Foggy Făgăraș (pt. 2): March 9th - March 12th, 2024
We knew good weather was supposed to be in store for Saturday, and woke up that morning to find the skies clearer and sun brighter than any day so far. I strolled out into the sunroom to appreciate the full view of the mountains, when something a bit off in color against the cliffs and snow caught my eye. There in the distance, exactly where our internet resource had said - icefalls! Water frozen blue against the dark rocks, inviting us out to come test our picks and crampons. What did those people in Bucharest and Brasov know? Here was the climbing we'd hoped for since first landing in Romania. I rushed to grab Susan and we stared out the window together, casting aside all our other plans and reorganizing to head up the valley again.
The bluebird conditions also betrayed some recent avalanche activity, and with the sun baking the thin layer of fresh white snow that had fallen up high the last couple of days we had an easy time committing to a decision to approach via the valley floor, even if it meant more distance and vertical gain. We scarfed down our breakfast and hurriedly repacked the harnesses, screws, and quickdraws, eager to get out the door and up the hill. Several other parties were gearing up and setting off down the summer trail, and we paused for a moment and thought of following, but cut the hesitation short and went right down the steep hill to the stream. We followed our bootprints from the previous day past the witch's hut and through the snow to the same basin where we'd cliffed out before; now, with actual visibility, we could see the obvious line up to the left of the waterfall.
What a difference being able to see makes! We slogged up the steep, snowy slope and emerged in sunshine in the impressive cirque below Serbota and Negoiu peaks, with the famous Custura Saratii knife ridge between them. We could see parties of mountaineers heading up the summer trail, presumably to make an attempt on Negoiu peak, across avalanche debris fields, and didn't regret our decision to take the low route through the valley. The climbs were still a long way off but the excitement of getting on some Romanian ice kept us driving forward, through the few inches of new snow over crusty sugar, switchbacking to avoid rocks and keep hold of our breath.
As we ascended and the Cabana Negoiu shrank below us, the quality of the ice appeared increasingly dubious. The lowest, closest fall had a gaping black hole at the top and a bottom completely covered in snow - probably not a good climb, I guess we'll have to try one of the higher ones. That was fine with me, since the largest ice formation at the back of the cirque had me most excited; at this point we might only get one day of climbing, so why not go for the biggest one? But as we got closer we could tell that the enticing blue ice in interesting configurations at the bottom gave way to snow ramps and scrappy thin or mixed sections high on the easy side, not a recipe for security on a multi-pitch climb, while on the other side of a black rib of rock the more difficult aspect dangled tantalizing icicles that only my imagination could climb.
So the middle option, then, which looked like it should offer some pretty decent climbing at an amenable grade, with a not overwhelming amount of snow on it. We marched up the final cone of snow to the base, going around one small apron of avalanche debris and continually monitoring our steps for signs of instability beneath us. Breaking trail for the last bit of uphill took a lot out of me, and a couple times, with snow chest-high in front of me, I thought about just throwing in the towel. Finally we reached the bottom of the ice, exhausted and a little cold because the sun had disappeared behind high, thick clouds while the wind had picked up as well. Cascades of spindrift rained down the climb, infiltrating our jackets and backpacks with pellets of snow. We glanced nervously at the avalanche apron just about 15 meters to the side.
Trying to gather some strength, we sat with our packs on the platform I'd stomped into the steep snow cone and had a little lunch. The ice looked kind of styrofoamy to boot. My fingers were cold in my mittens and the spindrift kept coming, slowly burying our packs under new heaps of white pellets. Susan and I hemmed and hawed and tried to get stoked but finally... decided to just go down. I was gassed and didn't feel up for leading. Susan had some mild concern in regards to avalanches. It felt so silly, to have done all this work, tried for 2 days, and finally got to the base of the ice, just to turn around and not climb, but we didn't really want to. And sometimes, if you're supposed to be doing something for fun, and you find you don't actually want to, then why not, *not*?
So we shook all the spindrift off the backpacks, gathered our things, and started down my bootpack. Along the way we ran into a pair coming down from Negoiu, who I think was curious about us and the ice, and we awkwardly explained that we were tired and scared and decided to just head back. He assured us that he thought the ice looked good to climb and that he would have... cool, enjoy my bootpack for the way up.
Heading down went pretty quick, and we tried to stay upbeat despite feeling very bleh and having just given up on our primary objective for even being at the Negoiu hut. Susan took a peek inside the witch's hut and managed to escape without a curse. The final steep slope to get up to the cabana was a tough slog. And once there, we were taken aback by the crowds - the place was hopping! Some parties were returning from their day out, and many more were just arriving, antsy for an objective on Sunday. The dining room was completely full and we had to wait a bit for our food not because no one was cooking, but because there were orders in front of us! More beer bottles than I thought could have fit behind the counter were scattered around the tables.
We finally saw Roxanna, the cabin hostess who we'd first tried to arrange the housing with 2 months prior, and the man splitting wood from the first day also reappeared! Confirmed, there had been 2 different guys staffing the cabin when we'd first arrived, although now the ranks had swelled to 4 to deal with the full house. Roxanna also asked us when we were leaving and we demurred to our same "after the weekend" answer, which she seemed fine with - as long as she didn't need to get our money tonight, we were good. With all the new guests the kitten had plenty of other people to beg for food, which I appreciated because we'd unlocked some nice new dishes (I got sausage with fries). As dinner trailed off the cabana staff busted out a fancy toy - a short throw projector with an enormous retractable screen that rose up from a table against one wall of the dining room. Susan snagged a spot on a couch so we hung around and kept to ourselves while they played some Netflix movie about a princess fighting a dragon; barely awake by the end we escaped up to the room shortly after it finished, content to leave the party behind.
Sunday promised our last chance for decent weather, so tired as we were we rallied for one last mountain day. After the last day's misadventure, though, we opted for something a little more moderate - hiking up Varful Serbota, via a trail that followed the ridge right up from the cabin, theoretically without dipping into any avalanche chutes. The map did show one difficult passage (exclamation point!) along the way, though, so we did pack pretty heavy, complete with harnesses and an ice tool, after the kind of scary experiences on our first day at the hut.
Over-equipped, we left the refuge and started up the snowy slopes, sometimes way too hot under an intense white sun in a bright blue sky, and sometimes too cold in the windy shadows of thick dark clouds. Tons of other groups were also on their way out, most either still taking the spicy summer trail through the avy paths or heading up Serbota with a bigger goal in mind, to complete the Custura Saratii knife ridge traverse in winter conditions. I felt a little jealous and insecure, wishing to do something as "big and cool" as those other parties, but the heaviness of my every step reassured me that I'd had enough fatigue and the brilliant scenery kept me distracted.
Romania is one of the few places left in geographical Europe with wild bears, and we came across some fresh bear tracks! Which honestly was a little spooky since we didn't have any bear spray and in recent years there's been a spate of violent interactions between Romanian bears and hikers. Not something we've seen since leaving Montana! Otherwise, rounded summits under tranquil drifts of fresh snow rolled away to the west, exposed faces of black rock rose to the sharp points of Negoiu and the Custura Saratii to the east, while the ridge ahead climbed steadily and behind dropped away to dense tan and green pine forest, the ground not yet woken up to the early spring.
Nearing the top of Serbota actually put our minds at ease, since the "difficult step" looked more and more reasonable the closer we got. Wild formations of rime began to sprout from the ground within a few hundred meters of the summit, where windblown banks of humid, heavy clouds had left some of their water behind, rubbed off as ice crystals that glommed together to grow and accumulate in zany organic directions. The last steep step was coated in the stuff, and while it felt fine to take a few steps in it I didn't relish the idea of attempting a rocky traverse with only a delicate, frozen coral reef holding my crampons (and by extension me) onto the mountain.
Up at the summit we took in the view and appreciated that the day had turned out pretty low key but still fun. Another party was there, gearing up for the ridge traverse. As they set off we took a leisurely break in the currently abundant sunshine and toyed with the idea of extending our own hike, but after everything that had happened recently decided to just head down. Thick fog began to form and a cold wind started pushing it over the knife ridge and around our own summit, so we got the message to leave and packed our bags when a woman came back up from the Custura Saratii, looking a little distraught. She'd decided the ridge was a little over her head, especially with the fog coming in, and had come back to the summit to wait and see what her party did. We made some smalltalk and tried to boost her spirits and she was nice enough to snap a photo for us.
As we left the fog built and built, forming an impenetrable shroud over the ridge between Serbota and Negoiu and sending exploratory wisps over both peaks. The density of the cloud spilling through the saddle was remarkable; we were in sunshine, but a few hundred meters away might as well have been another dimension, where rime-goblins waited to detach from rocks and throw blinded climbers off course. Eventually we saw the whole group of 4 climbers reconvened at the summit of Serbota, and felt a little validated in our decision not to push our luck.
What's crazy, though, is that maybe half an hour later the last strands of fog dissipated and the mountains shone bright and clear against a deep blue sky with only a smattering of high clouds. It got hot. And then, as if following a cosmic choreography, the clouds built and built to the south and then tumbled back over the ridge in a menacingly soft opaque grey wall. And even a third time on our descent we watched the whole dance repeat, the mountains coming and going through periods of inscrutable haze and crystal clarity like a moody teenager, and we cooked up a hypothesis: the sun would come out and blast the south side of the mountains, warmed air sucking water vapor from melting snow and then rising up to hit a layer of much colder temperatures right around the elevation of the peaks. There it would rapidly condense into thick billows, and the southerly breeze would give it the slight nudge it needed to go tumbling through the saddle and into the valleys on the northern flanks. The ground, now shielded from the sun by a blanket of fog, chilled out and stopped giving all its moisture to the air, and the clouds, without their fuel, would succumb to the power of the sun and burn away, leaving the whole process ready to start again.
That's the theory, anyway. Mountain weather is wild.
The cabin was quickly reverting to a ghost-town, as the groups that returned from their days out packed their bags to hike on down and presumably go back to work on Monday. Susan and I, having no such silly obligations, played backgammon and petted the cat to bide our time until dinner. Roxanna and another one of the staff had left already, leaving just the original guardian who'd put up with us so far and one other big guy with dark hair and glasses who exuded the confident aura of a salvamont captain. We thought we'd be the only ones eating in a quiet dining room, until two more people came in with small packs and skis strapped to their backs. When they also struggled to order from the dinner menu in English we sensed an opportunity to make a friend, and found out they were a Swiss couple on a springtime holiday, looking for backcountry skiing in Romania for a change of pace.
The Swiss were hoping to stay at the cabana for a few days and find enough contiguous powder to string together some nice turns, but we told them conditions weren't great. And the weather on Monday looked atrocious, with rain at the cabin, sleet up high, and 40 to 60 mile per hour winds howling through the afternoon into the evening. The forecast bore out, and happy that we'd already taken a last mountain day we contented ourselves to just hang around the hut and take it easy while the trees bowed and swayed like mad. Cribbage, reading, cleaning up our crampons and ice tools, doing a quick HIIT workout on the slippery barroom dancefloor... it felt nice to not have an agenda, and to be somewhere where we honestly couldn't have much of an agenda.
Despite the weather the two Swiss skiers still left shortly after breakfast (similarly disappointed not to get an earlier start), although they returned not long into the afternoon - not finding any good snow without a huge hike and tired of getting pelted in the face with driving ice-rain, they'd called it a day and also made plans to leave early, so we'd all roll out the next day. Closer to dinner we played a card game and then chatted for a while over food, as usual jealous of their ample vacation time and relatively sane politics. Yet we also found out a few interesting tidbits - I learned that the Swiss still have compulsory military service for young adults, and apparently their tax code really punishes you for getting married if both people make a moderate-or-higher income (in order to encourage stay-at-home-mothers), so they were only engaged.
The tall and bulky mountain man seemed eager to make sure his remaining guests were having a good time, so he rolled the screen back out and fired up the projector for a "best-of" stream of auditions from The Voice, which was honestly the most I've ever watched of the show. But it was a selection of auditions mostly from Europe, so it was pretty interesting to see people from Germany, France, Poland, Lithuania, Hungary, and more, belting out mostly American pop standards (since that's apparently still the only type of song you need to be able to sing to make it big in the music industry).
After that ran out, with the clock nearing 9, he asked if we wanted to watch anything else, but us and the Swiss couple shrugged and muttered about needing to go to bed, looking ahead to getting moving early on the next day's hike out. Our host didn't seem to catch the hint and trawled through Netflix recommendations before pulling up the search and putting on, of all things, "P.S. I Love You", a mid-2000's rom-com starring Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler (a Scot cast as an Irishman, go figure, Hollywood). Susan and I did our best to suppress gags and groans at the maudlin story of love from beyond the grave and a woman who seems to be lost without a man yet somehow also able to float through the world without having to work to support herself. Yet Mr. Mountain must have put on one of his favorite movies, laughing heartily at the cheesy jokes that he already knew were coming up and watching with rapt attention. The other hutkeeper mostly watched his phone instead and the Swiss couple seemed even less amused than us, who as Americans at least had access to a certain level of irony around the situation. Susan and I concluded that really the only way the film succeeded was as a piece of American propaganda, a showpiece of how life in America is so great that two people, one of whom works part time in a family bar in between amateur music gigs and the other who is questionably employed, can afford a 2-bedroom 1000+ sq. ft. apartment in New York City yet complain about how the need more money for a bigger place before having kids.
It was lucky the Swiss were leaving the same day as us, because they'd rented a car after arriving in Sibiu (a little distrustful of Romanian trains) and could give us a ride back to the train station, which meant we'd save the heartburn of figuring out how to page "Mr. Nicolae" with spotty cell service and the $50 the ride would cost. So we rambled back down the two-track with them at a good clip, having more interesting conversations about the difficulties facing the Swiss state pension system, and learned that most Swiss also have to have private health insurance. Along the way the guardians from the hut passed us in a Gator UTV and we realized why the trail was so wide and how they got so much heavy stuff up and down.
After a much more careful and reasonably-paced drive down the forest road, we said a heartfelt thank you to the Swiss couple for the lift to Porumbacu de Jos and used my phone to buy tickets for the next train to Brasov. Having come out a day early we didn't actually have a place to stay that night; we'd requested from our Airbnb in Brasov to extend our reservation by a day on the front end, but they hadn't responded and the 24 hour window to accept the change was dwindling. And the train was late, but we had no way to know that, so we spent a decent chunk of time feeling kind of anxious about our general situation in life. But the train eventually came, and during the ride we booked a fairly-priced hotel just a couple blocks away from the Airbnb, so at least it would be a short walk the following morning to get out of our mountaineering boots and into regular shoes. The original cabin guardian who had been so accommodating of us was on the same train, probably going home after a long shift at the refuge, and we shared a quick nod of acknowledgement.
Of course it had been drizzling on the hike out, and then rain fell steadily when we pulled into Brasov, so our backpacks and ropes were nice and damp and our boots pretty muddy as we left the train station to find a taxi. At least we were smart enough to pay a fair price to get into town this time. We arrived at the hotel and the receptionist didn't seem like she got a lot of musty clients sporting moist backpacks festooned with ice climbing gear, but she led us back to a nice warm room anyway and we promptly set as much stuff as we could out to dry. We walked through old-town and stared longingly at our Airbnb, kind of disappointed we weren't just already settled in for the next few days, before landing in a mobster-themed burger restaurant for dinner. It never ceases to amaze me what bits of American culture get exported across the globe.
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