‘How can this possibly be the path?’ I mutter between breaths, as I weave uphill through the forest on an uncomfortably steep gradient. Everything is screaming at me. My shoulders are screaming, my lungs are screaming, my feet are screaming. For a second I doubt myself, and contemplate why I thought a four-day trek through the Julian Alps, via Slovenia’s highest peak, was a good idea. I am full of ideas, and often find myself in remote and challenging places because of them. It is only 8am, the valley is still in shadow, yet I am sweating so profusely that I cannot fathom the idea of the temperature rising even further. My full 65-litre pack pulls on my shoulders and the straps sear my skin. All I feel is weight.
We leave the vanilla shores of Lake Bohinj behind us, where I sat last night and watched the water morph mountains into monstrous shapes as the evening thunderstorm rolled in. I had arrived early, following a solo stint in the foothills of the Julian Alps, and my four companions appeared just in time for a quick swim before oncoming lightning hurried us away. Although we don’t know each other especially well, we were all part of Cambridge University Caving Club at around the same time, and chose this hut-to-hut hike as a more ‘leisurely’ holiday following a caving expedition in Austria. Our objective is (seemingly) simple: to summit Triglav, the highest mountain in Slovenia, via the scenic Seven Lakes valley. This is the first day’s trekking from Ukanc, making for Zasavska Hut via the Seven Lakes trail.
When we pause at a break in the treeline, beneath a proud cliff puffing its chest out into the Bohinj Valley, the struggle eases. I turn around to find an ocean of cumulus concealing the valley floor below me. A thousand clouds perch above the trees like candy floss, lightly spun and ready for display. It is the first scene of many that leave me speechless and motivate me to keep moving upwards. Upon resuming the gruelling ascent I somehow feel lighter, even though my pack weighs the same as before.
Despite the cliff feeling eternal, it does end, and the suffering does too. I carry a renewed awareness of transience with me. On a journey such as this, everything is in a state of constant change. The landscape changes, the climate changes, and the wildlife changes alongside them. My experience changes, my body changes, and my mind changes alongside them. At the top of the cliff, the gradient dramatically eases and we find ourselves walking through a dense mixed coniferous woodland. Everything is green. I am surprised that we are almost at the same altitude as the summit of Ben Nevis, a place I know to be so barren and windswept, yet here I am surrounded by a rich abundance of life.
Deep in the forest we find the first lake of seven, Črno jezero (the Black Lake), though it looks distinctly teal to me. Swimming in these lakes is not allowed due to conservation reasons, and I fight the urge to dive into the cool water. The Black Lake is home to the dark-spotted, orange-bellied, alpine newt. At this time, the females will be busy protecting their fertilised eggs by wrapping them into the leaves of water plants. As I scan the water I cannot find any newts, but I do spot a shoal of fish flashing silver in the morning sun.
We continue along the trail, passing through a medley of dense forest and high alpine meadows dotted with wildflowers, until we reach the Dvojno jezero (Double Lake). The Double Lake is in fact two interconnected lakes which curl in front of the Koča pri Triglavskih jezerih (Triglav Lakes Hut), where we stop for a sweet cinnamon-filled snack of traditional apple pie. Beyond the lodge, the landscape changes drastically and the last of the pines fall behind, replaced by exposed limestone.
The earth is stripped bare as green folds into grey. Weaving through a maze of clints and grazes, cuts and grykes like lacerated skin, we discuss the undiscovered depths beneath us. It looks as if a giant has clawed through the rock, and yet as cavers we know that these surface-level scratches are nothing compared to the colossal caverns below. After passing Veliko jezero (the Big Lake), a kidney shaped water with turquoise-tinged edges, the lakes become smaller and less colourful. Instead, they are painted with the reflections of surrounding crags, mirrors broken by limestone echoes.
But even up here, colour clings on through clusters of purple bellflowers huddling together in pockmarks on the rock. Their close resemblance to their cousin, the harebell or Scottish bluebell which dances on the slopes of the Yorkshire Dales, reminds me of home. For tonight, our home is Zasavska koča (Zasavska Hut), which perches at the head of the Seven Lakes valley like an eagle on a precipice. The beat of wings fills my dreams.
Hauling my pack onto my shoulders, I squint at the sky and note that the serenity of the evening before has been replaced with tension. There is tension in my muscles and there is tension in the clouds, a storm brewing high above. To reach our next hut we must cross exposed high-level passes and traverse steep cliffs. We have no time to lose. We set off with few words, still sore and half-asleep. Within moments we are on Mars. Cracked, exposed and windswept, the ground is seemingly lifeless. As we cross the undulating pass the wind picks up and the cloud lowers.
Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, because it forces me to keep my head down and allows me to spot an alpine salamander on the path. Jet black and totally monochrome, the salamander looks like it has been dunked in thick oil. Alpine salamanders are most active during and after rainfall, so I interpret this as an omen and a confirmation of my suspicions. Rain is coming. The omen is a double-edged sword: in addition to the oncoming storm, I am reminded of the fragility of alpine environments. Alpine salamanders are not resilient to habitat changes and are best suited to temperatures below 18 degrees Celsius. Climate breakdown poses a significant threat for their future, and they are on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. I wonder what the Julian Alps will look like in 100 years.
The hairs on my skin rise, a sign that the storm is getting close enough to breathe down my neck. The alien landscape shudders in all directions and by the time we reach the other side of the pass, the clouds start to sob. Ahead, the path curves around an almost-vertical cliff, but we know that we cannot shelter in this desolate place. This is only the beginning. Before the lightning starts, we climb swiftly up the cliff, rucksacks sagging with the weight of the water and hands clinging to metal wires as we ascend. The conditions are truly miserable. Truly invigorating. As we traverse the cliff, the sky’s fury only grows, and we make it to the hut just before the first claps of thunder begin.
Dom Planika (Planika Lodge) stands at 2,401 metres above sea level, adorned with wooden slats and red shutters. Behind it, the crags of Triglav form a ladder to heaven, and in front, the hut looks down onto serrated ridges which cut through cloud-filled valleys. Inside it is chaos. Everyone seems to have arrived at the same time, a bundle of bodies and bags and boots whirling around like a washing machine. We replace our sodden socks with fresh ones and slide our feet into hut slippers, flimsy things with smooth soles, but dry at least. Not bringing my own spare shoes is my biggest mistake. As I cross the entrance hallway and make my way to the living room, ready to settle down and enjoy a hot chocolate, the world tips upside down. I am on an ice rink, sliding across the room at full tilt. My unprotected toes slam into the wall with a sickening crack and all I feel is pain, a sharp, hot kind of pain that clusters in my feet and falls out of my eyes.
I cannot tell what is more broken, my toes or my heart. It took four years of longing, six months of detailed planning, and three weeks of travelling to get here. I have arrived at the final hut before the summit, with a perfect weather window forecast for the next morning, only to have my dreams (and toes) shattered by a wet floor and a wooden wall.
For the rest of the evening, I cry. Take painkillers. Wrap my toes up. Play cards. Cry again. Despite being in a hut full of people, I feel totally alone. As the day dies I manage to hobble outside, using walking poles as make-shift crutches, to view a collage of pink alpenglow, dazzling rainbows and dark storms. At first this only heightens my pain. All I can think about is how lucky I am to witness such a spectacle, how mesmerised I should be by it, and how all I feel in reality is devastation. After a while, I accept the situation for what it is and find comfort in the reminder that sunlight still exists beyond the storm. Between the clouds and the mountains, the rainbow is split into an arc, a mere segment of the wheel of fortune.
Another storm arrives shortly after, so I boil pasta outside (we cannot afford the hut food) with giant hailstones pummelling my back and lightning punching the earth around me. When I finally retire to bed, sleep is a great blessing.
At 5am the skies are blue and my toes are purple. With clear skies, Triglav is a citadel in front of me, the silver morning light carving turrets from the rock. I know what to do. Wincing, I wrap my toes up with gauze and medical tape, take some ibuprofen, and gently pull my B2 boots on. After a few spoons of gritty gruel (porridge would be too kind a word) I am standing outside, pack on shoulders and pole in hand.
‘What are you doing?’, one of my companions asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘I’m coming with you’, I reply tentatively. ‘I didn’t come this far to turn around now.’ ‘I don’t think that’s sensible. You won’t manage it.’ The words batter me like fallen rocks. ‘I can, and I will.’ I answer with more certainty now. ‘If Joe Simpson can make it out of a glacier with a broken leg, then I can do Triglav with a couple of broken toes.’ Admittedly, I’m not Joe Simpson, and this isn’t Siula Grande. I’m standing next to a warm, cosy mountain hut, and (unlike Joe) this isn’t a matter of survival. I have a choice about which direction I go in: and I choose upwards.
Between the gauze, tape, painkillers and firm-soled boots my discomfort is greatly alleviated, and I set off almost at my usual pace with only a mild limp. Soon we are scrambling up the slope, hand-foot-hand-foot, palm to rock. Up here the air is thinner, the peaks taller, the fall greater, but the movement itself is no different to clambering up Gordale Scar at home in the Dales. The grooves feel familiar to my fingers. As the slope steepens, I am forced to balance on the front of my boots, putting pressure on my broken toes. It is excruciating, but before long we are on top of the ridge and I can spread my weight evenly again. We navigate carefully over the edge of the saw, weaving between sharp teeth as the wind picks up and the cloud comes down. My companions, not wanting to slow down even the slightest bit below their normal pace, are swallowed by the fog and I am left behind. Alone, teetering above the abyss in poor visibility with broken toes, I become acutely aware of how vulnerable I am. I focus on breathing and placing my feet on the ground, one after the other, steadied by both earth and air.
Lingering tears freeze to my cheeks and I think of the icy remnants of the Triglav Glacier clinging onto life around 300 metres below me. At the end of the nineteenth century the glacier covered an area of over 40 hectares, but by 2022 this had reduced to 0.7 hectares. It is part of a growing quantity of ghost glaciers across the globe, rivers of ice that have been shrunk, melted and annihilated by soot-covered hands. The mountain and I share our grief.
After scrambling through the spectral mist for about half an hour, I reach a point where there is no more rock to climb. Only space. My outstretched hands meet the steel of the Aljaž Tower, a small shelter which was placed on the summit in the late nineteenth century. I have made it, I am here! After a brief reunion with my companions they disappear again, but one stays back to walk with me and I am grateful for the company.
By 10am we are back at Dom Planika and ready for our second breakfast. As I finish my pot of gruel and laugh about how ‘the worst is over now’, I feel a familiar twinge in my abdomen. A trip to the loo, which is a small wind-battered shack with a pit inside of it, confirms my suspicions: my period has arrived. This is problematic for two reasons: firstly, because I do not have any sanitary products on me, and secondly, because I usually experience debilitating period cramps on the first two days of my period. I know that it won’t be long before they kick in, and I’m running out of time. Our original plan, to ascend a steep scree slope to a higher-level hut, seems increasingly foolish. Getting down with broken toes and excruciating period cramps is going to be challenging enough, and moving further up the mountain will only prolong the difficulty.
Asking for sanitary products at the hut proves fruitless, so I make do with some flimsy tissues. There’s a hut lower down the mountain, which may or may not have space for me, and I decide to head down to it while the rest of the group continue to the original hut. As I’m packing my bag, an Austrian woman with auburn hair and a kind smile approaches me.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I don’t suppose you have any sanitary products?’, she asks hopefully. ‘No!’, I laugh, ‘I’m looking for them too!’ We sit on the ground together and chat for a short while, about the trials and tribulations of being mountain women. ‘My period often seems to turn up at the most inconvenient moments’, she elaborates, ‘and it’s definitely made climbing more difficult, at times.’ I wholeheartedly agree. ‘I used to feel self-conscious about having my period in the hills. Now, I realise that climbing a mountain whilst bleeding and being in considerable pain actually shows a lot of strength, and it’s something that I should be proud of.’
It’s nice to have a conversation about something that I experience a lot and rarely get to talk about, but I’m aware that I have a long way to travel before dark. At first, the descent is steep and scree-smothered, and every second step sends sparks of pain shooting up my leg. Lower down the gradient eases as the path descends through layers of green. Naked limestone becomes adorned first with coarse grasses, then emerald shrubs of dwarf mountain pine, and finally taller trunks of black pine. After 24 hours on Mars, I can’t get enough of the colour. At times the path traverses a cliff, with metal stemples to stand on and a metal cable to hold onto. Despite being alone and in pain, I am surprised to find that I feel calm, focused and confident in my own ability – for the first time in a long time.
Vodnikov Dom perches on rocky mountain slopes above a high-level valley, on the boundary between soil and stone. Although I have prepared myself for the possibility of sleeping in a nearby cave, I am relieved to find that there is space in the hut for me to sleep (albeit in a damp corner of the basement). Having deposited my rucksack, I cross a carpet of cobalt gentians and yellow-dotted eyebrights to a boulder overlooking the valley, humming in harmony to cowbells below.
Upon reaching the boulder my period cramps catch up with me and an alpine storm comes thundering through my body, slaughtering the peace. I lie on the boulder, inside out, and scream silently. I am being gutted like a fish. Placing my palms face down on the cool limestone, I clutch onto consciousness, as the boulder cradles my bleeding broken body. A light touch on my shoulder opens my eyes, and one of the women working at the hut is standing next to me. She passes me a rainbow assortment of sanitary products.
‘It’s all we could get’, she explains, ‘every woman working at the hut donated some.’
All of a sudden, the pain eases and I am warm, comfortable, nurtured.
‘Thank you.’ I whisper. With a long night ahead and an even longer descent tomorrow, this act of generosity has made all the difference. Everything feels easier with the knowledge that even in this remote, rocky and storm-humbled place, I have the kindness of many women supporting me.
The rest of the evening passes pleasantly (after a good dose of naproxen and co-codamol). I scrutinise the cliffs on the other side of the valley for hours, as the light withers and the shadows bloom. My eyes follow the life lines and fate lines scratched across the cliffs’ faces, etched into the sedimentary scripts of time as if the mountain were a book that can be read. By the time I hobble down to bed, I am alive and mellow and wholeheartedly content.
I wake up the next morning to heavy rain, and feel especially grateful that I am now at a lower elevation where I don’t need to worry about being struck by lightning. My final breakfast of gruel feels like a cause for celebration, lifting my mood with dreams of the fresh fruit and warm bread waiting for me in Ljubliana. Shortly after leaving the hut, I find myself deep in a forest so lush and animated that I don’t know where to look. The sky hangs heavy like a slab of slate, dark and ashen, but all I see is green. So green. I know next to nothing about ecology, but my senses alone are enough to tell me that this is a place with biodiversity far greater than anything I have experienced before. With every breath I inhale an exquisite blend of damp soil, fresh pollen and soft pine. As I walk, I develop a symbiotic relationship with the forest – I am surrounded by life, and therefore I feel more alive. The sensory distractions are welcomed, because the descent is long and steep, and by the time I reach the valley floor the rain is totally torrential. At some point during the descent I am reunited with my companions, who are following the same path. I do not fall behind again. I am so used to walking with the pain that it no longer restrains me – I have found a way to live alongside it, rather than in spite of it.
It’s hard to imagine how one four-day adventure could have an everlasting impact on a person, but seven months on, I still carry the essence of the Julian Alps with me. Of mountains that still grow forests, and of skies still graced by golden eagles. Of flowers that survive and glaciers that do not. My toes (which were confirmed to be broken, with extensive soft tissue damage, by a Swiss doctor a week later) still hurt sometimes. I don’t think they will ever heal fully, but neither will Triglav (and all mountain areas as we know them) in the wake of climate change. My journey taught me many lessons, including that we are always more capable, more courageous and more resilient than we think. The adventure would not be so memorable if it wasn’t for the unexpected challenges, the ways in which I overcame them, and the new ways I connected with the landscape around me as a result. I may not have moved mountains, but the mountains moved me.
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