Croatia 2023: Climbing our first Big Wall – Anića Kuk

September 17, 2023September 17, 2023Leave a comment

The cursed day

6th July has become, through pure, uncanny coincidence, a day on which something significant happens to me. I may write about this separately (think car crashes, ultramarathons and multi-mountain hikes) so I’ll skip straight to 2023, which was no exception: Ryan and I decided to climb our first big wall*, the 350m vertical north face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park, Croatia.

*there’s no hard and fast definition of what constitutes a “big wall” but the infallible source of all verified knowledge (Wikipedia) describes big wall climbing as a form of rock climbing that takes place on long multi-pitch routes that normally require a full day, if not several days, to ascend. While we didn’t plan to spend the night on the wall, we chose a route called “D. Brahm” (5c), a 300+m, 13-pitch classic that would probably take at least most of the day, so as far as I’m concerned it qualifies. This route was named in honour of Dragutin Brahm, a climber who died while attempting the first ascent of Anića Kuk – on this route – in 1938.

This year, 6 July taught us the following climbing-related lessons:

Find the route
Don’t throw gear off cliffs
Mind out for dead things
Treat loose rock like glass
Take enough water

We learnt these in the following way.

Thursday 6 July

After Ryan’s little wobble whilst climbing in the canyon on Tuesday, and having researched D. Brahm as thoroughly as possible, which was less than I’d have liked given the limited information available online, we felt the weight of anticipation prior to our first ever big wall climb. We half-heartedly shovelled down some cereal (leftover rice slop for Ryan) and left the apartment at 7:30am, carrying rucksacks containing questionably light climbing racks. We’d packed minimally to keep luggage costs down and we desperately hoped that we had enough gear to make it up the route, which was technically a sport (bolted) climb but with some run-out pitches that would require additional trad placements to protect against potentially huge (40m+) falls.

To save time and energy we drove a short way up the road to the entrance to Paklenica, showed our three-day passes at the gate and followed the winding track up the gorge towards the mountains, which loomed ahead looking vast, rocky and slightly menacing. We parked by a thick, leafy forest at the mouth of the canyon, whose vertical limestone walls rose high either side of a gravel path as if designed to make the visitor feel quite inconsequential, and headed up the great cleft towards Anića Kuk.

After 15 hot minutes its enormous, pale north face appeared ominously around a corner, rising high into the clear blue sky like the hunched back of a great, rocky monster. We identified the vague, wandering line of D. Brahm using an information board showing the main routes and reflected that its northerly aspect meant we’d spend most of the day shaded from the hot sun. Satisfied with our reconnaissance, we crossed the valley via a steep, narrow path through lush woodland, following signs to Anića Kuk and even our chosen route:

We emerged from the trees and stopped at the base of the wall, which suddenly gained a new dimension. Rather than a flat, sheer face, it now looked like an impossibly high, slightly-less-than-vertical series of slabs, cracks and shrubby ledges jumbled in a complex arrangement that made it likely we’d only be able to see small sections of the route at once. This would complicate route finding, which we suspected would be difficult anyway given the size of the wall and the fact we were relying on website screenshots and a photo I’d sneaked from a guidebook in a shop.

Nevertheless, we were excited to have arrived. We identified what we thought was the start of the route, harnessed up, tested the radios and talked through our plan. I was to lead the first pitch as that would mean that I’d also lead the crux (hardest move) at pitch seven, but – as I’ll explain later – this didn’t go to plan.

Pitch 1 (4b made harder): Route finding

I set off at 9am by a large memorial plaque for D. Brahm – which turned out to be ill-placed – and followed an easy crack up a slab. My confidence was misguided: after about ten metres the route became uncertain. Knowing that it went left at some point, I made some delicate, balancey moves across the exposed face of the wall to an insecure stance, where I placed a trad nut into a crack and rested on it while I worked out where to go.

After a vain, time-consuming attempt at continuing upwards over a holdless bulge onto more featureless slab, I conceded that I’d already lost the route and returned – a little sketchily – to the crack I’d come up. Ryan suggested going right, on which advice I soon rediscovered the route (my heart leapt when I spotted a bolt) and realised that I’d gone for a more difficult, direct start, rather than setting off up a chimney about 10m to the right of the plaque. This was confirmed when Ryan spotted, quite unhelpfully by this point, a triangular tag on the rock indicating the “true” start of the climb.

Happy to be back on track but slightly apprehensive at how difficult the rest of the route may be to stick to, and consequently how long it might take, I continued along a diagonal crack up an easy gradient to a grassy ledge and the first belay.

P2 (3b): Blocky

Ryan followed me up, unimpressed at having to make the awkward sideways moves to retrieve the wayward nut, and proceeded to lead the long, blocky second pitch – which had just one slightly awkward move up a corner – without difficulty.

Some nasty hobbit feet looking down pitch 2

P3 (4b): Shrubby

I seconded pitch 2, passed Ryan and led pitch 3, which went directly up another easy corner, where shrubs clung to the wall in little pockets and trees perched on small ledges. Ryan followed, met me at the belay and continued past, following a red painted arrow, which was very helpful here as the route veered suddenly off to the right.

P4-5ish (4a): Sideways

He traversed along a diagonal fault, then disappeared around another corner. I belayed patiently, wondering what was taking him so long, and struggled to pay out rope as it dragged sideways through the bolts – which were few and far between – and trad gear.

After a good while I heard him call “safe” and prepared to follow while he pulled in the slack, which – given the distance he’d climbed – was a relatively small portion of our 60m twin ropes. I completed the long, straightforward but exposed traverse across the wall (which would not have been a good place to fall as it was very “sideways”) and discovered the cause of the delay and the rope drag: Ryan had strung together pitch 4 and most of pitch 5 by bypassing the fixed anchor at the end of pitch 4. In fairness I didn’t see it either, so can’t blame him.

I found him at a hanging belay beneath an intimidatingly vertical, slabby face, attached to two bolts with nothing under his feet but an overwhelming amount of air, and congratulated him on his excellent management of both ropes, which – in the absence of a surface to place them on – were folded neatly across his cowstail (the short length of rope attaching him to the bolts). This turned out to be the belay for another route, “Black Magic Woman”.

Although the climbing was easy, we were now over 100m from the ground and the exposure was exhilarating. Luckily neither of us were fazed at all by the sheer drop below – we had expected to be fine, but having never climbed a big wall before, we accepted that we wouldn’t really know until we were there. Enormous beech trees filled the belly of the canyon like a mossy floor, interspersed by gargantuan, house-sized boulders that looked like pebbles, and a small forest clearing revealed a helicopter landing pad that looked fit for a bumblebee. It was sensational.

Face above the belay, several minutes before I mistakenly followed the bolts

P5ish-6 (5a): Dubious rock

I joined Ryan at the uncomfortable hanging belay and we deliberated over which way the route went. We thought that he’d done pitches 4 and 5 in one but weren’t 100% sure. We couldn’t see anything to the right, so on spotting a line of bolts set close together up the vertical slab to our left (perhaps that should have been warning enough, as all the previous bolts had been many metres apart), I set off upwards to see if the moves were easier than they looked. I discovered, three bolts up, that they were not, at which point Ryan conveniently spotted a bolt set way over to the right, almost level with him. Relieved but still in a precarious position, I downclimbed delicately, unclipping quickdraws as I went, and later realised that I’d made several balancey moves up a 6b+ pitch of Black Magic Woman.

I squeezed awkwardly past Ryan and made a long, airy traverse to the right. I clipped into the bolt he’d spotted, to both our relief (he’d kindly pointed out the great fall I’d have taken before the bolt, of which I was extremely aware), then pulled up a loose-looking, blocky section and discovered the belay bolts at the end of pitch 5. Ignoring them, I moved up and left across a pale, disconcertingly fresh looking slab, placing a couple of nuts and hoping that any newly exposed rock would hold in the event of a slip. I reached the anchor after a tricky move up a steep diagonal crack, then radioed Ryan with instructions to watch out for the loose-looking flakes. The radios were proving a godsend on these long, wandering pitches, where climber and belayer were often out of sight. He followed and joined me on my narrow belay ledge.

P7 (5c+): Ordeal, loss of an ally

We looked upwards into a distinctive chimney, which was 2-3ft wide and topped by a large chockstone (a loose block held between two vertical walls). Although the shortest pitch of the route, we’d read that this was the awkward crux – the hardest section. We’d planned the route so I would lead it as Ryan’s confidence had taken a knock a couple of days before, climbing in the Klanci valley way below where we were perched, but as we’d strung two pitches together and were alternating leads, it now made sense – from a time and faff perspective – for Ryan to lead. I offered but he mulled it over and decided to try it, to my disappointment – a mild disappointment that was tinged with quiet relief.

The chimney didn’t look too difficult from below, although almost immediately after setting off Ryan reported that it lacked holds and that its two opposing walls – against which he jammed his body, relying on the outward pressure of his back, feet and hands – were polished and slippery. In an attempt to gain friction he dipped his hands into the single chalk bag we’d brought in a desperate, and with hindsight misguided, attempt to reduce the weight of our luggage on the plane. Looking for other ways to make the pitch easier, he realised that his rucksack was a hindrance as it pressed against the chimney wall. He rested on a cam he’d placed in a crack and went to unclip the waist strap so I could take the bag.

Unfortunately Ryan unclipped the wrong strap. I watched helplessly as our single chalk bag, which had belonged to me and seen me up hundreds of climbs, tumbled in slow motion down into the airy void, landing neatly on a grassy ledge way below with a dramatic puff of chalk dust. There was a brief, stunned silence as we processed the loss, then all we could do was laugh. The polished crux – and the rest of the route – would have to be tackled without additional friction.

Thankfully this section had three close-together bolts for protection and the cam was good, so a fall would have been minor. However, I’ve never belayed an uglier pitch. Ryan scrabbled, clambered and humped his way up the smooth chimney, his movements resembling those of a large, unwieldy bear. He made it to the top bolt, which was just below the chockstone, had a quick rest, then threw (and I don’t use that word lightly) a leg across the gap to a miniscule hold on the right hand wall.

I watched dubiously from directly below him as he did his own mediocre version of the splits, concerned for the welfare of his inflexible tendons; was deeply alarmed when his left leg followed his right so his body was almost horizontal; then I marvelled as his desperate attempt to surmount the chockstone – with something like a semi-controlled, semi-frantic bear-hug-come-bellyflop – appeared to work. I was still processing my emotions (a heady clash of anxiety and amusement) when he suddenly disappeared over the top of the chockstone, still horizontal, in a strange, smooth movement, as if dragged into the belly of the mountain by a great, rock-dwelling monster. His feet vanished, and I knew that he’d completed the crux.

Once he’d set up the belay, a triumphant Ryan – who was highly satisfied with the theatre he’d just performed – cut short my rendition of James Blunt’s “Goodbye my Chalk Bag” and I started up the chimney. I made no lighter work of it that he had, but thankfully there was nobody below to bear witness. I jammed my body between the walls, cursing the two lumpy rucksacks on my back, agreed that it was very polished and devoid of good holds (the okay-looking blocks at the back of the chimney were useless), and made quite a scene of salmon-flopping my way onto the chockstone.

Lunch with a view

I scrambled up to Ryan, who was tucked into a corner of a rocky, grassy ledge looking harrowed but pleased with himself, and we contemplated rappelling down to retrieve the much-lamented chalk bag. This would have been time-consuming so we decided to have lunch instead, then press on. Fake sausage and fake cheese in tiny slices of strange bread never tasted so good.

As we ate, we took in the exposure and the view across the canyon, which seemed both miniature and gargantuan. Tiny people trailed along the barely visible path way below, beneath hulking limestone cliffs across the valley, and the moss-like forest filled the canyon belly like a wide, green river curving around the base of the mountains. Up the valley distant green and grey peaks sprawled across the horizon, and on either side of our ledge, vertical walls plunged into nothingness above and below.

P8 (3b): Grassy scramble feat. anty bat & loose blocks

Once lunch was over I set off up pitch 8. I climbed a short wall above Ryan’s head and on mantling over the square lip, I saw that I’d been lucky – I’d blindly placed my palm onto a flat ledge a couple of inches away from a small, dried bat, which was peppered with ants. I alerted Ryan to the presence of the bat, topped the wall and continued up a grassy gully. This section was little more than a long walk up a relatively gentle slope, which was strewn with boulders and shrubs, but – although easy – it required some caution, as it was littered with loose rock.

A complete lack of bolts led me to wonder if I’d lost the route, but I decided it more likely that the rock on this pitch was simply too unstable to be trusted. At one point I placed a hand on a block the size of a small football, set on a sloping, outward-facing ledge at chest-height, and froze as it moved under my touch. I realised that I was now supporting both its weight and the weight of another, cricket ball-sized block above it, so – very cautiously – took the smaller block, placed it carefully on a flattish bit of the ledge (which wasn’t quite as flat as I’d have liked), and used both hands to move the larger block to a more stable position. While holding these rocks I was acutely aware of the gravity of this situation – if I’d had a clear view below, and wasn’t 200-odd metres from the ground, I might have cleaned them from the route, but all I could see behind was the narrow, V-shaped channel I’d come up. Ryan was out of view at the base of the bat wall and I had no idea who might be below us, so I handled them as if they were made of glass.

Disaster averted, I continued up the gully and was quite relieved to find two anchor bolts, connected by a short rope sling, up a steep block next to a tree. One of the bolts was too small to clip so I clipped the other, the sling and the trunk to make a “tree piece anchor” (a name I remain proud of), then belayed Ryan up while fending off some kind of flying, buzzing insect.

No photos of pitch 8 as I was busy avoiding bats and blocks, so here’s the tree piece anchor

P9 (3b) – P10 (4a): More scrambling

Ryan followed without difficulty, then passed me and led pitch 9. This was another easy scramble, so – conscious of time and perhaps not satisfied with what felt like a glorified hike – he continued on to lead pitch 10, which went up a steeper, slabby corner at the top of the gully. I was glad when he radioed to tell me he’d reached the belay, as it meant I could stop grappling with rope drag.

P11 (4a) – P12 (4b): Mile-high traverse

I joined Ryan at the belay and continued up pitch 11, which involved some straightforward moves up another corner to a platform with two sets of bolts. Feeling a bit short-changed, I decided to carry on up pitch 12.

I moved off the platform onto a steep slab with a single distinctive feature: a straight, diagonal crack stretching way out to the right, with a line of bolts showing the route. This afforded an excellent, very airy traverse, and I was exhilarated by the exposure as I padded sideways with nothing beneath me but a dizzying drop where the slab plunged towards rocks and trees that may as well have been a mile below.

I climbed very carefully, fully aware that a fall would mean a big swing from the horizontal, still fairly spaced-out bolts. Having strung the two pitches together I really struggled to pull the rope through, as the change of direction caused a huge amount of drag. Despite this difficulty I had no regrets – for me, this pitch was probably the most fun.

I reached the end of the crack and the gradient eased as I pulled above the slab. I suddenly felt the warm sun on my face and realised that having spent the day in the shade of the wall, we must be nearing the top. Scant bolts ran parallel to a blocky wall on my left, and I followed them upwards, heaving on the rope, past a tall, leafy tree until I came to the anchor set into the wall.

I set up the belay and absorbed the view. The lumpish mountains across the canyon didn’t seem quite so vast from this height, tapering down to a just-visible sea via the smooth, pale grey curve of a westerly ridge. The water shone bright in the late afternoon sun, which bathed the peaks up the valley in a warm light that cast angular shadows and accentuated their intricate contours.

Ryan receives my wrath

Just as I felt the end was in sight, I went to take a sip of water from my hydration bladder. I was thirsty as I’d rationed my three litres carefully throughout the day. I was rewarded by a few unsatisfying drops, then the disagreeable, rubbery resistance of an empty pouch as I vainly sucked air from the tube. I thought of Ryan’s thirsty gulps from the mouthpiece, which dangled – perhaps too accessibly – over my shoulder, after previous pitches, and vividly recalled telling him to make sure he had enough water before we left the apartment (ie. more than the 500ml that he did take). Inwardly seething, I prepared to give him a piece of my mind when he joined me at the belay.

That I did, my mood not improved by hauling at the dragging rope, after he skipped up the two pitches and had the cheek to conclude that it was pleasantly exposed and thoroughly enjoyable. My fury at such an amateur mistake was dampened slightly by his enthusiasm to finish the route, and further by the breathtaking scenery as I pointed out the dazzling sea. I decided not to drop him as he set off up the near-vertical start of the final pitch.

P13 (4b+): One tough move

He climbed up the slab, following a line of spaced-out bolts. Several metres up he made a difficult, no-hands move on small footholds to reach for a lofty crimp. I watched, impressed, and silently forgave him – temporarily – for his silly oversight. He pulled up, topped the slab and disappeared for a while as he searched for the route.

After what felt like a long, thirsty wait, he radioed to tell me he was safe and setting up the final belay. After a few minutes I followed him up, doubly impressed by the balancey move up the slab on discovering how small and far apart the holds were (although as it was only graded 4b+, I put its difficulty down to mental weariness after sustained concentration throughout 12 exposed pitches). I pulled over the top and arrived at a large mound of jumbled boulders that proffered no indication of how to surmount them.

I followed Ryan’s instructions to go left and weaved my way up the unprotected final scramble. My water woes were completely forgotten when a spectacular rock arch appeared above me, then Ryan came into view, belaying from a large boulder underneath it. I clambered up the last few metres and walked over to him, a little dazed. We’d topped the face of Anića Kuk at nearly 6pm, nine hours after setting off up the first pitch. The first thing I said was “we didn’t die!”.

Victory

We were both taken aback by the sudden flood of emotion. Having never climbed anything so committing, technical and exposed before, our previous multipitch experience being limited to the classic VDiff ridges and scrambles of Scotland, North Wales and the Lake District, we were overwhelmed by relief, slight disbelief and a completely shameless feeling of triumph. The realisation that we were capable of a big wall was empowering: it was as if we’d broken down a barrier to a whole new world of climbing. We hugged, congratulated each other on our competence and continuing state of aliveness, and drank in the panorama of sun-drenched mountains and sea.

After investigating the magnificent natural rock arch, through which was a wonderful view of the long, opulent Adriatic inlet between Starigrad and the flatter part of Zadar county, we collected ourselves and crammed our chaotic array of climbing gear into our rucksacks. We scrambled up a rough, rocky bank next to the arch onto a boulderfield plateau and hopped around on large rocks looking for the red painted circles that denoted the “climber’s way” down the south side of the mountain, which was not shown on my map of Paklenica. The view was now panoramic: layered, hazy ridges of triangular peaks swept down to the glistening sea on one side, and on the other the high, grey-green mountains of the southern Velebit range sprawled majestically across the horizon, looking just as staunch as they had done earlier but – now that we’d conquered one of them – less menacing.

A harrowing descent

Regrettably my enchantment was jaded slightly by thirst, and we were both keen to leave Anića Kuk behind us for a drink of water. We found the painted waymarkers and clambered down the large, awkward rocks until we came to a thick, via ferrata style wire cable dropping several metres down a nearly sheer wall of boulders. I knew I was dehydrated because I felt quite weak as I leaned back on the cable, feet on the wall, and slid down slowly to avoid skinning my unprotected palms.

The going was tedious down the steep, irregular terrain, and unfortunately there were several more via ferrata cables requiring utmost care and concentration. My irritability at Ryan’s silliness had returned in full force and we descended in stoic silence, both focusing hard on every foot and hand placement. Thankfully the red markers were numerous and easy to follow once off the plateau, although the Klanci valley below didn’t seem to get closer for a very long time, and the terrain did not ease, remaining loose, blocky and steep the entire way. I couldn’t remember the last time (if there was one) I felt so parched – I was certain my body would shrivel up like a raisin before we got back to the car.

We plodded down the mountain in this way for what felt like an age. Eventually, after descending an enormous, very steep, loose bank, we reached the cobbled path in the valley. We contemplated walking up it – about 15 minutes – to the drinkable spring water pipe we’d found on the way to Manita Peć cave a couple of days before, but decided to save ourselves time (in case I shrivelled up) and drink from the hose by the National Park entrance hut, where we’d previously seen a motorhome fill up 5L bottles.

Salvation

We headed down the valley and were back at the car in 10 minutes. Salvation was in sight, nearly two hours after beginning the descent. We drove away from the canyon down the narrow, winding road and stopped at the little entrance car park. Agonisingly someone else was using the hose, which was fed by the Paklenica River and evidently filtered through pipes in a small concrete structure a little further upstream. I dashed for it the second it was free. I downed two 500ml bottles in seconds and it was heavenly. Never before have I tasted such pure, cold, clean-tasting water. Ryan was now truly forgiven, although the incident won’t be forgotten – I’ll certainly be reminding him to take plenty of his own water in future.

We returned to the apartment down the road and collapsed onto the bed, giddy with a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I had one more mountain to overcome that day – washing my hair – so I jumped into the shower while Ryan cooked dinner. Despite barely eating all day, we weren’t really hungry until we tucked into a delicious bowl of rice slop with cheap sausage, tomato and whatever else he found in the fridge. We went to bed without washing up, exhausted, delighted to have ticked off our first big wall climb and slightly relieved to be back in one piece.

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.