no story, just a hike
This isn’t really a story.
It’s a record. A quiet trace of a walk.
The hike begins in a remote part of the Beskydy Mountains — remote, at least, to me. Just beyond the Morávka reservoir. I had never been here before. I only found the place while planning the trip, scrolling through maps, letting curiosity lead. The area is threaded with roads and paths, and my exploring mind felt instantly at ease. It didn’t take long to choose.
A small parking lot behind the reservoir marks both the beginning and the end. We leave the car. We step into the hills.
For orientation, I drew a map — half-blind. If you decide to follow, take it only as inspiration. Not as instructions. Walk your own line. Choose another valley. Or another part of the Beskydy altogether.
We set off around 8:30 in the morning. The sun hangs low, and the hills stand too close together. It won’t reach the valley floor today. The grass is frozen. The road is slick, like a freshly cleaned ice rink. Cold bites at first, but the climb warms us quickly. And once the sun finally touches our backs, layers will come off.
The forests here are stitched together with roads. Sometimes it looks almost absurd — like forest crossroads, but without cars. Just choices. Left, right, up, down.
The first hills and the sunlight push our down jackets into our backpacks. For mid-December, it’s warm. Unusually so. That’s how recent winters have been. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I only know how it feels.
The forest is beautiful. Light filters through branches in thin, quiet beams. Where the trees thin out, hills appear — folded into one another, soft and distant.
The sun warms our faces, but it has little power over frozen puddles. So sometimes we help it with a hiking pole. The crack of breaking ice wakes something childish in both of us. I don’t know anyone who can walk past a frozen puddle without trying to break it.
Another intersection. Another decision.
And behind it, the steepest climb of the day. A slope so sharp I keep wondering how cars ever make it up here.
Somewhere around the magical line of one thousand meters above sea level, the forest changes. It feels older. Tougher. Shaped by wind, rain, snow. Less polite. More honest. I like it here.
The highest point of our walk is almost invisible — a quiet summit on the border between the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The sun is already sinking, stretching long shadows from the border stones. One of them stands just beyond Malý Polom, heavy with history and silence.
One of the most beautiful views waits until the descent. Past Malý Polom lies another modest hill, Čuboňov. Just behind it, we turn left and follow the blue trail downward. Through a narrow opening, the tips of Slovak mountains appear. A few steps into the forest, and by pure accident, we find a view untouched by anything else.
We stop. We watch.
Hills. Valleys. An inversion resting quietly below.
The descent into the Horní Lomná valley offers more small gifts. A cabin. A meadow. A scene so simple it feels unreal. Pure romance.
Mud is all that remains after logging along the road, but it doesn’t matter. Around the corner waits the local brewery. Beer. Food. Warmth.
Before crawling into bed and stretching tired legs out from under the duvet, there’s one necessary stop — the local general store. No night should end without something sweet.
Our accommodation is an unassuming house on the left side of the hill. Friendly faces. A view from the window onto the opposite slope. And a mattress so good it deserves a mention of its own. I sleep deeply. Completely.
Sunday.
Empty streets. Cold air. Fog. No sun. The road is slippery again. Horní Lomná is quiet — nothing hums, nothing calls. After a slow, generous breakfast, we head back into the hills. I’m looking forward to the fog. To what it will hide. To what it will reveal.
The climb back onto the ridge makes our backs sweat. Elevation comes easily here. Trails are soaked, heavy with mud. Snow is nowhere to be found. A few stubborn leaves still cling to bare branches.
Then — a surprise.
A rock. A viewpoint. A piece of stone rising out of the hillside as if it doesn’t belong there. Fog wraps most of it, but not all. On one side, dense forest disappears into white. On the other, valleys open and close as fog rolls slowly between them.
The final hill is gentle. A wide road runs along its spine, lined with trees like an old garden path. Order in the middle of wilderness. Halfway through, a piece of forest is missing. An absence you can feel.
Then the valley.
Asphalt. A river at our side. We finish the last of our snacks, just to shorten the walk. We talk. We laugh. We agree, again and again, how good it all was.
And all we really did was walk through the forest.
No crowds. No rush. Just snacks in our pockets, a bed waiting for us, and the simple plan to sleep — and walk back the next day.
