Croatia 2023: Manita Peć cave, Hiking & Climbing in Paklenica

August 15, 2023August 16, 20231 Comment

Tuesday 4 July

Our apartment was so close to Paklenica National Park that we were desperate to venture there as soon as possible. The plan for the day was to hike for six kilometres up to Manita Peć, a show cave set high in the hills at an altitude of 570m, then to come back down and find some easy sport climbing.

Hiking in Paklenica: trail to Manita Peć

We left at 8:30am and headed toward the dramatic, lumpy skyline of the rocky national park, which was just a 10 minute walk up the road. After a gradual climb, the road curved and dipped down into the mouth of a great canyon and we came to a small building, where we each paid the 20€ fee for three days’ entry to the park – we thought it a bit steep at first, but it later transpired to be well worth the money.

Once inside the park the narrow road followed the gentle curves of the canyon, which cleaved a natural rift between towering hills and vast limestone faces. We walked uphill alongside the Paklenica River, which trickled below us in a leafy valley brimming with all kinds of shrubs and trees, notably fragrant pines and verdant beeches. The constant trill of cicadas saturated the warm air, and after 20 minutes we reached the final small car park and the tarmacked road became a wide, gravel footpath.

The climbing looked wonderful. Vast rock walls rose steeply up on either side of us, spanned by tens of bolted routes – the Klanci area. The gorge was so narrow that the left hand wall could be climbed from the path and the even steeper, higher right hand wall was accessible through a strip of tall beech trees. I’d never been anywhere like it: everything was so high and enormous, yet the canyon was so inescapably steep-sided that it could have felt claustrophobic. I felt exquisitely tiny in that leafy, rocky paradise – even the sky seemed small.

We passed a little gift shop and a toilet block cut into the wall on our left, then the “Underground Secrets of Paklenica”, a visitor centre set in old bunkers built by the Yugoslav army in 1950-53 during the period of political tension between Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. We didn’t go in as we were so enthralled with the canyon itself, but I wish we’d gone back there.

Shortly after the visitor area, the gravel path became a well-maintained cobbled trail. We continued up it, marvelling at the impossibly high sides of the gorge and the incredible abundance of vegetation despite the apparent lack of soil. We passed a ranger leading a pack horse laden with panniers, somehow navigating the uneven cobbles with nonchalant ease, and followed the path as it wound uphill around jutting rock faces. After 15 minutes we rounded a corner and the gargantuan face of Anića Kuk – the 350m vertical wall we’d eyed the previous day from the Mirila stones – loomed over the valley on our right hand side, and an information board showed the lines of several quite serious climbing routes. In all its dark terror, it planted a seed in our minds, and at that moment we knew – even if we hadn’t yet acknowledged it – that we’d be back there soon. The sight of it was inspiration enough.

The trail curved round to the left, through the thickly forested lower reaches of the canyon, and I felt as if I’d never been anywhere so green. I paused to address a blister, then we continued through the canopy for about a kilometre, skirting past families until a sign told us to take a left fork to the cave. From here the path climbed up the left hand side of the gorge, first through more verdant forest, then ascending above the trees in a steep, narrow and increasingly tight switchback that afforded breathtaking views of the canyon, which widened to an immense valley of rock and shrub, with layered peaks stretching left and right across the high, undulating horizon. We revelled in this new, completely unfamiliar landscape.

Manita Peć cave

After a mile of twisting and turning up the hill, overtaking lots of people on the way, we reached a large, distinctive finger of rock that towered into the sky like a church spire, then rounded a corner and arrived at the entrance to the cave. You can only enter as part of a guided group tour, and we arrived just in time to join a group of about 30 people. This was very fortunate, as otherwise we’d have had to wait half an hour until the next lot went in – we were so “just in time” that the guide told us we could pay the 5€ fee after the tour.

Our luck struck again when the guide offered the tour in English or Croatian, and we were surprised when the majority vote was for English. We entered at the back of the line through a narrow passage and descended into the cave, our eyes taking a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, and were led down into an enormous chamber. The group spread along a handrailed walkway that curved around the edge of the chamber, so everyone had a clear view of the vast, open, dimly lit space.

Hundreds of long, sharp stalactites hung from the ceiling like icicles, looking ready to fall at any minute, and lumpy, cactus-like stalagmites rose from the floor as if reaching up to touch them. The guide’s voice rung from across the chamber, and he explained how they grow from carboniferous deposits dissolved in water droplets at a rate of 1mm every 5-10 years, which would make some of the innocuous-looking structures – which were over a metre tall – about 10,000 years old.

We followed the line around the edge of the cave and descended through another low, narrow passage into a second, cathedral-like chamber, which was smaller but even more grandiose, with a high ceiling and walls formed of regular, clumped stalactites and rounded, vertical columns. The rock formations were fascinating: “the witch” brooded in front of us, an irregular mass that looked like a large-nosed woman hunched eerily still in the middle of a room, and the left wall was spanned by “the organ”, a series of multitudinous towering columns stretching from floor to ceiling that resembled organ pipes. I was in awe of the age and grandeur of these natural structures.

Shallow pools of gin clear water spread across the floor, providing a strange habitat for tiny, invisible creatures – incredibly, the barren-looking cave is home to 52 species of invertebrate. While waving a flickering torch over various rock features, the guide explained how this cave had never been inhabited by humans due to its dampness and constant 10 degree temperature – it would have been impossible to heat the space to stay warm and dry. Being English and used to miserable, damp cold, we were just about the only visitors still in shorts and t-shirts, relieved by the coolness of the air.

After half an hour in the blessed cool, we filed back up to the first chamber and out of the narrow entrance into the hot, blinding day, very impressed with the magnificent caves and the engaging tour. We grabbed the guide, who had started attempting to organise the large group milling outside for the next tour, paid our 5€ and slipped past the crowd onto the path we’d come up. Our plan was to return to the Klanci area to climb some of the single pitch sport routes we’d walked past that morning.

Hike down from Manita Peć

We started back down the gravelly switchback, excitedly noting the drop where the loose, rocky valley side fell steeply away to the left of the path. Happy to have made it to the cave in good time (it was only open from 10:00-13:00), we descended at a leisurely pace, taking in the dramatic peaks, faces and drops of the canyon and the lush richness of the forest. We read all the information boards, which told of the park’s abundant flora, fauna and rock formations, and had a budget sandwich (tiny slices of bread, processed cheese and a slice of reformed sausage – surprisingly delicious) on a bench overlooking the valley.

At the bottom of the switchback we plunged into the trees that fill the valley basin and, on our way back through the forest canopy, slipped through a small, natural rock arch to a little clearing just off the path. It was almost too idyllic to be real: an umbrella of young beech leaves glowed green as they shaded us from the burning sun, the Paklenica River flowed smoothly into a crystal clear pool over rounded stones and the vast face of Anića Kuk rose above the trees in the V of the valley under a clear blue sky. I went to investigate a little waterfall below the pool, then found a way of cooling off without undressing or getting my clothes wet – I kneeled in the river, ankles raised on a rock, and submerged my arms in a kind of press-up position, relishing the cool water. We sat here for a few minutes, enjoying the peace, then returned to the path and headed down the valley in search of some climbing.

As I kneeled in the water, my legs disappeared

Sport climbing in the Klanci area

On the way down we stopped to fill a bottle from a pipe in the ground, which provided pure, cold drinking water from the river, scrambled up a large boulder for a clear view of – once again – the mesmerising Anića Kuk, and had a second sandwich while watching some climbers on the steep right hand wall of the Klanci area. After a short rest we left the shade of the tall beech trees and perused the sunny left hand wall for a nice looking, relatively low grade climb. We decided not to spend 30€ on a guidebook as several routes were helpfully named and graded by little triangular plaques at the bottom of the wall. I chose “Banana Split”, an interesting-looking, eight-draw 5c with varied features.

I harnessed up and started the climb while Ryan belayed from the gravel path that runs through the canyon, just down the hill from the little gift shop. We climbed with two 60m half ropes, which we’d bought with Anića Kuk in mind – this was good practice (if a little awkward for a straight-up sport route) as we’re used to a single rope. The rock was solid but quite polished, which made it feel hard for the grade. Luckily I climbed boldly that day and wasn’t bothered by clipping in awkward positions (which is not always the case!). The limestone was different from the Dorset rock we’re used to: there were no dubious-looking loose blocks, small, juggy pockets provided good holds, and random cracks made for interesting, balancey movements and some high feet as I moved left and right up the wall. I thoroughly enjoyed the route, despite having to rest at the final clip after tiring my forearms out looking for holds.

Ryan lowered me to the ground, then led the route up to the last bolt while I, rooted to the belay, batted away a large, bitey looking insect and got to grips with the two ropes and our new mega jul belay device. He couldn’t work out the final sequence to the ramshorn anchor at the top, and after some frustration, much deliberation and the odd bit of swearing, he came down so I could (to my reluctance) re-climb the route and retrieve the quickdraws.

Evening

Unfortunately this knocked Ryan’s confidence, which doesn’t happen often, so we called it a day and silently pondered over Anića Kuk. We headed back down the canyon at 4:30pm and returned to the apartment, where I cooked a memorably good improvised spaghetti carbonara with cream cheese, unthinkably processed sausage, fried tomato and rosemary pinched from a bush on the pavement. We had a frank discussion about Anića Kuk, agreed to postpone until the time felt right, and made plans to get up early the following day to drive to Plitvice Lakes.

That evening we walked down to the seafront and sat on the wall to watch the sunset. I ate fresh plums and apricots, drank more of our new favourite, Somersby cider, and swam around as the sun – which looked much bigger than usual – dipped into the sea. It cast a warm, orange glow over the calm water, and the long, jagged ridge behind Starigrad climbed in a layered, grey-blue haze into Paklenica. I thought once again how lovely everything was.

Garmin got confused in the canyon, hence the squiggliness of the route

Croatia 2023: Starigrad Paklenica, Mirila hike

August 5, 20232 Comments

Monday 3 July

Following the stress of preparing for our last minute holiday, it was blissful to wake up in our peaceful Croatian apartment with no urgent responsibilities. I did battle with the window blind and the coffee machine, two of my arch-nemeses (objects that I always struggle to operate, no matter the make/model), and ate cereal while Ryan worked on getting up.

Starigrad town

Our plan was to walk into central Starigrad on a reconnaissance mission – a term I used to help justify a relaxing day in this wild, exciting country – to gather information on the area and obtain a local map. We left the apartment at 9am and headed down the road towards the sea, drinking in everything about the place: the constant croaky hum of cicadas, the generously spaced out buildings, the variety of shrubs and trees, the clean streets and the hot sun. Most houses were painted white or cream, with red tiled rooves, verandas and shuttered windows. The gardens contained large, stone-chimneyed outdoor ovens, seating areas and abundant vegetable patches filled with all kinds of produce, and several residents had set up little stalls selling homemade jams, liqueurs, oils and home-grown fruit and veg. I was instantly sold on the place.

We walked past houses, campsites, cafes, supermarkets, restaurants and a petrol station, all lined up along the main E65 road through the long, narrow town, which is sandwiched between the Velebit mountains and a large inlet of the Adriatic Sea. On reaching the town centre we were drawn straight to the water, which was calm and impossibly clear. Little boats were moored in little quays and a small tourist market spread along the wide waterfront walkway, but – unlike other places we’ve visited – nobody tried to draw us in, despite our apparently obvious Englishness (throughout the week lots of people greeted us with “hello” rather than the Croatian “dobar dan”).

Remembering our mission, we peeled away from the inviting water and headed for the tourist information centre across the road. We picked up some leaflets and free maps, which we perused on a little wall outside. One of them described a 3-mile circular hike from Starigrad to the Mirila, a series of stone monuments in the Velebit foothills dedicated to the departed relatives of local people. I pitched the idea to Ryan, who must have inwardly rolled his eyes before agreeing.

Starigrad-Mirila hiking trail

We returned to the little market to buy a much-needed pair of sunglasses each, then headed up a peaceful, residential street to the start of the hike, examining the sun-drenched, productive, leafy gardens along the way. We followed a quiet road which climbed above the town, tried some not-quite-ripe fruit from a wild fig tree, and stopped at a viewpoint to gaze contentedly at the view. Orange rooves sprawled among lush trees, and we looked across the flat, blue water to the stretch of semi-arid mainland on the other side of the inlet. In, that moment, we knew that the hassle of travelling was well worthwhile.

We left the road and took a narrow gravel trail into the Velebit foothills and Paklenica National Park. It didn’t take long for me to regret – for once – wearing flip flops, as they became quite greasy under my hot feet and much of the route involved balancing across large, uneven boulders, but the karst limestone was too sharp to go barefoot. This, however, wasn’t my main concern: I was busy concentrating on not being bitten, having glimpsed a sandy brown snake (which I retrospectively identified as probably a balkan whip or aesculapian – both non-venomous) slither into a crevice a few metres away.

I struggled along, holding Ryan up for once, but I was far too happy to turn back. The way was marked by intermittent red paint on the rocks and required some careful route-finding – at one point we lost it in a boulderfield, so Ryan acted as scout while I examined a snakeskin and fended off a large hornet. We were keen not to stray as I’d read of unexploded land mines off the trails within Paklenica, but thankfully we regained the path and continued up the hill. I developed a snake-scaring tactic, which involved picking up handfuls of stones and tossing them onto the path a short way ahead to frighten off any lurking creatures prior to the arrival of my feet – this seemed to work, as apart from a few scratches I remained unscathed and unbitten.

After about a mile of this precarious fun we reached the mirila stones, which are set in a kind of basin between the hills of Mali Vitrenik and Veliki Vitrenik. This was our first taste of Paklenica’s beautiful wilderness: high, rounded hills of pale grey rock and dark green shrub dominated the landscape and the valley ahead of us brimmed with lush vegetation, filled with the ever-present buzz of cicadas. The bare, 350m vertical face of Anica Kuk instantly drew our attention, rising prominently above the valley and looking – from a climber’s point of view – both ominous and irresistible. We perceived (correctly, as we’d find out that coming Thursday) that Paklenica would become a very special place.

The stones themselves are small and so in-fitting that they could almost be missed among the textured, busy scenery. They were placed by the people of the mountain hamlets in the 17th to 20th centuries in memory of their loved ones, and the tradition was that the bodies must be carried there without stopping – a strenuous task – to greet the sun for the last time. Stone tablets were laid at the head and feet (the people must have been quite short), carved with various symbols, then the bodies were returned to local graveyards. It was believed that the souls of the deceased would remain at the site of the mirila, which the families visited more often than the actual graves.

There were several of these stones dotted around a small area, and I found the markings – mostly circles and crosses, some celtic-looking – mysterious and very interesting. It felt serene, poignant and strangely humbling, and I informed Ryan of my desire for a similar ritual in the event of my inevitable snake-induced demise.

After a thorough and respectful poke around we headed back down another rocky path towards Starigrad. I was interrupted during a “wild wee” (as my mum calls it) by the jingling of a large, multicoloured goatherd passing across the valley above us, led by a tanned, bare-chested man wielding a crook, the first person we’d seen since setting out on the mountain trail. The way down was otherwise uneventful and very pleasant, save for my continued struggle across rocks in sweaty flip flops, which I had to fix a few times after pulling the strap through the sole – this was very frustrating.

We were back on tarmac after about a mile, and as we walked through quiet streets we observed yet more thriving vegetable gardens thick with tomatoes, cucumbers, melons, grapevines and – strangely, I thought – cabbages. I was delighted to find a scarce swallowtail butterfly, retrospectively identified, basking on the street, with large, zebra-striped wings and two long tail points. We returned to the town centre and went straight to the sea for a dip.

First swim

The waterfront at Starigrad was unlike any I’ve seen. A wall stretched along the length of the perfect little town, with a 4-5 foot drop down to the clear, blue water, and the walkways were peppered with trees, flowers, benches and bins. Small, square concrete sections jutted into the sea at regular intervals, providing moorings for several boats, separated by slipways and little grey pebble beaches. Because the front was broken up in this way, it never felt too busy despite lots of people – mostly Croatians on holiday, it seemed – having set up inflatable mats (there was no sand) and towels.

We followed a wide walkway from the little tourist market to a small, empty beach between two mooring blocks and settled on the wall. Houses, a small restaurant and a pretty cream church were set back from the water on the other side of a quiet road, and I watched a young man on a moped cross himself as he rode past – the majority of Croatian people are Catholic.

I was in the sea within minutes and wore flip flops until it was deep enough to swim, as I’d read of painful sea urchins and noticed that children, paddleboarders and bobbers-around were all wearing water shoes. Once treading water I awkwardly fastened them to my bikini, then went exploring. The water was mild – a great relief in the 30 degree heat – and incredibly clear. Little fish shoaled and sniffed around, avoiding me, and I could see spiky urchins and squishy anemones among the pebbles at the bottom. Warm and cool currents came and went as I swam about, and I didn’t get far from the shore before it got too deep to see the bottom.

A balmy afternoon/evening

After my dip I munched crisps on the wall while Ryan bobbed around, then we headed back to the apartment via a little climbing shop, where I bought a map of Paklenica. We drank fruity cider and had an early dinner of sheep cheese ravioli (delicious), then sat out on the veranda and did our first real bit of holiday planning. We sprawled maps, leaflets and books across the table, ate slices of melon and came up with a rough itinerary for the rest of the trip.

In the evening we walked up the road towards the official entrance to Paklenica, which was just 15 minutes from our apartment. Its towering, lumpy rock faces loomed invitingly above the large houses on the outskirts of the town, where locals lounged on verandas as they watched the world go by and enjoyed the balmy air. A series of old stone buildings sat quaintly below the vast backdrop of the national park, the town’s final outpost before the great, rocky canyon that cleaves southern Paklenica in two, and people drank on a square of decking under a leafy tree. There was a lovely, quiet buzz of community where everybody seemed to spend the evening casually socialising outdoors, rather than tucked up in their homes.

We turned left onto a quiet, leafy road and returned to the seafront along attractive residential streets, noting again how spaced out the houses were – no greedy developers rubbed their hands together for a few square feet in this undefiled place. We stood on the sea wall and watched the sun dip behind smooth lilac clouds, then fall into the flat sea at the toe of a long, jagged mountain ridge that rose up high behind the town. In finding Starigrad, we’d stumbled across a little slice of paradise.