BULGARIA RIDE – TRAVERSING THE SPINE OF A SLUMBERING PREDATOR
Climbing up to the trail that runs along the spine of these mountains and constitutes the longest foot path in Europe (like our Appalachian Trail).
The Grand Tetons of Wyoming were named by French-Canadian trappers who -- hungry for female company -- thought the sharp, pointed peaks looked like breasts. The Matterhorn draws its moniker from the way it thrusts from the surrounding alpine meadows like a bull’s horns from his furred skull. Given that men seem to be charged with naming mountains, somewhere there must be a ‘Le Verge’ or a ‘Der Dödel’ or ‘La Polla,’ dedicated by some lonely explorer or shepherd to his too-long-unattended member. But that mountain isn’t in the Bulgarian Balkans. No, these mountain peaks don’t thrust, but rather lie subtle and sinuous like the spine of some curled, sleeping wolf or bear. And like those ancient predators that still stalk the dark forests and rocky tundra that flank and crest these mountains, you will face consequences if the Balkans wake while you are among them.
No rain or fog obscured the early sun when we mounted our horses. Still, I was wearing everything I had with me – wool bra, wool shirt, down pullover, down vest, rain shell, gloves, ski hat under my riding helmet. Frost lay on the grass outside our remote hostel and the rapid movement of feathery clouds promised a strong wind once we climbed above the cover of the tree line. Marian, our mountain guide, had spilled a large sack of oats on the ground for the horses and they seemed more animated after this breakfast treat and a night of grazing among belled cows. We mounted and turned straight up the slope following Marian, who apparently had not heard of ‘leave no trace.’
A very quick photo op at 2001 meters.
Once on the spine, we continued to climb. In places the path was sandy from years of foot and hoof traffic. In other areas, it course was only discernable by the occasional stacked-stone cairn and the fact that any alternative route would immediately involve the loss of hard-gained elevation. Ultimately, we reached 2001 meters, the highest point in this part of the Balkans. That’s 6,565 feet, or about 300 feet higher than the peak of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. Now, I’m sure my Rocky Mountain readers will scoff at these piddly elevations, but they should be aware that Mt. Washington holds the world record for the highest measured wind speed not associated with a tornado or cyclone. I don’t think anyone has bothered to track wind speeds on the peaks of the very empty Balkans of Bulgaria, but that doesn’t mean the wind doesn’t blow like a bitch here. And, after a few hours up on the ridge, we were all relieved to be told to dismount and lead our horses down a steep trail that descended through flame-red blueberry shrubs toward welcoming pines.
Don’t let the sunshine fool you — it’s cold. The altitude is higher than the peak of Mt. Washington and the latitude North of Chicago.
As per normal, the Czech ladies were in the lead with Marian while Jacqueline, Sophie and I held the rear with our tour guide, Teia. After some 20 minutes of hiking, a significant distance and had opened between me and my fellow travelers both ahead and behind.
A hard ride behind me, I felt just the right amount of ache in my muscles. The wind had quieted and there was only sunshine, the clean smell of pine, and Whiskey’s soft breath warm on the back of my neck. This was pure joy – the climax moment of the trip. As always, it took me by surprise with its intensity and ephemeral nature.
I have wonderful horses and some excellent riding trails at home. Given this, people ask me why I bother to travel around the world to ride horses. It’s this feeling, this moment that animates all the planning, all the travel, all the risk that things could go very wrong. These brief moments of intense connection to a totally new horse in totally alien land are for sure the most primal and among the most joyous of my life.
Whiskey breath — Oaty start with a grassy finish.