispersed, however, as I walked through a landscape so still and pretty that it felt like moving through a series of post cards.

I had set myself two goals for this first day of hiking. First, following in the footsteps of all intrepid explorers, I would seek to find the source of a great body of water. Here I was in luck, because the great Slovene river Sava – which forms the geography of more that half the country, and is itself a contributory to the Danube, greatest of European rivers – has its source right up the valley, in the shape of a series of natural springs known locally as “toomphs”*.

I made my discovery quite easily by following the many signposts (all intrepid explorers know that the fact that locals have known about the existence of something for millennia doesn’t count), and found myself in the most enchanted setting imaginable. Rainwater flows down the mountains and seeps into the ground only to be forced upwards here, making the bottom of the pools resemble a landscape of miniature volcanos, easily visible through the impossibly clear water. Also, since the water comes from deep underground it remains a steady five degrees all year around, and so the ponds never freeze, but remain azure blue (and full of trout) even in the dead of winter. I lingered here, all alone, pondering how prehistoric man must have marvelled at this natural phenomenon. It was all rather splendid.

Wanting to contribute to this great marvel of nature’s complexity somehow, I added my own little natural contributory before moving on.

My second goal for the day took me past the last village in the valley, which due to the microclimate there is known as the Siberia of Corinthia. Needless to say I didn’t linger, but started my ascent towards Tromeja (“three-borders”), where, you might have guessed, the borders of Italy, Austria and Slovenia as well as the linguistic borders of the three main language blocs – Germanic, Romance and Slavic – all meet. And here my leisurely stroll ended.

The ascent was gruelling. I ran a half marathon three days ago. Clearly the training that went into that was good for nothing here. The trail and I staggered on drunkenly, stubbornly for a solid hour, ever upwards. My legs leaden, my vision foggy, I was close to giving up when finally the summit revealed itself, only…

Every cloud in existence had apparently decided today was a good day to hang out at Tromeja! Possibly vexed by my rumblings that morning, the clouds had beaten me there and lay in ambush on the other side of the mountain. Italy and Austria were probably there somewhere, but of the fabulous view I could see nothing. I was heart-broken, despondent.

What to do? Having this unique opportunity, I went for a game of International Twister with myself. It ended badly. With a solid foothold in Italy I made a grab for Slovenia only to fall flat on my face in Austria. Having thus performed a haiku reenactment of every war in the region from Roman times to World War II, I sat down with my meagre lunch to ponder the invisible and ultimately futile nature of borders. They move like amoebas across maps, crushing people with their impact, and yet up here, they are as nothing.

Looking around me I found a monument with a rather nice inscription, summing up my thoughts: “Finding one’s inner peace is man’s greatest need. Peace does not only mean no war, peace means the rule of harmony, love, satisfaction and unity.”

Yet something was lacking. I thought for a moment, and then got out a magic marker, adding “…and a functioning Visa card!”

And on that somber note, I began my descent.

—–

*This is a fine example of the Slovene language’s propensity to include words that resemble sound effects from the Marvel universe. The Toomphs are located between the villages of Kablowie and Pow…
Day 2

I sorted out my visa troubles and finally got my rental car yesterday afternoon, so it was with a sense of satisfaction I sat down to have the hotel’s speciality for dinner, a huge plate of assorted grilled animals. The Miklič family and their oft-returning English guests, the self-proclaimed redhead Helen, a cycling champion, her son and mum, really took me to their hearts, and as the conversation and the pils flowed, I let myself sink into the warm glow of heir embrace.

So it was with some reluctance I left this morning, weak-kneed and wobbly-legged, but the sun was out, the air was crisp, and… my personal weather-affront was back again, lurking further down the valley. I had foreseen such an eventuality however, and had planned two alternative (escape) routes for the day. The first would take me up an adjacent valley to the fifty hairpin bends constituting the Vilcič pass road built by Russian POWs at a cost of on average two dead Russians per bend. (This was some time before Slovenia ratified the Workers’ Health and Safety directive). There was a very real risk of the cloud catching up with me that way, though, and I didn’t feel like adding to the statistics by bing mown down unseen by a lorry, so elected instead to move down the valley, flanking the fluffy f****r and hopefully circumventing it altogether in an attempt to reach the double waterfalls (known as Slap* in Slovene) in the gorge near the next village.

It worked like a charm. I strolled through sunlit pastures and forests, watching the cloud bank move slowly in the other direction. So pleased was I with having outsmarted the weather that it wasn’t until I heard what sounded like a calypso-orchestra in disarray up ahead that I recalled the many warning signs I had passed (they had all been in Slovene, so naturally I had assumed that they didn’t concern me). Up ahead on the road were a thirty-head heard of steers, the Milka gel’s grumpy uncles, and they weren’t happy to see me. As the last Glocken came to a clonking end not dissimilar to the “Duelling Banjos” song, they stared in sullen, sour-eyed silence at me, and it was clear that I risked being gorged in a manner quite different from what I had planned. In the end they didn’t gore me to death, taking pity on the two weak calves to suddenly appear in their midst (Bulls having an acute – if underrated – appreciation of puns.).

And so it was that I reached the ravine after all. It was simply marvellous. Entering the canyon the sheer rock rose high above a narrow passage through which flowed not only a lively brook, but the air was filled with water particles from the falls higher up, and as they caught the sunlight they turned to pixie dust, turning the landscape into a golden, enchanted forest. Alas, the same fine mist rendered every root, leaf and stone in the cleft slick with moisture, slippery to the touch, and turned my progress into a series of involuntary tap-dancing solos, as I fought for traction and lost. It also soon became clear that the Russians had been sent here first to weed out the weaker builders, as the rickety structures placed along the way to help visitors did nothing but add to the danger.

The first Slap marked the end of my progress through the gorge. From there it was a mad scramble up the cliffs and into the surrounding aspen forest. How different it was! From the pale golden birches and moss-green firn trees of the ravine to this shadowy realm of Mithril-grey trees like a thousand-pillared great hall, all having shed their russet leaves in a thick carpet on the ground, rendering the path all but invisible. The only way to go was up, of course, but the copper carpet effectively hid all manner of roots and milky-white stones, so the tap dancing continued unabated.

At last the path returned to the gully to find the upper Slap, all 130 metres of it, and finally there were steel wires and the odd crampon to help the weary traveller. They were dearly needed, too, as the final ascent was up a crevice that went straight up, parallel to the waterfall itself. At this height the metal was bitter cold, however, and I began to fear my numbed hands would lose their grip. Icicles adorned the cliff face. Falling here would be fatal. The best I could hope for would be landing in the water – not that I would survive that either, but at least I might be rediscovered in a few millennia as a latter-day Ötzi, and archeologists could make amusingly incorrect assumptions about my life in pre-historic times.

Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I did make it, and rarely has tea and strudel tasted as good as it did just now.
*See previous attempt at etymological explanation.
Day 3

So last night I went across the border to pick up my brother who, unbeknownst to me while I was planning this trip, had got himself a job as an apprentice carpenter a stone’s throw from where I was, thus allowing me to use the term “serendipitous”, a word – and indeed a concept – which doesn’t get enough mileage.

We then set off into the night for the village of Bled*, and arrived at the gingerbread cottage of Dom Berc in absolute darkness. The only thing that could be seen was the medieval castle, perched high above the village on an enormous crag and lit up by hidden lights. The door was opened by a hunched man of very Slavic stock who got us inside briskly, showed us our room and left with the words “the master vill vant to visit you… later.” It was time to take stock of the garlic stores!

The night passed without incident, however, and today we learnt just how pretty Slovenia can be. The area of Lake Bled has attracted tourists for hundreds of years, and it was here that all the apparatchiks – who presumably enjoyed a nice holiday as much as the next comrade – would come as well, so the village wasn’t subjected to the standard communist treatment, but remained pristine throughout the Soviet era.

We toured the lake in the morning, taking endless pictures of the little fairy tale island with its perfect little composition of houses and an onion-spired church, and the wooden swan-boats being rowed around it. It was idyllic. Even the castle lost its menacing Hammer-film-prop air in broad daylight.

In the afternoon we drove to a gorge and hiked down its troubled waters on wooden walkways. It was very impressive, but lacked the intensity of yesterday’s adventures. We even had to pay admission, which made it feel more like a amusement park ride than anything else. The whole of Bled, in fact, is a little too cutesy, too boutique, so tomorrow we’re off further into the wilderness in search for the true spirit of Triglav.
*Another peculiarity of the Slovene language is its affinity for words that also exist in English, albeit with a completely different meaning. So for instance “pot” is everywhere to be found, and lake Bled lies in the five o’clock shadow of mount Razor. It’s uncanny.
Day 4

After breakfast we took the car up the curvaceous little road that led into the heartland of the park. We past Lake Bohinj and continued straight up through the beech forest until we reached the Dom Savica, gateway to the most famous waterfalls in Slovenia.

The path wound its way up stairs hewn into the rock, and I was struck by the difference the choice of materials made. Instead of the amusement park feeling of yesterday’s gangways, ascending this stairway felt like entering the kingdom of Rivendell, with wood elves hidden just put of sight. The falls themselves were predictably impressive even without Elrond and his posse, and like the Fellowship we lingered there (if not for three hundred pages), unwilling to face the decent into Orkanc, the suitably orcish-sounding hamlet* where we would stay the rest of the week.

Quite apart from the intricacies of Slovene, I have realised that I came unprepared for mountaineering in a linguistic sense, as there are so many terms I am unfamiliar with. This is of course wholly my own fault**.

So for instance a gorge is a narrow valley between hills or mountains, typically with steep rocky walls and a stream running through it, but a gully is a ravine formed by the action of water – not the same thing. Also, Urban Dictionary adds to he confusion by asserting that the latter term is slang for “gangsta”, as in “I’m so gully”, which only a criminal mountain troll by the name of Scarpface*** could possibly hope to get away with.

But I digress. We eventually made it down to Orkanc, past a hidden farm where the neo-liberal farmer had obviously taken GMO into his heart, and – more importantly – into the hearts of his herd, since the cattle looked more like bear-pigs than anything bovine, and thence to the ski lift of Vogel.

The ski lift took us 1,000 metres straight up, and to the second hike of the day. We arrived at two in the afternoon, and since the last lift down was at six we figured we could go two hours in one direction before having to turn around, which would give us enough time to reach the first of two summits.

Up here the same beech trees dominated the steep slopes, only every single one of them was J-shaped. Brother Carpenter pointed out that the trees looked that way since they were bent down by snow until reaching a certain age, and only then could they begin to grow as they were meant to. I think we can all relate to that. It seems life is a beech, after all.

The beech soon gave way to scree and bonsai and what little soil there had been was replaced by rubble, but we were making good time – or so we thought until we turned around to admire the view and realised that the sun was rapidly disappearing. Only now did it dawn on us that dusk effectively happens around five in the afternoon! The thought of having to get back in pitch blackness didn’t appeal, so down the rubble slope we went like Fred and Ginger, playing catchup with the speed of light.

It was two very tired but relieved wanderers who stepped onto the ski lift back down to Bohinj at a quarter to five.
* It’s not just me saying it, either. Tolkien was first and foremost a linguist and found inspiration in the Slavic languages when creating the Dark tongue of Mordor.

** Fault, n., a crack in the earth’s crust resulting from the displacement of one side with respect to the other.

*** Scarp face, n., the surface of a steep slope just below an escarpment or mountain ridge. Also, a given character in the next Pratchett novel.
Day 5

The day started well enough. Our cottage is built on a scale and in a style that makes me feel like Snow White at the seven dwarves’, and as I went down the stairs to our miniature kitchen / living room and peered out into the fog, what did I see? Three roe deer came galloping out of the mist (possibly chased by the bear-pigs from yesterday). They stopped in front of me, almost posing, but when I tried to get my camera out to take pictures of them they slipped away into the wisps.

This set the tone for the day. We went to the village of Stara Fuzina at the other end of the lake – as beautiful a hamlet as you can hope to find in Slovenia – and from there set out to explore yet another vale. We followed the path upwards, marvelling at how the frothing waterfalls of the gorge cut deep, deep into the bedrock – as much as thirty metres in places – and at the emerald green pools further upstream, so lucid that you sometimes had to look twice to believe there was water there at all. And yet there was a mood of melancholy in the crisp autumnal air, a sense of having but a little time to appreciate all this beauty before it was too late (the fact that we got lost and spent an hour and a half following the wrong arm of the stream might have contributed, too…).

I guess it is inevitable towards the end of a holiday, knowing you will have to get back to the daily grind, but here, with accumulated fatigue combined with the swiftly disappearing sun rendering the beech bronze and the larch a russet gold, it was all I could do not to cry.

To distract myself – and you – from this sorry state of affairs, I thought of one last peculiarity of the Slovene language: They seem to have disavowed vowels. You know how certain letters have to seek refuge in particular countries, like the “X” in Spain, where it still finds employment, or the “Z”, which is found roaming free in great herds in Poland? Well, the Slovenes have decided vowels have no place in their society, at least not in shorter words. So Pr is a cottage, Vrh means summit, and so on. I have no idea how these words sound, but I find it quite innovative, dnt u thnk?
Day 6

And so we entered the kingdom of Zlatorog for the last time. According to the legends Zlatorog, the golden-horned chamois, lived high up in the mountains with the White Women (the Fates) and their white mountain goats on pastures like Paradise, but when a greedy hunter shot Zlatorog in order to obtain his horns, Zlatorog in his fury hurled the hunter into the abyss and destroyed the pastures until nothing but bare rock remained.

I like this story, as it is clearly an ancient tale of caution not to use the natural resources of the region in an unsustainable manner, or suffer the consequences. It seems particularly poignant when hiking up ski slopes, where man has raked the mountain sides clean of all that stands in his way. This we did now, as we were going to make a second attempt on Vogel. So far we hadn’t really made it up the alps proper, but that was about to change.

Up we went, and bonsai and scree gave way to wilted grass, the incline went from unfriendly to murderous to downright psychotic, patches of snow began appearing on the ground, and oxygen started to feel like a distinctly rare commodity. At last there was nothing but the ever-present rubble left on the ground – causing us to take one step forward and two steps back – and the ravens in the sky above us (the Vogel flipping us the bird?), when we reached a cop in the crest, and suddenly it was all worth it! Ahead of us were ridge upon ridge of forest-clad mountains, swept in blueish mist as far as the eye could see.

Swollen feet and howling tendons seemed small and insignificant, indeed, everything was dwarfed in the presence of such grandeur. You could take the great pyramids at Gize and plonk them into the smallest of these vales and they would disappear from sight. It is an awe-inspiring sight if ever there was one. We lunched on top of the world today.

From there it was another three quarters of stomach-curdling climbing up to the top of mount Vogel, along a crest where one false step in one direction would send you down one valley, and a step in the other into another. It was a suitable finale to the week, with views all the way to the Adriatic, 100 km away and 1,922m underneath us. It felt right to end on a high, but just as we congratulated ourselves on our prowess we noticed sheep pellets on the ground, as if Zlatorog himself had left a calling card, saying, in essence: you’re visitors in my world, and while you pride yourself with making it up here I come down to these puny heights to take a dump. Your achievement is my toilet.

After having thus been suitably humbled, all that remained was the three-hour hike back down, negotiating the perennial conundrum of wanting to admire the scenery while avoiding becoming part of it.

It was time to go home.