I was told it was the crème de la crème of viewpoints in the whole of Montenegro's Prokletije National Park. Atop the peak of Volusnica, overlooking the straight-out-of-a-fairytale Grebaje Valley, no less, one would stare right at the face of the Karanfili massif - a jagged, clawlike hydra of three unassailable peaks. It's obvious enough why a photograph of that view in summertime covers the official Prokletije guidebook and cameos many times throughout the volume - it's just stunning. In the same breath I was also told it was the stupidest of ideas to go up there right now - who knows how deep the snow is? But if I were to attempt it, weather wise, Wednesday seemed the only option.
Tuesday evening, I let Irhan and Emsad in on my plan. "Are you trying to die?" "Of course not!" But when I could so easily be living an infinitely cushier, peril-free life back at home, my reply is hardly convincing. Irhan, a kind boy of fifteen who looks the better part of a decade older than that and can get through a packet of cigarettes with ruthless efficiency, and Emsad, a year older than me, luxuriously bearded, and a cook of deserved renown in these valleys, are my newest friends. Whenever I found myself unable to contain my excitement about the sheer beauty of where we were, Irhan would reassure me, "Eh, it's nothing special." For him, the winter meant he had to wait until spring to delight himself in one of his favorite pastimes, fishing. I warn my friends that if tomorrow I'm not back before dark, then it all went sideways, and to please send help.
As was by then hardwired into me, I awake at sunrise on Wednesday. I look out the window - it's snowing. Not great. An hour later it turns to rain, but it's hardly above freezing in the valley, so up above it's surely still snowing making any attempt at ascending Volusnica even more treacherous. And the snow on the Grebaje Valley floor hasn't melted as much as in the other valleys I'd been through recently - a warning that any attempt to summit might be thwarted by comically deep snow. Everything points to peacefully passing the day indoors to be the best course of action. But maybe the rain will stop? The forecast predicts it will at noon - far too late to start the climb and make it down safely before a four o'clock sunset. Who knows how deep the snow is?
Volusnica from below
I sit on the bed with all my shell layers on, plastic bags wrapped around my socks, and hip bag stocked with everything I think I'll need and nothing I won't and await the rain's end. It stops at around half past nine. Now or never.
The snow is already ankle deep and I haven't even entered the forest through which the trail steeply winds up and up. Yikes! The ascent through the forest turns out to be tranquil and relatively unfussy given the conditions. The deepest snow goes only up to my knees. It's exhausting work, this, but the trail is easy enough to follow and well-marked. I hope to run into a fox, maybe a bear, or one of the rare lynxes that call these mountains home. Alas, no forest friends but the birds were to witness my tomfoolery.
An hour and five hundred vertical meters of altitude gain later, I come to that part of every high mountain where most trees dare not grow. With my next step the ground slips away, and I faceplant into the snow. Up here, beyond the arboreal canopy, it is totally exposed. The snow deepens severalfold.
Having separated my upper half from this icy cocoon, I begin to make out, a kilometer off in a gully, some shrubs that peak out above the white. I then realize that these are not shrubs but the very tops of the few trees which have managed to survive at this higher altitude and are almost completely buried beneath the snow. It's clear: that way be death! It is a wasteland up here, a frigid desert unlike anything I've ever seen. And it is strikingly obvious that I don't belong here. With a single misplaced step, I could very well spend the rest of my life in this place. Maybe it's time to turn around? Well, it is only 10:46 after all - I have around five hours to go until sunset and only two hundred vertical meters to the top. It's worth a shot!
There is no longer a visible trail of any sort. Whatever boulders-cum-trail markers there are have vanished without so much as a trace. The purple line on my GPS takes me into snow that is waist deep (though I can't be sure my feet are even touching the ground), so it's a no-go. Snowshoes, even crampons, would have been ideal, but too late for all that. It seems I'll have to climb and carve my own trail in my half-sandal "mountain clogs" through this bleak wonderland, continuously scanning for the path of shallowest snow. I cut left up a small hill; it seems the strong winds blowing across its eastern face are keeping the snow buildup at bay.
Over and down the hill, I try again to follow the all-knowing, purple line - but, needing both arms as well as legs to wade forward, I'm unable to keep a constant vigil on it. Moving just a few feet is a tiresome business and my lungs, conditioned by long, steep ascents in the Alps, demand frequent rest. I stop and consult the GPS. I've ended up off-trail, heading nearly ninety-degrees more north than I ought to be going. I was following what appeared to be the snowy silhouette of a well-trod trail up a second hill. I thought it would lead in the direction I was headed, but it was all a trick. The map confirms: there's no trail here at all. I am a desert traveler falling prey to mirages. Fool me once. I turn around and begin to correct course. A rocky edge peeks through the powder on my left. Tracing the larger outline in the snow, it appears to be a single, massive boulder. I figure I can climb over it and cut straight to where I'm supposed to be rather than heading back down the hill only to climb up again another way. Fool me twice...
This is not one massive boulder; it is a mound of many smaller ones. Stepping onto the exposed edge, having yet to uncover the ruse, I take another step only to have my whole right leg fall into a hole. The wind had blown, compressed, and smoothed out the snow over the gaps between all these craggy boulders. But the snow had not filled the empty spaces between, only thinly blanketed them. So, like falling through thin ice into a lake, I fall into space. My knee slams into the side of a boulder. A sharp pain shoots up my leg. "Fuck!" What was that about a single misplaced step?
The weight of this near miss silences me. Contemplating my breath condensing in the frozen air, it sinks in that, in these conditions, the security of having an SOS beacon stuffed in my pack is wishful thinking at best. There's no guarantee that I'll still be here when they find me. No two ways about it, I am alone.
Now would seem like a smart time to retreat and lick my wounds. But the adrenaline and endorphins are running high and the pain in my leg dissipates. I really couldn't say why, but I continue to crawl my way up to the summit.
A hundred meters from the top and it seems the purple line heads straight up a steep, and exposed chute overflowing with snow. Not a chance in hell that'll work out. I decide to break right and cut through a small, wooded patch which owes its survival to the mountain's sharp peak that shields it from the hostile, westerly winds. I figure I can use the trees to hoist myself upwards, like giant, immobile ice picks. Worried that I might fall into another gaping hole, I hew as close as I can to my many-limbed guides.
As I get higher, the trees get shorter - a sign that I'm nearing the summit where the winds grow harsher. Seven vertical meters to go. Beyond the meagre cover of the trees, the winds have tortured the snow to ice inlaid with strange patterns and desert-like dunes. I know where I am on a map, but I have no idea where I actually am. This is another planet than the one I was born on. Some of the ice is too hard and too slippery. Some of it gives way to a kick so I can get a foothold. I'm on all fours, to be sure.
The Karanfili
The main mountain town, Plav, seen from the top of Volusnica
Creeping cautiously over the frozen peak, the jagged, razor-sharp, snow-laden, Karanfili reliefs stare straight at me. A craggy maw, this twisted piece of Earth bares its teeth at me. 'Accursed Mountains' is spot on. I had thought to break for my lunch of pumpkin seeds and chocolate up here while soaking in the views, but the intense wind screams its murderous intent in my ears and on my exposed right hand as I try to photograph this desolation. It was worth it, but it's time to get the hell down.
Fortunately, conditions have improved with a bit of sunshine peeking through the thinning cloud cover. I retrace my steps exactly on the way down (much easier to walk when the snow is already compressed!), but as I near the edge of the forest proper with its promise of shallower snow, it looks as if the wind has almost entirely covered the tracks I'd laid an hour and a half earlier. Had the weather turned, as it often does in mountains, that could have been extraordinarily problematic.
An hour later I make it all the way down to the valley floor, without much ado besides a lightly sore knee, and catch Irhan, bored, tracing my four-hour-old tracks up into the forest.
