Qafë Vranicë - a ten mile long, gnarled, and gnarly mountain pass and unofficial border crossing connecting the Montenegrin and Albanian valleys of the Accursed Mountains. This time of year, expect mud, knee-deep river crossings, water everywhere, fallen trees, and, of course, snow. Paved alternatives? Back the way I'd come up through the Tamara Gorge, then south, then north and east in a 200-mile loop to the southern side of the mountains, or a 120-mile trek north, then east, then circling back south through Kosovo down to Bajram Curri (not as tasty as it sounds) and, finally, uphill to Valbonë Valley. Or, easiest of all, I could just give up entirely on seeing the Albanian half of these mountains.
Hmmm. I'll take the ten, rutted-as-hell miles, thank you very much!
I haven't the faintest idea what the blue line is!
I was asking around to figure out if crossing Vranicë was even within the realm of possibility this time of year. I phoned Ricardo, a German outdoor guide now living in the Albanian mountains, who said it would be doable. But he cautioned that the villages on the Albanian side had been emptied for the winter, so I should expect to be on my own in case things went awry. But that was while I was still in Kotor, before the weekend's blizzard. A pair of arctic nights succeeded the storm. But a couple, Patrick and Elena, from Estonia and Russia respectively, would graciously offer to shelter me from the cold, affording me an opportunity to exercise my rusty Russian skills. I asked about Vranicë. Patrick, owner of a summertime hostel in Plav and avid explorer and snowboarder in these mountains, and his friend Meldin, a Plav native who had stopped by for supper, both admitted that while it might be possible, it was far too risky. And then, days later, Semir, known to all (and whose father unearthed a Bronze Age sundial on Volusnica) burst into laughter as I traced out the crossing for him on my map, conveying that it was a fool's errand. "No way!" He also reiterated Ricardo's warning that there would be nary a soul to greet me if, by some miracle, I'd managed to cross over.
All in all, I would be warned by nearly a dozen locals that it would be dangerously foolish to attempt that pass in these conditions. And after having my ass handed to me several times by ice while unsuccessfully attempting to cycle my way up to the high-altitude Hrid Lake on Monday and fighting my way up to Volusnica's summit on Wednesday sans bike, I concurred. However, the bone chilling minus sixteen Celsius temps of Monday night were forecasted to warm to a comparatively tropical eleven degrees by Friday morning and stay well above freezing into late Saturday. And lo, at dawn on Friday, I awoke to a Grebaje Valley floor completely emptied of snow, which had rapidly melted in the warm night, boosting my confidence that the crossing might very well be doable come Saturday. But it had to be Saturday, because by Sunday morning the mercury would drop again to minus, and more snow would fall.
I'll give it a go! But, seeing as there were no border checkpoints up at the top, I would need to secure a permit from the Plav border police in order to be able to cross into Albania legally.
The border police tried to coax me out of it as they did several days earlier when I'd stopped by the station to inform them of my plans. "Come back Friday. If the weather improves, then we'll see about your permit," an un-uniformed man told me on Tuesday. And on Friday a different man (this time in full police dress), who spoke very good English, would incredibly insist that the border police have nothing at all to do with issuing border permits. Uh huh. Once the officer realized that he wasn't fooling anyone, he proffered that the snow would be shoulder high and therefore he couldn't grant me the permit. "It's for your safety" he tried to assure me. The weather being what it was, I was quite sure the conditions would not be as he described, particularly since the highest point of the pass was well below tree-line. I also pointed out that if the snow really were that high, then I could simply go back down. There was a bit more back and forth. He walked back into the station. Then the man I spoke with Tuesday appeared, still in civilian clothes. Then there was more back and forth. The first man came back outside. "You insist?" he asked. "I insist." Six euros lighter, I pedaled away, permit in tow.
Just before I left Plav for the final time, I ran into Oki. We'd never met until now, but apparently, he'd just finished talking about me with Patrick. Word traveled fast about the crazy, dreadlocked American on his bicycle in this icy hell. I told him what my plans were. "It's like you're crazy, but you're not crazy. You just love life!" I laughed and then smiled. A friend of his happened to be cruising down the street, Plav's main street, in a sedan. Oki hails him. He parks in the dead center of the lane. Oki then catches him up to speed on my plans and asks his friend, who apparently blazed many of the trails in these mountains himself, if there is some safer way for me to go. He thinks, suggests a route, we have a chat about it, and he traces it out on my map.
Five minutes must have gone by and he's holding up at least a dozen other cars. But shockingly no one has honked their horns. The friend leaves, relieving the congestion. I tell Oki that I, while grateful, think this new route will not work. It is longer for one, and the high point is also much more exposed, four hundred meters higher than that of my intended route, so the snow must be shoulder high up there at least. He understands. We prepare to part ways with a hug. "I feel like I want to help you," he says to me, "do you need money or food or anything?" I tell him I have everything I need, but I'm grateful. We swap WhatsApps. "Send me pictures when you get to the other side!"
That evening, I would fall asleep at the foot of the pass and begin the climb up at first light, counting on another night of warm temperatures to keep the snow melting.
View from the top of the pass
No doubt about it, the last three hundred and thirty vertical meters are a snow-laden hike for sure. Fortunately, most of the snow does not reach above my shins, and when it is deeper, streams of meltwater which have conveniently carved thin trails through the snow, allow me to more easily push the bike along while I stomp beside in the deeper powder. Dangerous? Nothing out of the ordinary. Tremendously exhausting? Totally.
The final push, two hundred horizontal meters and just a few vertical meters to the high point of 1,623 meters is a laughably slow slog. The super handy streams of meltwater sadly abandoned me about fifty meters back. A bit more exposed up here, the snow slightly deepens. The shrieking, near gale winds whip me this way and that, knocking me over a couple of times as I inch my way to the top.
After who knows how long, this drudgery is almost at an end! The way down, just barely in view, switchbacks along the sunlit south face of the mountain, whose snowy garb has almost totally melted. It looks as if I will actually be able to ride my bike on the descent, a welcome change of pace.
Everyone had warned how dangerous crossing this pass would be, but no one mentioned the spectacular views at the top. But any celebration would have to wait. Though I'd made it up no worse for wear, I still had a ten-mile descent ahead, which, while at first muddy and gravelly, a couple miles beyond Çerem, would shift into a chunky, rocky mess of a road.
At last, my tires meet pavement - a much-appreciated reprieve from peril. I get off the bike. Muscles start to relax as relief swells in my blood. Breathing eases. All is still. A chuckle drifts on the wind.
I'd done it.
Çerem Valley
Much to my hungry belly's good fortune, and contrary to popular belief, there was still a bit of life out here. Thanks to Bek, a fellow, once-upon-a-time New Yorker it turned out, I had a proper meal - after I'd hosed off all the mountain mud, of course.
In the evening, I would fall asleep in my hammock beneath an electrical storm - admittedly not the best idea, but in a perplexingly five-hour long barrage of lightning and thunder, one can only be alert for so long before it makes one sleepy!
By morning it was as if it had never rained. The night's winds dried all, the sky was clear, and the first light of the sun blazed like a fire on the south face of Zla ("Evil") Kolata and its neighboring peaks. And then I bid the Accursed Mountains farewell and followed the Valbonë River south and downhill, unsure whether a boat would be awaiting at Fierzë this time of year to ferry me and the bike across Komani Lake.
