The Stuff that Folk Songs are Made of

     Nowhere to go but up. This is the moment during my trip when I must literally and figuratively confront all of my fears: heights, uncertainty, danger, crisis, trust... mortality. "Just go with it," I tell myself.

That's where we're going?! (Yes, those tiny little dots are other hikers...)

     The beginning of the trek is moderate; rocky, but not impossible... thin Carpathian air. Soon after starting, we come upon a mountain lake. There's a group of 20-something men bathing, naked. Well, that was unexpected... I blush, feeling like I've just stumbled into a bizarro Renoir. On the other side of the mountain lake, wild horses are watering. I snap a few photos, careful not to get too close.

     Beyond the lake, the path gets steeper, rockier, the trail more treacherous. "Take little steps," advises Андрій, "You'll be able to breathe more easily, and there's less of a chance that you'll step on a loosened rock and fall..."

Mountain man Андрій (blue shirt) leads the way. You know, just don't step on any loose rocks. You'll be fine.

     Chance of falling? Oh god... keep looking up at the summit. The higher we climb, the more I cling to the earth, as if I would float into the aether if I let go. The trail is much steeper now.

Vatch yourrr shtep.

     As I clutch clumps of mountain grass (to steady my step and my nerves), I notice little purple flowers scattered throughout the landscape. "Фіялети?," I wonder aloud. "Ні ні це сині дзвіночки," says Надя. Пластовий Флешбек: Сині дзвіночки молитву дзвонять... wow, I haven't thought about that song in a good 25 years; we used to sing it in Новацтво as a morning prayer... Зложім молитві щирі долоні...

     Another flashback, also Пласт-related: climbing Mount Washington in New Hampshire... sleeping on the ground beneath the Perseid meteor showers, subsisting on uncooked Ramen noodles and peanut butter (this was BC--before Clif bars). Had to be about 1996 or '97, had to be about 14 years old. I loved being in the wilderness and sleeping under the stars... why did I stop?

The Obvious Westerner, pre-tats, 2 miles away from the summit of Mt. Washington ca. 1996

     The air is extremely thin now. I like to think that I am relatively fit; I can manage. Nevertheless, our entourage stops every 40 feet or so to catch our breath. No need to rush--live the moment.

Obligatory hot dog legs in the Carpathians.

idt they know i took this pic :)

     We hear the distant chiming of bells. It sounds like an enormous wind chime. On an adjacent cliff, a herd of mountain sheep grazes and bleats. "Там вівці пасуться," observes Надя, "Така у них музика Карпатська." Everything that's stereotypically Ukie is unfolding before my eyes. My mind conjures the classic народна пісня Чабан (another Пласт-related memory): Ой на горі, на горі, Чабан вівці зганяє... Every folk song I know is coming true.

Youtube caption is right: "Excellent toe-tapping backbeat" courtesy of our neighbors to the north.

     Through huffing, puffing, stumbling, wheezing, all-foursing (and Віктор chain-smoking all the while), we made it! A sign at the summit reads Близниця 1881 m... I don't know what that is in miles, feet, or whatever, but we were pretty high up there!!!

It's the Ukrainian version of Google Maps.

Anyone know how to get to Тростянець from here?

In case you wanted to thank someone for not "stepping on loose rocks."

I turn to Надя and we give each other a Borat-style high five. We did it! Стьопа finds a structure--the highest point on the highest point of the mountain, and he instinctively climbs it. Ой! We can see Romania from up here!

Стьопа being Стьопа

     No rest for the weary, though. We have two more peaks to scale, then down the other side of the mountain.

On to the next one...

     Now, going down it's easier to breathe, but harder on the knees. It's always something. During the descent, we come upon a field that seems to be right out of the Wizard of Oz. It was a vast expanse of spongy, decaying something, and it was overgrown with red and violet moss. Walking on it had the effect of being on a trampoline or a moon bounce. It was really weird, but my feet sure were thankful for it.

Making new friends everywhere he goes!

     Just before completing our descent, we come upon a blueberry patch, dark and ripe. We graze like baby bear cubs, lips and fingertips stained purple.

After eating our fill, down we go, arriving once again at the Soviet van and its raspy-voiced driver. This time, we willingly pile into the shockless-van to make our way back to Гуцулія for some well-earned R&R.

Shaken AND Stirred

     The following morning власник Андрій's wife, whose name is also Надя, greets me with a cholesterol-laden Carpathian breakfast that at once entices and repels me. Yet on this trip, I am sure to accept hospitality and eat what is given to me. In this instance, three fried eggs (Ukrainians call them scrambled eggs for some reason), two sausages, a salad of parsley and an unidentified violet-colored mountain herb, sliced cucumber and tomato, cheese pancakes with homemade raspberry jam, and an espresso. Смачного, bitches!

     The hostess Надя interests me. I did not once see her without an apron on and sweat on her brow, and she did not sit still for a single moment. She speaks an urgent blend of Ukrainian and perhaps Austrian, with the cadence of the Swedish Chef. Blonde haired and blue eyed, she strikes me as the typical Гуцул woman.

     After breakfast, our merry band of Мандрівники assembles: Андрій, the owner of Гуцулія and today's tour guide; Віктор, an older man with grey hair and a prominent mustache who chain smokes incessantly; Марія, cosmopolitan thirty-something professional photographer from Kyiv; Стьопко, Надя, and myself.

     Андрій is vague about where we are going. Maybe he himself is not sure? He is a severe, confident man with a solid build that reminds me of the mountains where we find ourselves, and of Дідо. He speaks deliberately and in a deep voice that hints of German enunciation. "Їдемо," he commands in a silky Germanic baritone. We obey as we pile into two cars.

Morning at Гуцулія

     We drive through the Bukovel Ski Resort along winding mountain roads, stopping along the way to snap photos of the morning fog looming silently in the sleepy Carpathian valleys. Туман в полонинах пливе... 

Impossible not to think of this song...

Fog in the Carpathian Valleys

     We keep driving, and driving still--through tiny villages, past roadside grazing cows, young men walking barefoot wielding sickles, old men steering wooden horse-drawn carts overloaded with hay. We drive through Яблуниця, Лазенщина, cross the border from Франківський Область into Закарпаття, and pull over next to a World War II era memorial to fallen Soviet soldiers in the village of Ясіня.

We covered a lot of ground that day...

A weapon used by the Soviets to liberate Ясіня from the Germans

Names of Soviet soldiers who perished defending Ясіня from Hitler's Army

     Up to this point, I am not sure about the extent of our mountain climbing excursion. So far, we have only been driving, and I have little to no idea what is going on. Андрій tells us to wait, and I watch him cross the street and flag down a skinny man wearing a Ukrainian Army uniform. They stand on a bridge talking, but the details of their conversation are muffled by all forms of traffic noise: work trucks, tour buses, bicycles, horse drawn carts, old Volkswagens...

The crossroads in Ясіня, with a prominent memorial to the Heavenly Hundred

     Андрій tells us to move our cars to a gravel lot outside of a Гуцул restaurant. After a few minutes, an olive green post-Soviet van pulls up, with the skinny soldier behind the wheel.

It rides as smooth as it looks...

     The man's voice is distorted; it sounds like he may have had a tracheotomy, though there is no physical evidence thereof. He tells us that for a fee of 100 hryvnia each, he will drive us to the foot of the mountain Драґобрат, but we have to pay up front because he has to put gas in the van.

Circa 2016; Ukrainian currency has depreciated since the time of writing...

    We oblige the shifty soldier, Стьопа of course paying for Надя and me at his insistence. The soldier gets back in his army-esque vehicle and drives away. What just happened?! Is he coming back?!?! Андрій seems pretty calm. Hopefully that means that he knows the skinny fellow--though their interactions suggest that they are strangers.

     After the better part of twenty minutes, the van pulls back into the gravel lot. The soldier gets out and opens the side door of the van. In his über-raspy voice he instructs us to get in. The interior of the van is sparse--all metal--three bucket seats on one side facing a bench seat on the other. No seat belts. There's a window that separates the driver's cab from the rest of the van... kind of like a limousine, but uh, not really. Doors shut, ignition, and we're off.

     We drive along the roads of Ясіня until we come to a dirt driveway beside a little shack and park here. A barefoot, shirtless boy rides up to the van on a motor scooter and hands the shady soldat a red plastic container full of gasoline through the driver's side window. The soldier cranks the engine and we're off again.

     Although it was sunny when we left Гуцулія, the sky had grown overcast and rain drizzled intermittently. I gazed out the window as we drove, reading signs along the way: Рахів, Чорна Тиса, Драґобрат... When I saw that sign, I recalled Андрій saying that name to the driver. Dragobrat--that must be where we're going.

     After a few kilometers, the soldiers bangs a sharp right from the semi-paved road onto a completely rustic road. It could not even be called a dirt road, since the mountainous terrain was all rock and shale. To the left of the van was a precipice, and to the left of that was a rocky, rushing river. The ferocity of the rapids suggested that it had rained recently.

     "Там водичка чистенька," Надя said in a hushed tone, if not to me then to herself. She often speaks her observations quietly; she says them out loud, but in a whisper. I'm not entirely sure that she is aware that she is doing it.

     There are several details to point out about this 11 kilometer leg of the excursion. a) This "road," if one might call it that, is extremely rocky (read: boulders and shit), and there is no guard rail. b) Once again, this van is not equipped with safety belts. c) Come to find out, it is not equipped with shocks either.

   The pseudo military van wheezed and groaned across the rocky terrain, taking hairpin turns up the winding mountain road that lifted one side of the van off the ground, then the other. At other times, пан Солдат forced the van up over boulders--real shit--lifting then dropping the van and its contents (ie. us!!!). All I could think to do was to laugh at the ridiculousness of this ride. "Такого в Америці нема!," I quipped to Стьопа. He laughed, flashing gold teeth and dimples.

     Eventually, we arrived at what looked like a hotel or a ski lodge. "Are we getting out here... please?," I wondered to myself. Alas, skinny soldier just kept on driving. That scenario repeated about three or four times more: ski lodge, are we here?, nope, keepa movin'. All the while, we bounced around violently inside the van; Shake it up Baby played on repeat in my head. Again, I laughed.

Undisputed Classic

Or, if you prefer...

     Нарешті, we pull up to what seems to be the final ski lodge. Soldier stops the van... could it be? Андрій, who was sitting in the passenger seat, frees us from the back of the van. I should kiss the ground. "Буду пішки йти звітси," Надя announces resolutely, "Більше не буду їхати!" I concur, Надю, I concur.

I'll walk from here... it's cool.

     We get out of the van, still vibrating internally, and take a look around. Snap a few photos. We wait--for something. "Ну, поїхали," commands Андрій. Wait, what? We're getting back in the van?! "Ще один километер," he says. One more kilometer? Really, I am willing to walk that kilometer. Yet we all obey, and back in the van we go.

     At this point, we have ascended above the tree line, so there is nothing to mask the precipitous view if one were to look down (I did). The lifting, dropping, and rocking of the van is more ominous now. I am laughing no longer.

     Just when we think that we can't maintain anymore, der soldier stops the van, this time for good. This is the starting point for the hike. Андрій and the soldier with his distorted whisper exchange cell phone numbers. Overheard from Андрій: "То як я знаю що ти по нас приїдеш?" "Приїду, приїду... не переживай." Andy, we just trusted this guy with our lives on the ride up here, and now you're not going to trust him to come pick us up?!

Ukie ATVs

     After that treacherous leg of the journey, we thought the rest of the trek would be cake. Then, I looked up and was confronted by the looming Carpathian peaks of Близниця, Жандари, and Драґобрат.

Triple Threat...

Національні Лампуни Карпатські Вакації

   One thing that nobody told my before my rendezvous with Стьопко and his wife, Надя, is that they recently lost a daughter of 22 years. Both of them have children from previous marriages, however the child that they had together passed away three months prior to my visit.

   Neither Стьопа nor Надя mentioned her name to me; I am not sure if this is emblematic of traditional Ukie mourning practices: abstaining from celebrations, dancing, weddings, etc. for a period of time following a loved one's passing. I remember that when бабуня, my great grandmother, passed in the early 90s, Бабця draped a black scarf over her mother's photograph, refusing to look at it for a long time...

   Anyway, Надя explained to me that their child had 'розгориня мозку,' something that I took to mean cerebral palsy or another type of degenerative brain affliction. The child lay bed bound for 22 years while Надя cared for her. I sensed a bittersweet rationalization of events: bitter because it is an unspeakable tragedy for parents to outlive their child, but sweet because the young woman is no longer suffering--as cliche as that may sound. Instinctively, I know that Стьопа and Надя are recalibrating their own relationship as well, reconfiguring their roles in the absence of a child who had such exceptional needs.

   At times during our trip, I imagined us to be a makeshift family of sorts, adopting convenient roles of mother-father-daughter on a very weird family vacation. Стьопа insisted on paying for everything, which affronted my stubbornly independent Western female identity at first. He insisted on buying me a gift--a beautiful black chiffon embroidered dress--despite my protests. "А чому?! Мені того не треба!," I tried to reason with him. "Бо я хочу тобі щось гарного купити!" He was just as stubborn as I was.

A roadside stop during our makeshift family vacation :)

   Aside from our mutual stubbornness (a universal Ukie trait), I found that Стьопа and I have quite a bit in common. He is rather soft-spoken, and we would both rather listen than speak. He also reminded me of Дідо in the sense that he chooses his words carefully, and does not chatter for the sake of eliminating silence. We both enjoy the outdoors as well, and were equally excited to embark on our Carpathian mountain climbing adventure :)

What 60 year old strips down to his skivvies and jumps into an ice cold Carpathian lake on a whim? That guy (Стьопа)!

   Originally, Стьопа had arranged for us to stay in a hotel owned by his friend from elementary school, a former Ukrainian (Soviet?) Army soldier by the name of Володимир. Unfortunately, due to a last-minute booking our rooms were given to someone else, which seems to occur frequently in Ukraine (future travelers beware). We ended up staying at a rustic hotel next door, a ski lodge by the name of Гуцулія.

In the Карпати. (Гуцулія summer kitchen in the foreground)

   Гуцулія was a cross between a traditional Hutsul homestead and a caricature of the American Wild West. Indeed, the host Андрій spent seven years working as a ski-guide on the slopes of Colorado. He proudly showed us one of his prized possessions from his time in the States: one of those old-timey photographs of his family dressed up as cowboys and saloon ladies, complete with the caption, "WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, REWARD $20,000 IN GOLD COIN." And now he resides in the Wild West of Ukraine. Go figure.

   We settle into our accommodations and take to the preparation of the evening meal. Стьопа arranges for us to eat dinner with his friend Володимир. The men prepare шашлики, while Надя and I sip самогонька al fresco. A word about самогонька (Ukrainian moonshine)--BE CAREFUL! Even the most seasoned drinker will suffer a case of самогонька-stomach the next day if one doesn't moderate (read: me).

   It's dusk at like 10 pm, and again the table is plentiful: tomatoes and cucumber topped with dill and sour cream, pickled wild mushrooms with scallions, fresh bread, grapes, plums, and hot grilled pork kabobs (or is it крилики?). No matter, everything we need is right here: good food, good company, good times.

Стьопа and Володя shootin the breeze...

   We alternately eat and drink toasts of самогонька, and the conversation naturally turns to the political crisis in Eastern Ukraine. The discussion centers around the ability to collect pensions (a relic of the Soviet Era), the lack of employment in Ukraine, and the corrupt government that sold out the citizenry in order to line their own pockets. By now, this is an all-too prevalent and familiar tune. Alas, we retire to our quarters after retiring the second bottle of самогонька. Tomorrow, we depart for our Carpathian excursion...

Five stars, compared to the foot-smelling hostel in Kyiv!

    

The Fat of the Land

   Пані Надя busies herself in the kitchen preparing what looks to be a pret-ty big breakfast. I offer to help (that's usually me in that-thar kitchen). She delegates to me the laying of the tablecloth... oh, I get it... I go into the dining room and complete my task with the help of Оля.

   Afterwards, Оля offers to take me on a tour of the compound. Stepping out of the house, we walk down a path shaded by low-hanging branches and pass through a wooden gate built into a handmade brick wall.

   "Покажу тобі мою хату," she looks over her shoulder to tell me as she leads the way. "Тут колись мама жила, а тепер я з чоловіком і з сином." To our right, a stable with a compost pile built up against the wall. A cow lows, and somewhere, a low-pitched grunting. Оля gestures towards a back door as she shoos a chicken out of the way with her foot.

   Once inside, Оля immediately begins showing me her tile stove. They burn wood inside the stove to keep warm, but there is also a cooking range built into it. The stove penetrates the wall that separates the kitchen from the bedroom; warmth from the stove can radiate through this wall without filling the bedroom with the smell of burning wood. Ingenious!

   Directly next door is a two-story house which appears to be a mansion by comparison; indeed, it's the first two-story structure I have seen since arriving in Старе Богородчане.

   Just inside another gate is a black and tan puppy tethered to a dog house. He jumps up against the gate excitedly when we approach. After he catches my scent, he licks my hand like a happy pup, and this makes my miss my own puppy thousands of miles away :( I bet Miles is going to wiggle so much when I get home.

   We ascend three steps to a porch and enter the two-story home through a custom-made wooden door. A curved staircase appears on the left, while to the right is an inhabited room. Вуйко Офіс, the elderly uncle, resides here while construction is being completed. We wander through the kitchen, a living room with bright windows, a bathroom, laundry room, комора. I admire the craftsmanship applied to the hardwood floors throughout the home.

   "Ану, хто це будував?" I ask Оля. "Та ми будуємо!" she replies proudly. Марія's family, здається, are incredible builders. The craftsmanship is exquisite.

   The екскурсія is gaining travelers--at this point, we are Оля, Вуйко, myself, a little boy of about 5 or 6 named Андрій, another little boy whose name I don't know. "А там нагорі є другий поверг," says little Андрійко in his little boy voice. He wants to show us the second floor.

   Now I must subdue my irrational fear of heights to continue on with this tour--the staircase to the second floor is unfinished, and instead of treads on each step there are planks of wood. Like, uneven planks of wood with knots, and bark. This is super-unsteady; my palms clam-over immediately. Still, I oblige the gracious tour guides and ascend the staircase after them. Ой Боже...

   The second floor is not quite as finished as the first, but it is just as nice and well-built. One can imagine how beautiful it will look when completed. The most impressive feature is the wrap-around balcony that offers a glorious view of, well, the rest of the село.

   Mounds of onions cover the floor of said balcony. "Я тут сушу свою цибулю," Оля says sheepishly.

   The presumed future bedroom of Марія and Ihor houses an extensive collection of herbs laid out on a spread of old newspaper. Apparently they were collected by Вуйко, who studied medicine at one time. He formulates homeopathic remedies using these herbs. Could explain why he's in such good health.

   By now, another fellow has joined the tour. He is tall, dressed all in black, olive skin, salt and pepper hair and mustache--a Slavic Johnny Cash. "Мій чоловік, Роман," Оля introduces us. She passes the toddler, whom she was carrying on her neck this entire time, over to her husband. "Йди до тата," she says to the little one.

   Стьопа arrives as well, inviting us to come eat "Поки ще гаряче," he cautions. Our Slavic Soul Train heads back to Пані Надя's house: down the unfinished staircase, out the front door, past the excited puppy and his own little house, through the gate... but it all grinds to a halt at the stable.

   "Ану покажемо тобі крилики," exclaims Оля,"ти ще певно такого не бачила!" She gestures to a pen brimming with rabbits pressing their faces against the wire enclosure. Роман takes a handful of freshly-cut hay and sprinkles it into the pen. The rabbits swarm it and nibble away.

   Роман opens another pen and pulls one the rabbits out. "От, дивись який він здоровий!" he says proudly. "Будете його їсти?" I ask innocently. He chuckles, rabbit in one hand, toddler in the other.

   Now Оля wants to show me the stable. "Тут наша свиня," she says, pointing to a large pig--the source of those previously-unidentified low-pitched grunts. "А тут друга свиня," she points to another large pig in a different pen. "А там корова--вона стяє," laughs Оля as I spy a cow pissing with uplifted tail. Yep, that's livin' off the land for ya. At least it wasn't shitting...

   Стьопа знову кличе на обід. The potatoes are getting cold! Quickly, we scurry back to Надя's house. Обов'ясково, I wash my hands. You can take the girl out of the city... "Сідайте," invites Надя, "Налити тобі водку чи вино?" Hmmm. It's about 10 am. Vodka or vino? Vino.

   A small table in the living room is clustered with chairs, and overflowing with food: plates of kielbasa and cheese, boiled dill potatoes, sliced tomatoes, hard boiled eggs topped with squirts of mayonnaise, fresh cucumbers, breaded and fried pork medallions, grilled kabob removed from the skewer. There are so many dishes that we eat from tiny plates just so we are able to fit them on the table!

   I notice that people tend to eat with their own forks from a communal dish. The company drinks a toast, and afterwards всі закусають--everyone eats a small piece of sausage, or pickled vegetable... something small to chase the shot with.

   Надя promptly begins piling food on my plate: a mountain of dill potatoes, a thick slab of колач (homemade bread)... well, that about satisfies my carb intake for the day, not to mention my soul. The hospitality is so generous, and such a welcome change from the anonymity and loneliness of the city.

   Maria's family welcomed me as one of their own. Since my arrival in Ukraine and throughout the various tribulations of my trip, I finally feel comfortable. With a full belly and a dull morning buzz, my body makes way for the 'itis. Too soon, however, because it is time to hit the road to Bukovel...