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.