It’s 2am. I’m looking down a dark alley to where I think our hostel should be. The gate’s locked and no one’s answering. We rattle the gate and ring the intercom again. 

Eventually a light comes on, casting long shadows down the alley. I hear shouting. A glass smashes. I can smell cigarettes. A couple emerge from the gloom, bickering in Slovak. There’s a brief squabble as they fight to unlock the gate.  She exits scene. The man watches her go, puts his cigarette out and gestures for us to follow. Welcome to Slovensko a sticker beams in the window. 

Eastern Europe hadn’t changed. Driving into Kocise it reminded me of Russia; cold, dark and grey. It’s always grey there; the sky, the buildings, the mood. As if someone turned the saturation down.

We wouldn’t be in the city long though. We were here to climb a mountain range that forms a natural divide between Slovakia and Poland. The highest in the Carpathian Mountains, the Tatras.

A day of uneventful travel brought us to the hut after dark. Chata pri zelenom plese was set in a knife wedge of a valley beset on all sides by intimidating peaks. It looked fantastic.

Everything was hard climbing that valley. The rock embodied the spirit of the people, cold and uncompromising. We tried climbing several routes graded Tatra II/III, equivalent Scottish IV, but were spat out on trim conditions. It had been a lean winter. The warthogs wouldn’t stick and the lack of ice made climbing slabs unpleasant. There were rusty pitons and tat everywhere. Bailing didn’t seem uncommon.

Sat outside the hut one night, I shot the mountains under a full moon. I’ve always enjoyed night-time photography. The necessity for long exposures gives one time to think. 

I was joined by Peter, a Polish climber with a pony tail who came and sat by me to look up at the great face of Kežmarský štít. Headlights of returning parties flashed on the German ladder. A diagonal ramp slashed across the mountain’s face like a leering smile. We smoked a cigarette, admiring the mountain as it cast long shadows across the valley.

Peter asked me why I had come. Why not I countered? He missed my Mallory reference. I flipped the question. 

He had come to train for the Greater Ranges. A trip which he planned to climb solo above 7000m. He continued to explain how this valley and others in the area were fantastic places to prepare for high altitude expeditions. Many of the finest Slovak climbers come here. The 900m high face of Kežmarský štít more than a challenge.

We continued to talk a while. The moon rose higher, and the shadows grew longer. As the noise from the hut ebbed, I went to find the warden inspired by Peter’s advice. Would should I climb?

In all honesty, I can’t remember the hut warden’s name. Let’s call him Tomáš. 

I found Tomáš pouring over maps in the kitchen. The sleeves of his grubby shirt rolled up to reveal his hairy wrists. 

Tomáš recommended a route up a snowfield in the Cervana Dolina. Onto a ridge towards Bells Vera, an aggressive looking piece of rock that cut into the valley from the north. From here, one should then continue over Zmrzla Vera, and onto summit of Kolovy Stit, 2418m he advised. 

“5 hours” he said tapping the map.”UIAA grade III.”

The next day started well. My partner Tom and I made quick progress up the snowfield unroped. The conditions were good, and views incredible. Butterflies found us on the thermals. All around, the mountains were crowned in cloud. There were high winds. One minute we were enveloped in cloud, the next glorious blue skies roared over us.

We continued higher, winding the rope around exposed flakes as we moved together. The odd cam placed here and there. We made good time to the ridge where the climbing became more serious. Tom led first and the next several pitches.  The block lead allowed him to stay sharp. 

The climb was harder than expected. Technically not beyond us, but the exposure and risk factor were high. Sharp drops, poor protection, and a thick layer of powder slowed our progress.

The hardest pitch came after three hours. A 20ft vertical slab barred our way. Now, I’m not an elegant climber by any means, but I do get up stuff. I favour the Don Whillans approach. With legs akimbo I hacked, chopped and swore my way up; searching for the key to unlock this pitch.

With a single nut as my safety I needed something else. Bracing my head against the rock, with one arm searching my harness for protection my resting axe blew. You don’t have time to figure out what happened when you’re falling, but luckily this was a short one. My wedged axe had torn through grit beneath the snow.

Unbelievably, my axe leash arrested my fall.

With the excitement over I scrambled to the top and brought Tom up. We swung leads, but progress was slow and our decision to pitch rather than move together decided we would not finish the route that day.

The sun was low when Tom appeared on the final belay. His cheeks flushed and eyes weary. 

It was 16:30.  We weighed up our options. The light was fading, and the temperature had dropped sharply.  We’d had enough. Sound the retreat. Tom started prepping the abseil. 

Now, I’ve abseiled many times before, but not into the unknown like that. Not knowing whether we’d find another useable ab point. We had one 60m rope with us. I went first. 

Every abseil was a nightmare. The rope frustratingly short a few metres each time. I had to untie the end knots, pass the rope through the prussik, re-tie and then jam that in the belay plate. The rope stretch gave me just enough length to reach the next station.

On the third abseil I dropped my belay plate *face palm.* I was starting to sweat by this point. Tom and I were both keen to get down. I took the next abseil on an Italian hitch. Unbelievably, thirty metres down I saw a wire poking through the snow. It was old red, my belay plate! Great Scott. Good luck at last!

We decided to down climb after that. The snow felt good. Tom went to explore a gulley to our left whilst I retrieved the rope. We went down a further two hundred metres before one final abseil took us over a steep face and into the safety of the couloir below 

It was a big learning experience getting off that ridge. Tom and I worked well as a team. Strange how I’d met this fella Friday, but we’d had more memorable experiences than with some friends.

Swirling these thoughts in my beer glass that night I felt a tug at my arm. I turned to find two Czech girls staring at me. 

“Have you heard?” They asked.

“Heard what?”

“Slovakia have closed airports and border with Czechia”

“Really, why?”

Apparently, something called Corona virus was getting people excited. This sounded serious. I checked my phone. Return flight cancelled. Shit.

Over dinner, Tom and I discussed what to do. It was surreal to hear countries locking down. Was this it? Was this is the end of the world? We decided to flee.

It felt like the ‘last days of Saigon’ as we frantically packed the next morning. Food, gas, anything disposable was tossed aside. 

We legged it down the trail towards freedom. Others hut members frantically skied, in what looked like a laughable Bond scene. 

At the bottom of the trail we gathered under an open shelter whilst transport was fetched. Everyone was on their phones. 

Crammed into two jeeps we drove towards Krakow, our only way out. It was feared that should Poland close its border, then Hungry would quickly follow leaving us stranded. I looked out the window as we drove through forests of pine, the Tatras fading in the rear view mirror. 

We were rather disappointed with the scene at the border. We had imagined surly guards with machine guns trained on the waiting cars. There were however, three polite police officers in masks who asked if we were ill, had been and of our intended destination? No? We were waved through. 

Landing in Stansted, the UK seemed blissfully unaware of what was taking place on the continent. I passed through security reflecting on just how close I’d come to being an honorary East European for the summer.