This summer, my friend Marie and I went hiking in the Polish Beskids, just across the border from Czechia. It was supposed to be an easy afternoon hike. We planned to be back before dark.
Around sunset, we reached the peak of Magurka Wiślańska, where Marie's Czech map app promised a viewpoint. We found only a pole showing the elevation of over 1000m and a lot of trees. And the light was quickly fading into dusk.
Marie had a headlamp and the app. I had much less. We didn't want to spend another three hours going back the same way, so we took a shortcut through the forest – a path that existed on Marie's map, but apparently not in Poland. It was overgrown, and the plants kept getting thicker. There was still a little light, and part of me felt we could push through. But that feeling is exactly how people get into trouble – we've all heard stories of hikers who got lost in the forest and needed a search party to find them. And we had no signal to call one. So I called it, and we climbed back to the main trail. We chose the safer way. At least, that's what we thought.
From there we found another path, a straight one, about a kilometre long, cut along the edge of the mountain. Far below, at the end of the gap, we could see a sliver of light reflecting from Czerniańskie Lake, and maybe a few glimmers of lit cabins.
We started walking.
With the darkness came colder air. There was a half moon, but the mountains and pine trees rose above it, and the only light we saw was the sparkle of the stars. Our lamps showed a barely walkable trail, a few metres at a time. Nothing else. No light at all.
Then, in one brief moment, I fell through a swampy, mossy patch full of water. I started laughing softly, because I realized that with my wet foot, this adventure had just switched from Type I fun to Type II. But I like challenges. So why not walk with water inside your shoe?
And then the forest went quiet.
During the day, you hear birds singing. At night, the birds disappear. And that's when you find out that you might not be the only mammal in the forest.
Suddenly, we heard a spine-chilling scream.
Then another one. From the other side.
Screeches. Cries. Something answering something. It was two foxes, discussing their late-evening plans – and unfortunately, we were standing right between them. That night, I definitely learned what the fox says.
We kept descending through heavy bush, our lights barely reaching ahead, when we heard something else. A deep, croaking roar.
We stopped. We looked at each other. And we both thought the same thing: what are the chances of running into a wild boar here?
Another roar. Closer.
We didn't wait to find out. We switched to a brisk pace, then almost a jog, stumbling over roots we could barely see.
Only later did we learn that it was… a deer.
Eventually, the sounds faded behind us. And in total darkness, we noticed a line in front of us – a different shade of black. A gravel road. We were saved. We checked the map, turned off our lamps to save the batteries, and walked towards the village, laughing about the foxes.
And then, at the very last second, I noticed another shape. Another shade of black, right at the height of my waist.
A metal road barrier. Maybe twenty centimetres from my body.
We turned our lamps back on.