July Morning Part Two

Three-thirty came and went and still there was no sign of Ivan or Lora. Unwilling to wait any longer at the risk of missing the sunrise, Nat, Georgia and I threw down last shots of rakija and prepared to set out. The party was still going strong in the hut and our immanent department elicited much laughter as well as several boisterous toasts to our health and the success of our expedition. Cheered by these good wishes we shouldered our packs and were just about to step out the door when from the loft above the dining room came a panicked shriek. Moments later Lora’s tousled head appeared above the wooden parapet, her face contorted into an expression of dismay as she cried, ‘Why didn’t anyone wake me?’

She was soon among us, dressed in a bright yellow raincoat and rummaging in the tall upright fridge in the kitchen. Taking out a can of Coke she popped the top and ran her expert eye over Nat and Georgia before advising Georgia to wear another layer of clothing because, she said, it would be very cold up at the lakes. She then looked at me and said in a tone of voice halfway between amazement and disbelief that I was going to freeze, adding that no-one in their right mind would go up into the mountains at dawn wearing only a T-shirt.

I replied that I’d be fine, adding that I had a heavier shirt in my bag if it proved necessary. This earned me a blank stare and an incredulous shake of the head. Georgia had reappeared by this stage, with the recommended clothing, and everything seemed set. After a brief pep talk from Momchil, who was very excited about what we were doing, we said our goodbyes and, somewhat cavalierly, strode off across the wet dark meadow into the forest.

I went in the lead, earning a reproof from Lora who claimed that they were unable to see my light. We were rather ill-prepared in this department, having only my small torch and the light of someone else’s camera to forge a way through the near-impenetrable pre-dawn gloom. Despite this handicap we made it without mishap to the ridge above the lodge where, pausing among the trees, we held a brief debate about the best way to proceed. Again, Lora and I clashed, this time over my plan to take us up the scenic route which she said, quite rightly, would lead us into a bog.

This left only the stony and much-cratered jeep track, which teemed with water as it wound steeply uphill through a dark and brooding forest of fir and spruce and pine. Up this wet and rugged thoroughfare we went at a frantic clip, sped on equally by my rakija-fuelled enthusiasm and Lora’s desire to reach our destination before the sun cleared the horizon. With our feet stumbling over the loose and slippery rocks and our lights bobbing erratically in the dark, we must have been quite a sight. The air meanwhile, bracingly cold and silent but for the gurgle of running water, rang out now and again with demented cries of ‘Wow!’ ‘Yeah!’ and ‘Isn’t this amazing!’ I don’t know about the others, but I was having the time of my life.

We climbed without pause some four hundred metres in I don’t know how long, going up and up through the forest until gradually the trees on either side of the track fell away and the slope levelled out into rolling heath and soggy meadows in which our feet sank with a disheartening squelch. We passed a ski lift, its pylons stark and menacing against a sky in which the first apertures of light had appeared amidst masses of jostling cloud. Just beyond it stood the Rilski hut, a hulking monolith with a pitched roof and four tiers of windows, all of them dark. From here the way led up the side of a stupendous whaleback, sheer on one side and streaked with snow that glowed dimly in the dawning light. The way was rocky and uneven and in my haste I stumbled and fell, earning my first kind words of the morning from Lora who said, ‘Ian, I’m worried about you,’ rather as a parent would address a wayward child.

Though our final destination still lay some way off, reaching the top of this lofty eminence felt like a grand achievement. The high wide sky, streaked with widening banners of grey light, seemed almost within reaching distance. A cold clean wind blew out of nowhere, shriving our faces and lifting goose pimples on my arms; while away in the distance, like a far constellation, the lights of a solitary village glittered in a vast black emptiness. Our objective lay ahead us, a long high wall of mountains whose jagged crenulations showed with increasing clarity against the paling firmament. In a haste that was almost manic we strode towards it across a green swathe of turf scattered with wildflowers, urged on by Lora who, luminous as a beacon in her fluorescent yellow raincoat, pointed at the lights sporadically twinkling upon the mountaintops and shouted, ‘Look, there’s people up there already!’

I’m not sure that either Nat or Georgia shared her urgency. And certainly I was far too drunk to mind how many people we encountered in the mountains, as well as completely overwhelmed by the spectacular natural beauty that surrounded us. Like a vision in a fairy tale a lake appeared away to our right, its surface as smooth and dark as mica and etched with the reflections of the mountains that towered above it and beyond them the cloud-strewn sky which stretched away into a dazzling infinity. The effect was profound and in an attempt to capture the moment for prosperity I took my camera from my bag and snapped a bunch of photographs, very few of which came out because in my disordered state I fudged the settings.

Shortly afterwards we began climbing again, this time up a majestic staircase of shattered rock, bisected by streams and a cascading fall of water, that wound dramatically upwards to the snow-streaked heights. As we ascended we were able to look down and see five of the seven lakes, gleaming like dark mirrors in cradles of rock and grass. The crashing of water hammered in our ears. Overhead ragged scraps of cloud tinted grey and slate and lilac, and rimmed around the edges with celestial haloes of light, floated in a sky that had turned a delicate shade of eggshell blue. Into this wild empyrean the sun rose almost shyly, passing in and out from behind the clouds as it imparted the faintest trace of warmth to the bracing air and embossed grass and stone and water with a glittering sheen of gold. Tendrils of mist, drifting past at eye level, glowed a soft shade of rose.

The ascent brought us to the lake known as Okoto, the ‘Eye’. At a little over 2,440 metres, this is the second-highest of the seven lakes, a fantastically limpid, darkly gleaming body of water, fiendish in its tranquillity, nestled among tall cliffs and high slopes of grass still copiously patched with snow. A path climbed, rough and stony, up the slope on one side; down it I was surprised to see a procession of Bulgarians coming my way, many of the them clutching walking poles and all securely encased in parkas and raingear. These were the folk whose torches we had seen earlier, shining as if from another galaxy. Having witnessed the sunrise on this lovely July Morning, they were no doubt headed back to the lowlands to celebrate with banitsa and rakija and all sorts of other good things.

As I passed them on the way up, I could see that everyone was in an exceptionally good mood. Some expressed surprise at my choice of attire, saying, ‘Aren’t you cold?’ and gesturing towards my T-shirt. Others stopped and posed happily for a commemorative photograph, indulging to the full their pleasure in the moment. At the top of the climb, on a rocky saddle above the seventh and final lake, Salzata, the ‘Tear’, I came upon a small crowd congregated on a prominent outcrop adorned with an inordinate number of tall stone cairns, gazing out over the lakes below to a dreamy vista of rolling hills, bristling forest, alpine meadows and, far in the distance, yet more mountains floating against a sky from which all traces of cloud had miraculously disappeared. All around me people were eating and drinking and chatting happily, throwing sticks to their dogs and slapping each other on the shoulders. Mingling among them felt like a fitting conclusion to a wonderful morning’s walking.

Except that I wasn’t finished. Eager to see what lay beyond, I bid my companions farewell and continued climbing. The way was steep and rocky, but not exceptionally difficult, and clearly marked with variously coloured flashes. In what felt like no time at all I came to the Razdela saddle, a high plateau swathed in green grass, empty and brilliant in the thin cold sunlight, with sierras of craggy, snow-dappled peaks looming across bright gulfs of air.

Razdela is an important crossroads and a clutch of battered metal signs, augmented by blazes painted on rocks, point off in all directions. After considering the options I turned west, dropping down off the saddle into a long, green, faraway valley. Lush green slopes rolled up on each side beneath the blue arc of sky, their upper reaches grazed by horses. The ground underfoot was soft and springy and wet, scattered with wildflowers and partitioned by streams of clear mountain water which, coursing down off the heights, filled the stillness with a musical tinkling. Even in the sun the air was bracing – Lora’s words came back to haunt me as I took my heavy shirt from my bag and hastily pulled it on.

Eventually, towards the bottom of the valley, I came to the hut named after Ivan Vazov, the late-nineteenth-century Bulgarian poet and nationalist. It was a solid stone structure with some pretty little outbuildings constructed of corrugated iron and painted in vivid and attractive colours. Here I sat in the sun and drank coffee flavoured with cardamom, and contemplated the long walk home.