(June 12 -14, 2026)
–dadadadadadadadadadadadadada!…….daa-daaa-daaahhh!….indecipherable Slovak lyrics follow…
“So, what is he singing about?” I ask my new acquaintance, Vlado, a jolly, broad shouldered man leading an outdoors group from his region of Orava on a trip to the Zelene Pleso hut, as we bask in the golden hour light illuminating all of the natural amphitheater that towers over and belittles the pond and hut at its base.
It’s a scene which Ted had previously suggested to me would be straight out of a James Bond film. I do not think he was far off. Yet, rather than encountering any diabolical evil madmen, I was being warmly embraced into the most effusive positive vibes of the Slovak culture as I accepted the next offering of Becherovka, a popular herbal firewater of Slovakia.
-“He is singing about why you should drink water, and not rum. Because if you drink rum, then you will speak your mind and end up in jail. These are all secret songs banned from the Communist times.
I guess not everyone was even allowed to have Songs of Freedom, if they had nothing else. And that was not the only one. All evening Majo, the exceptionally charismatic guitarist, bellowed out one goodwill anthem of freedom after another with a backing chorus of fellow revelers both before dinner at the picnic table and late into the night at the mountain pub under the hut, too many shots of Becherovka later to keep track of.
This whole scene was beyond even the best of scripts. And it is exactly why I love to travel so much and open myself to the vulnerability and serendipity of what I will find along the way.
I mean, two days ago, I did not even know this place existed. One day ago, I did not even know if it was possible to secure a last minute reservation at the hut, and today, after starting out my hike in the hangover of the low pressure system that continued to cloak the Tatras in intermittent fog and drizzle, I had no idea if I would even see what any of the mountains here looked like.
Now, I felt like I had won the lottery and a front row seat to the most unique of experiences that 99.99% of the people with my upbringing and background will never know of in their entire lives. It is the sweetest of elixirs. Give it to me straight in the veins, please!
—
Granted, I was a little floaty still after having successfully summited and descended from bagging another peak just an hour and a half earlier that was a bit of a whimsical, yet hair raising endeavor.
Having arrived to the hut comfortably in the mid-afternoon as the skies began to clear from morning fog and drizzle, I figured I would side hike up the adjacent mountain bowl to get another view and trek across some remnant snowfields. Knowing there was a trail to the peak, Jahňací štít (Lamb peak), the weather was still less than completely comforting and I expected to turn around at some point anyhow. I kept going though until I ended up at some chains and an exposed section of steep rock at the headwall. A group coming down all had helmets and approach shoes. They said I was close.
But I was also alone. And hiking boots are not the best scrambling footwear, although they do great with heavy packs and unstable scree. I did the mental calculus and concluded that I was pleased with where I had already reached; after all, this was not some prized objective I had been dreaming of for months or years and the Tatras were only the first of many mountain ranges I intended to explore on this Journey to Nowhere in Particular. Just as I began the first steps down, another group caught up to me.
Ah, f**k it. Just don’t be an idiot.
Life focused in solely to the rock in front of me and my traction to it. Little by little, I made my way upwards to the pass, not looking down, of course. And also not allowing myself to think too much about having to later make the same maneuvers down in reverse.
There, I realized I had further still to go along a serrated and balconied ridge line to the summit, while clouds much less friendly looking than the Slovaks I would meet later taunted from the adjacent peaks.
Alright. Make this quick.
Like a fairy tale, I reach the summit and two chamois (European mountain goat) scatter from their pedestal and down to where, I have no possible idea. What a life.
The glory of the surrounding peaks and fertile verdant valleys of Poland to the north and Slovakia to the south were resounding. Attached to the summit rock with an engraved outline of the peaks along the skyline there was a phrase in Slovak I surely imagined to be inspirational and memorable, if I only I could understand it precisely. Some signs, though, need no translation, you just know.
I take the requisite selfies and soak up the panorama while suppressing the mild vertigo from the sheer cliffs standing sentinel above the mountain valley I now had to begin descending back down to momentarily.
Damn, man. May the spoils go to the victors, indeed.
The group that met me at the chains was still nowhere to be seen. They were far slower going along the ridgeline to the summit than I had been.
I scurry back to the pass above the chain section, passing a different group that had one member clearly outside their comfort zone, nearly becoming incapacitated by their fear. I try to assure them as I pass along.
At the chains, I begin navigating my way down, occasionally encountering a moment where I struggle to find the next foot hold to transfer my weight to. I slow my breathing and instead find another handhold to lower myself a bit further until I can reach the next rocky protrusion to adhere my foot to.
When I eventually reach the trail below the chains I feel like I can actually enjoy having summited the mountain for the first time.
How delightful!
The rest of the hike back to the hut was purely splendid as everything began to take a cheery and joyful glow. I am not entirely sure my feet were touching the ground anymore as I effortless glissaded down the snowfield and along the singletrack. I soon encounter two mountain goats grazing off the path.
No f**king way are those the same ones from the summit?!?! That would be wild. I shall never know.
How could this get any better?
—
After dinner, Lenka, the younger Slovak woman of the group that had welcomed me into their circle, took me on an off-limits hike around the lake at twilight as they had special privileges as members of the mountain club to access the protected area. She spoke English quite well and was able to act as my interlocutor to the group along with Vlado throughout the evening, facilitating a wonderful night in their presence as I broadened my knowledge of Slovak folk songs.
I had flashbacks to another prior experience I had in Slovakia perhaps twenty years earlier with my brother David when we left a wedding early that our stepmother had been invited to and ventured into the local village. Finding a bar where the only person to speak English was the bartender, she brokered a lovely and memorable evening with her cohort, also fueled heavily by Becherovka. In the absence of common language, one of the boys signaled his knowledge of American culture by mimicking Al Bundy’s infamous “hand in the pants” gesture and laughing. A most refined culture we Americans are. I also remember smoking the first and perhaps last cigarette of my life that night and getting sick. I also have fuzzy memories having to climb over fences and walls as we found our way back to the village hotel that night, for reasons I do not entirely recollect.
What is clear to me, however, is the warmth of the Slovak people to welcome inquisitive strangers into their presence and make you feel at home in the most humbling of ways.
“Lenka, I took a picture from the summit, can you tell me what this means?
Život je unikát, nenech ho unikať“
–Of course! “Life is precious. Don’t let it slip away!”
Indeed. I will harbor this experience with me to my last days.
—-
The next day, I delighted in a blissful five hour hike into the adjacent valley and up to another mountain pass that I had intended to cross if it were not closed due to apparent avalanche destruction of the path. On the way down an alternate trail, I passed the most spectacular meadow with a field on fire with bursting yellow marsh marigolds along the shore of a pond.
After a soup break at another charming mountain hut before the final descent down into the forested valley, I found that my pace slowed substantially. Not for difficulty of path nor complexity in route finding, rather due to the most riveting displays of wildflowers blossoming at every interval that I had to stop regularly to inspect the minutiae. Almost annoyingly so, if not for their wondrous beauty.
I could not help but draw the parallel of this experience to life as a whole. We tend to seek out our proverbial mountain peaks that will anoint us with some revered status, sense of accomplishment, and validation of self-worth. Yet, despite all the grandeur and focus on these monumental tasks, worthy as they are, many spectacular displays of wonder and simple joy can be harvested from what is right there with us all the time, presented to us in forms as simple as the miniature flowers at our feet. I am reminded of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poem “Hamatreya” in which he cites that “Earth laughs in flowers” as it amuses in the folly of man.
They can be things too easy to be taken for granted, or glanced over entirely. But with an ounce of discernment to slow down and refocus on the exceptional detail and beauty around us, nature, and even the people amongst us, can possess the power to alight our world with happiness and awe if only we are to give them the attention and time to do so.
I was so impressed that my next blog post will be short on text and long on imagery as I will catalogue the most spectacular wildflowers I came across on what was expected to be the least exciting part of my hike out back to the nearest road and the village of Tatranska Lomnica.
But first, another Slovakian hut folk song:
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