A Walk in the Village

It is a lovely day and I am home early from school. The mountains beckon. I put on the only shoes I have for climbing – a new pair of Birks and a good thick pair of socks. I have my camera and so I am ready. First we have to cross the Humor River to get to the base of them. Fortunately, the river is not too wide and certainly not deep, but it is cold and wet. The bridge is iffy at best. It is a log that has been flattened on one side with a sort of a handrail attached. When I was a Girl Scout back in the Dark Ages, I would have scampered over it, but now I an older and wiser. I do not want to slip into the water now though, because I know that the first foot to hit the water will slip on the slimy wet river rocks, slither off onto another one or two and then down I will go, into the water. Hopefully, the camera will survive. Then there is the ordeal of getting up. I will first have to take inventory of all my limbs to see that they are intact. Then I will probably get more body parts wet trying to get up with minimal pain. I will probably have ruined my only pair of jeans, my Birks will be soaked, and I will be cold. I will have to trudge back to the house, shivering and miserable. In the morning, I will find muscles I never knew existed. I still have scabs on both knees from a step I didn’t see in town.

I look at the bridge again and determine that I can do this. Don’t look down. Hold onto the railing. One step at a time. Oh, I am getting old. How did this happen?? So I surprise even myself and make it across without any mishaps. We head over to the trailhead. It is still muddy from the incessant rain of the past two weeks. We have to walk on the outside edge of the path or else we will be knee-deep in mud. Not my idea of a good idea – especially as I have sandals on. It is a delightful 70 degrees – a lovely day for a walk.

It doesn’t look steep but that is deceiving. We head on. The path is not at all smooth. You would never know that people have been climbing this very path for centuries. It was strewn with big river rocks and ruts. I took my time so as not to lose my footing. I suspect it would really hurt a lot if I took a tumble here. There are no real handholds. I found that out the hard way. I grabbed a piece of fence to get by a particularly treacherous bit of slop and wet river rock when my hand began to sting. I thought it was bees but no, it was stinging nettles. I have never seen them before, but I bet I never do that again. It still stings and it has been two days. Up and up we went, with Birsook in the lead. He had every dog barking for miles around.

The scenery gets better and better the higher we go. I am convinced that this is where all the fairy tale settings come from. This looks so much like a picture in a history book of the seventeenth century. I keep seeing these vistas everywhere I go. One of my friends asked me if the image from my bedroom window was from National Geographic. It really is this gorgeous! Look at the mountains in the distance – they just go on and on and on.

We hear cow bells from a farm on the next rise. Still higher we go. As we head up the mountain, we leave the farms and head into open grazing land – at least that is what I am told it is. I am now starting to wonder whether this is a good idea or not. We are almost blazing a trail through the pines. I cannot see my feet or what is on the other side of the tree. A clearing! I now have two wet feet from the bogs on the trail.

Looking out over the trees and fence line it is a wonder. It goes on forever. Mountain peaks rise up, one after another, until they fade into the horizon.

The sound of dogs is getting closer. The dogs are moving the sheep this way. We must leave as they will not stand for Birsook. We didn’t make it to the top today. Maybe another day. It is time to descend. Down to the tree line, through the dense pines. I am only sure that I am going the right way because it is downhill. Hopefully I will come out in a place where I can cross the stream. Finally, we reach the path that runs along the fence line. I look up and realize that the sheep are looking at us as if we are the odd ones on the mountain. Perhaps they are right.

It is getting late to be out on the mountain. The skyline is unbelievable. Back to the Humor River and home.

As we return to the house, I hear English out on the street. It turns out that there is a British walking club out for a holiday. They are walking from the hotel in Gura Humorului to the Monastery and back. We talk for a while. It has been a while since I actually talked to someone who speaks English as a first language. It almost seems odd not to be stumbling around in a variety of languages for words to make sense. Soon it is time for them to be on their way and I am heading for the Advil.