Mid-July 2019. Summer was in full swing, and I had just completed my two-week Odyssey across Greece—just in the nick of time, too. The brutal heatwave that followed would have likely ruined any attempt at traveling there afterward. My summer plans included one last adventure before leaving Europe, but first I needed some rest. I returned to Romania for the rest of July to spend time with family and old friends. With my new life across the Atlantic looming on the horizon, who knew when—or if—I’d see them again.
The Things That Stay Behind
This would also, sadly, be the last time I saw my beloved cat. The super-chatty Siamese little beast I had grown up with for nineteen years had visibly aged while I’d been away in Denmark. Silver-white strands dotted his once pristine black-and-beige fur. His high-energy, hyper-playful antics had been replaced by a sober, tired, and overly cuddly demeanor. By this point, he was no longer just a pet but an integral part of the family—and perhaps the strongest reminder of time passing.
My furry old friend with increasingly cloudy eyes and worsening hearing
He would have about one more year left to live before my mom had to make the tough decision—reluctantly, heart-wrenchingly—to put him to sleep due to organ failure. I would be far away in Canada when it happened.
Canada, however, was still a couple of months away.
I spent the rest of July trying to revisit some of my old hiking and cycling spots in Romania. Apart from one or two spots, I mostly failed due to the oppressive heatwave and the endless small things that kept popping up and eating away at time—a theme that would repeat itself every time I returned. Before I knew it, the month was over, and I was boarding a series of planes to embark on what would be my last European adventure of the year: EUGEN, Lithuania.
One Last Adventure Before Leaving Europe
This would be my fourth time attending EUGEN (the European Geoscience Network) summer camp, following the wildly successful 2018 event in Austria. Considering that the PhD position I had landed in Canada came from an advertisement posted in the EUGEN social media group I’d joined the year before, I felt like I owed the organization this trip.
Revisiting the Roman Valley in Maramureș county, Romania
Besides, one final week-long gathering—equal parts science, chaos, and celebration—with a group of like-minded geologists felt like the perfect send-off before leaving Europe. The only truly annoying part was getting to Lithuania.
When searching for flights from Romania, I quickly realized that most routes from the nearest international airport in Cluj were aimed at Mediterranean holiday destinations or Western Europe. Nothing toward Poland, nothing toward the Baltics. I eventually found myself flying in the complete opposite direction—to Turkey—spending yet another night in an airport (my third one that summer), and then catching a next-day flight to Vilnius.
The flashy Istanbul, or as some of us like to still call it – Constantinople, Airport
As far as overnight airport survival goes, Istanbul Airport was definitely better than Geneva, though still not quite on par with Athens. It was massive, with plenty of long benches to lie down on, but I couldn’t find a properly quiet, dimly lit corner the way I had in Athens. Still—Turkish Airlines was decent, the prices reasonable, and I eventually made it north.
And so began my Lithuanian chapter.
Arrival in the Baltics
I arrived in Vilnius a tired zombie. Poor sleep and a long chain of flights had taken their toll. I’d booked a small room for one night at Ecotel Vilnius, and with just a single day to explore Lithuania’s capital before heading to camp, I decided not to waste it napping.
Giant hand sculpture in Vilnius, Lithuania
The fresh, cool Baltic air was a gift after weeks of oppressive heat in southeastern Europe. It was sharp, clean, and quietly energizing — just enough to keep my tired ass alert and moving. Vilnius immediately felt different. Less rushed. Less loud. A city shaped as much by forests and rivers as by empires.
Gediminas Hill in the heart of Vilnius
Lithuania itself has a surprisingly complex history for such a compact country. Once the core of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania — one of the largest states in Europe during the Middle Ages — it later entered a long union with Poland, endured occupations by neighboring powers, and eventually found itself folded into the Soviet Union. Vilnius, sitting at the crossroads of Eastern and Northern Europe, carries traces of all of it in its architecture, languages, and rhythms.
Gediminas Hill and the Birth of a City
As I wandered the streets, occasionally checking Google Maps for nearby highlights, I slowly made my way toward Gediminas Hill — the symbolic heart of Vilnius.
At the top stands Gediminas’ Tower, the remaining octagonal brick structure of the 15th-century Upper Castle, crowned by the Lithuanian tricolor. According to legend, Grand Duke Gediminas dreamt of an iron wolf howling atop the hill — a sign interpreted as a call to build a great city whose fame would echo across the world. Whether myth or propaganda, Vilnius was born here.
Gediminas’ Tower overlooking the city
Small groups of visitors appeared near the tower. Judging by the languages floating around — mostly German and French, a few Nordics, and locals — it was busy enough to feel alive, yet spacious enough to breathe. Nothing remotely resembling the dense, relentless crowds of the Acropolis in Athens.
A Quiet Capital
Vilnius struck me as a genuinely calm city — easily the most relaxed capital I’d visited up to that point. The contrast with Athens’ chaos, and even Copenhagen’s perpetual tourist season, was stark and welcome.
St. Anne’s Church glowing in the Vilnius sunset
From the tower, the city opened up below me. Among the landmarks I could identify was St. Anne’s Church, a late Gothic masterpiece in Vilnius Old Town, built entirely from red clay bricks. Its intricate façade stood out sharply against the skyline, with modern buildings quietly receding behind it. As the sun dipped lower and my stomach began to complain, it became clear that sightseeing would soon give way to something more urgent.
Grand Duke Gediminas dramatically claiming the sky
On my way down the hill, I passed the Monument to Grand Duke Gediminas, depicting the city’s founder beside his horse, sword in hand, gesturing forward. Nearby stood Vilnius Cathedral, a neoclassical landmark with its grand columned portico and separate bell tower. Beautiful in the fading light, it somehow felt even more imposing once illuminated at night.
Sour, Dill, and Satisfaction
It was finally dinner time — and time to try some local cuisine.
I started with Šaltibarščiai — a very hostile-sounding dish, packed with angry-looking letters. As it turned out, it was simply a sour beetroot soup. Refreshing and pleasantly sharp, it proved far less aggressive than its name suggested. The ingredients included grated beets, kefir, cucumbers, dill, and green onions, often accompanied by boiled potatoes. Odd at first glance, but surprisingly fitting after a long summer day.
Šaltibarščiai — The classic unmistakable Lithuanian pink soup
Next came pickled herring, topped with onions, sauce, tomato, and greens. By this point, I was beginning to notice a clear pattern: Lithuanians seemed to have a strong and unapologetic relationship with sour flavors.
Finally, cepelinai — traditional potato dumplings made from grated raw and cooked potatoes, usually filled with meat or cheese. Served with sour cream and dill. Of course. Sourness and dill once again. I felt I had gotten the message.
A hearty cepelinas with sour cream
And honestly? I really enjoyed the new tastes. It was a stark departure from the warm, aromatic Mediterranean blends I’d grown used to — heavier, sharper, and deeply satisfying in its own way.
Vilnius Cathedral and bell tower shining after dark
With my belly full and sleep finally winning the internal argument, I returned to the hotel and passed out almost instantly. The following morning, I would board a bus heading southwest — toward endless Lithuanian forests and the EUGEN campsite.
Into the Woods
The campsite lay somewhere in southern Lithuania, in the Alytus region. I don’t remember the exact name — Lithuanian place names have a way of refusing to stick — though it may well have been Baublio Krantas campground. In any case, it was exactly what you’d want for something like EUGEN: dense forest wrapped around a lake, a large wooden cabin for cooking and gatherings, and plenty of space for tents scattered among the trees.
Our campsite by the lake, somewhere in southern Lithuania
That year we had around 120 participants from 15 countries. When introducing myself, I went with the returning Romanian–Hungarian from Denmark. There were plenty of familiar faces from the previous year. Among them were my two closest EUGEN friends: Moritz from Germany and David from Spain. Before long, a third joined our little orbit — a fun, down-to-earth English bloke named Magnus.
Brothers David, Magnus and I on our ritualistic prayer before Old Woody the Lithuanian Woodman in the background
The four of us quickly fell into an easy rhythm — less a gang and more a loosely organized alliance held together by shared humor, curiosity, and questionable decision-making.
First Night, Worst Night
We kicked things off the traditional EUGEN way: with a mandatory party that started sometime in the early afternoon and dragged on well into the night. Alcohol once again flowed like it had been tapped directly from a spring beneath the campsite.
The sunsets over the lake were quite something
I don’t remember exactly which night it was, but given my long-standing habit of getting absolutely plastered on the first evening, chances are it was that one. At some point late at night, I realized I had completely forgotten where I’d pitched my tent.
There I was — fumbling clumsily with my phone in the pitch-dark Lithuanian woods, shivering from the cold yet far too drunk to properly register it. I very nearly crawled into someone else’s tent before a sudden epiphany struck: I remembered exactly where mine was.
The Mystery Tent
To avoid being swarmed by late-night visitors — a mistake I’d made in Austria in 2018 — I’d intentionally placed my tent a bit further away, down a slope. Peace and quiet, I’d thought. Brilliant planning. I finally collapsed inside and fell asleep instantly… in the worst position imaginable. My head was on the downhill side of the slope.
There you were! You sneaky little orange dome you!
I woke up early the next morning nauseous, bladder bursting, and with what felt like the worst headache of my life. I stumbled out, relieved myself, crawled back in, and passed out again — still in the same position. This cycle repeated several times before I finally woke closer to noon, still feeling like death and slowly realizing that gravity had been sending every last bodily fluid straight to my skull all night.
I eventually flipped around, lay there motionless for a while, and attempted to reassemble myself. Recovery took most of the day, and from that point on I kept my drinking to a strict minimum for the rest of the week. Lesson learned. Again.
Field Trip I: Wood, Sand, and Swamps
As with every EUGEN event, we had three field trip days.
The first took us to the sandy plains of southeastern Lithuania around Marcinkonys, deep in Dzūkija National Park. We explored traditional pinewood constructions, local wood-carving practices, and an artist’s museum filled with large wooden sculptures.
Elaborate folk wood sculpture of a bearded forest guardian figure surrounded by animals
In this region, wood carving is still a living tradition. Villages like Marcinkonys preserve ethnocultural practices where elaborate carvings adorn homes, roadside shrines (koplytstulpiai), and public spaces. I remember visiting an outdoor gallery of striking wooden sculptures in an ethnographic village — works that blended pagan folklore, Christian symbolism, and nature motifs, typical of Lithuania’s dievdirbiai (“god-carvers”) tradition.
Detailed wooden carving of the Pensive Christ
Our final stop was the Čepkeliai State Nature Reserve, Lithuania’s largest bog and one of its most pristine wetland ecosystems. Spanning over 11,200 hectares near the Belarusian border, it protects a mosaic of raised bogs, fens, black alder swamps, and flooded forests. The peat layer reaches up to six meters thick, with small relict lakes scattered throughout — remnants of ancient glacial landscapes.
Panoramic vista of the expansive raised bog in Čepkeliai. The distant forest likely being on the Belorussian side of the landscape
Little did I realize at the time just how much bog and swamp I’d be traversing, cursing, and occasionally sinking into over the coming years.
Field Trip II: Kayak Warfare
The second field trip day involved a kayak journey down the Merkys River, in two-person kayaks. The goal was to observe wildlife — rare blue kingfishers, dragonflies, fish — while stopping at various geological points of interest: colored sand layers along the riverbanks, the abandoned Kukiškis chalk pit with its Jurassic chalk, flint, belemnites, fossils, glauconite sand, and black clay, and finally Baltulis Hill, where cliffs preserve geological records from the last ice age, including 13,700-year-old logs and folded layers shaped by earthquakes and isostatic processes.
Down the Merkys River, looking for fossils in the layered cliffs — photo by Alexandra Vaz
I had never kayaked in my life.
Fortunately, I was paired with a seasoned master of the seas — or at least rivers — none other than the infamous Captain Elmo. I picked things up quickly, and before long our mission shifted from peaceful observation to becoming the undisputed kayak-ramming terrors of the shallow streams.
With pinpoint precision, we made sure to tactically bump into every kayaker who dared cross our horizon.
Ramming Speed Captn’! — photo by Alexandra Vaz
It was an absolute blast. Sadly, I didn’t trust my balance enough to bring my camera or phone along that day. Thankfully, Alexandra from Portugal captured our aquatic misbehavior on camera and shared the photos afterward.
Field Trip III: Forests and Grey Skies
The third field trip took us to Nemunas Loops Regional Park, one of Lithuania’s most scenic protected areas. The park follows a dramatic 60 km stretch of the Nemunas River — Lithuania’s longest — where sweeping meanders carve deep valleys through steep slopes, cliffs, ravines, and erosional remnants.
Forest path with tall pines and mixed deciduous trees—ideal for exploring the park’s ancient woodlands
Nearly 70% of the park is forested, including the Punia Pine Forest, one of Europe’s best-preserved primeval pine stands. Some trees here — pines, spruces, and larches — reach up to 46 meters, particularly in the unique Degsnė larch grove.
The weather, however, was atrocious.
Nemunas River bend winding through thick pine forests, showcasing the park’s signature loops
A thunderstorm had rolled in the night before, leaving behind a full day of dark grey skies and relentless rain. We slogged through mud, some of us more hungover than others. Yet somehow, the murky conditions suited the ancient forest atmosphere perfectly — lush, dripping green, alive with biodiversity.
Thunderstorms and Cabbage Moonshine
Speaking of storms — one evening began with ominous clouds and a spectacular lightning show, followed by constant rain. This, unsurprisingly, did not stop the nightly party.
People drank, danced, and chatted in rain gear, briefly retreating only during the most intense lightning bursts. Highlights ranged from calm moments around the fire pit to a highly questionable nighttime boat crossing of the lake by four very drunk individuals. Those who know, will know.
Not the cleanest lightning shot ever, but I’m proud of it!
Another night — or possibly the same one — featured an incident involving a cabbage stew gone very wrong. From what the organizers later told me, someone had accidentally poured alcohol into the pot. Rather than throwing it out, they decided — in a moment of pure genius — to attempt turning it into some sort of Frankenstein cabbage moonshine.
It tasted absolutely awful. But it was free. And free alcohol, as any Romanian will tell you, must be consumed. I enthusiastically chugged it and soon became the unofficial poster boy for Lithuanian cabbage moonshine.
Druskininkai and the Long Goodbye
On the final day, we took a cultural trip to Druskininkai, a town famous for its spas, mineral springs, and artist markets showcasing Lithuanian crafts. Some of us skipped the spa — possibly due to missing swimwear, possibly due to price, or possibly due to lingering hangovers.
The Upside-Down House attraction in Druskininkai
What I do remember is eating some genuinely good pizza — surprisingly spicy — followed by a visit to the Upside-Down House, a fully inverted yellow building where everything inside is flipped. Slanted floors, furniture on the “ceiling,” disorienting perspectives, and endless opportunities for ridiculous photos.
David checking the plumbing
Back at camp, one final surprise awaited us: a local Dzūkija-style folk music group arrived, performed for us, and soon had everyone swept into a traditional Lithuanian dance.
Joyful trio of Dzūkija folk musicians serenading us at camp — photo by Alexandra Vaz
A perfect, joyful way to close the EUGEN week.
Endings
We slowly demobilized the following day, some leaving earlier than others. Magnus and I managed to hitch a ride with a few of the organizers, giving us a couple more hours to kill in Vilnius before our departures.
Departure day selfie with my buddies Magnus and Moritz
We stayed in touch online for a while after that, but eventually contact faded. I haven’t seen much of him on social media in years. I do sometimes wonder what became of him.
Magnus — if you ever read this — drop me a comment so I know you’re doing alright out there.
Lithuanian flag proudly blowing in the wind
With the end of EUGEN came the end of my grand European tour of 2019. A journey that had taken me from Switzerland to Greece, Romania, and Lithuania, before returning one last time to Denmark.
Only a few weeks remained now. A few weeks to say goodbye to all my friends in Copenhagen.
After a couple of months of traveling, working and procrastinating, I finally sat down to write again. Today I thought to add to my “Transylvania 101” series by talking about one of my favorite camping destinations in Romania. Namely “Scaunul Domnului” (God’s chair), a mountain peak and plateau in the Călimani Mountains, east-Transylvania.
How it all began
Around 4.54 billion years ago, when the Earth was a molten fireball baby… Oh sorry, I went back too far. About 80 million years ago, during the alpino-carpatho-himalayan orogeny volcanic activity gave birth to the east-Carpathian mountain chain… Wait, no. That’s still too far.
Ok, let’s start in 2010, towards the end of the summer exam session at University. While discussing with one of my friends and dorm mates about holiday plans, an idea for a camping trip came up. As we were both mountain lovers, I suggested a few spots in north-Transylvania that I knew of close to my home town. However he already had plans to go hiking with a couple of friends in the Călimani Mountains to the east. I had never explored that region of Transylvania and was keen on discovering new places.
My University city of Cluj Napoca where all great adventures began
We decided to go camping for a few days in Călimani, in a spot that he once went to called Scaunul Domnului. Our trip basically hinged on my friend’s ability to recall the way to this place, half day’s walk across the bear-ridden Transylvanian wilderness. Suffice to say, there were a couple of instances of coin-toss level decision making where the path would diverge, but in the end he got us through to the top.
The Călimani camping experience, which I will detail more below, was so much fun that we ended up returning the following years.
The Călimani trip
My journey the Călimani always started in city of Cluj Napoca, which was also my University city. From here I would take a train to my friend Cipri’s hometown of Târgu Mureș, in central Transylvania. the rest of our adventurer friends would all meet up there and spend one night at his place. The next day we would take an early morning train to the village of Deda-Bistra. From Deda-Bistra we would begin our ~10 km hike in the Călimani Mountains.
The old train station in Cluj Napoca
Now 10 km doesn’t sound too bad, but with fully packed 60-80 liter backpacks on our backs, it was certainly no cake walk. Especially when apart from the canned foods, tents, sleeping bags, we would also pack an excessive amount of alcohol with us. The Transylvanian way…
The hike up to Scaunul Domnului
The first leg of the journey would see us cross the village of Deda-Bistra. A very gentle incline upwards, this bit always felt like the tutorial section of the hike. Yet, by the time we’d reach the edge of town, we’d already be sweating.
At the edge of the village of Deda-Bistra
The next portion was the “make it, or break it” section, which involved a grueling steep climb in the morning sun, with zero shade. During this part, everyone was expected to complain, swear and curse while questioning why on Earth they are doing this instead of relaxing in a soft, comfy bed at home. However, after passing the test of endurance, the mountain would reward us with a gorgeous view of the valley bellow. Then Cipri would always add that there’s only two more big steep climbs to do. Well, that and about three quarters of the way to go…
Overlooking the valley of Deda-Bistra after completing the first steep climb of our hike
After the first big climb, the forest completely envelops the path. From there on up, we’d spend most of our time hiking up and down through the forest. Occasionally crossing a few meadows where we’d remember to be on the lookout for signs of bears. At that time the Călimani Mountains were known to have one of the highest bear populations in Romania. During this long section, a couple of diverging paths could potentially stray one away from the right way… Which was to the left… I think.
A little glimpse of the long hike through the Călimani forests
The plateau and peak
About half a day later and a couple of kilos less, we would reach the final stretch of the hike. A moderately steep climb in a rocky coniferous forest. This bit was always associated with excitement and euphoria of having nearly completed the long and arduous hike to the top.
Nearing the top of Scaunul Domnului and the end of our hike
Finally, the forest would open up and reveal a glorious mountain plateau. The area offers plenty of good flat ground for pitching tents. There’s at least a couple of great campfire spots as well. Most importantly, there is a safe to drink fresh water spring situated in the center of the plateau.
On the northwest and east side, slated rocky cliffs offer some of the best views of the Carpathian Mountains I’ve ever seen. Northeast of the plateau, the path continues for over 20 km towards “Pietrosul Călimanilor”, the highest peak (2100 m) in the Călimani Mountains.
Southward view of the Călimani Mountains from Scaunul Domnului peak
Since the first time I saw the sign to Pietrosul, I always tried to convince my companions to do a full expedition all the way to the top. For some reason, I’d always find it hard to just sit in one place for more then a day. I kept wanting to go further, walk more, see more! Sadly, that trip would never materialize. However, I did somewhat learn to appreciate the less active camping style of simply relaxing and enjoying nature in one remote spot.
Slated rocky cliffs atop Scaunul Domnului peak
The first year: Perfect conditions
When we first went camping in July 2010, we were very fortunate with the weather. the mornings and evenings were nice and cool, while the days were warm and sunny. The weeks prior to our departure also saw plenty of rain, so everything looked super fresh.
Sunshine after light rain in the morning is just perfect
We pitched our tents next to a fireplace atop an elevated section just north of the plateau. We were right at the edge of to the forest, which was great because it provided us with plenty of dry dead wood that we could use for our nightly campfires. A few meters from our tents we had breathtaking views of the Călimani Mountains stretching north-south. A short walk down the plateau, we had easy access to the fresh water spring.
Our neat little camping site in the Transylvanian wilderness
We were also lucky to have the entire place to ourselves. Not say that Scaunul Domnului is a popular tourist destination, but when the weather is so good there’s a high chance of other hikers stopping by.
Nights and days
The nights were filled with drinking, philosophical debates, nonsensical rambling and lots of laughs. The night sky was so clear and visible that each night we’d spend a couple of hours stargazing. On the other hand, when we’d venture into the forest for more lumber, we’d be enveloped by a darkness that no city dweller could imagine. Roaming around the pitch black forest with our headlights, we discovered a tree with its bark pealed like a banana. The deeply engraved claw markings were unsettling to say the least.
Our long nights by the campfire
Fueled by the other wordy of our surroundings our imagination went wild and the spooky campfire stories followed. Weather it be extraterrestrials, demons, or bears, or extraterrestrial demon bears with corn eyes, the ridiculous tales were endless. To add to all that, the first night after we retreated to our tents, I’m fairly sure we were visited by a beast. As I lay ready to fall asleep, I clearly heard ruffling in the grass near our tent. This was distinctly different than the sound of the blowing wind. The sound got closer and closer until it seemed to be next to the tent. Everyone else was asleep at that point, so I just rolled towards the center and hoped it would go away. The next morning there was a large patch of flattened grass beside my tent. Could it have been the beast that pealed the tree nearby? Who knows…
The peeled tree we discovered the first night, about 50 m from our tents
The days were mostly spent recovering from the long nights of drinking. Weather this involved meditation, walks in the forest, or throwing up depended on the individual. Another fun daytime activity was foraging for blueberries. It’s always impressive how time can fly when you’re munching on fresh berries – bear life 101.
First year hiking crew in Călimani (2010)
It’s easy to see how we fell in love with the place and quickly decided to return the next year.
The second year: A bit moist
So it was that in July 2011, we were back at Deda-Bistra, preparing once more for our hike in the Călimani Mountains. This time around however, the weather was not favorable. It had been raining for a couple of weeks and it didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping.
The train station in Deda-Bistra during the wet season in 2011That first steep climb that ended up being way harder then the year before
The climb felt much harder. The ground was wet and muddy and our clothes got soaked within the first hour. Personally, I may also have been fairly out of shape at that time, so everything felt extra heavy. We had to make a lot more frequent stops on the way. About half way into the hike, we even decided to pitch a tent to rest and nap for about an hour. It truly felt like a completely different game then the prior year.
Second year Călimani crew, getting ready to head out again after a little napOur wet forest hike
With plenty of extra hours spent on the hike, we finally made it to the plateau in the evening. The clouds were very thick and low, so we didn’t have many hours left of light. We had to scramble to pitch the tents and start a fire as soon as possible. Due to our earlier rest break, the tents, sleeping bags and most of our clean clothes got wet too. Everything was wet and the rain showed no intention of stopping anytime soon. It was a disaster.
Our mood after arriving at our destination all soaked
The sinking submarine
The hasty manner in which we pitched our tents the first night came back to haunt us the next day. I’m not sure if one of them had sprung a leak, but somehow this one tent got flooded. So much so that our friends sleeping in the tent woke up with their sleeping bags and feet in a pool of water. Thus, we christened it the sinking submarine.
Cliffside in the clouds atop Scaunul Domnului, Călimani 2011
The sub had to be evacuated and abandoned for the rest of our stay. This meant that all four of us had to cozy up in a two-person tent. Talk about sardines in a can… At least we used the sinking submarine to store our wet backpacks. Speaking of wet things, the clothes left outside to dry never dried because surprise surprise, it kept raining through the night!
Futile attempts to dry our clothes
We solely had to rely on the campfire to attempt to dry anything. This had it’s own downsides, like when I ended up burning my boots while trying to dry them.
Still trying to dry those boots too…
On the flip side, Cipri was very knowledgeable about wilderness survival, so thanks to him and his skills, we could constantly make and maintain a fire even with all the wet wood and bush. A handy thing I learned from him is how well tinder fungus burns even when wet.
With all the rain, there were plentiful mushrooms at least
A mystical allure
Despite the hardships, our second year in Călimani was fantastic! Once we got used to our new conditions, we adjusted our habits and adapted well to the new wet environment. The night parties raged on as the year before, with music louder than ever. The spooky atmosphere of the constantly foggy forest added a new layer to the mystical allure of the place.
Most importantly, we always made time to goof around
Mushrooms and berries were flourishing thanks to the abundant rain of the past weeks. Eventually, a day, or two in, even the rain stopped. So we finally got a chance to dry some of our clothes. To top it all off, during one of the evenings the clouds even gave way to a few rays of sunlight. This provided us with some incredible photo opportunities and breathtaking sunset views.
A sneaky sunset behind the clouds
Honestly, as perfect and fun as our first year was, the second year remains my favorite Călimani camping adventure. Perhaps it thanks to the challenging nature of that trip.
The rare rays of sunlight we got on this trip were extra special
That being said, we wanted to make sure that the following year we would avoid all the rainy days and strive for a warm and dry camping trip. Oh boy, did we ever get it…
Leaving behind the cloudy Călimani Mountains in 2011
The third year: Where’s the water?
This time around, I was in better shape and so was the weather. No more clouds, no more rain, the sky was clear and it was damn warm. We were in fact hiking during a heat wave. Whenever we’d start complaining about the heat, we’d just think back to the rainy conditions in 2011. Not this time. this time it hadn’t rained at all for weeks before we set out on our trip. The issue with this wasn’t evident at first, but would soon be made clear once we reached the top.
Out of the three years doing this trip, I’m fairly sure we completed the hike in record time in 2012. After exhausting most of our water supply going up, we were keen for a refill from the spring. However, in there’s where the problem lay. Due to the lack of rain and persistent heat, the freshwater spring had almost completely dried up. All that was left was a muddy little puddle…
We saw this stork back in Deda-Bistra and its expression perfectly mirrored our reaction to the “no drinkable water” situation
Some attempts were made to filter the muddy mess through a cloth and then boil it. But despite our best efforts, this was unsustainable for days and nights. With no other known water spring in the area, we realized we had no choice but to turn back the next day. To top it all off we couldn’t even drink all the alcohol we’d brought up, because without water, the next day we’d be screwed.
Another group of excessively rowdy campers arrived that evening and completely hampered any semblance of our enjoyment during the one night.
Even if it was just the one night, we still had our mandatory campfire in the evening
The final grueling return trip
The next morning, we all woke tired and thirsty. There was no time to waste. We packed up everything and started our descent. What would normally be a fairly easy half-day hike down from the mountains, turned into an very physically and mentally challenging trek. We were 4, or 5 people and had half a liter of water left for the entire trip back to town. Let’s not forget that we were already dehydrated from the day before. Even though the walk was mostly downhill, or straight, the temperature highs of around 30°C still made us sweat whatever little water we had left in us. It was truly miserable.
These days we see and hear people constantly reminding us about the importance of hydration. Well, after what we went through that day, I think none of us would ever forget to drink enough water for the rest of our lives. When we finally managed to get back into town, tongues out and half hallucinating, we rushed to the first store we saw and emptied their shelves and fridge of water bottles.
Our final sunset in Călimani
Final thoughts
Our camping trips to the Călimani Mountains were generally an absolute blast! The key of our good time lay as always in great companionship and camaraderie. The great memories we made together those days are unreplaceable and despite the hardships and even dangers that nature threw at us, we came back each time for more.
Bear footprints we found during our hike in 2011
It’s just a shame that our last trip ended up being so dissapppinting. On top of that, the failed trip served only to accentuate an already bad period of my life fraught with personal issues and depression. It would take another year for things to start to turn around for me. Specifically, it would take an unforgettable little trip with one of my best friends to Norway.
The next morning, before heading out, we met Julio’s boss and manager at the Borgund Stave Church museum, Tanna. I recall being eagerly inquisitive about a potential part-time position at the museum. By this point I had fallen in love with Norway so much that I would have done anything to stay. They were actually looking for more people for the next year’s tourist season. But they wanted someone fluent in French. Unfortunately my French language skills were abysmal. Ironic how today, ten years since this trip, I am in a place and position where I once more would greatly benefit from a high level of French. After our pleasant conversation with Tanna, we bid farewell to her and Julio and set off to climb the mountain.
The tiny village of Borgund with the Stave Church museum to the upper left
Once more, we were very fortunate with the weather. The entire week we spent in Norway we had nothing but beautiful clear sky and warm days. From what we were told, the entire summer before that was murky and rainy. We definitely picked the best time to go.
The climb
From the Borgund valley at around 400 m, we climbed all the way up to around 1200 m during the first half of the day. We followed a gravel road climbing the mountain and ran into the owner’s herd of sheep at one point. The sheep had stopped in the middle of the road and eyed us like motionless statues. With their horizonal pupils intensely focused on us, we felt uncomfortable… judged. We maintaining eye contact as we slowly approached the herd. It felt like a stare down in one of those old western movies. Then out of nowhere, they defecated before our very eyes and moved along. We felt we had been given the right of passage. We could now continue climbing up.
Admiring rock outcrops on our hike up the mountain
Along our journey up, we had to make many stops. The backpacks were heavy and our energy levels were not the greatest. I guess that’s what you get when you’re on a mostly ramen-berry diet for days in a row. At least we didn’t have any water shortages. There were plenty of small creeks we ran across on our way up. We were however a bit hesitant about drinking from the creek after our sheeply encounter. We decided to ration what we had and find a safer source, closer to the top.
The higher up, the better the view
A bit over half the way up we decided to make a base camp. We pitched our tent in a small clearing in the forest and left most of our heavy stuff there. Coming from Romania, we have an overly cautious attitude towards leaving belongings in the open where they can be easily stolen. In this situation we were on private property and far from anyone else. This was also Norway, not Romania. So begrudgingly I agreed to leave some of my stuff behind. However, I still refused to leave my big backpack. It was like my big blue baby. I wouldn’t abandon it.
Our new base camp with tent tucked away under the trees
On top of the world
Not too long after setting off from our new base camp we reached the start of the mountain plateau. Gone was the densely vegetated forest. Taking its place was alpine vegetation, with but a few scattered trees. Before us lay one final gentler climb to lake Vassetvatnet, flanked on both sides by gorgeous, tall peaks. We simply referred to them as the two monsters guarding the path. Behind us the scenery now opened up to reveal the deep valleys and neighboring peaks. It was magical.
The start of my victory pose, only to be used on rare, glorious occasions
We spent the rest of the daylight up there. Tried our luck once more with some fishing, but third time was not the charm. We tentatively climbed a portion of one of the monster peaks, but weren’t serious about going all the way. It had been a long day already and these peaks required a lot more energy then we had left. We also followed one of the small creeks all the way to its spring point, which was strangely satisfying. Fresh water, right from the source! A couple of times during our stay, we spotted a lonesome car driving away into the distance on the road. Somebody waving their hand at us from the car. Most likely the kind owner of the property. We returned the gesture.
Vassetvatnet, the lake with a dam and plenty of fish, but none for us
I find it hard to describe just how good I felt when we were up there. Perhaps it was the serenity of the place, or the sheer panoramic beauty. For whatever reason, that day there in particular managed to heal my troubled mind. All my troubles and worries from back home now washed away. At that moment, for me personally, our adventure had achieved its goal. I used that day to mentally get over all the hardships and struggles of my life back in Romania. I was forging a new purpose. Something to fight and strive for. I was going to make moving to Norway my one primary goal from that point on.
One of the two monster peaks rising just above 1600 m altitude
The end of a journey
Before heading back down to our tent for the night, we were treated to one of the most beautiful sunsets one could ask for. As the sun gradually disappeared behind the great fjords in the west, it felt as if the land itself was bidding us farewell. After a good night’s sleep, we packed our things the next morning and headed back to the bus stop.
A sunset over the fjords
We went back to Fagernes and our favorite camping ground to relax. Since it was our last day in Norway and we managed to not break the bank, we indulged ourselves with some local food. I recall the last evening in Fagernes camping as we melancholically stared across the lake. I pointed to a red building in the distance on top of the hill and told Daniel that that would be my house one day. With my loving Norwegian wife preparing some scrambled eggs for breakfast. He pointed out that that was in fact a barn. I didn’t care. It will do just fine! The heart was heavy, but the mind was more determined than ever before.
Strondafjorden lake, Fagernes
The day of our flight back from Oslo, the skies were overcast and an chilly autumn wind had arrived. It was the end of our journey for now. Just as we seemingly had brought the good weather with us, we were now taking it back. I was going to return to Norway one day. But twists and turns would redirect my life in many more ways before that day would come.
We arrived in Sogndalsfjøra in the afternoon and quickly made our way to the local camping ground by the fjord, on the west-side of town. There were quite a few people with RV’s and tents set up in the main camping area where the ground was flat and the grass was cut. They sounded mostly Norwegian and so we didn’t want to bother them too much with our rowdy eastern-European shouting way of speech. Thus, Daniel and I decided to pitch our tent further up the gentle slope where there was nobody else. Here the grass was tall and wild, overgrowing a small old playground too. No bother, we wanted wild camping anyway.
The town of Sogndalsfjøra on the Sognefjord, seen from the west side
As the sun was heading west, the mountain behind the campsite started slowly casting its great shadow. I wanted nothing more then to try to climb up on top of it! We set up our tent, left our stuff in camp and headed out to explore the area. We quickly made our way up the streets of the residential area looking for a path to take us up the mountain. Instead we wound up in someone’s backyard… Oops! We had a laugh with the owner and he pointed us in the right direction. Eventually, we made it up to a lovely clearing and were treated to a superb view of the surrounding area. We then headed back down to explore the town and decided to leave the full mountain hike for the next day.
Sogndalsfjøra
Like we’ve come to expect by this point Sogndalsfjøra was a nice and cozy, quiet little Norwegian town. We walked up and down the streets taking in the sights and the Norwegian chattering around us. It felt like we were the only foreign tourists in town. Well, except for this one other backpacker dude that we kept running into everywhere. I mean seriously. We saw this guy like 5 times popping up everywhere we went. We half expected to run into him in our tent too. Well… small town I guess.
Just an old Laben in town… (this will get a snicker out of any Romanian speaker… don’t ask why)
By the time we made it to the other side of town our stomachs were rumbling and the sun was starting to set. It was time to head back to camp.
Sogndalsfjøra from the east side with our camping ground to the far left at the foothills of the mountain
An adventurous evening
Once we got back and had a much needed meal in camp, we spent the last minutes of daylight chilling by the overgrown playground. As we’re goofing around on the swings, we suddenly notice an alarmingly large number of spiders inhabiting the corners of the swings, just a couple of meters away from our tent. Neither of us have any arachnophobia luckily, but the sight was quite unsettling. Especially when upon closer inspection we realize it was an entire nest of Cross spiders, with a gigantic mother queen in the middle. Now we understood why everyone else was camping on the nice patches of cut grass and not in the wild jungle we were in.
Apparently cross spider bites are harmless to humans, but at the time we weren’t sure about that. Back in Romania we used to be told to keep away from these types of spiders because they can land you a trip to the hospital. Regardless, it was now dark and we couldn’t really move all of our stuff until the next day. As long as we kept the tent closed, I thought, we should be fine. Daniel, however, was not having it. He was hell bent on usurping the queen mother, but wasn’t sure how to do it. Within a few minutes, he shows up with a pot and pan in hand, ready to strike the killing blow. I strongly advised against this rash and reckless course of action, but he wouldn’t listen.
The mother queen!
With arms spread out far to keep a safe distance, he bashes the two items together in the most clumsy way imaginable hoping to squish the spider-queen. The pot and pan fall out of his hands dropping into the spider-infested grass. The murder weapons were safely recovered and inspected for proof of success. However, it seemed like the assassination attempt was failed. As a good friend, I reminded him of how I advised him not to do this. Now the spider-queen would come back to get him in his sleep!
Our spidery hosts
Sogndal hiking
We survived the night and woke up the next day to a bunch of our lovely spidery hosts investigating the outer layers of our tent. Thankfully none ever got inside of the tent. We just had to be careful when going in and out of the tent, so as to not have any unwelcomed guests. Otherwise, we had grown accustomed to our new eight legged friends. After the morning ritual we decided to head back up the mountain behind us and climb up all the way to the top this time.
Hiking around in Sogndal
As I recall, it was a good hour or so hike up through the shady forest. On our way we found a decent variety of mushrooms, but didn’t attempt picking any. Neither of us were mushroom experts. On the way we constantly got glimpses of the spectacular views through the trees. Oh and there was this random wooden shack on the way. Probably holding someone’s secret shroom-stash.
Shelter, or private shroom-shack?
Towards the top, just as we were coming out of the forest, we found this large patch of blueberry bushes. I think we spent at least half an hour munching on those. Every time we’d want to continue we’d stop to just take a few more. We also had this pack of almonds with us and discovered how amazingly well almonds go with blueberries.
To eat, or not to eat?
Breathtaking views
Beyond the rich blueberry fields, we came across a small lake surrounded by swampy ground where we met a couple of polish guys on their holiday. Beyond the tree line we got a glimpse of snow-capped mountains in the distance. We later learned that we were looking towards Fjærland, and one of the last remaining glacier fields in Europe. The sight was just so incredible and unexpected. We discussed possibly going there the next day, but eventually decided not to. We weren’t really equipped for snowy conditions and were already half way into our holiday time.
The glorious mountains of Fjærland in the distance
We continued our hike on the trail towards the south. At one point, we found this curious cube placed on top of a dried up tree. Could it be the famous cubic oracle of ancient folklore described by various tripped out shamans of old? Either that, or a moose attracting salt block.
Oh great cube, imbue us with your salty nature and show us what you’ve seen!
Hiking on, we got a good glimpse, and shot of this big pointy antenna thingy that was sticking out from one of the neighboring mountains. We kept seeing this thing from camp too and named it the Soyuz, just because it looked like some Russian rocket ready to blast off into space.
Soyuz to the Moon!
Finally we reached the southern edge of our trail and got treated to the most spectacular views of the Sognefjord!
Sognefjord, view towards the west
Gone fishing
Later that day, we went back down to the fjord. Daniel was ready to try out his fishing prowess once more. There were many attempts and I believe at least one more hook was lost. The end result was a bunch of tangled fishing line and a half-decent clump of oozing seaweed.
Catch of the day, 100% vegan friendly
While he was busy figuring out his tangled wires, I decided to take a dip in the fjord. I mean, one should not simply travel all the way to the fjords without testing the waters. In conclusion, the waters were cold. But not too cold. Like it was ok to take a dip and wash off, but anything more then that was just brrr.
“Brrr-o-meter” was not great, not terrible
After we had our fun in the fjord, we hiked around the edge of town some more, checking out some nice looking rock outcrops. Hey, we’re geologist. We’ll sometimes randomly do that kind of stuff. Funky folding rock textures
The day was almost over now and it was time to say farewell to Sogndal, to our spider friends, to the random backpacker dude we never talked to, to the Soyuz and everyone else. I’m always a bit sad when I’m more than half way through my trip, because I realize the adventure is soon coming to an end.
We left our runic mark in the sands of Sogndal. I don’t remember what we wrote, so I’ll just assume it was something nice like love and hugs… Ah, who am I kidding, it was definitely something obscene!
We had about 3 days left of our holiday and the current plan was to start heading back east the next day. We would stop for a day somewhere in the mountainous regions of Lærdal to check out a historic stave church and hopefully do some more hiking. Then we’d go back to Fagernes and spend the rest of our time there. However, don’t forget… plans change…
The next day we had quite a few hours to kill before our bus arrived. So we decided to spend the better part of our morning walking around the small, quiet town of Dokka. Around noon, we took the next bus going west, towards the great Norwegian mountains and fjords. As we drove on, the small hills grew bigger, slowly transitioning into steep-cliff mountains. After just over an hour, we decided to get off the bus in Fagernes, a small city in the Valdres Nature and Culture Park, Norway.
Fagernes, Norway (2013)
Fagernes
The city is situated on the shores of the beautiful Strondafjorden lake, flanked by hills and mountain peaks on all sides. The landscape showcases the transition from the gentle lowlands to the east to the imposing Jotunheim Mountains to the west. As you may imagine, the area around the city provides some excellent hiking opportunities, with truly breathtaking views. Meanwhile Strondafjorden lake serves as a great swimming and fishing spot, as well as seaplane runway.
Strondafjorden lake, seen from Vesleøye island
Fagernes camping
After getting off the bus, Daniel and I made our way to the local campground. Nestled between mount Storøyi and lake Strondafjorden, Fagernes camping offers cabins, apartments and plenty of green space for pitching your tent. The restroom and showers were very clean and well kept. However, I clearly remember there being some sort of a water usage tax when using the facilities, which was very odd to me at the time. With our less then impressive budget, we were quite reluctant to use the shower as we expected exorbitant prices. After all, we were in one of the most expensive countries in the world. Hell, even using the restrooms freaked us out because what if it doesn’t stop flushing? We’d be literally flushing our savings down the nice and clean Norwegian toilet.
Cabins for rent in Fagernes camping
Aside from the quirky water-tax, Fagernes campground was and remains easily one of my favorite camping grounds. Overlooking the small island of Vesleøye with the city and gentle hills in the background, the view from our tent by the lakeside was simply incredible. Flocks of ducks would often swim around on the lake in front of us. A little seaplane was parked right across from us on the other side of the lake. Every few hours it would lake take off, only to return not long after. Considering the small size of the town, we were wondering whether the owner was simply flying off to do his grocery shopping elsewhere.
Our neighbour flying out to do his grocery shopping
To the southeastern edge of the camp, we found a pathway leading into the forest just beneath mount Storøyi. We spent the rest of the day hiking and exploring the city and surrounding forests.
Resident ducks playing around on Strondafjorden lake
Fantasy forests
I wanted to take a moment and share my appreciation for the forests around this region of Norway. Dominated by coniferous trees, the forests around Fagernes seemed straight out of a fantasy world. This was mostly due to the thick mossy carpet covering the ground almost entirely. It felt like walking on pillows and blankets. I had never seen anything like that before. Rock outcrops and boulders would often peak out from under the green rug, but still wearing an appropriate little moss cap. Colorful mushrooms and blueberry bushes would occasionally spice up the environment.
Moss, moss everywhere!
A curious thing we noticed was that tourists were way more interested in picking blueberries then the locals. In fact, I think we never saw any Norwegians foraging. Perhaps they were jaded from all their blueberry-munching ancestors that came before. Oh well, more for us!
Amanita muscaria, a mildly poisonous and hallucinogenic mushroom, common throughout Europe
Onwards, westward!
After an active afternoon hiking around, we decided to try out a local burger join. Sadly I forgot the name of the place, but I recall the burger was huge and delicious. The price was also quite huge. Enough so to make anyone’s eyes water and wallet bleed… but hey, it’s Norway!
Hey, it’s Norway! – Fagernes camping
Another hike later, we ended up back in camp, practicing our terrible knife-throwing skills at the edge of the forest. We enjoyed the rest of our evening lounging by the lake. It was at this time my dreams of a cool, bug-free northern paradise were dashed by the several huge mosquitos constantly pestering us. Daniel proposed that these were some sort of dragonflies as they were too big and it was too cold for mosquitos. My obvious mosquito bites by the next day would put a dent in his theory. So, word to the wise: pack mosquito repellent if you go camping in Norway!
Our evening view from Fagernes camping
The next morning we packed up and took the next bus westward. Deeper into the Jotunheim Mountain range, with the goal to reach the west-fjords.
