S4, E4: A Stroll Through Slovenia

In the fourth episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season four, writer Peggy Orenstein explores Slovenia as she embarks on a hike along the country’s newest mountain trail.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: Welcome to Travel Tales by Dinogo. Each episode features a traveler sharing a transformative journey. This season, I'm also engaging with each storyteller to discuss the profound questions that travel raises. While I won’t be face-to-face with them—I'm recording this from my houseboat in Sausalito—you get the idea.

This week, our journey is with Peggy Orenstein, a New York Times bestselling author, journalist, and speaker on gender topics. She has penned eight books, including her latest, Unraveling: What I Learned About Life While Shearing Sheep, Dyeing Wool, and Making the World’s Ugliest Sweater. Fantastic title! She’s also a contributing writer for Dinogo and has a true passion for hiking.

Last year, she approached us with excitement, saying, "Hey, I want to hike across Slovenia!" She had found the 167-mile Juliana Trail, designed to alleviate the influx of tourists in this beautiful European destination. "It's such a visionary and thoughtful idea," she remarked back then. As we were coming out of the pandemic, she sought to embrace the humility that comes from long-distance walking. Here’s what she discovered throughout her journey.

Aislyn: Peggy, welcome to Travel Tales.

Peggy Orenstein, author: Thank you! It's wonderful to be back.

Aislyn: I’d like to ask you a few questions about your recent trip before we dive into your story. You’re an avid hiker, and the Travel Tale you shared a few years ago was about your pilgrimage on the Kumano Kodo in Japan. What inspired you to take on the hike in Slovenia?

Peggy: I absolutely love hiking! It’s a fantastic way to explore a place. It resonates with both sides of my personality, which I’ll elaborate on shortly. On one hand, I have a bit of an adventurous streak that drives me to push my limits for happiness. Yet, I constantly find myself battling that impulse. For instance, during our trip to Vietnam, my family eventually protested, saying, "We’re not leaving the hotel! You can’t force us!" It was scorching outside, but I was still insisting, "We have to do this! We must take every chance while we’re here!" This tendency often pulls me in two directions.

Aislyn: There's a fascinating tension in your story between pushing your limits and staying present, adapting to challenges as they come. Has this dynamic stayed with you after six months?

Peggy: I always feel that tension. I'm open to any challenge, but I have to keep it in check. Fortunately, my husband is the opposite and helps ground me, saying things like, "That’s not safe," or, "You can’t do that one." This balance keeps me somewhat restrained. However, I believe hiking—especially the ones leading up to this trip—has profoundly shifted my perspective, allowing me to appreciate places on a deeper level.

There were moments when I was driving and skipping parts of the trail, where I’d gaze out the window and think, "Wow, the leaves are whizzing by!" If I were just driving, I would never take the time to notice the intricate shapes of the leaves or observe the trees and landscape so intimately.

One evening, I dined at a nice restaurant focused on local cuisine. I ran into friends from the trail who had little dishes wrapped in beech leaves, and it struck me—I had seen those leaves before. The plants and flowers they used, many of which I had walked past, made the experience feel truly special.

Aislyn: What do you think makes walking, especially over extended periods or distances, so meditative and potentially transformative?

Peggy: I believe it pulls us away from our modern mindset. When I hike properly, I disconnect entirely—no audiobooks, no social media, no phone calls. I might chat with people when I'm home, which isn’t ideal, but on a multi-day hike in a new location, I truly switch off.

Having that rare opportunity to be off the grid is wonderful. It connects me to humanity’s past; our ancestors walked everywhere, took the time to observe, and truly knew their surroundings. In Slovenia, with its rich World War I history and evolving empires, I thought about the locals who lived through it all, thriving in their valleys and glens, often unaware of distant events, yet preserving their culture in their homeland. Walking makes me feel deeply linked to that heritage.

Aislyn: Yes, the breadth of human experience.

Peggy: It may sound a bit strange, but it’s true, right? Walking allows you to traverse the paths that people have always taken, prompting you to reflect differently on travel and your connections to others. It encourages a new perspective on community. When you encounter people on your journey, it fosters deeper, more genuine interactions, making you present with them in a unique way, which I truly cherish.

Aislyn: Especially when you’re not distracted by anything, just being fully present opens up so many opportunities.

Peggy: In our modern world, it’s challenging to walk without multitasking. My first hike, which I wrote about for Dinogo, was on the Kumano Kodo. Initially, I considered bringing a pile of audiobooks, but once I arrived, I realized that would distract me from the experience. I decided then that I wanted to be fully present for every moment—every wonderful, tedious, or challenging aspect. It’s not all transcendence; you’ll get tired, feel sore legs, and experience discomfort. You need to embrace it all.

Peggy, on the trail: Just look at that beauty! Isn’t it stunning?

Vili Črv, on the trail: Choosing just five highlights is tough, but these are the top picks.

Peggy: For the fifth time this hour, Vili Črv, a former member of Slovenia’s Olympic cross-country ski team and occasional hiking guide in Triglav National Park, apologizes for the weather, as if he has any control over it. He says, “If it were clear, you’d see the Alps.”

“What about those?” I inquire, gesturing toward a range of snow-capped mountains that look majestic to me. Vili shakes his head, indicating those peaks are minor. On a sunny day, he explains, Mount Triglav, so cherished by locals that it’s on the national flag, would be visible. But today isn’t sunny; I’m navigating the Juliana Trail during a wet spring. This 167-mile loop encircles the park and traverses the foothills of the Julian Alps.

I could feel remorse about this, like Vili does, but why should I? The low, overcast sky creates a sense of closeness and warmth, compelling me to focus on what’s nearby—the beech leaves glowing against the gray horizon; the vibrant reds and blues of a painted shrine. A moss-covered waterwheel spins more swiftly in the dampness. A yellow-spotted fire salamander, usually nocturnal, glances up at me from the forest floor. Best of all, on the first day of my journey, Vili and I have the trail entirely to ourselves.

The same sense of solitude greets me in Kranjska Gora that afternoon after parting with Vili. In the off-peak month of April, this Alpine resort town, filled with chalets, restaurants, and bars, feels as deserted as the cities in the post-apocalyptic show The Last of Us. I’m the only customer at Kosobrin, a charming log-cabin restaurant and guesthouse, so Miha Samotorčan, the 27-year-old co-owner with his mother Moyca, becomes my personal chef.

He sets me up by the fireplace and serves a charcuterie platter on a wooden board. It features slices of his homemade cured sausages, a mild, sweet cheese crafted by a friend, along with dried figs, pear jam, and freeze-dried raspberries from last summer’s harvest, accompanied by a basket of freshly baked bread. He then presents a generous portion of pork shoulder over coarsely chopped sautéed potatoes. He insists that I sample two desserts: a cheese dumpling with delicate dough and strudel filled with locally sourced blueberries he froze last summer. After hiking a brisk eight miles, I’m thrilled to push my limits.

Peggy, on the trail: It's the first real day on the trail for me. I’m strolling through meadows with mountains draped in clouds above and passing through small towns. The fields are bursting with dandelions, which is quite charming. It makes me wonder, why do we try to get rid of them? They’re such delightful little flowers.

Peggy, voiceover: Quiet solitude is essential to the Juliana Trail. This initiative was conceived by twelve municipalities in response to a growing challenge. Slovenia, roughly the size of New Jersey, is bordered by Croatia, Italy, Austria, and Hungary. For a long time, it was a region of shifting borders. Slovenia was part of the Habsburg empire, then the Austro-Hungarian empire, annexed by Italy after World War I, and later incorporated into Yugoslavia after World War II. The country gained its independence for the first time in 1991 and became a member of the European Union in 2004.

By 2017, Slovenia welcomed over 5.5 million visitors annually. The allure is clear: this small region boasts a climate that ranges from Alpine to Mediterranean. In just a few hours, you can trek in the mountains, cycle through vineyards, and unwind on the beach. Additionally, Slovenia ranks among the greenest countries in Europe; 60 percent of its land is covered in forests, with a third designated as protected areas.

The Juliana Trail, launched in 2019, aims to disperse travelers, enhance local economies, and better safeguard natural treasures. Hikers traversing its 16 stages will discover literary landmarks, savor traditional dishes, and enjoy folk music, all while learning about Slovenian history and the remnants of World War I battles. Adventurers can opt to backpack or have their luggage forwarded via a booking service, stay in campgrounds, inns, or luxury hotels, and choose to either cook for themselves or indulge in farm-to-table dining.

I’m the type of traveler who feels compelled to push boundaries, always seeking to go a bit further or tackle something tougher—hiking in scorching 100-degree heat, snorkeling in rough waters, and driving myself to visit one more museum despite fatigue. My instinct is to do it all, even if it leaves me miserable. I worry, what if I don’t return? I want to avoid the sting of regret. Yet, that very mindset is what the Juliana Trail challenges. While hiking an average of 10 miles daily isn’t exactly slacking off, it limits the ground I can cover. The Juliana Trail encourages me to shift from a rushed itinerary focused on checking off boxes to truly savoring smaller, slower, and potentially more spontaneous experiences.

Peggy, on the trail: I suppose waking up before seven is standard here since the morning bell just rang. However, I was already up early. Yesterday, I took a wrong turn and missed the Church of St. Peter at the mountain's peak, so I thought, “I’ll go at six in the morning to climb up.” That seemed like a solid plan—until I reached halfway up and realized, “Uh oh.”

I struggled to navigate the trails. They twisted left and right, up and down. I thought, “This is how people end up lost in the wilderness, never to be found again.”

Peggy, voiceover: The muddy remnants of a late-season snowstorm have derailed my plans for the day. Thus, I catch a ride to Jesenice, a former iron-mining town near the Austrian border. As I stroll through a series of villages, the fields between them burst with dandelions. Spring is awakening: Narcissus flowers line the roads, while tulips and daffodils bloom in front-yard gardens. I hear a cuckoo call and instinctively reach for my pocket. According to local folklore, if you have money on you when you hear the first bird of spring, it promises a prosperous year ahead. I wonder if the credit card in my iPhone counts.

The trail meanders past the birthplaces of renowned Slovenian authors and musicians, their homes now transformed into quaint museums. Throughout the years of foreign rule, language, literature, and folk music were vital in preserving Slovenian identity. As a writer myself, I find this particularly inspiring.

I take a break to enjoy the lunch my hotel packed for me—sandwiches filled with local ham and cheese, accompanied by an apple, an orange, and a chocolate bar. I sit on a wooden bench beside a curious, roughly carved statue of Pinocchio. Across the dirt path are a barn and an old horse trough. An elderly man swings a scythe, clearing the early spring grass, pausing every few strokes to wipe his blade. When a cow moos loudly, the man chuckles and turns to say something to me, though I can’t understand him. I smile back, feeling no urgency, sharing the moment.

The following morning, the trail leads me through Radovljica, a medieval town complete with an actual moat. The main square features pastel-colored buildings adorned with seventeenth-century frescoes, primarily depicting biblical themes. Interestingly, these religious motifs were also commonly painted on the front panels of beehives.

Slovenians are believed to have pioneered modern beekeeping practices. The illustrated hive panels represent a longstanding form of folk art. The oldest known example, displayed at the Museum of Apiculture in the main square, features the Madonna and child. Other panels showcase hunting scenes and village life, including one depicting a man feeding his wife headfirst into a flour mill and another of a devil sharpening a woman’s tongue on a grindstone. Medieval Europeans: certainly not champions of feminism.

To regain my composure, I treat myself to some homemade bonbons from a chocolatier in Radovljica. One of them is infused with tarragon, lending it a subtle licorice flavor, while another features a sweet-tart filling of locally sourced goat cheese. I savor these delights on a ‘bench of shame’ across from the museum—once a place where wrongdoers were shackled and publicly ridiculed—feeling a deep appreciation for life in the 21st century.

My path follows the Sava River, where elderly locals chatting in their backyard lawn chairs greet me with friendly waves. Even the animals are welcoming: a trio of miniature horses gallops across a field, stopping to nuzzle my palm with their soft noses. Along the trail, people are tilling their garden plots, sowing seeds for the upcoming summer harvest. A couple plows a furrow with a horse while their two children play nearby.

In Slovenia, eating locally and seasonally is not a luxury reserved for the affluent—fresh produce can be pricey, making home vegetable gardens quite common. In 2020, nearly two-thirds of Slovenians reported having their own vegetable gardens. The country not only boasts the highest concentration of beekeepers globally but also the highest per capita rate of tractor ownership.

I arrive in the resort town of Bled, nestled by a stunning glacial lake of the same name. A church spire rises from an island at the lake's center, while a fairy-tale castle dating back to the 11th century clings to the cliffs above. The scene is incredibly picturesque. However, after an easy six-mile walk from Radovljica, and with only three o’clock on the clock, my inner overachiever kicks in: I feel I haven’t accomplished enough! I can go further! I can rest when I return home! So, I hike another three miles to Vintgar Gorge, a canyon carved by the Radovna River.

Like Bled, Vintgar Gorge is usually crowded during the summer, but today it only hosts a few visitors. By the time I arrive, I’m feeling fatigued, but the boardwalk path along the gorge revitalizes me. I cross the river several times, passing waterfalls, stone cairns left by other visitors, and an old stone railroad bridge. Then, I hurry back to town, hoping to still catch the last boat to the island in the center of the lake. Unfortunately, I arrive too late. Despite this being a wonderful day, I can’t help but feel a lingering sense of regret.

My worries fade—well, mostly—by the next morning as I lace up my boots and embark on a breathtaking, lesser-known section of the trail. Lake Bohinj, my upcoming destination, gleams with a turquoise hue from Mytour and transforms into a rich emerald as I approach. I find myself gasping at nearly every turn and new viewpoint; there's a reason the first syllable of its name, Boh, means "God." By evening, I relax on a tranquil dock in Stara Fužina. Although it’s too chilly for a swim, I indulge in my hotel’s “wellness spa,” which features saunas, a steam room, a salt wall room, and an outdoor whirlpool, complete with an ice fountain and invigorating multi-jet showers. Although I’m supposed to remove my robe before entering the Turkish sauna, I hesitate, fearing the other guests might exclaim, “OMG! The American is undressing!”

Of course, everything turns out fine, and after an hour of exploring all the spa facilities, my shoulders ease, and the tension in my calves dissipates. A man wrapped in a towel chuckles as he walks past me in the corridor. “You are cooked!” he jokes, and he's right.

Peggy, on the trail: I'm about to embark on day four of my journey. I had the most delightful night at the Bohinj Hotel, enjoyed a sauna, and savored a delicious dinner of local trout. I think I've finally got the hang of this! This morning, I woke up to a view of the lake from my window, with mist floating over the water, majestic mountains in the background, and lush green grass surrounding me. I can't wait to hit the trail again.

Peggy, voiceover: The next day, I feel drained in a different sense—both physically and mentally—but I can only blame myself for that.

You might be the type of person who is impeccably organized, never forgets a single thing. Perhaps you’re not the kind of person who, say, leaves your favorite leather jacket—the one you splurged on more than you ever thought you would for a piece of clothing—hanging on a hook in a bathroom at Heathrow before boarding a transatlantic flight. Or someone who misplaces their wallet in a taxi in Hiroshima, Japan, leading your friends to call every cab company in the city until they find it, safely sealed in a pristine plastic pouch.

You might not be the type of person who realizes, halfway through a nine-mile trek, that you forgot to zip up the pocket where your phone was. How fortunate for you! As for me, several miles past Lake Bohinj, I discover that my phone is missing. So, I turn around. For miles. My entire itinerary is on that phone, including my trail maps, the name and location of my next hotel, and my emergency contacts.

I make my way back to Bohinj, scanning the ground intently, then turning around to retrace my steps for a third time along this stretch of the trail. After a few more increasingly frantic miles, I encounter an elderly man working in his garden. He gestures and speaks to me in Slovenian, pointing down the road where a lady with a dog is waiting. I had passed her at least 45 minutes ago, and she has been waiting all this time. I almost weep with relief upon retrieving my precious phone. I thank her profusely, secure the phone in my pocket, and zip it up with exaggerated care.

As I continue my trek toward the town of Bohinjksa Bistrica, I reflect on the gift my absent-mindedness bestows upon me: a renewed faith in humanity. Whenever I lose something, a kind stranger nearly always returns it. For every frustrating moment caused by my forgetfulness, I have also experienced moments of grace.

Peggy, on the trail: There’s something truly remarkable about mountains—their vastness, their grandeur. I’ve stood atop many, gazing out over the Tetons and the surrounding national park. I’ve reached 12,000 feet on a mountain in Yunnan, China, taking in the snow and the sprawling world below.

I love reaching mountain summits, but there’s also something special about standing at the base and gazing up. Perhaps you can’t see what lies beyond. Maybe you’re uncertain about what’s on the other side, or maybe you’ll never know. Yet, imagining what’s hidden past that peak, and simply having those mountains watching over you, is profound. I understand why ancient cultures worshipped mountains and named them after gods.

Peggy, voiceover: Hiking through the foothills of mountains isn’t just about staying on flat ground. On the next segment of the trail, I’m accompanied by Jožko Dakskobler, a firefighter and seasoned mountaineer in his seventies. Despite his age, Jožko moves with the agility of a mountain goat. This trek serves as a reminder, once again, that there’s being in “good shape” and then there’s being in Slovenian good shape. The locals here are among the most active people globally—most engage in hiking, skiing, kayaking, or climbing. Many do a bit of everything. The Juliana Trail isn’t overly technical, but a good fitness level is essential.

Today, we aim to ascend almost 2,000 feet. Jožko asks if I’d like to take a side trip to the Sopota waterfall, which would extend our journey: Naturally, I agree. We make our way up a path fragrant with wild chives, their lavender blooms surrounding us. Sweat pours down my face until the mist envelops me. I catch sight of the water plunging down 200 feet and joyfully open my arms wide.

“This,” Jožko proclaims, “is paradise number one!” He reaches into his backpack, pulling out two shot glasses and a small green bottle. It’s a tradition, he explains, to have a drink at the trail’s peak—“but just one,” he warns, “because you’ll need to come back down.”

Suddenly, I notice the hand-written label reads slivovitz, a strong plum brandy that Jožko tells me he made himself. My father, who passed away seven months ago, experienced dementia in his final years: He would sometimes shout “Slivovitz!” followed by laughter. His father was from Eastern Europe, but I never understood the connection. Tears well up in my eyes. I clink my glass against Jožko’s and raise it to the sky, saying, “Hey, Dad!” and “Slivovitz!” before downing it.

A few hours later, we reach “paradise number two,” revealing a stunning panorama of the Soča Valley. The river winding through the valley shimmers in the exact hue of a mermaid’s tail, light reflecting off the submerged bedrock. This area is renowned for its wine, nestled on the southern side of the mountain range, moving towards Italy; occasionally, a palm tree peeks out among the grapevines and quaint red-roofed stone villages.

Jožko once more presents the slivovitz—it seems the one-drink rule applies at every elevation we reach—and reveals three varieties of salami, all made by him, along with a container of cheese from a friend and some hearty rolls. We enjoy our shots and savor the snacks. Afterward, we make our way down the slope, and I spend the afternoon unwinding on the riverside patio at the family-run Penzion Šterk, watching boaters glide by while relishing my slivovitz buzz.

It’s astonishing to think that the picturesque Soča Valley was once one of the most brutal battlefronts of World War I. Nearly 2 million individuals were wounded or lost their lives in this 60-mile stretch within just two years.

That grim history hits me hard on the eighth day of my journey as I hike a newly added spur to the trail. This route veers south of the original path, climbing to an open-air museum on Kolovrat Ridge. Below, the Soča Valley unfolds nearly 3,700 feet down, offering views of both the Julian Alps and the Italian border.

I spend a few hours wandering through the trenches that soldiers carved into the rocky terrain, spaces as cramped and dark as animal dens. I reflect on all the young men who lived, fought, and perished in this place. The wind blows fiercely and chillingly.

I press on to a swift-moving section of the Soča River. Over the next seven miles, the untamed beauty helps wash away my grief over humanity’s brutalities in the pursuit of power. I scramble over boulders, navigate slippery rock faces, and bounce across suspension bridges while kayakers occasionally race through the rapids below.

A few hours later, I find myself on the road to Bovec, where I’ll be spending my last night. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the Boka waterfall, surging powerfully after the winter snowmelt and recent rainfall.

Peggy, on the trail: This is where I face a real internal battle. It’s raining—not heavily, but it’s going to last all day. Here’s the moment where I can speak about being humble in the face of nature, yet I question how humble I am in confronting my own doubts. What if I decide not to hike in the rain and miss the highlight of my trip? Conversely, what if I opt out of hiking and enjoy a delightful day in the hotel’s charming 1930s library, reading and writing? Sigh. I’m truly at a loss about what to choose.

Peggy, voiceover: On my final morning, the rain is pouring steadily. As I slip into my waterproof pants and jacket, the hotel desk clerk looks worried. "It’s not an ideal day for hiking," he warns. The river rocks will be slippery, and there’s lightning predicted. "But I’m here," I reply. I’ve committed to a specific number of days and miles. Am I really going to let rain stop me? He shakes his head, and I realize I’ve lost sight of the lesson I should be learning.

After a moment of internal conflict, I decide to unzip my jacket. I’ve experienced so much on this journey, covering nearly 90 miles steeped in centuries of history, traversing through wild landscapes and quaint towns. I’ve witnessed both the magnificent and the tragic, and I’ve seen a season change. What if I were to embrace that as enough? Perhaps it’s not about pushing further; maybe it’s perfectly fine to relax by the hotel library fire, gaze out at the mountains, and simply enjoy the view. And that’s exactly what I choose to do.

Aislyn: That was Peggy Orenstein. We’ll provide a link to her Dinogo story about hiking the Kumano Kodo, along with her books, website, and social media profiles in the show notes. If you’re interested in the backstories of each episode, make sure to subscribe to our Behind the Mic email. We’ll include a link to that in the show notes as well.

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You’ve been listening to Travel Tales, brought to you by Dinogo Media. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

Everyone has their own travel story. What’s yours?

Peggy, on the trail: [Singing] Gloria, Gloria. I really got your number. Oh yes. Oh my, you can’t escape it. American pop music follows you everywhere you go.