Hiking a new mega-trail in the Balkans Hiking a new mega-trail in the Balkans Close to the top of Mount Magli?, on the Bosnia-
Montenegro border, a deafening clap of thunder rips
across rugged Piva national park. The summit of the
2,386-metre limestone peak is not far away, but with
a glance at the darkening sky, our guide Lorenc
decides it's best to turn back.
We weave our way down towards perfectly heart-shaped
Lake Trnova?ko, just reaching a forest as the
downpour hits. When the storm passes, the view across
the valley is our reward - glittering, luminous and
streaked with post-squall mist. The slopes are lined
with tufted grass and a golden eagle floats overhead.
The scene silences us, and we walk in quiet
contemplation until Lorenc stops us to point out a
sign: "Welcome to Bosnia".
There's no checkpoint and no fuss - perhaps
surprising, given the history of these once war-torn
Balkan countries. We're hiking part of a new mega-
trail - the Via Dinarica - and up here, the conflicts
across the former Yugoslavia feel firmly in the past.
The main artery is the White trail, from Slovenia to
Albania - via Croatia, Bosnia & Herzegovina and
Montengro, and soon to be extended into Kosovo -
following the Dinaric Alps for 1,260km, taking in the
highest peaks. Opened fully in 2017, it has mapped
and united old trails, shepherd paths, royal hunting
grounds and military routes, with accommodation in
mountain huts, riverside cabins and lodges along the
way.
When two further trails have been completed (blue,
along the coastline, and green, connecting small
villages - see the map above), the route will also
take in Serbia, uniting seven Balkans countries.
It takes about three months to hike the White trail
from end to end, but with just seven days to spare
I've joined a tour with Green Visions, a Bosnian
operator involved in the route's development,
focusing on a stretch across three spectacular
contiguous national parks: Sutjeska in eastern
Bosnia, Piva on the border, and Durmitor in north-
western Montenegro. We hike for an average of six
hours a day, covering 64km in six days, with a day
off for rafting and some road transfers to save time.
Our group of 10 meet in Sarajevo, Bosnia's capital,
about three hours north-west of the trail, and we
head to Hotel Mladost, a lodge with dorms at the edge
of Sutjeska, our base for two nights. It's late
summer, and the next morning dawns bright and clear
as we set off to explore the park, site of the
eponymous second world war battle. On the way we pass
Donje Bare - one of many glacial lakes that dot the
mountains - and a concrete monument to Yugoslav
soldiers who died in the war.
As we begin a two-hour ascent of the 1,858-metre
Ugljesin, Lorenc points out soft circular indents in
the hillside - craters from aerial raids. Today they
are carpeted with flowers: fading narcissi, purple
crocuses, fragrant thyme, mint and oregano. It's a
landscape that's easy to love: a collage of rolling
hills, craggy peaks, squat evergreens and fields of
flowers that turn gold in the late-afternoon sun.
"Even though all this is in our backyard, hiking is
not yet second-nature to people in the Balkans," says
Lorenc, a former Yugoslav boy scout. The Via
Dinarica, he says, is as much for locals as for
tourists and will, he hopes, encourage people to
explore their homeland.
We descend at sunset for a meal of roast meats, ripe
tomatoes and giant wedges of fried cheese at the
hotel. Sleep comes easily, and the next day more
hiking awaits in Piva national park and the Peru?ica
reserve - one of the last remaining primeval forests
in Europe, thick with 300-year-old Greek maples,
firs, spruce and beech. Wherever we go we rarely pass
another soul.
On the third day, we swap land for water, paddling
down the electric-blue Tara river through the deepest
canyon in Europe. We raft for three hours between
limestone walls streaked with mauve manganese,
disembarking on the steps of the riverside Camp
Highlander, where we sleep in tiny log cabins. Meals
here are a feast, with spiral filo pastries filled
with meat, cheese or spinach (burek or pita), pillowy
breads with kajmak (clotted cream) and ajvar (a red
pepper paste), cured meat and cheese, fresh figs,
tomatoes and grapes, and whole-roasted lamb.
Leaving Bosnia behind, our route takes us deeper into
Montenegro, where we trek from the Mratinje dam
across a grassy plateau for seven hours to the edge
of Durmitor national park, passing mysterious, cross-
shaped medieval tombstones. Filmy with sweat, we
arrive on the doorstep of Dragan, a Montenegran
shepherd who runs Sokolina Guesthouse, a small white
dwelling on the edge of the canyon, overlooking the
96,000-acre park. He refurbished the unused family
home 10 years ago after learning that it was on the
route of a new cross-border trail.
"My friends and family thought I was crazy - they
said no one would come to such a remote place," he
tells us. But now he gets visitors from as far afield
as the Philippines and Australia.
As the sunset turns the sky violet, we drink homemade
pear rakija (brandy), passed around in a single
glass. The next morning, Dragan fries up savoury
doughnuts served with sour cream, washed down with
wild oregano tea and strong Bosnian coffee brewed
over an open flame. We continue into the park, our
backpacks carrying sleeping bags and food supplies
for the final days when we'll stay in rustic mountain
huts.
Over two long days we cover 30km, hiking through
humid deciduous forest, the imposing Durmitor massif
our backdrop. We swim in freezing, blue-green Škrka
lake, surrounded by pristine spruce forest and karst
cliffs. A herd of long-lashed brown cows join us at
our lakeside hut that evening, and a chamois, the
region's elegant endemic goat-antelope, trots down to
the water. There's no electricity so we light
candles, cook pasta over a fire and share a bottle of
wine before rolling out our sleeping bags.
Six days on the trail pass too quickly, and before
I'm ready to leave we're back in Sarajevo. I can't
resist squeezing in one last hike on a segment of the
trail near the city before I go: a seven-hour,
circular trek to Lukomir, the highest and most remote
inhabited village in Bosnia. At that windy, tin-
roofed settlement, above a karst canyon, I stop for
one last spinach pie.
I recall something Lorenc said one night on the
trail: "Hiking in the Balkans still sounds exotic to
many people. It's beautiful here, of course, but I
hope one day it will be an unsurprising thing to do."
Looking at this remarkable landscape, I think he will
be proved right. But, in the meantime, I relish the
quiet.
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