postcard 5: that waterfall slaps
lawn camping and exploring Croatia's most popular national park
The fog rolls in eerily as we navigate the winding mountain roads in the dark. Back in Pula it still feels like summer, but here in the mountains the thermostat drops and the early sunset reminds us that fall is indeed here. That and the spooky fog.
We pitch our tent on a damp lawn by headlamp and fall asleep to the sound of big trucks navigating the country highway. At 2 a.m. we’re woken by a chorus of dogs barking in the neighboring village and we lay there desperately trying to sleep as they continue their conversation for an hour. It seems much too soon when our alarm goes off, but we take down the tent in the dark and make our way towards Plitvice Lakes National Park in the slowly brightening world.
The doorstep to Croatia’s most popular national park is filled with restaurants and cafés and vacation rentals, but they’re all still dark and firmly closed as we drive by so early. Our last resort, the café at the park entrance, is also abandoned. We make the silent agreement to start our 10-mile trek without coffee and quietly set off down the trail.
Hugging a still and glassy lake, we walk through a magical fall forest. Leaves crunch underneath our feet and the light is just starting to hit the trees across the way, setting aglow their autumn colors. Hazelnut is exuberant that it’s finally cold and darts back and forth across the trail to smell everything, threatening to jump in the clear water she was expressly forbidden from swimming in by the sign at the beginning of the hike. But Topher is falling asleep on his feet. Per usual, this crazy adventure was my brainchild. Since we set our sights on Croatia, a picture of this national park has been my screensaver and I know he’s trying to be a good sport for me, but doing all the driving (stick shift + bruised tailbone = no thanks) plus no sleep and no coffee is wearing on him. Two miles in when we see a sign with a coffee cup, we jubilantly climb the hill and find a shuttle stop with an open coffee kiosk and a tour bus full of German tourists milling about. We order two coffees each and drink them in the sunshine.
Now we’re in adventure mode and even the growing number of people on the trail can’t dampen our spirits. We climb down into a gorge, joining a queue to get out onto the boardwalks. Sixteen turquoise lakes make up this national park, each tumbling into the next through a series of cascading waterfalls, which we learn are called “slap” in Croatian. We’re the only English speakers navigating the slippering wooden walkways and we take advantage of the moment and make as many “this waterfall slaps” jokes as possible, especially when we stand underneath the Veliki (big) Slap. We finally break out of the crowds as we leave the circuit for the lower lakes and breathe a sigh of relief.
Most of the waterfalls are concentrated around the upper and lower lakes, which are easily accessed by a shuttle or ferries that cross the bigger lakes, but when we get on the far side of the middle lakes, the trail is totally empty. The water is still breathtakingly turquoise and the leaves float down like a snow globe. We hike, entranced, past fairy rings of mushrooms and picturesque views across the water.
It’s noon by the time we reach the upper lakes and several minutes into the boardwalk I suspect we’ve made a mistake. Crowds press in on us and threaten to push us off into the water as someone steps backwards into us to take a selfie at every turn. It’s stunning, but I can’t concentrate on the views as we’re shuffled along, trying to keep Hazelnut between our legs so she doesn’t get stepped on. No one speaks English so our “excuse me” and “watch out” cries go unnoticed. It’s the single busiest natural place I’ve ever been. After what feels like hours but isn’t more than 45 minutes, we finally make it out of the boardwalk maze and onto the boat dock. The quick ferry across the water is empty and only takes a few minutes. Hazelnut checks riding a boat off her bucket list and we trudge up the hill to the car, stopping for a beer and French fries. We’ve clocked 10 miles.
The GPS takes us on a different route back, winding through tiny mountain towns where villagers have set up stands on the side of the road selling cabbages and potatoes and pumpkins. We pull over at one with a simple sign that says “sir” which we’ve learned means cheese. An old man comes out of his house and a kitten winds around our legs as he unpacks his cooler. “Goat, moo, moo, moo” he says pointing to each option. I walk away with a wheel of semi-hard goat cheese the size of my face that fries beautifully for 12 euros.
It seems fall has finally found Pula and we curl up with murder mysteries in bed as the rain comes down in droves outside. I wear a beanie and a sweatshirt and mix up the batter for an apple cake in a pasta pot with a fork. It fills the little old house with the smell of cinnamon.
The world feels very heavy this week and we’re acutely aware of how much distance separates us from everything we love. We work through the homesickness with our sad girl playlists, walks to the moody ocean for coffee, vegetable market discoveries and lots of Nutella croissants (me) and Mexican pies (I don’t even know, but Topher loves them). Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
with love from the other side of the word,
Mikaela