We crawled into our tents the night before as clouds slowly started to drape the sky. Despite hoping for a sunny morning, the clouds brought rain all night long and we woke up to a drizzly campground with the stunning mountain views now blanketed by foggy skies.
Despite the cool drizzle, we were still keen to get into the mountains. We inspected a trail map I had picked up first thing that morning and set a general direction toward the town of Gorje and the Pokljuka mountain range which sits just inside the Triglav National Park boundary within the Julian Alps (named after Julius Caesar). We passed through a handful of small villages- including a stop for coffee. As I stood waiting for the coffee, three old men with wrinkly skin sat at the bar next to me- one holding a shot of vodka. It was 11:30am. Ally walked in to help me carry the coffees out and is given a warm welcome,
"Wooo weeeee," said the man standing at the end of the bar as he lifted his truckers cap and wiped his forehead.
"Grand," says Ally sarcastically, laughing as she turns her back in their general direction.
We continue on the road, passing the entry sign to Triglav National Park. We keep our eyes peeled for trailhead markers and a parking area. We stop just past what appear to be military barracks and sort our rucksacks for the day before setting off, map in hand. The trail started from a dirt road, leading into the base of a small downhill ski area. We were looking for a marked trail that would cutoff this dirt road but saw nothing that was clearly marked. We eventually just cut off on a trail-ish route and started up the mountain. The ascent was foggy, with steps under tree branches leaving you with a fresh splash of water from the leaves. Decisions about whether we'd go left or right were mostly by instinct and which looked more trodden. As we ascended, the trails became narrower and narrower- many confined by low hanging brush.
I had been telling Ally about my short hiking adventure earlier this summer in the Lake District, where despite starting on a designated footpath, I soon realiseed I had strayed. When I began encountering goats here and there, munching away in the mountain meadows, it occurred to me that I was likely following meandering goat paths.
As we reached a rocky valley and looked ahead, Ally looks to me and says,
"Bonita, are you taking us on goat paths?"
"I'm thinking that might be the case..." I say, laughing. Goat poo along the way confirmed the suspicion.
Despite the haphazard trails, we worked our way upward relying on a general sense of where we wanted to go. As the treeline started to clear and a horizon line became faintly visible through the fog, we came across a marked trail and followed it up for the final 100m. We approached a small valley within the ridge and with one big step the skyline opened up in front of us- stretching for miles. We were well into the alpine air and well above the first cloudline. Adjacent peaks stood towering in the fog, and in the far distance we could see the highest peak in the park.
"WOW!"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Incredible!!"
We sat taking in the view, snapping photos of the spectacular panorama. The sun was coming out just as we arrived, and the skies opened up long enough for us to sense the scale of the mountains. The wind had picked up along the ridge so we layered back up and settled down for some lunch of Hungarian paprika sausage, cheese, and wheat rolls. With haribo and chocolate for dessert, of course. By the end of lunch the clouds and fog were moving in quickly. It was half past two and we needed to figure out where exactly we were and sort out the best route down.
With five of us hovered over our map that was flapping in the chilly wind, a mountain hut in the distance on a neighbouring peak was used as a reference point to set our route down.
After a speedy trip heading 'down' quite generally, we stumbled upon a camp of sorts. We crowded around a map posted on one of the cabins and compared it with out map.
"Oh boy," says Paul, "That mountain hut we used as a reference point is THIS building!" We were also able to figure out which mountain we had actually climbed- as it was not the one we were aiming for. Either way, Lipanski Ridge sits at 1965m and offered some lovely views, making for a great trek.
A signpost with several directional arrows had the name of our parking lot on one of the arrows.
"Rudno Polje!" I say excitedly! "Except the arrow for it is pointing in the direction we just came from..."
"We have to go back up that same way?" asks Ally.
"So it would seem," I reply.
It was now 4pm and our time to make it back to the lot in daylight was diminishing. We kept a solid clip, but had to be careful we didn't make anymore wrong turns...or else!
With a clearly marked trail to follow, we safely made it back to the parking lot. In our eagerness to get hiking, we hadn't taken great notice of the area surrounding the parking lot- where there was an elaborate offseason decathalon training track with athletes whizzing by on roller-skis. Neato! We were beginning to realise that Bled was not only a beautiful Lake side town, but it doubled as a significant athetic training area- road racing, world championships for rowing, downhill skiing, cross country skiing, triathlons and decathalons.
We returned to camp having snapped some lovely photos of the dusk sunlight in the villages and over the lake. Our 5hour hike was topped off with an incredibly refreshing swim in Lake Bled as the sunset. The water was pleasantly warm as we swam with a view of the island in the centre and the mountains as a backdrop.
Breathtaking.
We had a warming dinner of leftover spatzle and chili and decided on the 3km walk into town to check out some of the small town's nightlife. We found ourselves at the creatively named "Bled Pub." We enjoyed a round of cocktails on the deck in the warm night air and with yet another great view of the lake. There were a few other groups passing through, including one of two Austrians and a Canadian- a french Canadian who was shocked to hear that I knew of Concordia University and Mcgill University. Despite my speaking french to him, this man was in utter disbelief that I knew much more about French Canada than the name of his province, Quebec. Geesh- with him as an expat living abroad, it's no wonder foreigners are often quick to ask about the french province that wants to split from Canada.
The night picked up and we certainly let ourselves loose- trying a whole range of creative shots and drinks- thanks to phenomenal bar staff happy to entertain us all night long. We flung coasters at a wall of liquor to come up with drink mixes, we tried "banana boomers," "funky monkey," "flaming lamourgini," topped of with the entire bar top being lit on fire for an impressive round of B52s.
For those who know me well I'm always keen on hiding in bushes to jump out at friends walking by. The walk home from Pub Bled was no exception as we strolled along the path that hugged the lake. Costas and I were well ahead of the others and schemed to hid and give Paul, Ally and Mike a laugh. I passed a small home on the right, aiming to tuck behind a column at the end of the wall as my hiding spot. It was pitch black, and yes, I had had a drink or two.
I looked back to make sure I was out of sight of the others while Costas had shot off to the left to hide elsewhere. I stepped over a small garden railing no more than 30cm tall next to the home... and WOOOOOOSH.
SPLAAAAAAASH!
I had stepped right into the Lake- a whole eight feet down. To describe it as shocking doesn't do it justice. It's not too often a person ends up in a lake without having even known the water was there. To the group's dismay, no one witnessed the tumble. I was treading water, utterly shocked at what had just happened. I was just looking to duck down and hide!
My sandals floated up beside me and I could feel my jeans sticking heavy to my legs. I'm sad to say that my camera was with me at the time of the tumble- the verdict on its future life is still unknown... luckily I did react quickly once I was in the water and lifted it above my head almost immediately.
I passed off the camera to Ally and Paul, who had come to the water's edge when they heard the human sized spalsh. I was laughing hysterically at this point. Mike and Costas were reaching down to help me out- but I could barely maintain my composure to get myself up the nearly vertical bank. It took three tries- which is when I realised how far of a drop it actually was. I was pulled out using help from the boys and pushing off nearby tree branches.
I stood under the lamplight, sopping wet in the cool night air, sandals in hand with my wool socks muddy and wet sloshing on the pavement. Paul snapped a photo of my muddy foot tracks- the only evidence of my late night swim.
We returned to a warm campfire, reminiscing on the evening's events before crawling into our tents just before the sun came up. Certainly a day and night to remember.
A photo of Lake Bled from google...fingers crossed that mine turn out!
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