Out of season the winter ski resort of Tatranska Lomnica is bathed in sunshine. For summer hikers the small town operates a sequence of two cable cars and one chair lift up the mountainside over the ski runs.
We planned to hike the first cable car route up to the central hub at 1145m where we would take the second cable car to the winter ski resort of Skalnate Pleso, based around a lake at 1751m, and then see if we were brave enough to use the chair lift to reach the summit of Lomnicky Stit at a towering 2634m.
Having struggled to cycle the short 5kms to the centre of the resort from Intercamp Tatranec, we were told that due to high winds neither of the cable cars were operating for the morning.
Undaunted, as we had planned to hike up the first route, we set off with our macs and bottles of water. The tourist office was closed but we found a free ‘artists impression’ of the hiking trails.
In high spirits we enjoyed the mountain air and bracing climb alongside the ski slope marvelling at the notion of hurtling down it on snow. Our map seemed to suggest we follow blue markers painted on trees and so we headed away from the ski run into the forest to climb a narrow trail running alongside bubbling brooks.
Meeting only a few other walkers on the trail we grew concerned that our map wasn’t detailed enough. We were right.
We asked directions of a Slovakian mum and son heading up the trail behind us. Her enthusiastic nodding seemed to confirm our fears that we were climbing the mountain in the wrong direction. We turned about with a sense of frustration and began to retrace our steps when a young woman called down from the trail above.
It seemed our Slovakian mum had met and told her of a “young English couple on the mountainside” and as the girl spoke good English she took it on herself to find and give us clear directions.
We were incredibly grateful to her, especially as she advised not to return the way we had come, but instead continue on the trail. We made it to the nearby resort of Hrebrienok where we found a bustling mountain hotel full of day-trippers (and poodles) who had ridden up the mountainside on a modern funicular railway.
Lunching on cabbage and smoked sausage soup we gritted our teeth and committed to hiking up and around the mountainside to our original destination of Skalnate Pleso. The wind had dropped so we planned to ride the two cable cars back down the mountain.
The new trail was initially a tarmac path to a series of picturesque water falls. We joined families with toddlers and babies in buggies, flip flop wearing teenagers, older couples and poodles on the way to enjoy the scenes of clear cascading water in the sunshine.
Once past the falls the path became a rocky trail two feet wide that climbed steeply up into the forests. Leaving the poodles and most people behind we joined the few that were set on making the advertised two hour climb to the resort. Seemingly within minutes the sky darkened and the heavens opened as a cloud bank burst over the mountain range.
We were soaked through before we had even time to put on our macs. Puffing and steaming our way up the path, as it was hot and humid despite the downpour, we fought psychological battles for footholds on wet slippery rocks, dodging the walkers who were slithering downhill and determined to do the same.
After three hours of monotonous climbing and intermittent rainstorms we rounded the bend of the mountain and finally saw our destination, as well as the incredible sight of the valley plain and Bertha’s field miles below us and bathed in sunshine.
Buoyed up we pressed cheerfully onward despite the alarming numbers of people now coming down the rocks toward us, including families with small children and even one father with a baby in a rucksack on his back, and he with a broken arm. None of this made any sense until we got to the resort and realised that the cable cars, which had been working at lunchtime, had again been stopped leaving everyone stranded on the mountainside.
Having now climbed nearly 2000m we bought a coffee in a small wooden shack to consider our options. The shack or chata was run by an elderly man who turned out to be, according to posters on the walls, the champion of champions of ‘Tatra Mountain carriers’.
These men carry food, beer and booze across the mountain trails to supply the various winter bars and chatas for locals and après-skiers alike. To carry the gallons of liquids they strap a ladder onto their backs and then stack and lash the kegs of beer and boxes containing spirits and food, up to and above their heads. They then set off to hike the trails in all weathers. It’s a truly extraordinary sight and they must be very gratefully greeted by bar staff and drinkers when arriving in the snow and blizzards with the night’s supplies!
With the reward of a beer in mind ourselves; we considered our only real option – to descend the mountain via the ski slope. Hiking back downhill the way we had come was out of the question as the rocks were now treacherous and a thunderstorm continued on that side of the mountain.
We feared for the families who had headed out that way. With nervous legs we set off down the vast tumbling and steep upper ski slope which, without snow, revealed its own treachery in the shape of mudslides, broken and exposed tree roots, rubble and litter.
It was hard going as clearly there was no single way designed for walkers and it was a gamble how to approach each pitching bend and turn. We slowly picked our way back and forth across the run and kept our sights on our boots rather than the valley far below us. Why people attempt this at speed on skis for fun will forever remain a mystery!
After an hour and with my knee complaining we heard the dreaded sound of the cable car cranking up. A single occupied cabin floated down above our heads containing the workers from the cable car hub. It sailed far below us and left us feeling isolated and frustrated. We heard the shouted swearing of other walkers: ‘puttana puttana!’ ‘merde merde!’ ‘scheiße’ as they realised the same.
A long hour later we reached the hub which we had intended as our original hiking destination seven hours earlier. To our relief that stretch of cable was also working and we paid and caught one of the day’s last cars back down to the resort where our bikes were waiting as we had left them, locked up outside the now deserted row of shops at the base of the ski run.
We cycled via a supermarket stop for essentials and were delighted to be waved at by the Slovakian mum and son who seemed relieved to see us safely back down the mountain.
We discovered our route back to the camp was all downhill, not requiring us to pedal more than a few times. It explained why we had both struggled in the morning to reach the town.
Over a rain-washed sunset view of the mountains, we supped a glass of chilled Rose and declared ourselves to be – officially – ‘Tatra’d’!
