Pope on a Rope Tow (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine January 2002

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Pope on a Rope Tow (Cont.)

In Poland, Pope John Paul II is everywhere—on plaques and posters, in sculptural simulacra, and as the namesake of the Szlak Papieski, aka the Papal Trail, a hiking and ski route that stretches for three miles in the spruce forests of the Chocholowksa Valley. I expected the official Papal Trail to ascend dramatically heavenward, but no dice. In fact, it moseys for most of its length along a creek that meanders through the valley. Trees are marked with the colors of the Vatican, yellow and white, and the trail is dotted with small crosses adorned with tired-looking Jesuses, shivering in the Carpathian wind.

We leave the Renault behind at a Tatra National Park kiosk and jump into a horse-drawn sleigh, the traditional method of accessing the Papal Trail if you're not hiking or skiing. As we plod along, snow starts falling in clumps. Soon it's as misty and atmospheric as a Zeppelin box set. Visibility is so low we can't even make out 6,165-foot Mount Rakon, another of the pope's old haunts. After a mile, our carriage reaches the Papal Trail; we get out and start to walk. Hikers pass us going the other way, and some are on downhill skis, which seems odd, given that the trail is nearly flat. One man trudges by alone. I ask where he's coming from and he replies, sullenly, "From up to down." I brace myself for an uphill rally, but the trail peters out at a makeshift shrine of candles and crosses. It's a bit of a letdown.

The day after, I say good-bye to Witold and decide to follow the pope's footsteps on my own. This means going deeper into the Tatras, to a "refuge," or inn, that lies on the banks of a small alpine lake called Morskie Oko, "Eye of the Sea." There are eight refuges in Tatra National Park, and they're open year-round. In summer they're often filled to capacity, but in winter the trans-Tatra trails get a lot of snow, leaving only the most hardy souls to trek in.

After an hour's drive east to the village of Lysa Polana, I park again and hoof the six-mile trail to Morskie Oko solo. The refuge looks a bit more rickety than I'd been led to expect. On my map there's a photo of a spiffier building perched beside emerald-green waters and surrounded by mountains, but today everything is uniformly white. I walk toward where I think the lake might be until I hear ice creaking beneath my feet. I'm on it.

I turn around and make my way back to the refuge. Downstairs, in a wood-paneled dining room, the proprietress brings out a photo album and shows me snapshots of a surprise visit the pope made in 1997. When she was a little girl, the future pope would visit Morskie Oko for one or two nights at a time during July and August, bringing youth groups to the mountains. She points to a picture of JP2 in '97, standing on the shore. He's wearing white robes and a matching windbreaker. "He remembered my parents," she says in halting English. "Nice man, very nice man."

After the sun sets, the bright white landscape turns to gray and then black. I'm served roast chicken and cabbage salad, which I eat alone in the dining room. There are three other people spending the night, but they are nowhere to be seen.

Outside, the "quiet of immeasurable distances" fills the crisp night air and the Tatras breathe with the solitude and wonderment that nourished the pope during campouts, ski trips, and kayaking adventures. It's my last night in Poland, so I take another walk atop the lake he's paddled across and delivered sermons beside. It's dark, but I can just make out a cross nailed up on a nearby tree—a reminder, I'm guessing, in case visitors become so distracted by the splendor that they forget about the nuts and bolts of the equation. I listen again for that inner echo of the voice of God, but hear only muffled voices, nothing more mystical than my three fellow refugees, out for a late-night smoke.

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