Lost in Slovenia

I screamed the entire way down. All 8 meters. I only stopped when the shock of the ice cold water tightened around my lungs like a cold steel clamp. Jumping off a rock into this brilliant, yet frigid, turquoise water of the Soca River may not appeal to those with poor circulation, but with a week off between trips and access to a Backroads van…I couldn’t put my wet suit on fast enough.

Surrounded on all sides by the Julian Alps, my fellow Backroad’s leader Jenny Kay and I found ourselves nestled within Mother Nature’s natural water park. Carved into a ring of mountains in Triglav National Park, Trenta valley joins five different rivers into one vibrantly flowing emerald-green Soca River (say it like a local as So-tcha). Splashing into the centrally located town of Bovec (pronounced Bovets), we had numerous water adventure companies at the tip of our paddle. All we had to do was choose the one with the best looking boats (or guides) and hold our breath. Don’t be fooled by the surrounding beauty (of either the mountains or the aforementioned raft guides). Grab the thickest wet suit you can find. That turquoise water is a far cry from the warm azure waters of the Caribbean!

In order to attend the nightly festivities later in town, Jenny Kay and I opted for the half-day teaser in lieu of the overnight trip. At the put-in, my feet vibrated with the pounding of the chalky blue water as it thundered through the canyon. My nose wiggled with the fresh scent of cool mountain fall air. And my ears buzzed at the chatter of the thousand other rafters who had the same idea as us this afternoon. Just another quiet day on the river…



Once in the water, the pecking order was quickly established. While other guides robotically demonstrated how to paddle two front strokes on the count of “FORWARD TWO!” our handsome Peruvian guide turned the instructions into a dance with the river. We pounded through rapids. We dodged sharp rocks. We rested in eddies. And when it was time to run the gauntlet, we charged through with such finesse and accuracy that we quickly became the coolest rafting boat on the river. It helped that after each successfully navigated rapid, we simultaneously slapped our paddles on the water, while our slowly escalating war cry culminated in a nine-paddle high-five. My thousand friends looked on with envy.

Leaving our neoprene frocks in the grimy disinfecting tub, we hit the only food store in the valley for supplies. The next day was Mt. Krn, and we would need more than a cute guide to fuel our trek to the summit. Canned tuna (an absolute staple). Bread. Water. A precious apple. Soya milk and chocolate granola (breakfast of champions). A curvy mountain drive led us to the tiny dirt parking lot of Dom Klementa Juga lodge. As we pulled our large BACKROADS van into the tiny dirt parking lot, groups of hikers stared at us with the usual jaw dropping curiosity we have come to expect. We smiled at the confused crowd that had gathered and slipped into the “lobby” to check in.

Through wild hand gestures, exaggerated pointing, bright facial expressions (I think we did an improv skit at one point) and finally flashing some Euros, Jenny Kay and I managed to secure two bunk beds for the night. Poor Jenny Kay. At over six feet tall, she was in for a cramped night. After sleeping in our twenty-five person dorm room with only one other loan hiker, Jenny Kay and I gladly slid out of our 5 foot long “cots” (and that is being generous), grabbed our packs and were out the door before you could say “refund.”



It was beautiful. It was the kind of morning that keeps you sharp as the cold air clears away any cobwebs from a short night’s sleep. We took pictures of the sunlight as it slowly repainted the colors in the valley with its rays. We snapped shots of the ghostly mist snaking its way through the green needles of the trees. Even the rocks on the trail couldn’t escape the lens of my camera. Thanks to a summer-camp-fun-fact from my elementary school teacher friend Jenny Kay, I realized that nearly every rock on the trail looked like a heart. The novelty of this information, of course, wears off after you realize that packing an additional twenty pounds of heart rocks on your back is really not the most efficient way of summiting a 2,224 meter peak.

As we reached tree line, our eyes refocused from the brown and green of the trail to the absolute stark whiteness of the summit approach ahead. This chalky landscape reminded me of my adventurous hut-to-hut trek in the Dolomites…and the inevitable foot pain around the corner. Halfway up to what I could only assume was our first false peak, we came upon an old man sitting on a jagged white rock. Even though he wore three-quarter length capri pants, his fashion forward mid-calf-high full-leather hiking boots managed to cover all skin from exposure to the mountain air. The three of us exchanged pleasantries, which led to the unavoidable question of nationality. American. Then he asked it. The same question we had encountered earlier in town and now again on the side of this barren mountain.



"Are you lost?" he said through wind chapped lips that betrayed a smile, not judgment. Understanding that he meant our choice of country (and thankfully not our current direction on the trail), Jenny Kay and I stole a glance at each other. Eyebrows crinkled. Bewilderment apparent. Map. Mountain. Slovenia. Check. Check. And Check.

"No sir," Jenny Kay said in her genetically sweet and friendly southern Mississippi accent.

"We hopped in our van, drove through Czech and Austria and into Slovenia on purpose." I responded politely and slowly. Maybe this was a language barrier? Then a thought occurred to me that hadn't previously, and I added, "Why? Where are we supposed to be?" With that, his leathery cheeks squished together in a grin and he said triumphantly,

"Slovakia!" Then, mustering all the English in his vocabulary he said, "You Americans go to Slovakia. Not Slovenia. Yes?” His eyebrows lifted with anticipation of our answer.

Ah ha. Mystery solved. While extremely proud of their country, Slovenians have come to assume that American tourists find it more interesting to visit a post-communist Slovakia than the quiet mountains of Slovenia. Maybe those American tourists hadn’t seen the rafting guides yet?

As the old man slowly rose to his feet, his Capri pants sliding down over his boots, he seemed proudly content that these two American girls chose to explore his home country. Just before he passed me on his decent, I leaned in as if I was sharing a secret with a dear friend and whispered,

“I am not lost. But I wouldn’t turn down the unexpected adventure.” His gaze met mine and deep within the twinkle of recognition in his eyes, I could see a kindred spirit. With a knowing smile, he winked at me and started hiking towards what I could only assume was an adventure of his own.

As we cleared the final peak and summited through the clouds, the Trenta valley stared up at us from over two thousand meters below. The chalky turquoise Soca cut through the green fields. And somewhere in the distance, I could hear a nine-paddle high five.

Maybe I’d be warmer in the Czech leader house if I wore a wet suit,

Kristyn