Between mountain meadows, forests and encounters
The days slowly blur into a rhythm of walking, looking, marveling – and yet every section of the high alpine trail brings new surprises. Sometimes the path leads over rugged stone slabs that seem hard and angular underfoot, then again over springy forest floor that fills the senses with the scent of coniferous wood and damp moss. Peace and variety alternate almost every minute between quiet stretches of forest and expansive views.

On these stages, there are not only meters of altitude and landscapes between the huts, but also encounters that bring the trail to life: A hut conversation that changes the plan for the day. A spontaneous chat with a mountain bike trail builder who offers a lift. And a small international hiking group that conquers the High Alpine Trail in stages year after year – like a recurring ritual. So the days are not just kilometers in your legs, but little stories that thread together like pearls on a string.

Day 5 – The first real climb

The day started early – and without breakfast. I just wanted to get going. The evening before, the landlady in the hut had advised me not to move on, as the next accommodation was closed during the week. So I stayed there and set off in the morning from exactly that point. I had two options for the day: a leisurely 20-kilometre stage, which would have taken me to the hut by 12 noon – or the slightly more ambitious option.

At the first hut of the day, I felt hungry. It was so cold and windy that I even put on my jacket. Despite the cloudless sky, the sun took its time to pamper me with its warmth.

By lunchtime, I had already reached the hut of the first variant, which seemed like a little oasis. I ordered a hearty vegetable soup and stuffed dumplings – and then fell asleep in the sun for 20 minutes. It could actually have been a nice end to the day. But there was still energy left – and the day just didn’t feel finished. What do I want to do in the hut before midday when I can add on 37 kilometers and a total of 2800 meters of altitude?

The waitress was amazed when I told her my destination for the day. According to the sign, it was still over seven hours to get there. I was sure I could beat the time, so I wasn’t worried – until I saw the next steep slope. Luckily, the landlady called the hut for me to reserve a bed. Because standing in front of a locked door after a day like that would really have been the last thing I needed.

What I hadn’t considered was that these extra meters of altitude were almost completely packed into the last few kilometers. And what I also didn’t know until then was how serious Slovenians are when they put a small warning triangle with an exclamation mark on the hiking trail. Suddenly I was climbing almost vertically, secured only by steel cables and bolts hammered into the rock. Several times I asked myself whether it wouldn’t have been better to take a Via Ferrata set with me so that I could attach myself to the steel cable. At some point I really had had enough, but the view became more and more magnificent – the well-deserved reward for the effort.

The ascent in the afternoon was quite a challenge. I’m not actually afraid of heights, but the narrow paths and steep walls did make me feel a little queasy – especially with a rucksack weighing around 10 kilos on my back. My hiking poles were both a blessing and a curse: helpful for supporting myself on the rock face, but a hindrance when I needed my hands free. I stowed them away several times, only to take them out again a few minutes later.

Some animals feel more comfortable in this terrain than most people. Mountain goats hopped effortlessly between the rocks as if there was no deadly precipice for a misstep. Fortunately, my own footing was safe, and the steel cables provided good support – even if they were a little annoying at times.

Shortly before the finish, I met the first two hikers who were also walking the Slovenian High Trail – two American women, a little more leisurely than me and with considerably more time. They had spread the section that I had quickly “added on” in the afternoon over the whole day.

The hut at the finish was rather makeshift: made from shipping containers and wooden planks, functional, but bitterly cold at night. The actual hut had burnt down a few years ago, leaving only lonely stone walls in the middle of this rugged but breathtaking mountain backdrop.

The landlord greeted us warmly and immediately served us cold drinks and stew. There was no choice, vegetarians were served apple strudel. In general, it is difficult to eat vegetarian food in the slovenia mountains. I try where I can, but when I’m traveling I take a pragmatic approach rather than going hungry.

At home, we live a purely vegetarian lifestyle, so it always feels like I’m living in a bubble in everyday life when I see how much meat is consumed in many regions of the world. Even if you order a dish that is sold as vegetarian at first glance, they always manage to smuggle in sausage or pieces of meat.

At dinner, we were still puzzling over how the supplies got here. I guessed a helicopter, like in the Pyrenees. We were all the more surprised the next morning when a man with a dog stood in the doorway – 42 kilos of tinned food and beer cans on his back. He had been walking for an hour and a half, albeit on a different, less steep route than us, but for him it was simply “good training”.

As it turned out, he also worked for the mountain rescue service. He warned us, especially the two Americans, about the climbing passages in Slovenia: The belay points are often further apart than elsewhere, he said, which could quickly lead to a four-meter fall in the event of a fall – plus rope stretching. Back or leg fractures are not uncommon. An unpleasant thought that would stay with me for the next few days. I would find out soon enough whether his warning was justified.

Day 6 – Adventure shortcut

The day began harmlessly: 20 kilometers were on the agenda. After yesterday’s ordeal, it almost sounded like a rest. A glance at the map even revealed a shortcut – only 600 meters instead of 1,500. A gift, I thought.

But there was a warning sign at the start, which I generously ignored. A mistake, as it soon turned out. The “shortcut” turned into a vertical ascent that was more reminiscent of a via ferrata without a via ferrata set. 300 meters in altitude over a distance of just 600 meters – it didn’t feel like hiking, but rather like survival training.

Narrow rock steps, barely wide enough for one foot. Here and there a jump over small chasms. Metal poles that you had to clutch in order not to topple backwards into nothingness. Narrow crevices through which I squeezed myself with my head down and my rucksack jammed in. I put my poles away, my hands became climbing hooks.

Someone had hammered hundreds of iron stirrups and anchors into the rock here. Whether it was done by hand or by machine, it must have been someone with little fear of death. I could feel my pulse racing. The abyss to the left, the rock to the right, clutching the metal rope tightly. Back? Not a chance.

I’ve maneuvered myself into situations like this many times in my life. Maybe I should finally take a mountaineering course – not to get better at climbing, but to learn when to turn back. But there I was, right in the middle of it. Every grip, every step had to be right.

When I finally reached the official route again, there was no sense of relief. Instead, I wondered how this trail could even be designated as a national long-distance hiking trail. Perhaps Slovenians are simply made of sterner stuff than us German weekend hikers.

The next blow came at the highest point of the day: the markings disappeared. Where the map promised a path, there was only a steep slope or a loose scree field. I chose the scree – and slipped more than I walked. Every glance at the GPS showed that I was no longer on the path. Step by step, I worked my way forward, hoping to spot another red sign somewhere. There was none.

The thirst became agonizing. Not a drop of water for hours. I had deliberately packed my rucksack lighter – only one liter for the day. I had had coffee and cake in the last hut, but no water. Too expensive, I thought at the time. Now I was stingy – and thirsty.

Actually, I should have climbed two more peaks, but I turned off onto a supposedly easier traverse. A fatal mistake. The “easy” route turned out to be hours of scrambling over sharp rocks and rooty climbs.

The last hope was an open hut. The only open hut since cake and meeting point with the two Americans who were walking the same route. It was already a struggle for me to get here – and yet they didn’t show up. At 6 pm, I dragged myself back to my accommodation, exhausted. When I fell into bed, they still hadn’t arrived.

Day 7 – Crack

I hardly slept that night. Something had taken an emotional toll on me, so I couldn’t really rest. It was only during the day that I was able to think clearly again.

I had discussed the route for the day with the hut owner and decided on the “easy” route – which in Slovenia unfortunately doesn’t mean that it wasn’t steep or dangerous. I even got to a point where I was cursing (which rarely happens) and already making plans to move on to the Dolomites in Italy to hike there. The ascent over the pass took me through a scree field that made progress very strenuous. On the other side, the familiar game of steep slopes, steel cables and climbing passages continued.

It’s amazing how quickly the terrain in the mountains can change. One minute you’re trudging on hard rock, the next you’re walking on soft forest ground that’s a real treat for your joints. It smells of coniferous forest, a small stream babbles beside me and breaks the silence of the forest. I enjoy the shade – the sun has burned my skin enough in the last few days.

Once down in the valley, in a small village, I treated myself to a hearty lunch: a large salad, a barbecue platter and a cappuccino. Afterwards, I went shopping for provisions: snacks, chocolate (very important for morale), hummus, wraps and cheese. As I didn’t feel like walking along the road, I decided to hitchhike. It didn’t take three minutes before a young man stopped who was on his way home from work – to my surprise, he spoke German. We talked about how he was helping to build a new flow trail for mountain bikes nearby. A small paradise for speed junkies is being created there with just a few trenches of earth.

The rest of the route led us through familiar-looking forest again, first on wide paths, then increasingly on narrow trails. For a while, it poured with rain – a welcome cool-down on the steep paths.

My destination was a hut run by Leon, an excellent chef, and his wife. I was greeted with an excellent vegetable soup and the best apple pie of the tour so far. Although there was no official shower, I was allowed to use the private shower as an exception – a blessing. My longsleeve, which had had a hole in it for a long time, finally fell apart and was buried: more hole than fabric. I washed the rest of my laundry by hand in hot water with soap – now everything is at least halfway bearable again.

Apart from me, there was only one other group of guys from Hungary in the hut. We chatted a little about our tours, partly in English, partly with our hands and feet. Interestingly, one of the three was Finnish. I wondered why they were talking in English – after all, Finnish and Hungarian are both Uralic languages. But just because they are related doesn’t mean you understand each other: Over the centuries, the similarities have been almost completely lost.