I live in northern Slovenia, in the medieval town of Kamnik. This town lends its name to one of the three Alpine ranges that overlook the territory of Slovenia, the Kamnik-Savinja Alps. They might not have the country’s highest peaks, but they are nevertheless imposing.
For my entire life, I have been looking at one of their most distinguishing features, the Kamnik Saddle, be it from the village where I grew up or from Ljubljana where I lived for a couple of years. This saddle became the backdrop to the story of my life.
Despite always having the Alps within reach and living in a town known for its mountaineers, I ignored them for a long time. Even though they were right in front of my eyes, it is only recently that they have become fundamental to my very existence. And now no summer is complete without strenuous hikes into their dramatic interior.
My focus when I was growing up turned south, to the Adriatic coast because this was my family’s – my parents’, grandparents’, aunts’ and uncles’ – focus. They preferred water over rock, the warmth of the sea over the Alpine breeze, the sound of cicadas over the cackling of birds of prey. To them, and therefore to me, the sea meant sweaty leisure and mountains meant sweaty exertion.
Of course, my family’s slight aversion to hiking and mountain climbing had to do with the simple fact that their daily jobs were already physically and mentally taxing; who in their right mind would want to exert themselves even more by walking a steep hill for four hours with at least 6kg on their back, enduring excruciating heat, wind, even occasionally rain? Nobody! They were so invested in the idea of rest and relaxation, they always managed to justify the (high) price of their Adriatic fantasies, the sum of their travel and accommodation expenses, as well as the costs of eating out most of the time. As a child and teenager, I naturally had no choice but to go – to rest and relax – with them.
Ironically, what finally propelled me to walk my first mountain was my first financial crisis that began in 2006 and extended well into the global financial crisis of 2007-8. I was a broke student of broke humanities, but still tried to make some sense of my summer – I yearned to go somewhere nice, to experience something that wouldn’t depress me even more. With my generous student discount, I could have chosen to visit galleries and museums of modern and contemporary art, or gone to the cinema, danced in clubs or enjoyed concerts, except all these options were indoors. Even if they came in the form of an open-air event, I wasn’t interested. Somewhere nice was a stand-in for spaces outside direct human action, production or consumption. Somewhere nice meant nature.
Thus, hiking in the mountain range that was comically close to where I lived presented itself as the best idea. It was not only cheap to access, but also cheap to organise: you only needed enough water, a sandwich or two and some chocolate. On top of sufficient stamina, of course, which I had from running, and proper hiking gear – helmet, hiking boots, rucksack – which I borrowed; since I didn’t want to end up calling for search and rescue.
Luckily, I reached the summit of Brana (2,253m) in one piece. Contrary to how I might have looked sitting there under the blazing sun – tired, a little shocked – I was experiencing what I hadn’t experienced in a long while. You see, feeling tired and shocked were on my “broke menu” daily, but bliss – bliss wasn’t.
It was not (only) the altitude that enabled that giggly state, it was the privilege of encountering and absorbing such immense, arresting beauty on the way. The freshest green colour, interspersed with the whitest white. The grandeur of wind-beaten rocky walls, the grey-white faces of distant peaks, the colonies of lush shrubs growing among boulders. The confident spring of mountain goats, the shy demeanour of snakes and the silence, oh, the sound of silence. Growing up as a creature of the Adriatic coast I had no idea the world could be so vibrant, yet still so peaceful.
Since that first hike I have done countless others, some in the Kamnik-Savinja Alps, some in the Julian Alps and Karawanks, some during summer and some in other seasons. Funnily enough, my last summer hike this year was again Brana, with the small yet important difference: we began our ascent in the night. We wanted to reach the steep part of the mountain at daybreak, which is a common desire among hikers – the desire to view the mountains in the softest possible light, a light that makes them seem tame. It could be scary, hiking at night, as there are some wild animals in the area, but I think we were just too focused on our steps to feel fear. When the time came to greet our fellow hikers, we offered them benevolent smiles and even helped a girl whose dog was a little insecure on the rock.
What I have noticed in recent years is that my hiking adventures come as binges. I undergo these intense periods when I feel I absolutely must hike or climb, or I will go insane. I absolutely must expose myself to that immense, arresting beauty if I wish to face up to both personal struggles, such as unemployment, and collective struggles, such as the rise of fascist discourse and politics. I must do it in order to remain a proper human who is able to offer attentive care to myself and others.
You see, to me the beauty of the Alps is larger than the beauty of a novel, a jazz album, a film, a canvas. A lot of us were probably taught to disregard the failings and even the cruelties of artists in order to still be able to enjoy their art, but the beauty of the mountains requires no such tiresome negotiations. It is a simple kind of beauty, one that can be absorbed directly through the eyes, the skin, the heart.
It is exactly the encounter with that simplicity that creates an overwhelming sense of calm and comes as a relief to me. Some may call that relief a form of meditation, some a form of freedom and others, well, just a jolly good time. Whatever the name, though, these encounters will remain incredibly important to me. I suggest you search for them yourself if you can, and observe how they make you feel. Just remember: hiking in the mountains might be free, but they will always demand at least a little bit of your humility.
As autumn approaches, the landscape fades from green to russet and soon the mountains will be blanketed in snow. Apart from humility, crampons and ice axes will be needed. I promise to swing my ice axe silently, so as to not disturb the deer.
Ana Schnabl is a Slovenian novelist, editor and critic
