The Convoluted Coast of Dalmatia

I reach out the window, handing my passport to the expressionless uniform-clad man in the booth. He critiques my stamps before scanning and stamping my passport. A similar thing happens in another hundred metres, this time at the whims of a different police force. Typical European bureaucracy. Seemingly minutes later the highway rounds a bend marking the transition from valley to hillside. Suddenly the vast Adriatic is stretched out far below, a blanket of consistently dark shades of blue juxtaposed against the aridity of the surrounding landscape. Its one of those things that causes a sudden sensory reaction. I don't think about it when I'm at home but we're so used to seeing the sea. I hadn't seen the sea in six weeks.

Olives and figs dot the hills, growing in whatever purchase they can find in the rocky, barren landscape. Few things grow successfully here. The salt leeches the nutrients from the sparse soil and the heartless wind, whipping at my hair right now, dictates vegetation height. The road begins to follow the sea proper, benched into the yellow hills, sitting at an average of perhaps fifty metres above the water. The landscape is undulating, forcing the meandering road in and out of numerous steep valleys. This means that distances on the map are rarely as short as they seem. Croatia is a relatively small country but traveling the length of it is a time consuming experience. Don't take this with any kind of negative connotation. The landscape draws out the length of your journey, but it's one of those road trips you just don't want to end. This point caused us to spend three days around a small town on the central coast, another three in Split and a couple of stopovers between drives. Bad idea.

* * *

It was getting late. “This place is too exposed! This place is too close to houses!” This kind of exchange went on for at least an hour until we found camping. In one valley we turned off onto an old Roman road, now surfaced in asphalt, etched into a steep hillside. Part way down it was blocked by a boom-gate which we raised. Of course. In the tiny cove at the bottom we discovered an off-shore fish farm and began to drive around, shining our lights in hollows looking for camping. Suddenly a dog came bounding over, barking ferociously. It came at the driver's side window, getting its paws above sill level. We quickly whipped the car around, tearing back up the steep hill. So that's what the boom gate's for!

On our first night in Croatia the local weather gave us its best. I doubt if the temperature dropped below twenty degrees overnight, teaming up with consistently strong winds to make a concentrated effort at impeding sleep. We camped outside a walled cemetery, not the first or the last time I might add, playing around to find the most sheltered spots. I weighed my tent down with blocks of unusually dense local rock, resulting in a cut corner pole housing and a frayed cable in the morning. Still, it was making the best of a difficult situation. After packing up on little sleep we pushed south to Paklenica, a climbing area we had heard rave anecdotes about in Ljubljana.

The park is a major attraction but for some reason finding the road leading into the huge canyon is somewhat challenging. We missed it twice on the first day, both times finding other areas of the park with their own charm to capture our interest. The little frequented northern part consists of numerous steep limestone peaks dropping straight into the ocean. The scrambling was fun and the rock was featured with ridges, pockets and striations like none I had ever seen before. We climbed a peak of respectable height by south west Tasmanian standards, catching the build up to yet another spectacular Croatian sunset. Most nights the sun limits its intensity to a single bright orange orb, slowly sinking into the ocean.

The next day we played on a large freestanding boulder, climbing a stunning arete on pinches. This was quite possibly a first ascent, being in a tucked away area of the park, obsolete to the typical traveler with the readily available mass-production climbing guide book. This area made for great exploration with so many small peaks worthy of ascents and multiple boulders with quality looking lines. It was a pity not to have more time here but three days had already passed and we only had just over a month available to explore the whole Balkans peninsula.

Every day without fail I visited a Pekara, or bakery, for the obligatory Burek. The Balkans probably makes some of the tastiest pastries of anywhere in the world at very tolerable prices. Burek is a sausage shaped pastry baked in a squashed s shape, in Croatia coming in Meso and Sir varieties, meat and cheese. The cheese is very much like ricotta except sharper in flavour and grouped in clumps. A Burek sets you back about two Australian dollars and is plenty for a light meal.

Balkans bakeries to me are like an addiction. If I see one and have not visited one already today then I will definitely go in. Best of all, this is actually the best way to feed yourself on a budget. A local I met in Split told me that Bosnia is next level because they practically invented the Burek, citing the availability of spicy potato, pumpkin and cheese and spinach varieties. This was cause for excitement as this inland nation was our next planned destination.

On our second night we camped by the water. I don't think you're technically supposed to camp outside of designated areas in Croatia but two other groups were camped here with us. It was obviously a well know spot to climbers seeking free camping. We propped the bouldering mats up on trees, forming couches and cooked dinner, the water calm and relaxing. The light faded soon after the water began to boil, a typical occurrence. Our body clocks have definitely adjusted fine to late Mediterranean dinner times.

In the morning we checked out Paklenica gorge before continuing the drive south. The park has an entry fee but no one was on the gate or visible in the information centre, making it de-facto free entry. No raised voices followed us, confirming this conclusion. We parked where the canyon narrowed to a pedestrian only zone, huge limestone walls towering above on either side. The gorge would struggle to be more than 50m wide for the first 200m or so, an impressive spectacle when you notice just how high the walls are. The entrance to the canyon is not far above sea level yet the canyon walls give way to steep, rocky monoliths piercing the 1600m mark.

After checking out the limited bouldering with another round of free guides, photos taken of guidebooks as per usual, we continued down the coast to Zadar. We cooked our evening meal by the ocean, frying seasoned kebabs and following it up with carbonara. It was our best self-cooked meal yet, solely because it was our first time buying not-so-simple food. We cleaned up just as the sun dipped to that point where it illuminates the ocean, playing in the slight depressions between the subtle chop. 

Split, Croatia's second biggest city, has great deep water soloing. For those of you that don't know that means route climbing utilising deep water rather than rope as a safety net. This and the historic centre made it a natural next stop on the coast. We got in mid afternoon and found a free park in a deserted area of the port, watching numerous cruise ships deposit throngs of Americans and Brits on the wharfs. The city's adjusted itself well to pulling in tourist dollars, converting what was once an industrial port into a harbour capable of holding as many luxury liners as possible. 

The historic centre is littered with lines of Corinthian columns, sometimes supporting roofs and reaching up two or three stories, decrepit reminders of the extent of the Roman Empire. We moved with the sea of tourists, in one square coming across a local wedding. We tried to get away from the water as fast as possible but the tourist numbers simply didn't decrease. Split's historic core can only be described as feeling like yet another western European tourist trap.

Then we headed north. Things began to change. We popped down an alley, emerging in a bustling street sporting numerous bakeries, a supermarket and a couple of restaurants. American accents were no existent and Shtokavian, the language formerly know as Serbo- Croatian under former Yugoslavia, became much more prevalent.

That night we camped in Sustipan, within the high walls of another cemetery. Yes. Within this time. Today its merely an enclosed park with a small mausoleum but thousands were supposedly buried here during Roman times. Ignoring the previous, it was idyllic. The walled park sits perched above 10- 20m high see cliffs on a prominent hill overlooking Split harbour. A mere ten minute walk from the city and you rarely meet any non-locals. Bliss. We stayed three days, camping in various places, using one particular local cafe we liked for WiFi and climbing on the cliffs.

It isn't even late summer yet and the water reads in at a pleasant twenty-two degrees. In the heat of the day its easy to spend hours in the water, swimming straight off the rocks in deep water, a better alternative to the often pebbly, uncomfortable sea floor you can find at Croatian beaches. This place was exciting. I had done a bit of deep water soloing at home but never on rock this steeply overhanging and definitely never in a setting with temperatures this comfortable. On two different days we were here when the sun went down. 

On one night we met a local who spoke great English to the point that his expression was extremely animated and included many semi-subtle jokes out of understanding of the nuances of our language. The three of us had a beer together and discussed everything from linguistics to the limited bouldering in the Balkans, our new Croatian friend laughingly saying that the latter is because everyone picked up all the boulders in the whole area and dumped them in Macedonia.

The following night we had beers with Nikola, another friendly and hospitable local I met at the local deep water soloing spot. Getting to know a few locals painted an interesting picture of local life. Everyone is so curious about wages, welfare and the like in Australia and are awed when they hear how damn good it is, stimulating a reaction I can best describe as longing. Things work differently in Croatia. Locals freely describe the culture as lazy, illustrating this description with examples of work hours and the amount of effort required to make money in certain jobs.

On our last day Nikola showed us a bouldering spot friends had told him about which happened to be located in a cemetery! We walked through this elaborate cemetery called Lovrinac with crash pads and climbing gear in hand, barely drawing the attention of mourners. The climbing is pretty well hidden from sight of the graves, rimming a small knoll that has been hollowed out to contain a war memorial. A guard informed us on the way out that climbing has been banned since the cemetery expanded but he showed no desire to do anything about it. This seems so common in Croatia. Rules are subservient to understanding; why disturb people who are doing no harm?

* * *

Eight days after entering Croatia near the coastal city of Rijeka we found ourselves in the southern town of Omiš, spanning both sides of the River Cetina's confluence with the sea. That first day when we popped out on the coast that time period of a bit over a month seemed indefinite. Not so. Now I can look back and see the time we spent not doing too much, content, but again, not doing too much, could have been better spent. There's so much I want to see in this fat, oversized peninsula. But now I know better. I plotted it out the other day. Over two thousand kilometres of road awaits. 

Approaching the next border crossing

I currently have coins in five currencies, all stored under the hand brake

Probing the Roof of Slovenia

“Make sure you put the small bouldering mat underneath the big one so we can see out the back a little better,” Dan suggested as we packed the car. We each have a foot well where we organise our clothes, shoes and various pieces of gear. For me that's a via ferrata kit, a harness, chalk, a day pack and a couple of other things. “Your pack's wider, lets put mine in first so we can get the bulk of the gear into the back and have the food at the front,” I said as we began the jigsaw puzzle like task of packing the boot.

These tribulations are typical. One of us often holds the boot up while the other packs or unpacks as the boot cannot sit open with a kayak strapped to the bare roof. Wind things back a couple of days and I was liberally throwing things in the car, only having to worry about one person's gear and certainly no kayak as Dan was using it to race in his debut world cup. I would organise myself in Mojstrana, a small Slovenian town before my trip into the mountains.

Upon arriving in Ljubljana I stepped off the bus to warm temperatures and headed straight for the historic centre surrounding Ljubljanski Grad, the castle that stands sentinel over the car-free old town radiating from a channel of the river Sava. I headed to Annapurna, an outdoors store, to visit the very hospitable man that owns it whom I had met previously. Two hours later I left with ice axe and crampons in hand, suggested “precautions” against the remaining snow and ice that turned out to be a necessity.

As my pack was full I strapped the ice axe to the outside, quite a spectacle in the crowded historic town centre. The Slovenian police certainly found it interesting because they hailed me down and questioned me for carrying a weapon in a public place. They seemed a little confused about its purpose which I thought was weird for Slovenia but when I mentioned alpinism their interrogative tones became curious ones. I'd even go to say they turned into tones of delight when I mentioned Triglav, a symbol of national pride. 

It was late before I left the following day because I waited until I could meet Mathias, an Italian friend, so I could get my insulated jacket back. I somehow forgot to pack it when I left Merano but he had luckily been able to pick it up. I thought it might come in handy with snow down to 1300m when I planned to get close to 3000m.

Leaving town at about four in the afternoon I drove north in moist, drizzly conditions that developed into full on torrential rain. I found it so hard to see out the front windscreen in the heavy rain that I had to sit in the overtaking lane, sometimes overtaking cars, for the sole purpose of only having to endure rain rather than heavy back spray from cars as well.

It cleared a little as I entered Mojstrana so I drove up Vrata, a valley with supposedly awe-inspiring views of Triglav's north face, a mountain that seems to well pride up inside each Slovenian when its mentioned. It's a national icon, even appearing on the country's flag and was my goal for the weekend. Or what was left of it. It was a Saturday night.

The road soon changed to gravel, the only exception being the steep bits that reached a whopping gradient of 25%. The road was merely one lane wide. I certainly wouldn't want to meet another car on a hairpin with that kind of gradient. Luckily I didn't but unfortunately my efforts offered little reward. I drove 10km up a steep, narrow road for non-existant views of the surrounding mountains, the peaks entirely shrouded by cloud.

However, part way down there is a 50m waterfall that is low enough to be unobscured. It seemed mystical in the moist conditions, tendrils of cloud wisping in the valley and creeping in between the pines. The road cuts through extensive beech forests, the leaves having a surreal colour and brighteness in the unusual mottled light. I descended Vrata, camping just outside the town limits for the night. As per usual I wasn't disturbed. 

In the morning I drove to the head of Krma valley, the start point for Triglav's normal route and began to pack my gear. I packed everything and went to strap my crampons and iceaxe to the outside of my pack. Only to discover my crampons weren't there. And it hit me. The night before last it had poured and to protect my gear from the rain I left it in the Australian team tent at the world cup. The crampons were in an inconspicuous brown paper bag and I had completely forgotten to pick them up as they probably weren't obvious in the fading light. That also meant I had no woolen socks as they were in the same bag.

Fighting off the sinking feeling curbing my high spirits I drove 12km back to Mojstrana, bouncing across the scree field on the road with multiple trenches and scraping on one of the drainage ditches. It's some road, in most places it feels like you're driving in rally style if you're hitting 50km/ hour.

Krma Valley

Putting the ice axe to good use

When I returned to the town it was only 7:15 in the morning. I saw some locals and approached their balcony, thinking they would be having a morning coffee but they had already sunken four odd beers each. Despite this they were very helpful and hospitable, inviting me in for a morning brewskie and to discuss the mountain that looms above their town they love so much. None of them had crampons to lend me unfortunately but they referred me to a family business. This was a dead end, all their gear was already lent out. I had no idea why, the area was deserted. I saw a handful of people in the mountains if that, let alone people that were kitted up to have a stab at Triglav.

Dejected, I drove back up Krma, at least determined to reach Krederica, a hut at over 2500m, for the night. Crampons are only required for climbing above the hut. I set out at close to eleven o'clock after lengthy efforts to acquire a pair. The track was in a much worst state than I expected, covered by what must have been close to fifty fallen trees in the lower section, consuming a lot of time. My spirits instantly picked up when I cleared the tree line, getting a panoramic view over the glacial valley below. After a tiring ascent on loose gravel, probably better described as rock, which surfaces the track I hit a beautiful alpine bowl. I sat down for a rest, watching a pair of deer frolic in the corner and the odd marmot dart in and out of shelter.

Getting Higher

Alpine Bowl

A bit higher I hit a hut at over 1700m, making me feel elated as I already had 700m of elevation gain behind me. The hut was in a beautiful spot and I was tempted to spend the night here as it was free and had interesting features around it. It was early though and I wanted to see the higher reaches of the Julian alps so I pushed on after a half hour break. Instantly after the hut I hit snow that I actually had to walk on, chilling my feet that were “insulated” by two pairs of cotton socks. The route was marked sparsely by painted white circles and after another 300m of climbing it disappeared almost completely. After following footprints through a firm snow bowl I was on my own.

There were few signs of previous passage above this. This worried me a little but I pushed on, setting six o'clock as a turn around time. This would give me 3hrs of day light to return to the hut I had previously visited. I pushed up, constantly slipping over on the steep snow slopes. I ascended perhaps five hundred metres on steep snow that approached 45 degrees in places, using the ice axe for balance and occasionally to halt a slip. After two or three hours of steady but tiring ascent I saw a couple of snow poles on a ridge and aimed for these, crossing the steepest section of snow yet. I had a long rest, taking in the improved panorama of the mountains.

 

After a little work on loose rock and yet more snow I was at the hut, a mere half hour's walk from where I topped out on the ridge. It was deserted. I walked around it, not seeing anyone inside but to my surprise the front door was open. I met two meterologists, the only other people on the mountain. They spoke very little English but one invited me to climb Triglav with him the next morning. Not having any crampons and having no access to spares at the hut it was a no go for me. This is as far as I would get.

The deserted rifugio, or mountain lodge, was an eyrie place to be entirely alone. It simply didn't feel welcoming at all when it would usually be populated by at least twenty people in the peak of summer.

The hut was filled with paintings and topos of the surrounding mountains

I sat my stuff out to dry before climbing a nearby hill, probably reaching around 2600m. I sat cross legged for around an hour in the cold, wearing almost all the layers I brought, taking in the landscape and enjoying the solitude. This was the last thing I expected. I was told how popular it is and how even in harsh conditions like this I should see five or so people at the hut. This simply wasn't the case. I wasn't that disappointed I couldn't reach the top, in that amount of snow reaching the hut solo felt like an achievement.

Morning Weather

In the morning I woke to thick fog but I could remember the ascent route perfectly and had no problems locating the correct gullies. The descent was much faster, taking as little as a fifth of the time it took to ascend. I skiied down the snow on my feet in places, using the handle of the ice axe for stabilisation. I popped out of the cloud around 400m below the hut to be greeted by a sunny day and wandered slowly back down the mountain, enjoying the sun and having gravity on my side for once. I must say though, 1500m of descent in 2hrs certainly kills the knees. As I neared the road the cloud base was just beginning to drop again, testimony to the fickle mountain conditions.

Getting back to the car I drank around a litre of water from the fountain and drove a dirt shortcut to Bled, passing several pictruresque towns. I've learnt well and truly by now that a bridge sign may just as well be a stop sign as the bridges often have one lane, if that. This time I entered Bled through the town itself, not the tourist metropolis. I spent another hour or so by the lake shore, having enjoyed Bled so much the first time, before getting back in the car to return to civilisation proper, only making a brief half hour stop. The air was moist this time, many of the mountains obscured, but the place has charm in any conditions.

 

Leaving the lake shore I got back in the car and drove almost half way around the lake, ascending the steep little road to Bledski Grad,  Bled Castle. I'll have to admit, there was the occasional moment where a tour bus really made me cringe. Meeting coaches on hair pins is not fun. I didn't go inside the castle but found a place high on its walls where I could sit away from the tourists and dangle my bare feet over the lake far below.

The Slower Side of Life

In comparison to my last month plus of traveling I can look back on my five days and say I didn't do much at all. With complete contentment. I probably did an hour total of language learning each day but other than that I simply relaxed with no inclination otherwise or any pressing obligations. Sometimes life just has to slow down a little for you to really appreciate how amazing the life you're leading is.

Pergine

San Cristoforo

A typical day would start with a morning session of language learning over a little fruit, a mug of warm milk and a few biscuits. Then in no particular order I'd usually head down to explore Pergine and at some point in the day the heat would force my migration to the lake side town of San Cristoforo. On my first visit here I sat, taking in the harmony of the place for perhaps twenty minutes, looking out over the water, contemplating just how cold the water might be.

Typical daily temperatures

Walking along the highway in search of San Cristoforo

The answer turned out to be not. The temperature was greater than any tropical water I can remember swimming in and that first time I spent an hour floating, watching the breeze gently caress the willows fringing the bank and looking up at the imposing steep hills surrounding Lago di Caldonazzo. When I got out of the water I dried myself off and began to hurry back as it was getting on to dinner time. I knew I was on the right road but it was heading in the opposite direction to my uncle's town, Masetti, so when I saw some stairs heading up the hill I took them. I thought they were like the pedestrian shortcuts you might find in Australia to avoid lengthy road walks but oh how wrong I was.

Central Pergine

In about 200m I was a considerable way up the hill because the country was so steep. And that's when I began to hit properties. I scaled a benched vegetable garden that was more like a commercial farm, typical of Italy, and slipped past the first house without seeing a sole. Then I hit some jungle; weeds held together by vines, the same kind that had provided so much amusement in my childhood property in Ohio. After the jungle I found yet another house and a mansion with four people working in the vineyard. I was too far up the hill to waste my efforts now so I snuck past the house and sprinted up the far side of the vineyard, finally hitting the road.

Masetti, my home for close to a week

I was parched. My mouth was dry and I was now sporting a stitch. But what do you know? The tiny village I had popped out in had a fountain right by the road, an ubiquitous source of water in Italia. I stopped for five minutes to soak my head and hydrate. Pushing on down the road I found three loaded cherry trees and stopped here for an additional ten minutes. I certaintly felt blessed today. By the time I arrived home I was already soaked in sweat once again, a regular occurrence when day time temperatures sit at thirty or over and humid.

The next day, a Wednesday, Zio Toni came into my room at 7:30 and announced he was going to Arco, asking if I wanted to join him. I felt a little reluctant, not knowing where it was or what I might do there but when he told me it was near Lago di Garda I could not refuse. I pulled out my Via Ferrata research and found a short route I could climb and not disrupt his day too much. A couple of hours later we were approaching the Castello it leads to and I saw throngs of people wearing helmets, harnesses and Via Ferrata gear. I had come to the right place but certainly hadn't expected this, being mid week.

Castello di Dreno

Toni dropped me off and I promised to meet him on the hilltop, at Castello di Dreno, in an hour. As I started this began to look like a challenging prospect. As much as I like to see everyone out having a go at more adventures outdoor sports it certainly gets tiresome to be stuck behind people that are painfully slow when you're tied in and can't overtake easily.

Via Ferrata is a form of assisted climbing first created to aid the passage of the Italian military through the alps during the first world war. You wear a harness and two shock absorbing cables with a caribiner on each so you can be clipped in at all times. This route follows a canyon, an old escape passage from the castle on the hill above. It was my first Via Ferrata but largely very easy. There were several overhangs but nothing very strenuous or overly exposed feeling, so much so that I would have been comfortable doing it without protection.

After exploring the castle we headed down to Riva della Garda for pizza in the park and I had an afternoon swim. Unfortunately it wasn't as warm as Lago di Caldonazzo and the surface was whipped by wind, supposedly a constant attribute of afternoons here. The lake is frequented by wind surfers and yacht enthusiasts.

The view towards Lago di Garda

Riva della Garda

Lago di Garda

The next day was my final day in Pergine. I used the free community WiFi for the last time and had one last swim at San Cristoforo before purchasing some food for the journey and some new headphones. It was 8pm as I walked home and the rumble of thunder threatened to deliver torrents of rain. The weather made the landscape seem much more atmospheric, making the walk take far longer than the usual ten minutes as I stopped to take lots of photos.

 

The following morning I woke at 4:30 to catch my 5:40 train. I'm writing this right now from a cafe in Mestre, the modern city of Venice, feeling a little worse for wear. By the time I got off at Verona and transferred onto the train for Venezia I had already been up 3hrs which can be extrapolated as being 11 o'clock on my regular body clock. So with this in mind I pulled out the 750ml bottle of malt beer I got in Pergine, opened its elaborate clasp system and popped the cork. 

Half the train turned in exclamation at the loud sound in the high pitched cabin. I simply raised my beer, taking a sip. It certainly didn't feel like 7:30 in the morning but it definitely was from some of the concerned gazes that were directed my way. I was simply adjusting to the Slovenian lifestyle, a country plagued by seemingly chronic alcoholism. A beer often replaces the traditional morning coffee in this small former Yugoslav nation.

In half an hour I leave for Ljubljana by bus and I'm certainly set thanks to Zio Toni. I certainly won't be going hungry.