Land of Many Borders PART II
Trekking Through Mountain Wilderness
John Herlihy
“The clearest way in the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”
John Muir (1890)John in the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir
The next day would take Peter and me into the depths of the Bosnian mountain wilderness. This was to be the highlight of our Bosnian adventure and Peter was taking his duties as guide very seriously. That night in our rafting camp, after a brilliant dinner of lamb on a make-shift open-air hearth amply garnished with roasted potatoes coated brown with meat juices, Peter and another local guide sat together in a huddle to make out the best trekking route though the mountains the next day. Peter was relying on the expertise of the local guide to extend the knowledge he had already gleaned from maps and GSM services on his mobile. Peter and I were good buddies, friends; but I could see a close camaraderie between these two strangers who were bound together by language, culture and mutual experience and found among the people of your own race and nation. “Done,” Peter announced over desert, a number of thick, gooey cheese pastries dripping with honey that Peter downed in one gulp and a boyish grin. “Tomorrow, we are on the road into the wilderness.”
Early next morning, we made our way deeper into the mountain highlands. Our destination was to be a beautiful mountain lake deeply set in the mountain wilderness with no accessible roads to the area. One could approach the mountain paradise only on foot. The mountains themselves were famous for harboring partisans from a number of wars, including of course World War II, when the brave and valiant partisans marched en masse through the mountains singing of life and freedom from the tyranny of the Germans who occupied their land down below at sea level. I could almost hear the choral sound of their collected voices echoing across the ages as well as the mountains as one unified voice. My own valiant friend and guide Peter, appropriately dressed for the journey with heavy walking shoes and a functional cloth safari hat with an overhanging flap around the back to protect his neck from the sun, led the way forward deeper into the mountain cliffs like a mountain ranger. I began to sing a few bars from one of Verdi’s operas, like the partisans expressing my own inner sense of freedom, but the tonal splendor of my natural tenor’s voice was quieted quickly by Peter, who barked back that I should keep quiet to conserve my energy. Not to take up an argument when none was called for, I immediately stopped singing the aria and it was well that I did for, in the coming journey, I had no true idea what I would have to reckon with.
The mighty mountains seemed to agree because the silence was deafening, as though pretending to be sound. At one point, at the beginning of the trek and within the first hour, we simple stood and stared at the display of nature’s might, unaccustomed as we were to her imposing presence in such a primeval wilderness. Enough to say that we were both overwhelmed with emotions that we could hardly describe. Peter at one point took a deep break and put his hands on his chest, before rhapsodizing in a few carefully selected words: “Ah du lieber zeit, how butiful, it fills the heart mit vonder.” Peter was the talker; I the listener. “Indeed, Peter, you are right again. I wish to drink the magnificent scene in,” I replied in kind, and he smiled in appreciation before forging onward, as though ready to put the entire scene into his pocket, the flaps of his wonderful cap blowing merrily in the wind. I myself was not so well endowed and needed to cover my head and shoulders with a dingy towel that Peter had fortuitously thrown into the car that morning. My own hat, a 2 dollar wonder, I had set down on a ledge while gearing up for the rafting trip and then forgot about. When we returned later that day, it was gone.
One after the other, the colossal mountains grouped together in various attitudes along the horizon wherever we turned, for indeed we were surrounded by them on all sides. We would walk through them, over them, not under them. Every rocky crag seems to hide a fierce, scowling face, as though the mountain itself were gazing down upon us and wondering about the audacity of our presence there among the stately stones. We soon quickened our pace and proceeded to trek along a precarious path in which a single misstep would send me cascading unceremoniously down the steep incline, to join the fearsome display of rocks and boulders that lay strewn about everywhere down the hill, the result no doubt of tremendous winter avalanches that periodically take place, leaving a residue of small, sharp and treacherous rocks along the pathway we travelled. One couldn’t help but think that if a person were suddenly caught up in such an event as a thunderous avalanche while walking through the area, he/she would bid a sudden and quick adieu to the world that we live in and love before being swept away into the darkness of oblivion. Even if we do live on as ethereal, otherworldly souls, this particular life and destiny would be gone forever.
I soon realized that we were not only now in the thick of the forest with its mass of undergrowth; but we were heading downhill as well. Trekking downhill can be treacherous, even more treacherous some say than going uphill. A false step over rocks or tree roots heading downward and a person could take a serious tumble and do damage, a broken ankle for example, that would put a serious damper on the proceedings as well as compromising the adventure of the day. This isn’t what was bothering me, however. Hey, I thought at first, this is easy, down, down, down the mountain slope into the valley below. This is a piece of cake until I suddenly realized that we would have to follow our footsteps on the return trip, up, up, and further up the side of the mountain track for hundreds of meters, seemingly hundreds of miles. “I hope this doesn’t go downhill for much longer,” I shouted up ahead, for Peter was bounding forward like a panther on the hunt; but he didn’t hear me being much too far forward. It is just as well, I thought to myself. I would get through the day and its challenges, come what may, without bleating like a forlorn sheep to my friend Peter. I told him I wanted to do the trek and I was going to do it without complaining.
Putting all thoughts about the return trek away in a back pocket, we finally arrived in the grasslands and wild flowers of the valley below, nestled like a heavenly meadow tucked between the mountains encroaching on this quiet pasture from all sides. There was something of a path to follow, meager though it was and overrun by shrubs and wild flowers. What seemed like an enchanting grassland from the height of the mountain side was quite a tangled bit of brush and undergrowth, admittedly all verdant green even close up and trumped in a way by what seemed like hand-painted flowers. After the treacherous ups and down of the mountain side, I had a chance to catch my breath and look around to enjoy the dramatic scenery surrounding me, indeed filling me. My feelings of surrender and peace where short-lived, however, when I soon realized that in order to reach our destination, a pristine lake tucked away in the wilderness that served us as motivation and distant dream justifying the efforts of the trek, we would have to climb up again and through the other side of the mountain. Nature’ indifference to the plight of humanity only fortified me for the coming trek uphill; I wasn’t going to be conquered by the unconquerable.
I am listening intently; but hear nothing. The silence is overwhelming, impressive, deafening. Seeing is something else. I notice on a nearby tree a trembling leaf; but again it is the silence of the image that I notice, listening as if hearing. Sunlight flooded the great, silent land becoming remnants of shade everywhere behind every tree trunk and leaf. The individual fragments of nature’s puzzle seem to have fallen into a blended perfection, a panorama whose totality reflected the recurring mystery of the Divinity that we are confronted with as we walk through this primeval forest. Many trees, towering above one another standing there silently in my presence like a devout audience. The late afternoon sunlight showered the tree tops with its eternal blessing, as though saying in benediction: “My peace I give unto you.” The branches, leaves, indeed, the great heaving tree trunks seem to stand in idle speculation, only to sink into sleep under the great, golden, tender midsummer sun, filtering through the trees its buttery, creamy light. Yes, even the wind has settled down to keep its vow of holy silence. I take in the silence as a palpable presence, wrapping itself around the mind with its loving embrace, to fill the heart with its quietude; its simple statement ready to cure the ills of the world. The splendor of it seemed to transcend individual preferences and human life itself. Go out of the house on a routine day and the sun is a mere tinker toy, tinsel of the mind, there for our convenience and pleasure. But on a journey into a primeval forest, totally alone you and the deepest wild, nature lifts its multiple veils, its various artifacts seem to descend from on high and you begin to feel the stirring of your own soul, nothing else could contain such might and magnificence.
“The clearest way in the Universe is through a forest wilderness.,” wrote John Muir nearly a hundred years ago, because the wilderness fills you with the universe somehow, echoing my sentiments exactly. Wilderness indeed, not a soul in sight. I see magnificent mountains. I see lush meadows replete with wild summer flowers that fill with wonder the silent places between the beating of my heart. Then what is that in the distance but a lonely horse, looking tired and old, tied to a solitary sapling of a pine tree at the edge of the hilly incline leading back into the forested mountainside, seemingly abandoned and on its own, content to munch of the available greens.
As the first sign of life, apart from the birds and the bees (which were many and ominous), the horse was the first sign of true life in this abiding wilderness. There is yet another hill to climb, but I now see an imaginary light at the end of the tunnel, one more hill, one last turn, one final struggle to overcome the mountain with personal strength and fortitude. My intrepid guide Peter disappeared over the distant hilltop on the legs of an agile grasshopper and is now gone . . . with the wind as they say. You couldn’t fault him for having the right equipment, storage belts, suitable footwear, sunglasses, safari caps and of course the ever-present mobile equipped with navigator software that traces and measures everything about the trip, right down to the number of footsteps one takes, 8,126 so far today, he told me earlier. (“Not 8,127 Peter,” I ask with irony as a look of bewilderment flashed for a second across his face that I quite enjoyed.) And he was carrying our lunch on his back, so I couldn’t fault him too much without appearing ungrateful.
Leaving me alone in mountainous forest terrain, however, an old man dressed in exhaustion and sweat with a filthy towel wrapped around his neck, wasn’t part of the deal. What if I fainted or fell. Peter could be on the other side of the moon by then. I shouted into the eerie silence and heard the sudden rush of flapping wings overhead, comforting, at least to know that I wasn’t completely alone, that the birds would watch over my demise. Seconds, minutes, seemingly hours later, I vaguely see Peter’s head through the foliage of the trees, disembodied, sitting at the crest of the hill beyond, a huge grin on his face. “Mister Chohn,” he shouted back, his intonation rising then lowering as though dealing with a truant child who needed to be spanked. I don’t like to intrude myself or my attitudes too much on other people. Admittedly, my friend Peter, the big oaf that he was, had his endearing qualities that you couldn’t fault him for, and these no doubt overrode his minor oversights. And I wanted him to have a good time; bounding forward like a tiger was in his nature. I didn’t want to harness that, just for the sake of a petty gripe. Perhaps I needed to be alone and on my own in this forest wilderness at least for a time, something I could treasure (and write about), rather than something to complain about.
Peter’s disembodied head appeared once again through the shafts of sun-light in the distant horizon and I heard his echoing call, “Mister John,” ricochet across the tree tops. Good news, I thought, when he addresses me in this way, feeling guilty and wish to convey good news. “I see the lake in the distance.” The lake was like the shining knight in armour, the distant star about to be reached, the moon come down onto the palm of my hand, the distant horizon revealing some mystery beyond the edge of beyond. This is why we had been trekking valiantly through mountainous wilderness for many hours. For once, my destination seemed to be within reach, a place to settle down and reap the benefit of the hours of an eternal time. With renewed reserves of energy drawn from some deep inner well, I mustered courage to climb and then cross one final tree-infested mountain ridge where I met up with my friend Peter who was graciously waiting for me to share together the glorious sight of this placid inner lake reflecting the blue-green of the heavens on that clear, calm day as though it owned the sky and had every right to drink in the waters of Mother Nature’s celestial palette.
Peter and I rushed down through the tall grasses surrounding the lake to-ward a shaded bench with a kind of make-shift table so that we could drink in the sight of the lake and absorb its abiding presence at leisure. We were hardly seated with time enough to utter a contented sigh when the stillness of the setting was shattered with the shocking sound of a rifle shot coming from nearby. Peter and I exchanged questioning glances filled with annoyance at the sound of this rude interruption to the serene interlude. Out of the nearby forest emerged an old man naked to the waist with coveralls covering him as he sat on the wooden saddle of the horse that I had previously met in the valley earlier. He had a vintage World War II rifle pivoted against his hip that pointed toward the open sky, a thin trail of smoke still floating from the gun’s barrel with its calligraphic message of violence and aggression. He rode by at a little distance without glancing our way, as though we didn’t exist, as though nothing could disturb his ownership of this natural setting, not even two strangers, foreigners no less, that would soon be gone with the rest of the day-trekkers. Peter, however, is the inveterate talker and socializer and couldn’t resist wandering over to visit with the fellow, who had a serviceable bungalow nearby to live in as he went about his duties as forest ranger. “Nice way to live,” Peter later commented after he returned with a guilty smile from his information gathering.
“You finish your lunch; I am going to run around the lake.” Peter announced with flair as he towered over me. He had already swallowed a few tomatoes whole and downed a bulky sandwich roll filled with chicken salad as though it were table crumbs. I was content enough to see him go. I just couldn’t get enough of the sight of the lake, as though I had never seen one before. Nestled as it was between the surrounding cliffs of the various mountains of the mountain chain in this area, the lake seemed to be the pristine leftover from some glacial past that had dredged open the lake and left its pristine waters behind for the benefit of future generations who may pass by.
Peter stripped of his backpack and various water belts and pant pouches to commence the run, the flutes of the safari cap still blowing merrily in the wind. I was happy to be left behind, on my own again with myself and my own reflections, happily munching of the chicken sandwich roll that Peter had fortuitously made and packed much earlier that morning. Accompanied by watery cucumbers and red-ripe tomatoes with a dash of salt and pepper to soothe my parched throat, I ate to my heart’s content as I gazed out upon the waters of the lake reflecting the mountain and sky above as though painted by the Hand of the Divinity into the very ripples of the changing currents and wavelets. Yes, Peter did punctuate the solemnity of the moment with his adventurous run around the lake, a distance that at a rough estimate must have been about 5 miles in circumference amid boulders and brambles that would challenge the stamina of any man, particularly after having just done a 4 hour trek through mountain wilderness. But Peter was not to be stopped, always challenging himself, always reaching beyond his limitations, always growing and enriching himself and those around him with his unbelievable stamina and courage to take life on.
A good number of words have gone into describing the initial trek into the mountain wilderness; therefore I will not tax the endurance of the reader by further describing the return journey. I will refrain from boring the reader with further suggestions about the effort, the struggle, the weariness, the exhaustion, the frustration and despair that resulted from the interaction of body and mind dealing with such an effort of a trek. It is perhaps enough to say that the return journey was different in quality than the initial hiking into the interior. On the way in, time passes then stalls, there is a slowing down and individuals may wonder if/when they will ever arrive at their destination without giving up the ghost. The destination itself seems to become more and more of a mirage that disappears at the top of every rocky hill and crag. On the return journey, however, you know what you’ve done, the pacing is different, up that hill, down that slope, through the valley marking roughly the halfway point, not much more to go, soon enough, there’s another half hour to end station. You have been there before, so you know what to expect and can pace yourself accordingly. The end of near and so is the accomplishment.
I looked up to see contented cows made their cautious way across perilously steep slopes in the upper echelons of the mountain’s tree line. Lush meadows lay about like scattered carpets to serve the hungry cows as they studiously bent down to nibble and tear as the dense grasses and undergrowth. The sound of cowbells echoed soft-metalled and strangely hollow across the top layers of undergrowth, a dull sound in which there was emergent music buried somewhere beneath the random rhythms. It’s amazing how silence suddenly comes alive with unexpected sounds, a chirping bird here, a random moo there, to temper the silence with living sound. The cow bells floating through the area with their mysterious enchantment, a kind of melodious coda to the arduous trek. There was good grazing up there and the cows were a sight to behold. They have come a good distance to get there and from that vantage point could see a good distance in compensation if they were so inclined. Indeed, there were a couple of bovine glances our way as I made the final trudge up the last hill toward the finish line. I remember thinking: If I knew what was in store for me at the beginning of the trip, I would have turned around and made for more distant, more comfortable hills. Instead, I had braved the route and done the course. Satisfaction and sheer relief now flooded my mind and heart.
While I've always enjoyed the wilderness and immersed myself in it several times, I never took the time to absorb the fine nuances you have described in this, rather difficult at your age, journey to a mountain lake and your return. If I could go that route now, I might attempt such a description, but I'm afraid I would use much fewer words.
Often times when arriving at a place like this, perhaps driving for hours, with hours yet to drive, I had to forgo a trek into the inner sanctum described on some sign. Oh, how I wish I had been able to take the time to take those walks.
Twice, I recall visiting the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. From the overlook, there was a lake below. Both times we were there we took the half hour walk that it took to go down to Lake of the Clouds, but Mirror Lake was much more distant, and, perhaps, more primitive. I regretted never having the time to walk there.
Continue to post your travelogues. It's like being there.
The details of your mountain journey to behold the sight of an obscure lake was an arduous trek with all the spiritual rewards granted by the wilderness. Silence is golden because it enables us to hear and see what may have eluded us otherwise.
Your knack to convey all of this through artistic imagery resonates with the reader, imparting its own separate peace.
