Discovering the Importance of Taking It Slow on Slovenia’s Juliana Trail

Vili Črv, a former member of the Slovenian Olympic cross-country ski team and an occasional hiking guide in Slovenia’s Triglav National Park, apologizes for the dreary weather for the fifth time in an hour, as if it were something he could control. "If it were clear," he notes, "the Alps would be visible."

I inquire about the majestic snow-covered mountains nearby. They certainly catch my eye.

Črv dismisses my question. On a sunny day, I would easily recognize Mount Triglav, a symbol of national pride at a modest height of 9,396 feet, depicted on the flag. However, the sky remains overcast, and during my nine-day trek on the 167-mile Juliana Trail—a scenic loop through the park and the Julian Alps' foothills in northwestern Slovenia—I'm caught in the dampness of spring.

While I might feel disappointed like Črv, why should I? The low, blanket-like clouds create an inviting atmosphere that encourages me to focus on the details—the vibrant beech leaves against the muted sky, the bright reds and blues of a decorated wayside shrine. A moss-covered waterwheel spins more energetically in the rain, and I spot a yellow-spotted fire salamander, typically nocturnal, gazing at me from the forest floor. Best of all, I have the trail entirely to myself on this first day of my adventure.

The same goes for my arrival in Kranjska Gora that afternoon. In the off-season of April, this Alpine resort town filled with chalets, restaurants, and bars feels eerily deserted, reminiscent of the post-apocalyptic series The Last of Us. At Kosobrin, a cozy log-cabin eatery run by Miha Samotorčan, 27, and his mother Mojca, I find myself the sole diner. He seats me by the crackling fire and presents a charcuterie platter on a wooden board featuring his homemade cured sausages, mild cheese from a friend, dried figs, pear jam, and freeze-dried raspberries from last summer's harvest, complemented by a basket of fresh bread. He then serves me pork shoulder atop sautéed potatoes, insisting I also sample two desserts: a translucent cheese dumpling and strudel bursting with local blueberries. I'm more than happy to indulge.

Tranquil solitude is essential to the Juliana Trail, a route connecting 12 municipalities designed to address a growing issue. Slovenia, roughly the size of New Jersey and bordered by Croatia, Italy, Austria, and Hungary, has a complex history of shifting borders. Once part of the Habsburg empire and later the Austro-Hungarian empire, it was annexed by Italy post-World War I and became part of Yugoslavia after World War II. Gaining independence in 1991 and joining the European Union in 2004 led to a tourism boom, with arrivals more than doubling to over 5.5 million by 2017. The region’s climate varies from Alpine to Mediterranean, allowing for hiking, biking, and beach days all within a few hours. Slovenia is also one of the greenest countries in Europe, with 60% of its land covered by forests, a third of which is protected.

Launched in 2019, the Juliana Trail aims to distribute tourists more evenly, support rural economies, and preserve natural beauty. Its 16 stages (with four additional access points on the southern spur) offer hikers literary sites, local cuisine, and folk music, alongside Slovenian history and World War I remnants. Travelers can choose to backpack or send their luggage via the Julian Alps Booking Center, stay in campgrounds, inns, or luxurious hotels, and opt for self-catering or farm-to-table meals. "The goal is to immerse yourself in nature rather than just observe it from Mytour," explains Viljam Kvalić, director of Soča Valley Tourism. “[The trail is] about the experience, not merely conquering a peak or ticking off a destination; it's about the journey and all it entails.”

This last thought resonated with me. I'm the type of traveler who often pushes beyond limits—hiking in sweltering 100-degree heat, snorkeling in choppy waters, and battling fatigue to squeeze in one more museum visit. My instinct is to do 'everything,' even if it leaves me exhausted. I fear missing out, but that mindset is precisely what the Juliana Trail seeks to reshape. Hiking an average of 10 miles daily isn’t slacking, yet I can only cover so much ground. The Juliana Trail invites me to shift from a checklist mentality to savoring smaller, slower, and perhaps more spontaneous experiences.

The muddy aftermath of a late-season snowstorm has blocked stage 2, disrupting my plans for the following day. Instead, I hitch a ride with outfitter Kofler Sport for 14 miles to Jesenice, a former iron-mining town near the Austrian border that marks the beginning of stage 3. As I stroll through a series of villages, vibrant fields of dandelions surround me. Spring is in full bloom: Narcissus line the roads, while tulips and daffodils blossom in front gardens. A cuckoo calls, prompting me to check my pocket. According to local lore, if you hear the bird while carrying money in spring, you’ll have a prosperous year. I ponder if my credit card on my iPhone counts.

The trail meanders past the birthplaces of several notable Slovenian authors and musicians, now transformed into quaint museums. Language, literature, and folk music played vital roles in preserving Slovenian identity during years of foreign rule. I take a break to enjoy the lunch my hotel packed for me—ham and local cheese sandwiches, an apple, an orange, and a chocolate bar—sitting on a wooden bench beside a rustic statue resembling Pinocchio. Across the dirt path, an elderly man swings a scythe, cutting the early spring grass, pausing to wipe his blade every few strokes. When a cow moos loudly, he chuckles and turns to say something I can’t decipher. I smile back, unhurried, savoring the moment.

The next morning, the trail leads me through Radovljica, a town steeped in medieval history. The main square boasts 17th-century frescoes adorning pastel buildings, predominantly featuring Biblical themes. Religious imagery was also a common sight on the front panels of beehives, as Slovenians are believed to have pioneered modern beekeeping; these illustrated panels represent a long-standing folk art tradition. The oldest known example, displayed at the Museum of Apiculture across the square, depicts the Madonna and child, while others illustrate scenes of hunting and village life, including a man feeding his wife into a flour mill and a devil sharpening a woman’s tongue on a grindstone.

I purchase a few artisanal bonbons from the Radovljica chocolatier. One has a tarragon infusion, lending it a subtle hint of licorice; another is filled with a tangy-sweet mix of locally sourced goat cheese. I relish them while seated on a so-called 'bench of shame'—once a place for public humiliation of wrongdoers—feeling an unexpected gratitude for living in the 21st century.

My journey continues along the Sava River, where elderly folks chatting in their backyard lawn chairs greet me with friendly waves. Even the local wildlife seems welcoming: a trio of miniature horses rushes across a field, stopping to nuzzle my palm with their soft noses. Along the path, locals are busy turning over their garden plots and scattering seeds for the summer harvest. It's not just the wealthy who eat locally and seasonally here; fresh produce can be pricey, so many households maintain vegetable gardens (in 2020, nearly two-thirds of Slovenians reported having one). Slovenia boasts the world's highest concentration of beekeepers and the highest per capita rate of tractor ownership.

I arrive in the resort town of Bled, situated beside its stunning glacial lake. A church spire rises majestically from an island at the lake's center, while a fairy-tale castle from the 11th century clings to the cliffs overhead. It's breathtakingly beautiful. However, the six-mile walk from Radovljica felt easy, and it’s only three in the afternoon, triggering my inner overachiever: I can push on! I can rest later! Compulsively, I hike another three miles to Vintgar Gorge, a canyon shaped by the Radovna River. Like Bled, it can be crowded in summer, but today it’s relatively quiet. By the time I reach it, I'm exhausted, but the boardwalk winding along the gorge revitalizes me as I cross the river multiple times, passing waterfalls, stone cairns left by visitors, and an old railroad bridge. I hurry back to town, hoping to catch the last boat to the island. I arrive too late. Despite the day's wonders, I feel a twinge of regret.

The following morning, I embark on my journey to Lake Bohinj. At the conclusion of the 1-mile stage 6, the lake sparkles turquoise from Mytour and shifts to emerald as I approach. I find myself gasping in awe at nearly every turn and new viewpoint; the first part of its name, 'Boh,' indeed means 'God.' As evening falls, I reflect on the landscape from a tranquil dock in Stara Fužina, close to the eco-friendly Hotel Bohinj. It’s too chilly for swimming, so I choose to indulge in the hotel’s wellness spa, featuring saunas, a steam room, a salt wall room, and an outdoor whirlpool, interspersed with an ice fountain and multi-jet showers. Although I’m meant to remove my robe before entering the Turkish sauna, I hesitate, fearing the other guests might exclaim, “OMG! The American is undressed!” Ultimately, it all works out, and after an hour, I feel my shoulders relax and the tension in my calves dissipate. A man in a towel chuckles as he passes me in the corridor. “You are cooked!” he remarks, and it’s true.

Hiking around mountains rather than climbing them still involves altitude changes. On stage 10 of the trail, I’m accompanied by Jožko Dakskobler, a firefighter and mountaineer in his seventies. Despite his age, Dakskobler moves with the grace of a mountain goat. I realize there’s ‘being in good shape’ and then there’s Slovenian good shape—it appears that everyone here hikes, skis, kayaks, or climbs. The Juliana Trail isn’t technically difficult, but it does require a decent level of fitness.

Today, we are set to climb over 2,500 feet. Dakskobler inquires if I’d like to take a detour to the Sopota waterfall, which would extend our journey: Absolutely! We trek up a trail fragrant with wild chives, their lavender blooms surrounding us. Sweat drips down my face, but suddenly I’m enveloped in mist. I gaze at the water plunging 216 feet and spread my arms wide in pure joy.

“This,” Dakskobler exclaims, “is paradise number one!” He rummages through his backpack and produces two shot glasses along with a small, hand-labeled green bottle—his homemade slivovitz, a strong plum brandy. It’s customary, he explains, to enjoy a drink at the summit of a trail—“but just one,” he warns, “because you need to descend afterward.”

A few hours later, we reach “paradise number two,” a breathtaking viewpoint of the Soča Valley, with the river winding through it in a color reminiscent of a mermaid's tail, glimmering off the exposed bedrock. This region is known for its wine, nestled on the southern slopes of the mountain range as it approaches Italy; palm trees can even be spotted among the grapevines and red-roofed stone cottages. Once again, Dakskobler unveils the slivovitz—it seems that one drink applies at every elevation we conquer—and unpacks three varieties of salami (which he crafted himself), a container of cheese from a friend, and some hard rolls. We raise our glasses and savor the snacks. I spend the afternoon lounging on the riverside patio of the family-run Penzion Šterk, watching boaters drift by and soaking in the warmth of my slivovitz buzz.

It’s difficult to comprehend that the serene Soča Valley was once one of the bloodiest battlefields of World War I. In just two years, over 1.7 million lives were lost or altered in this 60-mile stretch. This grim history struck me profoundly on the seventh day of my journey, as I ventured onto a newly added segment of the trail. Stage 17 veers south from the original path, leading to an open-air museum atop Kolovrat Ridge. The Soča Valley unfolds nearly 3,700 feet beneath me, offering views of both the Julian Alps and the Italian border. I spend several hours exploring the trenches carved into the rocky terrain: spaces narrower than an airplane aisle, cramped and dark like animal burrows. I reflect on the countless young men who lived, fought, and perished here. The wind whistles strong and cold.

When I’m ready, a hired car transports me back down to the valley, dropping me midway through stage 13 near a turbulent stretch of the Soča River. Over the next seven miles, the untamed wilderness washes away my sorrow about humanity’s conflicts over power. I navigate boulders, slide along rock faces, and bounce across suspension bridges while the occasional kayaker navigates the rapids below. A few hours later, I find myself on the road to Bovec, where I will spend my final night. I catch sight of a waterfall gushing vigorously after the winter snowmelt and recent rains.

My room at the cozy Hotel Dobra Vila feels like it’s been transported from the Weimar Republic: a canopy bed, an ornate claw-foot tub, a vintage phone, and floor-to-ceiling casement windows adorned with red velvet curtains. Upon waking on my last morning, I find it raining steadily. As I slip into my waterproof pants and jacket, the desk clerk looks worried. “It’s not a good day for hiking,” he advises. The river rocks will be slippery, and storms are predicted. “But I’m here,” I respond. I’ve committed to a certain number of days and miles. I have a goal. Am I going to let a little rain stop me? He shakes his head in disbelief.

Uh-oh. Misguided lesson.

After a brief moment of indecision, I unzip my jacket. Throughout this journey, I’ve witnessed so much—nearly 90 miles traversed through centuries of history, across wild landscapes and quaint villages. I’ve experienced the breathtaking and the poignant, all while observing a season change. What if I embraced this as sufficient? Perhaps, instead of striving for more, it’s perfectly fine, even wonderful, to relax by the hotel’s library fire, gaze out at the mountains, and simply relish the view. And so I do just that.

To hear Peggy recount her experiences on the Juliana Trail, check out her podcast episode from the fourth season of Travel Tales: “A Walk on the Slovenian Side.”