Alpacka Diaries, Part 2: Wrestling with Mrauk

To find the source of the Soča River, a pilgrim must make his way to Triglav National Park in northwestern Slovenia. Passing through increasingly deserted villages, he will head away from the road and climb up towards a pass in the shadow of the Julian Alps. The trail leads high up a gorge and peters out into a sheer climb, aided by a cable that has been bolted to the cliff face. Matching hands and sliding along the cable above the roaring gorge brings the pilgrim to a still and perfect pool, crystal clear and with the same emerald tint for which the river is famous. At this point, safely off the cliff and enthralled with the beauty surrounding him, a pilgrim may crack a celebratory beer carried for the occasion.

Locals speak of the Soča in similar reverent tones as Indians do the Ganges, and a pilgrimage to the source seemed like the best way to start my second run down the river by packraft. I dipped my cup and drank from the pool and tilted my head skyward. It was getting dark, or seemed to be; hard to tell with the low clouds and rain that had become more steady during the hike. I watched the raindrops mix with the pool that was gently bubbling up out of the mountain, then slide over the rim and begin their journey to the Adriatic Sea. Having paid my respects, I was ready for a journey of my own.

What a difference two weeks had made. A large cloud mass had parked itself over Central Europe. The rain was intense and was expected to linger for many days. The river had responded quickly. I'd been tracking the water level online and things were looking good when I left Italy. But, in the four hours it took me to get to the border by train, the level shot up 800%! The Soča was in flood. At current levels much of the river would not be safe for a lone packrafter. I'd decided not to give up for the moment, but see what was happening the next day.

As I scrambled out of the gorge my immediate concern was finding a not-too-soggy place to pitch my tent before it got dark. A lone car descended the quiet pass and I stuck out my thumb, just to see if I might make my way closer to the put-in. The car stopped, and once again I was stuffing my soggy self and belongings in with a family, and once again at their urging I was invited to stay at their home, a weekend cabin near the river. Great luck, or testament to the Slovenian character? I'm not sure, but I didn't put up very much resistance.

The Flajs family was on their way from their home in the capital to spend the Easter holiday at their mountain cabin. They decided to bring a stranger along. Their hospitality was remarkable. We ate the traditional Good Friday fish dinner, washed down with Union beer. I learned how to make eggs dyed with onion skins and wild herbs, and taught the family to play backgammon. In the morning, the water levels were still high, but had dropped by half. The whole family came down to the river in a steady rain for a little bon voyage party as I inflated the packraft and set off.

The tremendous increase in volume made for a very different experience on the water. The river was fast, pushy, and fun. I was making my way downstream at better than twice the rate of my first trip. The pack raft rocked the drops with relative ease and I kept her upright until it was time to portage the big (now huge) stuff.

After the canyon portage I descended 600 feet straight down into the gorge to get back to the river. Ahead lay a section I'd missed the last time, but one that sounded fine from the description I had.

As soon as I took off, things felt different. There were some big moves to be made and the strong current made them tough. Plunging through a slot the little boat buried itself in a hole, the wave collapsing over my head as it the raft barely punched through. Blinking the river from my eyes and hoping not to lose a contact lens, I set up for the next move. Bam! Another wave hole pummeled the boat. I relaxed a bit as I gained confidence in the bigger water. Maybe too much. My weight was a bit far back through the next drop and the huge wave stood the boat on its rear end. In boating vernacular this was a classic "dump truck". I was staring at the front of the boat up in the sky and trying to stay in. I managed to, barely, but any celebration was short-lived, as a big lateral wave flipped me fast.

Now I was swimming the rapid, trying simultaneously to: a)calm my impulse to hyperventilate, b)time my breaths for moments my head was above the surface, c)keep from getting pinned against boulders by deflecting them with my feet, and d)swim into slackwater, all without losing grip on my paddle.

I reigned in my brain, caught a decent breath, and kicked hard to reach a small eddy, the last chance I had to avoid swimming another nasty rapid. My free hand grasped a couple of tiny willow shoots and swung in a pendulum arc onto shore. The boat was gone by this point, so I spent the next hour scrambling through the woods, around cliffs, and traversing meadows. In a double stroke of luck, my little boat washed up on my side of the river, right next to a beautiful patch of morel mushrooms I could bring to Easter dinner.

The family I'd met on my first trip had invited me back to spend the holiday with them. When I dragged my sorry, sodden self into their farmhouse— warm with a roaring fire and the sounds of nine children running around— I couldn't have been happier. I sat with the adults on the floor in the loft and drank tea while the rain hammered on the roof. Outside the window, a peach tree in full bloom stood out in the heavy fog and twilight, another Slovenian image plucked from a fairy tale. It is no wonder that everyone I met spoke of gnomes, dwarves, fairies, and goblins. Telling the story of my misadventure on the river, I was met by a circle of solemn nods. Apparently, Mrauk is a mysterious and fearsome creature that lives in the deeper pools of the Soča, only coming to the surface to make mischief in times of high water. Even a diehard sceptic had to wonder.

Later I had fun pouring over a coffee table anthropological study on gnomes. It was the Slovenian translation of the exact book I'd loved as a child, when my uncle bolstered my belief in the small forest dudes by making tiny footprints on the snowy windowsill of my grandparents' house.

Beyond their belief in forest spirits, Slovenians seem to have a real connection to the land, even the city folk. Homemade jam is on every table and everyone seems to be knowledgeable about wild herbs. It is common to garden by the lunar cycle in many parts of the world, but Slovenians let the moon dictate when they get haircuts, and when they do many other things, the important and the trivial.

On Easter morning I walked with my hosts, aged 3 and 4, to the neighbor's farm to fill a classic enamelware milk jug. I got to meet the cows responsible and the boys scored some chocolate eggs. Later we took dyed eggs and other food in baskets to the church service in the neighboring village for the traditional blessing of the priest, and returned home to a feast of traditional Serbian delights.

The morning I left, the storm finally broke, and the roller-coaster ride to the train station offered up incredible views of the Soča valley and the Julian Alps, covered in fresh snow and visible for the first time on my trip. With an extra ten minutes at the train station, I scrambled across the tracks and up into the forest and filled a paper sack with wild leeks to bring back to Italy. I made sure to leave plenty for the gnomes.

Alpacka Diaries, Part 1

Slovenia!

As I stood on the roadside at dusk last Sunday evening outside Nova Gorica, Slovenia, it occurred to me that there were a few holes in my plan for a solo raft trip down the Soča river. I had just parted ways with K. after a weekend exploring the capital Ljubljana and other sights in the former Yugoslavian republic. By a combination of trains and a beautiful hike we had made it to the Škocjan caves, one of the largest karst cave systems in the world. We toured the huge caverns, then quaffed a pint of Union lager at a dusty little train depot in the remote outpost of Sežana to wrap up the weekend. Later, K. walked across the border to catch a few more trains, and I headed north to the river.

The problem was, trains don't go there very often, nor do buses, certainly not on Sunday evening. So off I went, walking to the north with everything I needed for a rafting trip—including the boat— in a large pack on my back. I hitchhiked a bunch in my youth, and from time to time in the last few years when the situation necessitated it. Though the golden age of social acceptance is long past and it can be a real pain in the ass, I still love the spontaneous connections that sometimes come from spending time in a stranger's car or letting a stranger into mine.

The pressing issue last Sunday was that I was about to run up against one of my hitching maxims: avoid trying to get a ride at night. It had taken us all day to get to Nova Gorica and by the time I was out of town and posted up at a good spot to get a northerly ride, darkness was quickly descending. Another rule- women don't generally stop, and moms with kids almost never do, nor do people with cars already packed full. Imagine my surprise then, when a car pulled over at dusk, driven by a mom with two toddlers in the back, and at the front seat piled high with a huge sack of potatoes and a dog carrier. One hour later I was having mock sword fights with the boys and sitting down to dinner with the family. Any doubts I had about the trip melted away like the organic butter we slathered on thick hunks of buckwheat bread.

The next morning, fed and rested, I stuck out my thumb once more, heading north to the upper reaches of the Soča River, near its source in Triglav National Park. I never waited more than 10 minutes for a ride and found myself in the lovely village of Bovec before noon. Slovenians learn English from an early age and it seemed everyone I encountered on my journey was warm, friendly and helpful. I picked up a map of the rivers and some useful beta from a local outfitter, Philip at Soča Sports. A plan took shape. I would spend the next couple days hiking and scouting the river, then a couple more rafting some 65 k back towards the south.

It was cloudy and raining, but still beautiful in the forests and fields outside of Bovec as I made my way to a 15^th century castle that had been remade into a fort during World War I. The area around Bovec was the frontline between Italy and Austro- Hungary in 1917 and the remnants of war are everywhere. There is even a rapid on the Soča named after the bunkers that line the riverbank.

Eating my simple lunch in the old castle well to avoid the rain, I caught my first glimpse of the Koritnica River, deep in the valley below. I’d been advised not to run it, but its crystalline water and perfect winding granite canyons were beckoning. At the very least I had to hike down and take a look. The section was rated class IV, but all the rapids were scout-able, and the water level was low due to the abysmal snowpack this year. Plus, my pack raft, though small and lightweight, is meant to handle some serious whitewater. Change of plans!

I ran back to town and grabbed all my gear, hiked back to the river and pitched my tent just before a thunderstorm settled in above the canyon. In the morning the storm had cleared to reveal a landscape out of a fairy tale. The Julian Alps were showing themselves, huge snow-capped peaks rising above the river. The water was even more alluring in the morning sunshine, clear and emerald tinted, flowing over smooth stones with native Soča trout darting here and there.

I inflated the raft and pushed off down the river. Picking my way through the narrow slots and channels of a low volume river in early spring, I spun the raft now and then in a full arc to absorb the incredible mountain backdrop. After a couple hours I reached the confluence of the Soča and headed back to Bovec for a quick resupply.

In the afternoon I caught a ride to the upper reaches of the Soča, where it leaves the park and becomes navigable. Some of the bigger rapids are found in this section and next few hours were full of by tight slots and drops and spray glistening in the evening light. Anytime I couldn’t see a drop from my boat I hopped out and scouted. Everything was pretty straightforward and smooth, with the exception of Krsovec rapid, where a lateral wave flipped my boat, giving me a momentary trout’s eye view of the Soča. When dusk arrived I pitched the tent and put on every piece of clothing I’d brought to aid my too thin sleeping bag in fending off the chill of a clear and cold night.

At dawn I reluctantly left the tent and shook frost from boat and paddle. Ahead lay a very full day of boating and scouting, and boating some more. The river meandered away from the road and deeper into the forest. White-throated dippers bobbed comically at the river’s edge, just like their American cousins. A pair of mergansers circled in a quiet eddy. Swallows darted overhead, scooping up gnats.

Slovenia is roughly the size of Massachusetts, and is the third most forested country in Europe, after Sweden and Finland. With less than 2 million people it feels very rural, even wild, especially by central European standards. The soundtrack of my river journey reflected this peace—moving water, songbirds, and the distant peal of church bells.

In the afternoon I walked a canyon of class V and VI rapids and hiked back down to the river for one last big push, to the Soča’s effective end at the hydroelectric dam at Most na Soči. After several miles of flat water, I paddled into town exhausted and in love with Slovenia.

Spring seemed to have sprung in those few short days- the trees were budding and the rolling hills were carpeted in saffron flowers, giving the appearance of thousands of purple and yellow Easter eggs. I visited my new friends once more and swam in a perfect pool below a waterfall.

The next day I lingered at the border, sipping a final pint of Union in the sunshine before walking across the border to Italy and hopping a train to Verona with a silly, giddy smile plastered on my face.