If Count Harrach hadn't once swapped his forests with the Silesian Count Schaffgotsch, we might have gone there more often. For a long time, though, the Czech-Polish Friendship Trail along the main ridge of the Giant Mountains was a dividing line I couldn't cross. The border guards vanished into the dustbin of history long ago, but the border unintentionally stayed in my head. While I know the southern slopes of the Giant Mountains like the back of my hand, the northern slopes are my Midnight Kingdom – Hic sunt leones, the end of the world. For a long time I didn't let myself set foot there.
But these are good times for micro-adventures and nearby destinations where adventure might be lurking, so it finally occurred to me to explore the far side of the Giant Mountains a little. And to my great surprise, just beyond my back yard I found real, genuine Scandinavia. Green slopes of ancient Palaeozoic rock, covered in dense prickly forest and softened by cushions of moss, look strikingly like what I know from the far north. Weather-beaten dwarf trees and their stumpy branches are overgrown with lichen. Cold fresh air stings your nose. Chilly granite boulders and scattered scree fields make it feel especially inhospitable. As if Dante and Virgil had walked through here on their journey through Hell.
Fancy a look too? Choose carefully where you start – so your strength holds out.
Be ready to run uphill a lot. And downhill a lot. And then uphill and downhill again. There and back from Špindlerův Mlýn to Karpacz is 42 kilometres – exactly a marathon. You swing up onto the ridge, where the first snow is already lying. You weave through the dwarf pine and run across the Silver Ridge (Stříbrný hřbet). Below you, laid out like a map, are two glacial lakes – Mały and Wielki Staw. So far, it's familiar ground.
You run on towards the rocky Słonecznik massif, which is in sight, and find yourself in territory both known and unknown. From here an old hunting trail leads to the Pielgrzymy granite rocks. The petrified pilgrims stand in your way. But don't hang around too long, or you'll get cold. Otherwise you'll turn to stone too! Stunted spruce woods with bilberries, lingonberries and heather look remarkably like the northern tundra. You cross a springy, red-tinged peat bog on a wooden boardwalk. Be grateful for it, or your feet would be squelching through icy water. Tall grass waves you on your way, and from the north blows – who else – the cold north wind.
Tread softly. Don't startle the grouse – they're getting ready to sleep.
You run down the stone paving all the way to the little Wang church. Who'd expect a thousand-year-old wooden church right here, looking as if it had been cut out of a postcard from Christiania? The crazy idea of moving a piece of Norway to the foot of Sněžka was carried out in the days of the Emperor, in 1848. It was brought to Silesia by the Prussian King Frederick William. The church, with its pointed roof and dragon heads on the ends of the eaves, stood just over a hundred and fifty years ago in the Valdres mountains somewhere between Oslo and Bergen. And now, like a strange souvenir from distant foreign lands, it adorns the Giant Mountains. The steep northern slopes of Sněžka give the place a peculiar magic. You're practically just round the corner from home, and yet almost in Norway – I find it pretty convincing.
You haven't got any złoty, so they won't let you in, but that doesn't really matter. You've only done half the route. Besides, winter days are getting shorter and you have to get back before dark. Hurry up via Kocioł Łomniczki, up the stone steps to the top of Sněžka and back home along the ridge. And watch how you answer the tricky questions of lost wanderers: "Whose is Sněžka – Polish or Czech?"
If you ask me, I'd say it's probably Norwegian. But does it really matter?
Squinting, I try to make out the silhouette coming towards me through the dark. My heart is racing. I fumble frantically in my sleeping bag for my phone. With a trembling hand I at least find my torch. I aim the beam at the snorting object, which is now standing barely a few metres from me. "AAAAAAARGH!" bursts uncontrollably from my throat as we look each other in the eye. Me and a wild boar! I leap out of my sleeping bag on reflex. He just grunts irritably and disappears. For a while I keep staring after him into the dark, shaken. But nobody else seems to be coming, and it's pretty chilly. I glance at my watch. It's just after midnight, so I crawl back into the warmth of my sleeping bag.
My eyes quickly grow heavy. No wonder. I've got over thirty kilometres of hilly terrain in my legs, carrying a full pack. The steady rustle of leaves fluttering in the gentle breeze of a September night works on me like a lullaby. I'm almost asleep when I hear the snorting and footsteps again. "The boar," I think, half-asleep. "Who else would be coming round here now." I pull my hood over my head and go back to sleep. I don't wake until the birds start singing. I watch the morning sunbeams pushing through the branches. The forest is waking up to a sunny day and the air smells of an Indian summer. I stir freshly picked sweet blackberries into my porridge for breakfast and enjoy the simple present with all my senses: just me and the forest.
After breakfast I pack everything into my rucksack and set off on the next leg of my solitary journey. It's become a sort of annual ritual for me. Walk wherever my legs carry me, sleep, and carry on. For a few days at least. Just me and myself – over hill and dale.
This year, though, I didn't have much time for wandering. So I set out to cross at least the Brdy hills near home, from Prague to Jince. As I tackle today's stretch of the ridge path from the summit of Babka to Studený vrch, memories of past journeys run through my head: the Jizera Mountains, the Giant Mountains, the Alps. I wonder what draws me to this regular personal tradition. It's a natural experience of freedom. No work "deadlines" and no questions like "Mum, my legs hurt, are we there yet?" Breaking away from everyday problems automatically gives me more room to take in nature and the world around me. Without any particular expectations, solutions and all sorts of ideas about what to do with my life come of their own accord.
Now I can smile about my night-time encounter with the boar, and in daylight it seems like a funny story. At night, though, it was a challenge.
Other times I've had the pleasure of getting lost without a GPS signal, of the elements running riot, of thirst without a drop of water and not a spring in sight. On a solitary journey you have to be able to cope with all of that. If you manage, you come out of the woods with more strength and self-confidence.
Adventure therapy, mindfulness, forest bathing and other new personal-growth trends have one thing in common: a return to our roots. To nature. To ourselves and our own abilities.
I'm nearing "Studeňák" – my goal for today. For a while I soak up the lovely view while grey clouds roll in from the north. It looks like it'll rain tonight, and I need to choose my sleeping spot accordingly. Later I pitch a tarp over my trekking poles so the rain won't catch me out. No sooner have I curled up in my sleeping bag after dinner than the familiar drip, drip, drip begins. The rain taps out its rhythm on the tarp as I drift off contentedly – in the middle of the forest, yet right at home. On a solitary journey to myself and my roots.
The familiar crackle of the fire kindled a new day. I added some thicker logs, rearranged the damp things on the makeshift drying rack so they'd dry out, and sat down by the fire. I enjoyed the warmth it gave off in every direction. A fire adds atmosphere to an evening, a morning, or a cold or rainy day. And the time spent beside it is perfect for reflection.
"Instead of a bathroom there's a pond, you'll find drinking water in a barrel, the only place to warm up is by the fire, meals are cooked in a makeshift kitchen, and you can bed down in a tent or under a tarp. Oh, and there's no electricity, so you've definitely got to come!" ran my friend's invitation.
So, comfort and freedom, I thought – completely seriously, without irony or a sigh.
What appealed to me most, though, was the fact that parents take part in this rather unusual event together with their children. Everyone becomes part not only of the programme but also of running the camp. Just think about it, reader: the children spend most of the day actively – and I stress actively – with their parents. Which, at least in my eyes, is the best thing that can happen to either of them. They work, plan, play and compete – and all of it together. I should add that this isn't a camp for a group that's already geared that way, like the Scouts. Here people from towns and villages come together, some more handy and used to life outside their comfort zone, some less.
For a week I had the chance to watch it all unfold. And it was as if I'd gone back in time. Preparing firewood, working in the kitchen, including washing up, cleaning the living area, which included the makeshift washrooms, the latrines and the area around the compost pit. All these jobs had one thing in common: cooperation. And the added value of it all was parents and children working together.
What today's would-be modern society lacks are the basics of living together and the need to cooperate. Our shared worlds are often split into separate rooms in our homes; we shut ourselves away in rooms and social media groups and share our experiences through data networks. We have dozens, hundreds and sometimes even thousands of virtual friends who, however, vanish the moment the screen goes dark. At the camp, though, there are people of flesh and blood. They stand on the other side of the log you're hauling out of the forest together, just as they pull on the other end of the saw. They split wood so that everyone stays warm and everyone else can eat food that wouldn't cook without a fire – a fire that keeps burning only as long as there's wood to feed it.
A thought, or rather a question, comes to mind: "Have we gone back in time, or just back to a place where we'll have to start all over again?"
Contests, races, games, lessons in bushcraft skills, rehearsing short plays, guitars, singing. I can still see the swarm of sparks that flew up when wood was thrown on the fire, joining the stars in the night sky that bore witness to it all. How many of us would like to experience this, and how many of us should?
You think it's impossible? That you wouldn't last even a day there, reader? I believe you. But you, in turn, should believe that resilience isn't built by watching films, experience isn't gathered from handbooks and other people's stories won't turn into your own experiences. All of that has to be lived and felt, until you finally discover what a life-changing win good boots that keep out water and mud can be – because mud on your boots is no problem; mud in your boots is.
I wish you a lovely autumn – not only in good boots and clothing, but with a positive welcome for everything it offers you, and for everything you're able to take on.
There's no need to go looking for unnecessary risk. A handy guide is the Ten Rules for Staying Safe in Mountain Terrain published by the Czech Mountain Rescue Service. There's no point copying them out here – they're easy to find online (you'll find them, for example, on the official website of the Czech Mountain Rescue Service – editor's note). Seasoned mountain hands can test how many of the ten they get right "first go", and in general it's no bad idea to refresh your memory of them now and then.
Even with the best will in the world, though, you simply aren't in control of everything. You know the feeling – the lure of heading into the unknown and touching the limits of what you can do. But every so often it lands you in a situation that paralyses you. In a place that lies beyond the edge of your skills or strength.
What exactly do I mean? Say a storm rolls in while you're hanging on the steel cable of a via ferrata. Or you get stuck in the middle of a rock face where the only way on is a move that's too hard, and you seem to have no strength left for it. But "silly" things happen too, like a stone shooting out from under your foot on a narrow path winding above a drop, and suddenly you're sliding down. With a bit of luck it ends without serious consequences and you just gain a new experience at your limits.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't end well. You find yourself in a life-threatening, extraordinary situation. Whether it affects us or someone else, our body reacts automatically. In the first phase, energy is mobilised. Your nervous system raises your heart rate, your breathing speeds up, you start to sweat and the muscles in your limbs get flooded with blood, preparing the body for two primal strategies – fight or flight. Each of us reacts differently, but mostly we try to somehow cope with the situation and get to safety quickly. Even then, fortune favours the prepared. Carrying a first-aid kit, knowing first aid and knowing whom to call for further help – automatic responses cut down the consequences of panic-driven mistakes and lead to dealing with the situation more effectively. So it's no bad idea to take a first-aid course every so often. There are now even courses specialising in first aid in the mountains.
I had a fall in rocky terrain fairly recently. I ended up with a laceration on my leg, a bruised hand and a mild concussion. Nothing extreme – ten stitches, draining a haematoma and some rest sorted it out. All good, you might say. But not quite. For a good few days, a thousand and one thoughts were racing through my head. What could and should I have done differently, better, in that moment? What else could have happened? I was caught in a vicious circle of the same thoughts going round and round. I found it hard to concentrate and harder to fall asleep. My conversations kept turning back to the accident. It only lasted a week, but it scared me quite a bit. Until a psychologist friend had to remind me that this is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation I'd been through. Even if you aren't seriously hurt, or only witness an accident, it numbs your soul for a while. It's not just the body that needs time and care to get back together.
Unlike first aid, though, this isn't talked about much. And yet a few simple steps can help:
If things don't improve and it drags on for longer, it's wise to contact a professional – a psychologist or psychotherapist. After serious accidents or a close brush with death, post-traumatic stress disorder can develop, which needs considerably more care. And remember, seeing a psychologist is no stigma – quite the opposite.
An experience at your limits, or even one "over the edge", that you live through and work through is a great enrichment for the rest of your life. Only when you take on bold things do you live an authentic and fulfilled life.
Above the little huddle of climbers at the start hangs a cloud of alcohol fumes from last night's party. Anyone who didn't let rip at the gig on the playing field last night is simply not properly prepared. I know full well my throat will be bone dry by the Polar Bear rock, but that's still a long way off.
Six, five, four. A bunch of anarchists – climbers who came to the famous Mountain Film Festival in Teplice nad Metují – are collectively searching their consciences and solemnly swearing never to drink again. A morning hangover is suspiciously similar to altitude sickness. But now you have to pull yourself together and run, no excuses – that might come in handy in the mountains one day.
Three, two, one, go! The pack starts moving, spills out of the park, picks up speed and tears frantically across the Teplice town square. Whatever you do, don't go off too fast. It's eleven kilometres to the finish. That's not all that much, but you don't want to be throwing up at the entrance to the rocks like last time. Easy does it, girl, it's going to be uphill.
The very first climb sorts you out. We run past the Hermitage of St Ivan. Should I just go and hide in there? Racing is a serious business: don't be a wimp, speed up! Holy Mary, Our Lady of Help, help me make it to the finish. It's the last Sunday in August, a chance to take the run a little meditatively. I find my rhythm and jog towards the rock town.
"Come on, Mandulka, faster!" cheers a course marshal, the sister of Míra Šmíd, who once dreamt up the mountain film festival. I'm starting to realise this race is a prestigious affair. Just be glad your legs are working. I pass the turn-off to the Wolf Gorge and the climb begins. Slowly I'm sobering up.
Through the Rock Gate comes the first runner heading the other way. Somebody here is racing for real: "Go on, champ!" The guy flies back to the finish like an arrow, while I still have the whole loop of the rock town ahead of me. Shouldn't I sit down on Krakonoš's Seat or just go blueberry picking? Even the Tortoise rock is faster than me.
I slip into a dark rocky gorge where the sun never shines and count the steps. I take them two at a time. No overtaking, the passage is narrow. You're not slowing down, are you! You'd hold everyone up. The queue of runners snakes between the rocks. Below the Cathedral Walls it brightens a little and a breeze picks up. We're not at the end yet, I'm wilting and below the Herring rock I run out of breath.
But at the Boar it all turns round: I sprout wings again and hurtle downhill over the steps. My knees take the shock. Just don't break your neck. We're spurred on by Crack of the whip (Crack of the Whip) *. First long bounds along a sandy path, then I shorten my stride and grab the railing. One step after another. In the narrow Siberian Gorge the stream squelches and the wooden boardwalk is slippery: careful you don't slip! The walls are covered in slimy moss: better not touch them – weave and run!
I've threaded my way through the maze. The rocks have let me out of their clutches. I burst out of the forest and run on easy ground along the track back to town. Some kids by a log cottage offer me water: "Thanks, thanks!" They hold out their hands to the runners for a high five. That won't slow me down. I run for dear life. Just don't let me be last! Before the finish, sandstone climbing legend Petr Prachtel is waiting and cheering me on. And at last a roaring wall of spectators in the home straight – and the finish!
Surprisingly, I held on to third place on the podium in the slightly favoured Women Climbers category. The race also got a new course record, held by Dominik Sádlo with a time of 35 minutes. And the women's category was once again won by the unbeatable Táňa Metelková. Some of life's certainties never change. Same time next year?
Even as a little boy I often climbed trees. Whether for cherries, conkers, or just playing around with the other kids. I was scared of heights, but I was so curious what the world looks like from a bird's-eye view. I didn't know whether I'd have the strength to get right up into the crown, or whether a branch that was too fragile might snap beneath me. Even so, the craving for adventure and for pushing my own – as yet only sensed – limits was much stronger than fear and uncertainty.
Seen through today's climbing eyes, that same adventure and uncertainty are fading more and more. It seems to be driven above all by technological progress. Technology and inventions follow us at every step. All those smartphones, social networks, shared videos, virtual spaces – all of it has changed real life, even out there in nature. There are fewer and fewer places and things that could surprise you or catch you off guard. When we don't know something, it forces us to search, explore, experiment, try to find our own solutions and reach our limits. After all, knowledge springs from not knowing. But I have my doubts about what the ideal of our behaviour is these days.
As I see it, the argument sits on the side of reason, which pursues usefulness and rational action, thinks in context and can analyse everything. We know how to switch off a smartphone, computer or tablet. We know how to log off social media. But can we disconnect our minds from them too? Can we focus purely on the moment and be ourselves? Climb a particular route on the rock in here-and-now mode, say, and feel deep inside that I've just done the most fitting thing in the whole universe I was capable of? The experience of that adventure settles into your consciousness, and what you learn can be applied in other situations and other contexts too. You don't have to say anything at all to make history. A single deed is enough – one that speaks louder than a lot of words, even louder than plenty of feats by famous heroes. It's important to have your own opinion and not to worry about how others will react. Nobody gets anywhere if they don't know where they're going. That's why you need to listen to your mind and build your self-confidence. But results take effort.
We've got into the habit of seeking approval. And that behaviour complicates our lives. The main thing is for everyone to have at least a little clarity in their life and to think about how important their own feelings are. I go to the crags for good feelings – I simply go there for the joy of it.
Today a realistic view of the world dominates, while feelings are pushed into the background and given no room. Is that a good thing? Climbing is mostly a non-competitive sport, built on pushing yourself, on friendship, love of nature and freedom. And for me it has always meant free-spirited liberty. I don't think a competitive atmosphere should creep into it. There's no need to compare your achievements with anyone else's. That way you get caught in a vicious circle and feel worthless – all the happy moments are no longer so great and everything you've managed to achieve is played down. It's a trap in which you start to lose yourself.
No problem can be solved with the same thinking that created it, and everyone needs a different amount of time to get ready to change the way they think. Sometimes it's just a matter of fine-tuning; other times it takes a great deal of energy.
Don't compare yourself with others. Being yourself brings contentment and a better feeling about life.
Your only rival is you.
