The Road to Rarau - Climbing in Romania in 2010

I unearthed this short story earlier today from a wild climbing trip across Eastern Europe back in 2010:

Piatra Mare, Rarau Mountains, Romania

‘Ah yes’ said the overall clad man, with a comforting air of confidence. Wiping the grease off the back of his hand and onto his forehead, he continued with a heavy accent, but in surprisingly good English. ‘I can tell you exactly what the problem is’. The comment was somewhat reassuring, yet, at the same time, somewhat perplexing; the dark haired mechanic with the toothy grin had yet to open the bonnet of our rented Astra.

From the outset, the hire car was certainly in the ‘well used’ category and a far cry from the gleaming, minimal mileage types you might come across in Geneva Airport. To us though, as well as being an affordable price, it was perfectly respectable and still in a class more expensive than we would be driving around in back home. What wasn’t acceptable though, was it’s recent tendency to periodically emit alarming amounts of steam from under the bonnet. The fact that the sudden smokescreen blocked the driver's vision was one thing, but more worrying was the kind of garage bill that such events would inevitably produce. Our limited expedition budget barely afforded us to be halfway across eastern Europe and certainly did not allow for luxuries such as spare engines. So to counteract the problem, we had spent the last few days driving slowly and stopping at the first signs of trouble. 

This unorthodox technique was proving relativity effectively in all but our ability to make much forward daily progress. Soon, however, the smoking bonnet syndrome started to be accompanied by a periodic grind and spluttering noise. Now I’m no mechanic, but it didn’t seem to have the tone of a finely tuned machine. It sounded expensive. As the whole reason for hiring the car in the first place, was to allow unimpeded travel we decided that we ought to seek some expert advice. As luck would have it, moments after making the decision, the rural landscape gave way to a small town where we came across a respectable looking garage type establishment; we pulled over to get some advice.

‘Yes, yes’ the mechanic roared, inviting the interest of his fellow grease smeared colleagues. ‘The problem is, that the car is Bulgarian!’ The garage erupted in laughter and it soon became apparent that the general consensus in Romania was that any Bulgarian car was, by default, destined to be the butt of all jokes and extremely likely to break down. However, despite the ridicule, minutes later, the bonnet was up and the car surrounded by men, all curious to see the state of affairs under the lightly smoking foreign hood.

The car was indeed Bulgarian. We had begun our travels there, in the capital, Sofia, a few weeks ago and had picked up the car outside the airport. The whole transaction had had a rather shifty feel to it and we were both surprised at the casualness of the hire agreement. When I took a lap of the car to check for dents and scratches, the agent shrugged his leather jacketed shoulders and said ‘don’t worry, this is Bulgaria - of course you will collect some dents and scratches’, then after a short pause, as an afterthought, added ‘no problem’.

The vehicle in question, a dark blue Vauxhall Astra, was by now receiving a lot of attention. A few dents and scratches are one thing, but having the engine tampered with was quite another. We looked on anxiously while prognosis was determined. Our questions were met with a series of enthusiastic nods and ‘yes’es. Yes, it was fixable, yes it could be done today and lastly, of course, yes, it was going to cost us. Cash only. Given that we were a Vauxhall, parked under a Ford Garage sign, we were not in the least bit surprised to find that the exact part that was required, wasn’t in stock. The mechanic was an enterprising fellow though and decided he could make a good temporary fix that should last long enough to see us through the rest of our trip. This seemed like a perfectly satisfactory arrangement to all (except perhaps the car hire company, who were not present to voice an opinion), so we gave the go-ahead. 

The operation was short, swift and rudimentary. What looked like a pair of garden secateurs were used to snip a section of pipe that had been identified as having ruptured. Jubilee clips and a generous amount of tape was then used to reconnect the now very stretched section of tubing. The bill was modest enough to be paid from our dwindling cash reserves and the transaction sealed with a crushing handshake, much grinning and a general feeling of appreciation from all parties. Gingerly, we pulled back onto the road, overtook an overloaded horse and cart and built up speed. The temperature gauge remained constant and our nerves eased slightly. The climber's road trip was back on.

Even the main roads required extra driver attention

Annie the Astra, did us proud that summer, transporting us along some astonishingly poor condition roads as we continued on our quest to discover new rock climbing areas across Bulgaria and Romania. A week or so later, having visited a few more crags of varying degrees of quality, and of course, Vlad Dracula’s Castle, Annie was (albeit, with a fair amount of encouragement), still making forward progress on demand and the repair job seemed to be holding out. 

After several days of severe afternoon storms, the plentiful run-off, had swollen the Bistria River to its banks, with fast-flowing, murky brown, sediment filled water. The road that followed its course was a veritable patchwork of tarmac repairs. As with many of the roads in this area, there were frequently places where it was hard to say if any of the original road surfaces actually still remained. Driving required you to focus yourself into a sort of computer game-like state; where having reacted to swerve around one bump, you would suddenly throw the wheel in the opposite direction to avoid the next, in the way that you’d perhaps avoid ‘losing a life’ in a game of Mario-Cart. If that wasn’t enough to concentrate on, every now and then a horse-drawn cart, loaded to a precarious height, would appear around the bend, invariably on the wrong side of the road.

By now we were in Northern Romania, not far from the Ukraine border. We had been in the country for a few weeks, yet still had not got used to the rigors of travel in these surprisingly wild parts. Months earlier, while researching a suitably adventurous place to spend the summer climbing, we’d chanced upon a photo of a stunning looking isolated rock tower called Piatra Mare, in the mountainous region of Rarau. I’d never heard of the place, and neither had anyone else that I quizzed in an attempt to find out further information, which only helped to add to it’s allure. After a certain amount of trawling the net, we eventually managed to ascertain that the place did actually exist and downloaded a couple of ‘maps’ showing its location. Now here we were, several thousand miles later, bouncing along a road that we hoped would lead us to it?...

Leaving the tarmac behind, we began to edge our way up the dusty track. Shuffling between first and second gear, we held our breath as the car bounced and lurched in and out of the potholed surface as we zig-zagged up the steep and narrow terrain. The tension mounted with every corner turned as we silently prayed that we wouldn’t meet another car descending the single track road. Slowly but surely, we made some terrifying uphill progress at a depressingly slow average speed of about 10 - 20km/h. Would it ever end? Eventually, just as our nerves were about to give way, the road did! We pulled into a small lay-by in the forest and walked ahead to assess the coming road conditions. On a steep bend up ahead, about a third of the road and a good portion of forest had parted company with the rest of the mountainside and slid off downhill.

Clare assessing some challenging road conditions

We could drive no further. There was nothing else for it: if we were going to make it to Rarau, we were going to have to load up our rucsacks, abandon the car and set out on foot. 

Our nerves ran out around the same time as the tarmac did

As we tip-toed past the subsided area, some Romanian cars pulled round the bend. The lack of road was clearly not an issue to them. After jettisoning some of the heavier passengers, they simply mounted the muddy vegetated verge and with some high revs and a bit of wheel spinning, rattled on past, seemingly un-phased about the undoubtable under-carriage damage.

Our packs were heavy with the weight of climbing kit and supplies to keep us going for four days. The sun beat down and without an accurate map, it was difficult to gauge how far we had still to walk. Hopefully we would arrive at the Rarau Cabaña before dark?... As we ascended the hot and dusty track a couple of cars labored past. Weighed down and overfilled with extended family members, there was no chance of hitching a lift with the few cars that overtook us. At a lonely clearing in the forest, we came across a big blue road sign, indicating both the presence of recent human activity as well as the direction of some unknown towns. At least it confirmed that, although it might not seem like it, we were in fact walking along a designated ‘road’.

Setting out on foot - on the road to Rarau 

It was Clare who first caught sight of the fabled tower. Sticking out of the pine trees in the distance was the monolith that we had traveled so far to see and climb. It was a semi-emotional moment. Since first seeing a photo of this peak over six months ago, we had both spent a considerable amount of time, money and energy in getting ourselves here. Only one question remained – ‘could we climb it?’. Having journeyed so far, we quite simply had to and the sight of it spurred us on the final few kilometers to the Cabaña.

Finally, we set eyes on the prize! The tower of Piatra Mare

Having slogged our way up from the valley floor, we were fairly surprised to find the Cabaña was partly frequented with well dressed tourists! Many looked as though they were wearing their ‘Sunday best’ as they walked up to the viewing point, to marvel at the rock architecture. We entered the Cabaña next to a sign which rather grandly declared itself as ‘Hotel Rarau’. It was a massive concrete building which gave an indication of previous glory days. The manager furrowed his brow and stroked his chin as he thought long and hard deciding if there was a room free, which tickled us a bit as there must have been hundreds of rooms available. As if we hadn’t walked far enough that day, he gave us a key to a room on the deserted fifth floor. There was no lift.

Contender for worst bed in the world - the duvet is rolled up underneath me to counteract the saggy mattress.

An irregular shaped bit of ill-fitting, faded, threadbare carpet, lightly furnished with spilled nuts and crumbs covered the concrete floor. Net curtains covered most of the window and although the beds were made, the faded eiderdowns could not hide their age. As anticipated, the mattresses sagged alarmingly into the centre of the wooden beds, threatening to trap the unsuspecting occupant. Just to top of the décor, a pair of frilly ladies underwear, (presumably belonging to the previous occupant, rather than a deliberate attempt at interior design) hung limply from the light above the beds. We were too tired to care. It would have been worse to hike up to find the place closed or full! Dumping our packs onto the floor, we went out onto the balcony for some fresh air and discovered that at least we had a fine view of Piatra Mare.

We spent a few minutes in silence gazing at the peak before Clare broke the silence. ‘Let’s have it!’ she exclaimed. Our plan had been to rest now, before making an ascent in the morning, but standing there looking at the majestic rock spire it was hard to resist its lure. The sudden excitement renewed us with energy and nervous adrenaline. Quickly as we could, we re-packed our bags and headed back down the stairs. Within fifteen minutes we were at the foot of the climb nervously glancing between each other, the summit, and the building storm clouds that were gathering on the horizon. After a bit of uncertainty and some close scrutiny of the skies, we decided to go for it reasoning that if an afternoon storm were to develop, we could always abseil off relatively quickly.

Clare on a stance near the shoulder 

Clare brought me up to a belay perched on the ridge after running the first two pitches in one rope length. Above lay a series of cracks, festooned with all manner of rusty looking pitons. As I made my way upwards, I was surprised and pleased to find that most of the fixed-gear was surprisingly solid. It was however, reassuring to be able to place our own protection as well. At around six pm, I pulled up onto the small section of flat ground of the summit that was marked by a weathered, wooden cross. With a fist raised to the sky I punched the air and gave a whoop, utterly overjoyed to have made it! Clipping myself to an anchor, I belayed Clare up while marveling at the multi-directional panorama and grinning like an idiot. Clare soon joined me on the small perch where excitable hugs and high fives were exchanged and numerous photos taken.

On top - Pure delight, excitement and relief. 

The threat of storms had not materialized, so we sat unhurried on the summit soaking up the views and feeling the euphoric sensation of achieving the goal seep around our bodies. The Hotel was clearly visible and we wondered if anyone could see us. Unknown, densely forested mountains stretched away in every direction. On the far horizon, into Ukraine, the storm clouds looked heavy with rain, but we were happily bathed in the sunlight of early evening.

With a certain sense of reluctance, we eventually began to rig an anchor to abseil back down from. Keeping a watchful eye on the tied off aging pitons, I gently weighted the ropes and began sliding downwards. With our long 60m ropes, we soon made it back to our bags and the safety of flat ground in two big abseils. The sun was close to the horizon as we pulled the ropes down. Looking back up at the line of our ascent we could hardly believe that we’d “came, saw and against all the odds, conquered”. What a journey. What an adventure. What satisfaction. A shared experience to treasure and feed off in the future. 

The journey back to terra-firma 

Later the following week, we returned the hire car to another leather jacket clad guy who stood waiting for us, as arranged, in a layby just outside Bucharest Airport. I would say we handed over the keys, but we actually left them in the car, with the engine running as we’d recently also developed a bit of ‘starting trouble’ and had decided that this was best left unmentioned, along with the engine repairs. Struggling under heavy rucsacks and clutching the signed paperwork, we walked straight into the crowded terminal without looking back...