Unfinished Hike
Back in 2009, three other guys and I got into the car and drove to Romania for a bit of hiking in the Fagaras Mountains. A manly trip that ended differently than planned.
We left Warsaw a little late, so after driving for half a day and half a night, we reached the Hungarian-Romanian border couple of hours before dawn. We slept there, on the Romanian side, in a car — all four of us.
The second day of our journey was less strenuous, and we arrived in Sibiu in the early afternoon. Found ourselves a place to sleep in a local hostel — first and the last time on this trip when we slept in own beds — and went out to the city. Although Sibiu Old Town is the main tourist attraction of the city, it still bears traces of communism, and years of insufficient caretaking. However, it still has the charm of an authentic medieval town. Colorful houses with windows that look like narrowed eyes surround the main squares of the city. Two years prior, Sibiu was a European Capital of Culture, and it still resonates within the city in the form of street festivities, for example. So, no wonder that we stumbled upon a medieval festival on the Piata Mare (Large Square), and later in the evening a shadow theatre on the Piata Mica (Small Square) performing to the sounds of Alan Silvestri’s Journey to Transylvania. A beautiful welcome to the land of Count Dracula indeed.
The next day we headed towards the town of Avrig and beyond to the mountains. We left our car at a parking spot at the Poiana Neamtului chalet, pulled out backpacks from the trunk, tied our shoes, and headed upward. The first night we spent in the mountain chalet Cabana Barcaciu, some of us sleeping in a tent, some inside on a pallet. The hut was in no way impressive. On the contrary, it was quite a shabby construction, with a small intake of icy water at the back. It looked precisely the way we expected it to look — a large shed in a mountain clearing. Let’s add some lazy dogs that either slept or barked, chickens of all sorts, as well as donkeys, and we have a full picture of that idyllic spot. Precisely what we envisioned it to be.
The next day was September 1st. When a host of children and youngsters in Poland marched with their heads bowed to schools, we headed to the mountains. The morning was sunny, warm, and encouraging to hiking. After some time, we reached the ridge and the main West-East trail of the Fagaras Mountains. On the ridge, we came across two old ladies walking from the west. Poles, because who else could you meet in the Romanian mountains. Clouds came in as well. After a short conversation, the ladies turned in the direction from which we came, and we headed east. For the remainder of the day, we met no one else but herding dogs on the summit of Varful Scara. They barked at us, then moved on.
On the Scarii Pass, we reached a terribly looking shelter — rather a last resort sleeping spot. We stayed there for dinner and to replenish our water supplies (five minutes downward on the south slope, as the markings on the shelter said). Then we moved on.
We pitched our tent above the Serbotei pass, first shoving away sheep droppings. The evening was pretty cold, so we were in a tent before night fell. It was hard to fall asleep when it was still bright outside, and the four of us cramming in a three-person tent. We had to turn from side to side synchronously.
On the next morning, we caught up with the dogs we met the previous day on Varful Scara, and with them, two shepherds and a big flock of sheep, easily over a hundred animals. A short exchange with the shepherds — “Good morning. We don’t have cigarettes. Goodbye” — and we went our own way.
Soon after, we arrived at Varful Serbota, where a genuinely high-mountain trek begins, as I read somewhere. First east to the Saua Cleaopatrei (Cleopatra’s Pass), then to mount Negoiu, from where Strunga Dracului (Dracula’s Chimney) lead down and towards our destination of that day, Lake Caltun. Here, on Varful Serbota, we split up, two of us hurried forward in the hope of some climbing on the Negoiu, carrying away our tent. Two of us kept going at our own pace. I stayed in the second group.
Less than halfway between Serbota and Cleopatra’s Pass, I’ve finally decided to move my camera from the side pocket of my trousers — where I kept hitting it against the rock now and then — to my backpack, where it should be safe, right? Well, no. As soon as I let go of it, the backpack leaned over and flew from the ridge, nearly 100 meters down. It ripped, and its frame broke, and I lost a couple of smaller things, like underwear or stove.
We climbed down, to pick up the backpack and what we could find of my belongings, and not wanting to climb up, we continued going down, half walking half sliding down the scree. According to the map, we were to reach the blue-marked trail eventually, and later with it, the Negoiu chalet. I must admit that at this stage, I was quite stressed out already. The hour was late, and getting back to the ridge could have ended in the night march. Even today, I remember how happy I was when I finally noticed the blue triangle mark painted on the stone — the trail.
The next day we met up with our two friends and concluded to take the path beneath the mountains and get back to the car. With my backpack no longer in a usable state, and quite a lot of my personals missing the hike through the Fagaras Mountains ended.
We used the remaining time for sightseeing, somehow never sleeping in a regular bed. Instead, we slept in a car, a park, or on the beach listening to the sound of waves, never actually cleaning ourselves up properly. We’ve been to the Black Sea, sleeping on a beach with a lovely view of the lights of Constanta to the right, and an oil refinery to the left. We visited Brasov and nearby Castle Bran (dubbed Dracula’s Castle), and Sighisoara, where Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler, the prototype of the Count Dracula’s character, was born. But for these, I have no photographs, as my point-and-shoot camera died that day on the ridge. Though I guess, my interest in photography began right on this trip.
All photos, unless otherwise indicated, by Cezary Morga.
