I had just returned from visiting my real brother for Christmas, in Boeblingen, near Stuttgart. He was in Radio Company, Seventh Army, stationed in the Panzer Kaserne, on a hill above the town. I loved Ray very much - we were as close as brothers can get. Our Christmas together in a foreign land was very special. We had called mom and dad on Christmas Eve, dad's birthday. As usual, they were having his annual birthday bash - all the neighbors were there for champagne punch and lots of goodies - our mom was a fantastic cook!
But, now, here I was, back in Ljubljana, at the apartment of the family I was living with while attending the university there. My Slovenian mom, Darinka, told me that my closest friend, her son, Mishko, had left for Vrshich, just south of Kranjska Gora in the Julien Alps, for the annual New Years ski trip. He had left the message that I was to follow as soon as I got back from Germany. He had set out skis and poles for me. I just had to pack a few things in a backpack, get dressed for the mountains and get on the train going north. Kranjska Gora was the second stop south of the border station at Jesenice, on the Austrian border.
The snow was deep in Ljubljana as I strode from the apartment, north across the city to the train station. I paid the few dinars for a round trip ticket to Kranjska Gora and waited in the warmth inside until the time came to board the train.
On board, putting my gear on the overhead rack, I settled onto the wooden bench, taking a spot nearest the window. The window was misty and I swiped over it with the sleeve of my jacket so I could see out. The steam locomotive was chugging and huffing as we gradually picked up speed out of the station. This was a 'local', that is, we would stop at every little town along the way that had a train station. As a result, we never did come up to the speed I usually associated with the 'express' trains.
The local people, on and off the train, were bright and cheerful during this holiday season. The older people still clung to their faith and Christmas was still a special time for them, a happy and sparkly time for gift giving. Whereas, for the younger crowd, New Years was the special occasion, a time for ski trips and other young people activities.
After a few hours and numerous stops and starts, the train was pulling into Kranjska Gora. I retrieved my backpack from the overhead rack, swung it up and on, slipping my arms under the straps and settling it comfortably in place. I pulled my skis and poles down and carefully carried them off the train, past others trying to get on the train.
I had been here once before, when Mishko and a group of us he had guided, climbed Triglav, the highest mountain in the Julien Alps, in August, the year before. While the streets were covered with snow, I still knew the general direction I should take and set off, striding to the south toward Vrshich. When, the road I was on ended, I backtracked and asked a native for directions.
Fortunately, I was just one street off and recovered my route easily. As I walked along, the road got steeper and steeper as I rose through the lower elevations toward the village of Vrshich. The ski lodge I was going to, per Mishko's instructions, was a few kilometers above the village, but the trail up was well marked and had been traveled by others that morning. I actually did not see another person on the route except for an older woman, her head and face wrapped in a warm scarf, covering her nose and mouth, with steam coming through the loose scarf as she trudged down past me.
"Bog daj!" ('God go with you!') she greeted me, her eyes smiling.
I returned her greeting and asked, "Vrshich?" pointing up the road.
She responded, "Da, da," nodding her head and continuing on.
Along the way, there were areas where the road passed stands of tall fir trees, their limbs bowed with the heavy snow. They were the personification of 'Christmas in the mountains". Then, the vista would open up and long distances of open karst greeted, the gray stone covered with a mantle of snow and ice wherever it could gather. The occasional trail marker, a white spot surrounded by a red circle painted on the bare rock, gave me a secure feeling. Still, no other person on the trail. Then, I realized I had arrived too late to catch the traffic going up the mountain to the lodge to the ski areas and too late to catch the traffic leaving to return to their lives below.
It was late afternoon when I finally got to the crest of the ridge on which the lodge was nestled, just below. I had hiked over ten kilometers uphill with my pack and skis that day. The sun was low and the gathering clouds dulled the light even further. There was no electricity at this level, but I still could make out a soft glow coming from the windows on my side of the lodge as I approached through the softly falling snow flurries which had started during the previous half hour.
There was smoke coming from the chimney on the forward end of the lodge, the end where the big room was, where guests gathered to eat meals and socialize. The big fireplace there was the only heat provided in the lodge. The sleeping rooms in the back of the lodge had no heat and you could see your breath steam as you undressed to slip into your bunk by the soft light of the kerosene lamp hung on the wall of each room.
By the time I got to the front door, the wind had picked up and the snow was falling much more heavily. It reminded me of the blizzard we had encountered when we were here that earlier August when we'd scaled Triglav - yes, a blizzard in August!
I stepped into the entry way and secured the door behind me. Then, I stomped my boots to shed as much of the accumulated snow as I could, before I opened the second door into the large room. There was a roaring blaze in the fireplace and guests were seated about the room, chattering happily, mostly in languages I didn't understand much of. An occasional word would be spoken which I did understood or someone would say something in German, in which I was more fluent than the Slavic languages common to the area.
