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.
