Cloud Walking In Romania

"I'm quite sure while alone up here, with the epic memorial cross and soul searching scene, I could have talked to anyone I wanted to under God's eternal care. Instead, my mom yelled at me. The same rant she would go on after learning of any of my past adventures and dismissive approach to personal safety."

Click here for photos, video1, video2, video3

Underestimating anything is generally the final ingredient for failure. I've underestimated how much past loves cared for me. That never ended well. I've underestimated how long car repairs would take and nearly missed all of Easter dinner one time. I ended up awfully hungry, then. Underestimating a trek up the second tallest mountain in Romania, was certainly not going to end well, but maybe there would be food.

Part of what brought on a cocky attitude towards the Bucegi massif and Mt. Omu, is that two days prior I climbed Mt. Moldoveanu, and even higher and longer trek than it would be to the top of Mt. Omu, the second tallest mountain in Romania. The Bucegi massif is filled with trails and 8000ft valleys that largely are accessible by cable car and offer the home of weekend-trekking pensioners the world over. Footing it up to Mt. Omu, was supposed to be a breeze.

My shoulders were worn raw and my entire head was going through a snake-shedding second peal from earlier that week. With every move my legs were once again reminding me I have far more muscles than weight lifting and hockey ever intended me to use. On the way back to Bucharest after my last trek, I had the fortune of meeting up with some young trekkers on the train who just completed the Omu climb. Along with my stack of Google Earth prints, pirated terrain maps and notes they gave me about what to do and not to do, the slow train from Bucharest to Busteni, gave me ample time to plan the trek. Very ample. This train labeled “P” for “personal,” certainly gave me some personal time, in a penalty box kind of way. In fact, I'm pretty sure we stopped at every station between Bucharest and Busteni and went back just to make sure we didn't leave anyone.

From Sinaia to Busteni, one can't help but gaze westward at the Bucegi massif. It is said the cliff faces towering over the Prahova valley, are the tallest in Europe. By any measure, to include where Europe ends and starts, that's intimidating. Near the top of Mt. Caraiman, and right on the cliff face overlooking Busteni, is a large cross paying homage to the Romanians who lost their life in battle during WWI. It is said the 100ft tall cross at 7,700ft, when lit at night can be seen by passing astronauts. With a telescope, perhaps, but indeed the cross is mighty and few in the Prahova valley and beyond can go a day without taking some pause to this majestic marker of remembrance and freedom.

I arrived in Busteni only an hour latter than planned at 600pm, giving me a solid four hours of daylight. Make that three hours of solar vision as the sun would set on the other side of the mountains bringing darkness to my side much earlier. The small Busteni train station was nearly ghost like at this hour but a wealth of information greeted me just outside. On a covered billboard were several maps and information notices, many with the internationally recognized warning triangle and pictures of cuddly bears next to them.

The maps were tacked up in plastic sheets like you would use to place loose leaf papers in a spiral. Not having a proper map, I was tempted to just take one but that would surely lead to bad karma someday. I avoided the five finger discount urge and instead respected the candidness of which they were placed. Bears in Bucegi and the valley are a problem. Romania is home to the largest black bear population in Europe (so it is said) and these particular bears are most dangerous in that they aren't afraid of humans. With countless years of hand feeding and careless trash disposal, the bears act as toll agents for the mountains, collecting your food instead of cash. There are numerous reports of Yogi getting upset over lack of payment and taking a tourist's head off.

Having figured out the estimated time to Caraiman cabana, I could've used some motivation from an angry bear to get me there before sundown. My underestimated stroll was now going to be a race to manage an estimated four hour climb down to three. Fail, and I'll be stuck on a cliff side with strong storms expected during the night hours. And bears.

Busteni is a quiet alpine village shunning the popularity of Sinaia for the rugged trail head the city serves to less populated trails during the summer and black diamond slopes during the winter. The cable car leaving from the Silva Hotel serves two drop-off points on top of the Bucegi massif but the last car left at 400pm and besides, I don't take cable cars. I was fortunate to find an open souvenir shop at my trail head and purchased a rather decent trail map. Unfortunately I found out I would be trekking up nearly 4000ft in a distance as long as half my index finger when placed on the map. The bears were waiting.

As I mentioned, underestimating anything leads to an unattractive end. Worse, your motivation weans and your adrenalin subsides making unforeseen challenges more difficult than not. Thus, I was scaling the side of a rock by hanging on preset cable and fasteners rusted with time, while gazing across the ravine through an endless forest. It was at this moment I realized my estimating skills needed a quick rework or I'll be bear meat tonight.

Rather like the motivation one feels when an opposing team scores the first goal on the first play, the adrenalin kicks in and the forces of competition rise to hopefully meet the occasion. The path I chose to the Bucegi massif was not my grandmother's weekend trail and with that, I got serious. Bucegi got serious too.

Making good time and working the “assisted” cliff sides well, I was more than happy to clear the deep alpine forest area for more light and less bugs. Stopping for a breath or photo turned me into a human cow for flies to leach on and eat whatever they could of my body. All they got was a mouth full of DEET, so take that buggy things! With the melting snow, racing mountain creek, seasonal avalanches and eroding mountain, the trail was difficult, steep and the markers were becoming rare, mindlessly criss crossing the creek at improbable and impassable areas. What probably is normally a shallow crossing, was now a swift current undermining any step in the crystal clear water.

Bucegi nearly did me in when the trail marker pointed straight into a snow bank some ten feet high and spreading the width of the ravine. I could scale up but I have no idea what's on the other side. I could cut across the lower part of the snow, knowing good and well the creek runs swift below the snow bank, eroding the density. At nearly 200 pounds with my pack, it wouldn't take much to crash through a trap door of a snow bank, fall quite a bit to the rocky creek and be smothered by the snow and debris caving behind me. So you can guess which way I went, straight across the snow bank. I held my breath, took quiet steps as I do walking through the business class cabin of an all-nighter so as not to wake anyone and hoped, at least this once, I didn't underestimate my situation.

With that final step on solid land, I looked back to find the path over the snow bank led to a cliff face making my final choice still unsafe, but not impassable. If you follow the “better safe than sorry,” mantra when trekking, you might as well stay home as that's where you'll end up. There are numerous crosses scattered about mountains proving my theory wrong, but also showing that we must still determine daily the difference between “living” and “existing.”

Now back in the lead in the game against Bucegi, she rose to the occasion and provided near vertical trails at side stepping angles and mud to boot, or rather, to make your boots slip. With time not on my side, I took breaks infrequently and chose to give it my all as I knew the next day wouldn't offer such climbing challenges according to the terrain maps. The top of the mountain was in view and the valley hidden below by clouds. The sun was setting at just so of an angle that some of the rays were escaping the higher mountains and illuminating the crags on the south part of the ravine. The contrast was spectacular and I took refuge under a natural protruding cliff to escape a passing rain shower and admire my Bucegi competition at nearly 6000ft.

Rounding the last trail marker before a hands and feet accent to the now visible cabana, the air filled with mist and noise of crashing water from a ferocious waterfall pounding the earth below it some 500ft. I read earlier about the, “Screaming Falls,” and now I understand. Instead of a constant flow of water flirting with the sunlight and finishing with an Olympic “10” at the pool below, this flow of water seemed to be pushed, even powered, off the cliff face, determined to destroy anything below. And it was. The scale of rock debris under the falls was violent in retrospect and one could only gaze with respect and absolute avoidance.

The Caraiman Cabana rests rather uneasily on a cliff edge looking straight down to Busteni some 6000ft. The other side of the Cabana leads to the welcome massif of Bucegi with flowing hills and valleys bordered by some of Romania's highest peaks. The cabana was quiet and for a moment I was concerned it was closed. As I expected, the cabana was log cabin construction with a peaked roof so the snow could melt off and a desperate outhouse rested a bit in the distance. Telling of the continuing bear saga, the porch area was caged in on the scale and construction of what you would see with a shark cage.

Three large breed dogs announced my arrival and after coming to terms with these bear-guard dogs, they allowed me entry to the cabana. Rather like knocking on the door of a lone house in the middle of nowhere after your car has broken down (and remember this is Dracula country), I entered after no answer and followed the sound of a television game show in Romanian. Happily, I was greeted by a very charming couple with their teenage son. I've apparently interrupted Romania's version of, “The Weakest Link,” and with one eye on the show, the father shook my hand, took my $10 worth of Lei's and showed me to my room during the advert break.

This cabana is three stories with many rooms, all appearing to have five to six beds in each one. I, awkwardly enough, was the only guest this weekday evening. I changed out of my sweaty shirt into my cabana evening wear of fleece and headed to the cliff to watch the last of the sunset. Joining me was the cabana indoor dog, a small girl that grew smart not to the small bottle of wine I had, but my protein bars. She sat patiently with me between two iron crosses marking the cliff edge and the end of two journeys from years past that were perhaps, not so lucky with their underestimation of Bucegi.

The steep crags to the south were still illuminated with stolen rays of sunlight and passing clouds, upset by higher mountains, glowed orange with deep purple bottoms. The little girl wasn't amused with the sunset and, clearly well trained by cabana guests, reared up on her hind legs and used her front paws to motion me to give her a taste of my nasty protein bar. I suppose if I told her, “No beg,” that would mean little to her and besides, how could anyone refuse such a display of begging craft?

I bid goodnight to the cabana family, and went to my bed. The scratchy wool blanket wouldn't do so I rolled out my sleeping bag for a more comfortable night. This cabana, unlike the one I stayed at in the Fagarus mountains, had heat and electricity. Still, I lit a tea light on the bed post in order to read my book but succumbed to modern electricity so I could charge the camera batteries and iPhone. Much later with the tea light burnt out and book on my chest, I woke to a mean spirited thunderstorm that shook the cabana and rattled the windows. The lighting on top of the cliff was stunning but I fell right back to sleep thanking every muscle in my body for getting me up to the cabana for safe shelter that evening.

With the glow of dawn at 430am, I woke and readied my pack for the long day. Theoretically, I could make it the Caraiman cross, then to Omu and down to the train station by 600pm. I tiptoed out of the cabana so as not to wake the dogs and family and exited to a chilly but clear morning. The valley was still on the dark side but the sun was rising quickly at such altitude, displaying forceful rays through broken clouds.

The trail to the Caraiman cross was simplistic compared to the day before and I even caught a glimpse of a mother and baby Chamoix goat, looking at me in as much detail as I was looking at them. Rounding the south side of Mt. Caraiman, the early morning was well worth any extra sleep. The sun was at the perfect angle to shine right through the 100ft steel cross. The cliff edge and cross cast an artistic shadow across the Caraiman crest behind the cross while ghostly clouds drifted along the contours of the mountain. The valley was covered in broken fog and the sun worked hard at shoring it all up, while the rays of light danced from one departing night cloud to the next. Allow me to say it, the moment was heavenly. With the WWI memorial cross, the rising sun, the theatrical clouds and the casting shadow, there is no other description. Yes there is, biblically heavenly.

I'm quite sure while alone up here, with the epic memorial cross and soul searching scene, I could have talked to anyone I wanted to under God's eternal care. Instead, my mom yelled at me. The same rant she would go on after learning of any of my past adventures and dismissive approach to personal safety. Still, at this moment, it was a welcome motherly brief and reminder that my continued underestimation of the Bucegi massif could lead to trouble. Mother knew best in this case.

The trail led up the rest of the Caraiman mountain and straight into cloud approaching quite quickly. I know from years of flying clouds are no friends of anyone unless you are trying to hide in an aerial dog fight or your scalp is so fried from a day at the beach (or on the mountain) a passing cloud is a comfort enhancer. However, on a mountain you can expect wind, penetrating mist and zero visibility. Mom was trying to tell me something back at the cross!

Relying on the still well marked and worn trail, my limitless view turned to twenty and then ten feet. The temperature dropped nearly equally in degrees and the wind was no help. Occasionally, the cloud would either lift or blow by just enough that I could see the Costila weather station, at 8,195ft. This Apollo rocket ship of a station serves an important roll in eastern European weather forecasting and provided me an important land mark in order to keep my barrings while transversing the switchback mountain ridges. When I could see it.

Despite the visibility, I was making good time and was sure to cut at least 30min off the estimated three hour hike from the cross to Mt. Omu, Romania's second tallest mountain. Just past the weather station, the ridge line turned sharply west and the trail led right to the cliff edge. Following along for a bit at a precarious height, the clouds lifted to show a gaping mountain bowl leading to a ravine and then on to Busteni. Only, I didn't know that at the time, and thought I was one mountain valley away from where I needed to be.

The Chamoix goats are a protected breed at Bucegi and I ran into a herd of them at the Babele rocks. These two limestone rocks jump out of the ground with nothing else around them. Weathered by time, their unique formations are said (and here we go with Romanian sayings again) to depict an old lady (Dochia) being transformed into rock with her sheep in the same location. If the twenty odd Chamoix goats surrounding the two rock forms are any indication, then perhaps these Romanian sayings have some credibility. Nonetheless, being upwind from the goats, they picked up on my scent right away and took off covering so much ground so quickly I was immediately jealous I didn't have four legs and hooves.

I was feeling quite confident and enjoyed the partly cloudy view from above the clouds of the Bucegi massif. I think I was even whistling while I hiked at a good speed to Omu. The day was going well and then Mother Nature decided to have some fun at my expense and Bucegi's help. Apparently the game from the day before was back on.

The clouds moved in and I was back to ten feet visibility. The trail became a washout of snow and wondering creeks, making a free for all of possible trails. I became concerned when I saw two trial markers smashed against a large boulder. I wasn't so concerned at the moment of where the trail was going, but I was worried about what I couldn't see above me that would have caused two steel trail markers to be removed and sacrificed. Keep moving please.

The trail I was currently on wound down and right, yet my brain and map said to go left. Indeed, something that looked like a trail did the same. Markers were gone but random, half sheared off poles could be seen at various moments within the blowing cloud. I went left but that didn't seem right and went back to where I started. I took some rocks and made a marker and jotted down in my sketchbook what I did at said marker. I went right and that ended up crossing another snow flow but with a possible trail marker faintly visible on the other side. I couldn't tell where the snow flow ended in the cloud so I chose my steps carefully or risk sliding into the abyss of Bucegi. The marker ended up being a pole with no marker but good enough for me. The trail became narrow and then the goat poop showed up which meant I wasn't on the people trail. I also wasn't hunting goats so I've gone wrong again.

However, my terrain maps showed the ridge line would follow around to the ridge leading up to Omu. Well, it did, only I was on the wrong ridge. I got fancy at this point and pulled out the iPhone, fired up the GPS compass application I downloaded and in less than a minute, I had the exact coordinates on earth of where I was loss. Only, none of my maps had longitude and latitude coordinates so this helped me in no way. Still, I made more boyscout markers with rocks and made note of the coordinates in my sketchbook. I figured, given enough time, I'd make my own map by winter.

I scaled the side of some mountain and took a rest just in time for the evil cloud to lift enough for me to see some real trail markers deep in a valley. But that shouldn't have been. There shouldn't have been a trail at all in the direction I thought I was looking. Then I wondered if Omu was directly above me and with the near zero visibility, it might as well have. I should have just took a picture of the cloud and me, called it Omu and gone back the way I came. But I had an hour to kill before I actually had to do that.

I used that hour. The mind plays tricks on you when cloud walking. I even came across markers I thought I made, only to confirm with the iPhone GPS, I didn't. I found more of the trail markers I was looking for but clearly I had traced my steps way back to an earlier part of the trail. Sadly, I had no cell signal in this area or I would have downloaded a Google Earth location map faster than you can say $10 dollars for a data download. I was, in no uncertain terms, lost. I was so lost that I'm not sure I could have retraced my steps back to square one and my self-made map in my sketchbook looked something like a drunk, American football commentator's squiggly play lines.

I'm often astounded by the willingness of expedition leaders to put their entire operation at risk (meaning the lives of the entire group) in the name of completing the goal. I've led my cabin crews for years and learned quite a bit about leadership but I've never been put into a recreational situation (because that's what any mountain climbing expedition is) requiring me to instruct the group to move on despite the danger. But being completely lost, in a cloud, on a strange mountain and without any sort of panic button or way out, made me wonder what I would have done with a group following me.

Going back to the “living” and “existing” debate, there is no turning back. Retracing steps back to the cabana was doable but I'd have rather encountered a hungry bear in the cloud. Yes, I'd gone crazy at that point and now I understand the shear madness it takes to be an expedition leader.

Before I went totally mad, set camp and created my own little cloud world, I crouched down and using proper trail etiquette, took a bio-break. Read into that all you want, but it is what it is. I took a final GPS reading from the iPhone, not that I needed to mark my bio-deposit or anything and in that moment of calm clarity, the clouds lifted. Exposed, but happily alone, I saw it all with glorious sun. I'd done so many circles I created my own trails and ended up maybe 500 ft above where I got lost in the first place. I could see the markers I created. I could see the Apollo rocket weather station. I could see Omu. I could see the trail leading to the cryptic mountain top and most importantly, I could see the cloud dampened my toilet paper into a mulch.

Properly finishing up my business, I took some quick photos (of the view. Please) before it all went white again with another cloud. Second guessing the mountain less, I made haste down the correct trail and caught up with the proper markers. Spirits high, the steep mountain had met it's match with me and Bucegi no longer had the lead.

Mt. Omu is 8,218ft high, putting it about 200ft lower than the previously conquered Moldoveanu. Interestingly enough, Omu has a weather station and a cabana built right up next to a bizarre boulder at the top of the mountain. I nearly ran into the boulder as the stone was similar color to the cloud and at this point, I might as well have been in a sealed steam room. With a few minuets pause a rush of wind blew by and there she was, cabana Omu. The sense of accomplishment took a third seat to a very adolescent, “Take that Bucegi,” followed by a vindictive, “Nice try, cloud master.”

The cabana was small but tightly build, more than likely owning up to having to survive some serious weather conditions. There was no electricity or heat, but a grandmother, her daughter and her daughter's daughter seemed not to care. They had an entire menu planned for the evening and were preparing what looked to be a roast and vegetables in the multiple lantern lit kitchen. The floor of the eating area was solid rock with a few visible hand scrapings to level the floor out. Photos spanning since the 1920's provided wall decoration and solid wood tables provided seating. All I wanted was a celebratory coffee and by God, that grandmother made one hell of a cup of Romanian black coffee.

I reckon by the looks of the grandmother, I just accomplished her daily commute. That, or these ladies have no idea the revolution took place nearly twenty years ago because I left that cabana after having two coffees and two bags of pretzels (because I just couldn't stomach another protein bar) for $2US. I was still in the thickening cloud upon leaving the cabana but there was a trail marker and I guess a turn right after that minus the marker, but I didn't see it. My mocking of the forces to be after my arrival to Omu struck back. Happily heading down hill, my yellow markers turned to blue, which meant I was on the other side of the mountain. How I did that I have no idea but it happened.

I'd say I was blind as a bat but in a cloud, even a bat would have difficulty using sonar. I reversed course and headed up to the cabana to, oh this hurts even now, ask for directions. Before swallowing my pride, Mother Nature, done laughing at me, lifted the clouds and in great joy, I saw the yellow marked road. This time, I made like a goat and trekked straight down the mountain side, slipping here and there, but keeping my balance and speed up. I knew I had only a few minutes before vision would disappear again. It didn't.

The beautiful visibility of the morning came back. I was now in the bowl of the mountain valley leading to Busteni. All land marks were visible and I sat down on a rock and took it all in. I was so close and yet so far off track. I could see where I took my last, er, marker and couldn't believe I'd gone so wrong. Now though, I was surrounded by a mountain bowl outlined with snow, small waterfalls, impossibly free standing crags and a view of the valley covered in cotton soft clouds. My demeanor changed considerably and I contribute it to Grandma's coffee.

The final trek down was beautiful. I was ahead of schedule now and taking my time to enjoy the mountain. Much of the trail was washed out by winter turning to spring and then to summer, but obstacles were easily matched and as long as I was going downhill, I was going the right way. I went off trail to take photos of lower crags and caves and then the heather started to take over the rocks and alpine grass to soften my steps and bring some color to the scene. The euphoria every trekker looks for when a mountain is conquered provided an extra step in my stride. No longer underestimating Bucegi, my respect for her must have shown as she loved me back with brilliant views, clear skies and warming air.

Before the thick alpine forest began, I took a breather by a staircase of a falling creek. With the cold, fresh water, I cleaned up a bit and washed off two days worth of trekking. The cold water over my head left me breathless but it was immediately cleansing in so many ways. I filled up one last bottle of sediment free water, popped in an energy tablet, ate a disgusting protein bar and hummed my way into the alpine forest leading to the valley floor.

I passed through a number of sheep fields and shepherd shelters while negotiating a relaxing trail through the deep forest. Mindful I was still on the trail, I kept a lookout for Yogi the bear but truthfully, I was paying more attention to a darkening sky and thunderously loud shaking of the trees. This all seemed to blow by quickly and upon reaching Busteni, the sun shown brightly.

I reached the train station at 300pm, three hours ahead of schedule. Due to track construction, an earlier train sat stationary at the station. I ran to the ticket counter, pointed to the train and quickly received a ticket for a classy InterCity train (meaning air conditioned and comfortable) to Bucharest. To the probable dismay of the few surrounding passengers, I shucked my pack and boots off and immediately fell asleep to the rhythm of the train while basking in the self-glow of my accomplishment.

A day later back home in NYC, I used the map function of my iPhone to search out some possible venues that evening. My last bookmarked location was shown with the satellite image this time. I studied it for a while and zoomed in and out on the image and realized it was my last coordinates when lost. I was still in disbelief on how close I was to being on the right trail. No longer was this the location of where I was lost, but where I learned to never underestimate another mountain trek again.

On Top Of Romania

I left my five star hotel in Bucharest with nearly 40 pounds of gear and thirty-six hours to climb the highest mountain in Romania and get back to the hotel in time for crew pick-up. A risky adventure but quite normal for me. Firstly, I had to find the train station and after getting off the plane, making it to the hotel, packing and a quick shower, I had thirty minuets to do so. Secondly, I had to buy a ticket, and that's always a lesson in Rubik's Cube 101 . I managed but just. Apparently the Romanian train system harbors the last bastion of former communist rule, meaning things will work when they work. In this case the ticket lady wanted nothing to do with my print outs of the tickets I wanted from the official Romanian Train web site. I think she began to read Romanian poetry to me. Fortunately, a kind woman said something rather rude sounding to the ticket lady and for $10US, I had my tickets.

Find the photos HERE the Videos here: Part 1, Part 2

Train customs across the world vary. In Germany, passengers board orderly, sit where they are supposed to and use proper passage ways for connections. In India, there are no doors or windows on the train and riding roof top is preferable to the wood benches in the suffrage class of the car. In Romania, connections are made by crossing the tracks, walking through another train and crossing the tracks on the other side. I thought hoodlums at first were the only ones doing this, but when grandma crossed through my car, er, train, with her chickens, I knew then I wasn't quite in western Europe. The train engine, a Russian relic from 1968 but made in Romania, pushed off smoothly and without delay. I was in a nice air conditioned car and ready to take a nap after the long flight overnight.

Unfortunately, I love watching the country side and hate missing new sights along the journey. I was also a bit anxious with my time schedule and instead of resting up, decided to continue my recon of the coming mountain hike. Armed with enough printouts of maps, satellite images and written reports from the Internet, I had to be a quick study. Apparently, not too quick as track construction through the Prahova Valley led to a slow journey. At least the views of the Bucegi mountain range by Sinaia offered a quick look at what I would be tackling on my next trip in four days time.

Reaching Brasov, finally, I had five minutes to make my connection to Ucea, and I wasn't going to cross the tracks! I didn't need to hurry as the connecting train apparently doesn't operate on Saturdays. This served a great problem as the next train didn't leave for another two hours, putting me in Ucea similarly behind schedule and leaves me with only a solid hour before sunset. Being that I was hoping to make it to the first mountain cabana that evening, plans needed redirection.

Old town Brasov is a beautiful, even older German city and largely left alone by the Communist. You won't say the same for the concrete hell surrounding the city but the youth have made the central area as trendy as any European city. I went shopping for supplies only to find the late evening hour had the necessary stores reading "Inchis," or closed in all measurements.

The Amtrak slow train to Ucea was empty and I had my own compartment in the old DDR (East German) rail car. The lowering sun shown well on the wheat and corn fields but made me worry about my progress that night. As the towns grew more sparse, the train window filled with the Fagaras mountain range, the tallest of the southern Carpathian mountains in Romania. Clouds were the backdrop on south side of the peaks and the sun illuminated the remaining snow on the north side. The Olt river valley raced to the bottom of the mountains and then dramatically the land rose straight up. I put down my maps, stood and starred as the humbleness of the task I was about to begin reached my knees.

The train pulled away and left me alone at the Ucea train station. This small, platformless station might as well have been abandoned and most likely looks the same as it did twenty years ago before the revolution. The sun was quite low in the sky and the time was 8:20pm. It looked as though I would have an hour before sunset and maybe an hour after that of manageable light. My eyes would adjust accordingly but the lower part of the mountains were filled with tall evergreens and they would steal all remaining light. I knew I would be camping on the trail with only a sleeping bag for shelter but I didn't know where. Fortunately, no weather was forecast and temperatures even high up the mountain were expected to be above freezing. With the amount of layers I brought I would we fine, but finding a suitable trail camp would prove difficult in the dark.

Time wise, the next day I had to reach the top of Moldoveanu. From reports of other trekkers on the Internet, that was a 10 hour trek from the lower cabana. From there to the village of Victoria, that would be about five hours. Victoria was 7km from Ucea, and once you do the math, failure was rearing an ugly head. Walking as fast as I could, I cut corners where my Google Earth satellite image showed I could but I already knew my fate. As I began reassessing my goals, a young father and his son stopped their little Nissan Micra by me and offered a ride to Victoria. None of us spoke any language in common but everyone knows the words, "New York City" and all is well. During the short ride I showed pictures on my iPhone of my airplanes, my home, my dog and past adventures. The father took me to the trail head and refused any money for the ride. I pulled out an amenity kit and told him to give it to his wife. I should get paid for the gorilla marketing I do for my airline.

The trail head led down a gravel road but I saw from my Google Earth image the crow flies over the sheep field. The sunset was spectacular and only interrupted by attacking sheep dogs of various large breeds doing their job. Noisy things of course but I was quite proud they knew their job and were able to do so. I always feel my Hugo at home deserves a life far more fitting to his breeding, but then he was a rescue and were it not for us, I know a farmer wouldn't be looking in a Manhattan shelter for a shepherd working dog. I kept moving and with little eye contact the dogs backed off seeing I wasn't a threat to their guarded sheep.

I moved quickly and worked up a sweat as the gravel road started to rise. At 700 feet, I had quite a ways to go before reaching 8,346 feet. Dusk was setting in and the thickening forest was steeling most of the light. The gravel road turned to rutted mud and I could see there was quite a bit of logging going on. By the shape of the ruts in the muddy road, I reckon the loggers were dragging the logs by tractors as opposed to putting them on trucks and traveling down to the city. In some cases I couldn't see how deep the mud was and would end up shin deep in the muck. The pants and boots were holding up well and I kept on as long as I could. I heard a rushing creek below to my right but I couldn't see it. The sound of rushing water travels far in the woods and I wasn't about to scale into a deep ravine in the dark. I was already being stupid, but stupid and dangerous is an unrelenting combination. Keeping to the outline of shadows on the gutted road, I was hoping to come across a magical rocky stream and call it night, but that wasn't to be and my eyes simply ran out of vision.

There was just enough glow of the moon on the other side of the mountains to make out a limestone cliff edge over looking the valley. This would do for the night. I wouldn't have to worry about anything to my front or sides and there was quite a bit of brush leading to the cliff edge from the trail. I rolled out my sleeping bag, put on my fleece, stuffed the sleeping bag cover with the rest of my soft gear for a pillow and laid down on the oddly comfortable cliff edge. As I watched satellites speed along seemingly higher than the stars, the mountains above blew cold air down on me while the valley blew warm air up at me. After the long day and flight, I fell asleep by 1030pm and woke to my alarm at 430am.

Still dark, by the time I packed up, dawn was approaching from the other side of the mountains and provided just enough light for me to see the trail and for an owl to avoid running into me during a low dive after some unseen critter. I think we both startled each other but the "Give a hoot, don't pollute" icon, kindly posed for a shot and we both moved on.

Early on, the trail showed what I was in for. First, the muddy road turned into a rocky stair accent also serving as a stream. My boots were happy for the wash off and I began to appreciate Gore Tex even more. Then the scenery quickly became more alpine with sky rocketing pine, glacier lost boulders and long grass fighting for any sunlight. The accent became quite steep and with the still heavy pack, I started taking more frequent breaks than I wanted, my quads throbbing harder than my lungs.

I needed to be up at the first cabana by 8am in order to make it up to Moldoveanu and back down to the higher cabana by night fall. As the sun rose more, the scenery became breathtaking in more ways than one but I had to keep moving and keep photo ops to a minimum. When possible I would break into a slow jog which is no easy task with a narrow trail and heavy pack. False steps would send me down the mountain in a rather unfashionable manner. Fortunately, the trial markings were OCD like perfection. If I couldn't see two markings in front of me, then I was seeing three. And if on the odd occasion I couldn't see any, four were behind me. I put my now useless maps away and hurried on.

I took notes of available water spots and shelter areas in my sketchbook and at what time I reached the locations in case things went wrong for some reason. My sketchbook has page after page of notes, showing about every five minutes the mountain greets the traveler with eye popping splendor of cascading waterfalls and roaring brooks of mountain fresh water. The accent never really let up and on my breakfast break, I was beginning to have second thoughts about what I was doing. Such thinking so early in a hike is difficult to reason out considering the brain is receiving little oxygen. The speed I was going at wasn't helping but time wasn't slowing down for me. Moldoveanu is calling and I have to move on.

Some of the trail markers indicated how much "suggested" time it would take to the next way point and to the first cabana. I was beating these times by five, then ten minutes and just as my lungs about gave out, Cabana Turnuri was in sight at 4,757ft. Now 800am on the dot, I was right on schedule and stopped for coffee. Cabanas are in various spots throughout the Romanian mountains and along with the trail markers, a gift of the communist. The cabanas offer decent shelter in the mountains and some offer electricity and heat while others do not. All have beds, blankets and pillows. Cabana care takers spend the seasons running the operation and this elder gentleman made a delicious cup of black coffee off a little camp stove. He spoke broken English and I told him of my plans. At the same time, two groups of trekkers took off towards the higher mountains and the cabana man told me to follow them as we were all going to Moldoveanu. I finished the coffee paid my dollar and took off.

It didn't take long for the trees to clear and present an amazing alpine view of steep crags, flowing lush hill sides, sky scraping peaks and summer snow contrasting glowing purple heather. The trail began to level out and follow the mountain contours. Difficulty now was the summer snow drifts. From a distance they seemed harmless but once reaching them, I realized a careless step would send me sliding fast and long hundreds of feet to injury or worse. Previous hikers from days past created steady and level foot prints to follow and I held my breath no matter how long the snow crossing.

Moving along quite well, I caught up with the two groups at Cabana Podragu, 7,007ft. This needs a little perspective. From Cabana Turnuri to Podragu, I covered around 2500ft of elevation in two hours time, snow and all. I camped out at around 3000ft, bringing 4000 ft worth of elevation in five hours time. I can't begin to tell you how my legs were feeling and you'll have to watch the 2nd video to see how well this was not going for a land based runner.

Cabana Podragu over looks a glacial lake and sits in a bowl of snow, towered above by magnificent peaks. The scene is worth a short stop to rest the legs and have a bite to eat. I began to meet the fellow trekkers. One group of five were clearly professionals. They moved quick and had little gear with them except trekking poles, near leotards for pants and gators around their boots. With top line sunglasses and expensive fleece, they certainly knew what they were doing. The other group of six were more recreational looking with DSLR cameras, weekend gear and moving slow enough for me to have passed them on a high trail. I was quickly found out to be the token and rare American going it alone. Both groups would have none of that and instructed me to join them. Most spoke English and all looked to be at least five to ten years younger than me. I had my work cut out as I was representing the USofA, and couldn't let the younger kids show me up. Cards were against me as I already did a hard three hour climb to the cabana where they all started from!

This higher cabana was unfortunately closed until July but the web site said nothing about that. This would add another two hours onto the already long trail day in order to make it to the lower cabana. Still, I found an open shed and hid all my non-essential items from my pack in the rain cover sack to lighten my load. I'm not sure why I hid my items. There wasn't anyone else up there. Who would really want to add more weight to their packs? Where would they run? The lighter pack of a bottle of water, two protein bars and my fleece offered welcome freedom to keep up with the "kids."

Twelve in a row, we all stepped gingerly through the snow flows making sure not to damage the steps and to catch anyone who might try to turn into an inadvertent human snow sled. Even the pros were taking their time. Reaching the top of the bowl and cresting the ridge line, the south facing slope rid us of the pesky snow but offered 50+mph winds instead. The pro group took off but I stayed with the novices and chatted them up while resting my legs and trading shots with the camera. The view on the south side was just as amazing as on the north side but the mountains led to even lower valleys and whimsical waterfalls flowing as far as anyone could see. The wind kept the skies clear of smog and clouds, allowing clear viewing to the earth's curvature.

Somewhat rested, my new trekking friends and I took off to Moldoveanu. The trail was fairly level except for some parts leading over the ridge line. The powerful gusts from the valley would catch your pack and send you off balance but at least it was towards the mountain and not down it. A few snow banks here and there would make things difficult but for the most part, a scenic journey of epic splendor. At various stages we would take individual breaks. I was a bit ahead of the novices and would meet up with the pros breaking at a virtual mountain "rest stop." They would continue on as I arrived and when the novices caught up, I'd pack up and get on my way too. Nothing rude about this at all as we'd talk the game over and move on. This would happen several more times and each session we'd learn more about each other.

Just before the final accent to Moldoveanu, I took a nap. I simply was too tired. I found a nice patch of ridge line grass and simply laid back on my pack and slept for a solid 20min. I was just low enough at the top to escape the pounding wind and the grassy area was just wide enough that any false moves wouldn't have me waking up in a necessary panic in which dreams of falling would be reality.

All the groups passed me up during my siesta, but refreshed, I caught up with them all during the extremely steep climb up to the first point of Moldoveanu. At this point everyone was helping each other out pointing out the better path and even lending a hand on the steeper parts. At this point the wind was strong enough to hold you up which meant at this angle on the mountain, it was strong enough to blow you over in a not so good way. We all had to stay low to the rocks, watch for the wind to catch the packs and keep moving.

Moldoveanu is shaped as a high ridge line. After the initial climb, you reach the north point of the ridge, take a breath, drop the pack in an unofficial pack parking lot and move on. I've said many times the last couple feet to the top always is the hardest and Moldoveanu didn't disappoint. The ridge line takes a dip and offers a twenty foot snow ridge with 1000 foot plus falls to either side. No ropes, no foot steps, just a human foot wide, near tight rope walk across the top of the snow ridge. In so many ways this could go wrong and crawling on all fours won't do you any good. Steady as she goes please.

Across the breath-holding snow ridge, the easy steps to the top made for an accomplishment that can only be described as heart warming and grin encouraging. Hugs and cameras were traded and plenty of time was afforded to take in the views. Besides the GPS marker and sign indicating alttitude, several crosses rested on top reminding me once again, mortality is only a false step away, a careless night on the trail or a loss battle with ever changing weather conditions. The dates on the crosses ranged nearly 100 years of exploration.

I suppose it was still windy and possibly cold, but I didn't notice. Time stops at the top of mountains and it takes a while for the all conquering human spirit to subside and the reality of time take over.

The snow ridge seemed less steep on the return and we were all nearly leaping down the steep accent to the ridge line trail. The wind was as fierce as ever and with the setting sun the low and high pressures were changing from the heated valley creating competing winds from both sides of the mountain. We all made good time separating into individuals and meeting up at rest points along the way.

The bowl leading to the highest cabana was brilliantly lit and I took full advantage of the light for some impressive photos. Back at the high cabana, I filled up with some seriously cold glacial water and couldn't care less about organisms. There was no sediment in the water and if I caught anything from the water, it would have to be an exquisite organism. I repacked my gear and followed the setting sun to the lower cabana. The lower mountains glowed green with the sun and lush new grass. The wind coming over the ridge line heading to the valley made the snow passes near scary as I was now being pushed down the mountain and with a full pack, I might as well have a sail on me.

On the way down I met a hiker that joined us coming from the other direction towards Moldoveanu. His right shin was injured and swollen either indicating an sever shin splint or a fracture of some caliber. He refused any help and hobbled down behind me. I though about offering him some help again but figured like myself, suffering is better than charity any day. But honestly, he looked in pain.

I reached the cabana before the "novices" did but the pros were already hitting the tuica (plum liquor that will grow hair on your knees even). My friendly novices joined soon and we all sat around camp stove-cooked potato bread, tuica and anything we had to offer from our packs (the first class nuts I brought were a hit). The conversation floated from politics to explorations with adventure stories saving the day any time the politics got a bit heated.

This young group was born just before or right at the revolution of 1989. More than likely I know their history more than they do but that's of little relevance when I don't live their lives. They are well aware of the European Union and the corruption that exists within their own government. Yet, none of them displayed a goal to move to another country and that's hard to find in developing nations where many look for any opportunity to, "get out of Dodge." All were dismayed Americans only knew of "Dracula" in Romania, a Hollywood contraption at best. I was very frank and told them at least we no longer think of Romania as another country to nuke back in the Cold War. Blank stares followed that comment and I quickly moved to the adventures I had in Malaga, Spain.

After 14 hours on the trail the previous day, the dawn brought my sore body to life. Cabana man had the coffee ready for me and along with some of the rising trekkers, we watched the valley light up with the rising sun before packing our bags and heading off. Downhill is always pleasant but after two days on the trail, my quads and knee joints were trading off spoils. Knowing the trail, I took short cuts where I could and cut off some serious time. I had a train to catch.

Reaching the log trail even more muddy than before, an old Jeep Cherokee appeared behind me, just like the one we had as a family growing up. The rough looking guy driving offered me a ride in decent English and given the choice of now knee deep mud or a ride, I give! The manual and diesel Cherokee brought back memories of our otherwise well equipped U.S. spec Cherokee and just like in the range of Oklahoma, the proper 4wd crawled through the deep mud in low range with grinding admiration at being given a task it was built for, just like the shepherd dogs in the field two days ago-happy to do their job. The driver dropped me off near the trail head but thankfully out of the muddy bits.

I made good time to Victoria, a communist creation funded by the Germans in a misstep of time and need. Now it sits in an unknown situation of industrial town gone missing with closed factories but filled communist concrete housing, contrasting sharply with the beautiful scenery outside their windows. Walking the long road to Ucea, it didn't take long for one of the passing cars to stop and offer a lift to the train station. That was most welcome as enduring a mountain trail is far more flattering than enduring a 7km hike on a straight road.

Oddly enough, the passenger of the car was the injured hiker from the day before. I guess the initial climb down from the cabana to the road did him in finally and the even more swollen leg begged him to ask for help. I managed to talk him into taking my Motrin pills to lessen the pain and by the time we caught the same train together, he was feeling much better.

I learned he was an avid trekker and had been on the trail for seven days before I met him the day prior. Next week he's off to Austria to hike in Tirol and that brought memories of family ski jaunts to Kitsbuhel. Of course my memories were way before he was born. Of learning this, the revolution baby's eyes lit up in amazement I did what I did. Yeah, take that kids!

I slept like a revolution baby on the way home in the train. My empty compartment filled up with young hikers from Sinaia which was fine as they brought beer and shared. We told of our adventures and they gave me some good tips on the soon to be conquered Bucegi mountains. These university students had even more to tell me about their country ranging from the theme of corruption to the treatment of woman to the dastardly standard in which drunks continue to be excused for their actions and the sober folks held accountable for drunks predicaments. The same holds true in Ukraine and Russia but at least in Romania, the younger generation recognizes that's not the way forward.

Back at the hotel, I threw my pack off and with my boots still on, stepped into the shower and washed everything off. I was burned to a crisp despite 50+ proof sunblock and my shoulders rubbed raw with days of heavy pack wear. Despite the best gear money can buy (well at least my money), proper conditioning pays off and I've got some work to do. I'll heal of course but I hope quickly, as in two days time, I'll climb Romania's second highest mountain after a quick round trip back home in NYC.