Death and Life in the Rhodopes

Had a full day in the Rhodopes today*.

First, I nearly died*.

Then, I connected with the Mountain like never before.

Let’s get into it in that same chronological sequence.

I hiked the Devil’s Path near Borino – one of the most notable Bulgarian trails, famous (some might say infamous?) for its extreme views, alternations of ascent and descent (mostly on ladders), and the ever-present sense that one can slip and fly to his or her doom in the roaring waters below the gorge, easy as pie. The Path itself is safe enough – I hear it’s been recently reinforced, and even though there are patchy spots safety-wise, if you go slow and are careful, you’re good. You reach the end of that river gorge path about an hour and a half after setting off from the parking lot, and then you continue onto the so-called Small/Big Loop (the two diverge later on). The loop trail starts with a steep ascent (400 m altitude) where it gets dodgy quickly. A ladder is missing steps, its rails that seem nailed aren’t, and paths get narrower and steeper – with the promise of a doom flight sparkling significantly with higher probability with each step up. After a few concerning episodes, you reach a gorgeous shelter at the top, take a breather faced with the most beautiful views you can imagine, and then continue towards the descent back town, in a loop. What goes up must come down, they say, and in this case, this is you giving up all that hard-earned ascent meters for free as you descend sprightly, trying to preserve your knees more than anything else. You are finally back down at river level, and the only thing separating you from rejoining your incoming path and completing the loop is a small bridge.

Except that the bridge isn’t there.

After a few moments of staring at the rushing white waters in utter confusion (“how can something that is on a map not be there??”) you call the local dude that approached you at the origin parking lot and kindly try to relay some unintelligible instructions, which apparently included the minor point that your planned route is unpassable. The dude tells you that this bridge has been missing for three years now and to go back up and “try to follow the river from above west until the path below crosses the river to your side, and you can go down onto it.”

The only problem with that is that you’re standing on a 60-70-degree vertical slope, with the forest mixing frequently with rock formations. I proceed to move sideways, in parallel to the river, with no path, circumventing trees, rocks, and ravines. My speed is 3 meters per minute – each step is now researched, planned, and executed with care. I reach a point where the only way forward is descending a rock, full mountain climber mode. I decide that priority one is holding onto something solid with all four of my limbs – that way if one limb gives way (soft soil below the feet or dead wood in hand), the other three will save me. Honestly, if I can enlist my fifth limb (sorry, children!) in this slope-sticking exercise, I’d gladly do it! However, I’m also holding hiking sticks, which already partly compromise this formula, as they mostly occupy one limb already (a fleeting thought of the “let’s leave them here and save our ass!” variety is swiftly killed by overwhelming frugality).

I get to the Moment. Arm 1 holds a tree branch. Arm 2 is just leaning towards the slope, holding the hiking sticks. Legs 1 and 2 are barely rooted onto loose soil on top of vertical rock. The whole thing is happening on the steepest hill – I face a 5-meter drop below. I move, and the tree branch breaks off in my hand (turns out it’s rotten – those are your primary disaster facilitators in this type of situation).

All my body’s cells reach out to cling to the slope. I slide down a meter or so in panic and nearly go over the ledge, but my descent is stopped by an aggregation of scraping holds of limbs in unimaginable instinctive grabs. I breathe. I can’t believe it! I was THIS close!

But I’ve survived. After taking a minute, I continue down in the same precarious way, even more slowly and carefully, with the sense and lesson of having played my one free get-out-of-jail card. After an hour, I reach the bottom and rejoin the civilized path, scraped, scared, and drained.

Fast-forward to lunch – it’s at a bistro near Gyovren, on the way back to Devin. The bistro is on a hill and presents a beautiful view of the road underneath and a mountain across. There are no other customers, and the only staff member is a waitress who just might be the cook too. I order food and a beer (if I ever needed one!). The beer arrives first, as it should, and she disappears for a while.

I take a sip.

Suddenly everything quiets down. I’ve never heard such silence – not even in a bed at night. I hear a soft rumbling behind me, I turn towards my side’s mountain and see a wind rustling pine trees. I get a whiff of pine needles, warm in the sunny September mid-afternoon. Everything quiets down again. Dead quiet.

I’m alone with the Mountain, fully immersed. I’ve never sensed the Mountain this close.

We are one. I am Home.

I know what you’re thinking. I only had the Second Thing because the First Thing happened first.

Who cares.

*First, this didn’t happen today, but a few weeks ago; second, I estimate the chance of a serious injury to be solidly higher than death in that situation - but why ruin a good story with a weak, intellectualized opening!