After I hiked up to the Cerna ridge from Cerna-Sat and survived my first three flocks of well-protected sheep, it was time to encounter… the next flock of sheep! It’s Day Three of my traverse of the Cerna ridge, and I wake up to very strong winds, and an equally strong awareness that I need to get going fast so as to beat ‘the flock with the bad shepherds and evil dogs’ to it. I’ve been warned against those by the previous shepherds, and I’m a little bit concerned. By ‘beating them to it’ I mean passing them before they get to the ridge; they will have to climb up from the valley several hundreds of metres below me, so I have an advantage. If I get going on time, that is.

Beating the sheep

And it works – just! The super strong wind is working in my favour here: it’s literally almost blowing me off my feet, but it’s also blowing from the valley the sheep are coming from. Meaning that the dogs won’t be able to smell me, and I will be able to hear and smell them more easily. Which is just what happens: I smell the sheep and hear their bells before I see them. This does mean they are rather close to the ridge. So I speed up, and by doing so, I manage to stay ahead of them. I seem to go unnoticed; as I look back, 500 hundred metres on or so, the sheep are crossing my trail. Phew! I will never know whether I had reason to be concerned, but I’d rather give these dogs and shepherds the… what is the opposite of ‘the benefit of the doubt’?! Well, the opposite of that. Also, it was a nice challenge to start the day off with.

When you think the hardest part is over – and it’s not

Some days are so eventful that come evening you’ve forgotten where you woke up in the morning. This was one of them. Day Three is the day I’m beginning to get the hang of it, and beginning to feel it too. The trail is easier today, although the crazy wind adds an extra element. But the going is good, and I even get to traverse a lovely rocky ridge after mostly grass and bushiness, so I’m happy. I pass Vlascul Mare and Vlascul Mic Peak (which is, in fact, taller than the Mare, which means ‘big’), and then start the descent to Ciumerna Saddle. From here, I could potentially exit towards the lovely hamlets of Inelet and Prisacina. I visited those last autumn and have fond memories. I would love to visit Mr and Mrs Talpes at their lovely farmstead in Prisacina – with a watermill that is still in use to grind polenta – or climb the ladders to Inelet again, but for now, the memories will have to do. I do realize that, if it had been rainy and cold on top of the wind, I would probably have wanted to descend here. But no such thing is happening today. I conclude I have left the alpine section of the trail behind, and gratefully fill my bottles at the trough below Cusmita Peak. Finally, a good water source again. I’m ready for a few more kilometres.

And that means one more big climb. The Komoot app informs me that it’s going to be super steep, so I brace myself for that, but it doesn’t feel very steep at all. First off, I enter an enchanting beech forest, the wind rustling through the leaves. This is a feeling of wellbeing I find hard to describe: the interplay between shadow and sunlight, the sensation of the breeze on your skin and in your ears, the temperature just right, meanwhile making a bit of an effort – but slowly climbing up isn’t hard when it’s so beautiful. Out in the open again, I’m surprised to find myself facing a big rocky mass again: the constellation of Arjana (1511 m) and Zascol (1491 m) Peaks. Just looking at the map and the altitude, I wouldn’t have expected this decidedly alpine scenery again. But I like it well enough; getting to Zascol Peak requires some pleasant clambering. Komoot deceives me as well; it takes me longer to get to Zascol Peak than expected and requires more altitude gain too. Apps only get you so far, even when you pay for them; and the Muntii Nostri map isn’t very detailed either.

So all of a sudden I find myself in a situation I couldn’t have anticipated: on Zascol Peak, I find a signpost with a warning – difficult trail ahead. And I can see that: in front of, and below me, is a dazzlingly sharp rocky ridge, with a very steep drop to the right. And the only route is right over the top of it. With the wind still going strong and coming from the left, a heavy pack on my back and a tired body (it’s after 4 pm now), there is nothing for me to do but to face it. Or turn back, I realize much later – but that is not an option in my book, unless it absolutely cannot be avoided. Sometimes you think you’ve done the hardest part, and then you haven’t. And then you just do it.

There is some swearing involved though, because this ridge scares me to death – and kicks the life right back into me, because I sure as hell don’t want to die here. Yes, it did feel like that. The route was bolted in places – I can see why people would want to secure themselves here, but I don’t have that luxury. So I just hold on for dear life and am very, very cautious. Sometimes I send some loose scree down into the abyss and it just dances down on the wind – I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. This ridge certainly is a match for Custura Saratii in the Fagaras – it’s harder in fact because you have to stay right on top – but fortunately, it’s also much shorter. After half an hour or so, I am finally allowed to descend from the back of the dragon. To my pleasant surprise and relief, I find myself in a gorgeous grassy saddle – the most pastoral scenery after the most brutal of rocks. I contemplate whether I should keep going and descend to the hamlet of Poiana Lunga, but I quickly realize this is, in fact, the perfect spot for my tent and my shaky body. It’s also close to 5 pm and it looks like rain. A night of contentment follows; with a flushed face and red and sticky hands – the residue of rocks and effort – I cook my meal and then listen to the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of my tent.

The last long day

At 6:40 I wake from a dream in which someone was moving constantly under a very creaky duvet. Upon waking, it turns out to be the wind that’s making my tent flap. I witness one of the most fabulous sunrises of my life; the glowing hues of the sky the perfect backdrop for the imposing rocks I conquered yesterday. The descent to Poiana Lunga is easy enough; I find a spring with a trickle and fill my bottles but forget to wash my sticky hands! I meet two horses, see a car drive by and hear some voices at a farmstead, but have no face-to-face encounters with humans. Good, because I don’t want them.

From here I know the way: last year I did this stretch of the ridge with my friend Mirela and two dogs, in the snow. Nevertheless, the ascent through the forest proves to be tricky; the marks are scarce and faded and I manage to lose the trail, muttering under my breath what a cunt of a forest this is. Lots of brambles too. Ultimately, I arrive in Poiana Cicolovete, from where a new-to-me section of the trail starts: now firmly descending towards Baile Herculane. I can already look into the Cerna Valley and see houses. But first, more prickly bushes.

I arrive in Poiana cu Peri with quite a few scratches but otherwise unscathed. The spring named after the Habsburg Empress Sisi – Izvorul Elisabeta – is nowhere to be found, but I’m pleased that she, too, loved hiking here, and wrote poetry about her adventures. At night I hear lots of sounds in the forest, and I saw a big poo in daytime – bears? Several locals assure me later there are none here, but whose are the big berry-filled poos, then?! The sounds I’m hearing are probably just the thick drops of rain falling on the leaves. Or badgers. Or squirrels. Or deer. I dutifully cooked away from my tent, but then realized I wanted to save some dinner for breakfast – and where else am I going to keep it but in my tent? If the bears want food – or any other animal for that matter – I’m an easy target. But there’s no meat in it, and I doubt they like pasta. Am I careless? I don’t know. I like to think of it more as trusting. The animals, and my instincts. Is that naive? Again, I don’t know. I just have pretty strong instincts, and I like to rely on them. If I ever feel unsafe somewhere or something feels off, I leave.

Down to the springs!

It’s easy to get up for my morning pee. Now at an altitude of only 750 m, it’s positively warm – and what I see when I get out of the tent makes me renounce any intention of going back to bed for a bit: the valley to the west is filled up with a duvet of clouds – the sky above it a shy blue and salmony pink. Many pictures are taken, and I leave at 8:30, effortlessly. The forest is bathing in soft morning light; I pass a lovely refuge that wasn’t here the last time I passed in 2018. This trail is dominated by several lovely gazebos (‘foisori’); the first one has me gasp again, because from it, I can see another cloud inversion above the Cerna Valley. Sisi was here. It’s extra pleasing when you realize it’s foggy down there! You just need to be on the right side of the clouds. I make a quick detour to Grota cu Aburi – a cave from which steam escapes – and bathe my face in the vapours: just the right temperature, and with only a slight sulfuric smell. When I come back to the gazebo the clouds have all but evaporated – so I just got lucky!

The descent to Baile Herculane is only marred by the sound of chainsaws. So much of what we call civilization is in fact industrialization, or at least shaped by it. I resent this, yet everything I’m carrying and wearing was made thanks to industrial processes. As a nature lover, I find it hard to reconcile these elements of life; it makes me feel like I’m cheating on nature. But at the same time I don’t think there’s any escaping it, or that it’s possible to live life perfectly. But you can aspire to doing good, and uphold some standards for yourself.

I change into my bikini in the forest – better here than under the gaze of others – and half-reluctantly walk towards Hotel Roman. I can smell humans: a whiff of cigarette smoke, something soapy, the hotel kitchen – heavy on the sunflower oil. And then I’m there: people, cars, but most importantly, the hot spring! It’s surprisingly busy – mostly elderly people bobbing around in the tiled pools and in the river. A bulky man massages people on a table for everyone to see, a makeshift changing cabin made of colourful towels and sheets next to him. I dump my pack, undress, and lower myself into the hot water, inching my butt in close to another woman. Turns out I don’t mind the nearness of people here at all – there’s a togetherness here, all warming ourselves by the same source. The spring itself is scorching hot – 47°C according to my watch – but in the lower pool, where the hot water mingles with the river, it’s a pleasant 38 to 41°C, depending on where you are seated. There’s a lot of gemütliche chat about the quality of the hotels, the temperatures of the various pools, the food… I spend a full two hours soaking myself, and also absorb a comment that can be taken as either compliment or insult from an elderly lady: I must be insane, walking up there all by myself. I don’t mind it; Romanian directness generally amuses me, and if this is what insanity brings me, I’ll take it. Give me more.

Map

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