Photos: HPD Papuk Virovitica
Written in Croatian by Danijel, translation by Adrian

Still worn out from the Tara and the long drive to Durmitor, we picked Savin Kuk as a gentle introduction to the hiking ahead. The ski resort at the base shares its name with the peak. We decided to take the cable car up—and when the hikers climbing below called up to tease us about it, we just waved and enjoyed the ride :-).

The thrill only grew as we crossed the scree and made our way up the ridge to the Savin Kuk peak. The views were magnificent. The snow caught us off guard—there was far more of it than we expected, enough that some in the group happily abandoned the trail altogether just to get photos in it. High above us, a chamois picked its way along the rocks, indifferent to all of us below.

Just below the summit, someone pointed out a rock formation that bore an uncanny resemblance to an Alien from SciFi movie!. The peak of Savin Kuk rewarded us with generous space and panoramic views—most strikingly over Crno Jezero. I’ve always found descents more taxing than climbs, and the loose scree here proved especially unforgiving. Nearing the bottom, I took a spill and wrenched my forearm; not long after, a cramp seized my calf. Riding the cable car back down, I felt a perverse gratitude that one-way tickets weren’t sold—we’d wanted to save money, but my body was glad for the ride.

We set out from Moticka Gaj just after 6:30, heading for Sedlo pass—the gateway to Bobotov Kuk. A bitter, insistent wind met us there, pulling at our jackets and stinging any exposed skin. I layered up quickly and began the climb. The wind was a constant companion, but it couldn’t steal the grandeur unfolding around us: sharp peaks, deep valleys, skies that felt newly washed. We veered off toward Zeleni vir, a detour that rewarded us with water so clear and green it looked painted. On the return, we paused again at its edge. I waded in just far enough to feel the 13°C shock seize my calves; Matej and Marko plunged fully under, surfacing with shouts that echoed off the stone.

The trail turned sharply upward after the lake. A sheer rock face required a set of fixed cables to ascend; the hardware felt solid in our hands, the granite beneath our feet reassuringly firm. We then squeezed through a narrow gap where a massive snowdrift met an overhanging boulder, crawling through a cold, blue-lit tunnel. Near the summit, a group of descending hikers waved us back, warning that the path ahead was buried under unstable cornice snow. Their caution was punctuated by a rock that suddenly clattered down the slope just meters away—a timely reminder to finally strap on our helmets. We pressed on, skirting the treacherous snowfield by picking a lower line across a steep, mud-slicked incline.

The wet rocks that followed were the most nerve-wracking stretch of the entire trip for me—more than anything I had worried about in the planning. The fixed cables came as a relief, and from there, the way to the top felt manageable. The summit was narrower than Savin Kuk’s, so after photos, we moved on. The sun had done us a favor by then, drying out the steepest section enough to make the descent from the very top less treacherous. On the way back down toward Zeleni vir, Rajka’s group had a close call: someone above had dislodged a rock, and all they could do was stand and watch it bounce down the slope. Our return route deposited us on the road 2.5 km past where we had left the vehicles.

We came upon a chamois lying in the scant shade of a stunted pine, so heat-dazed it barely lifted its head as we passed. We were only twenty meters from the road, already relaxing into the thought of the van, when Patrik’s knee gave way with a sickening twist. He couldn’t walk, so I jogged back for the vehicle. When I returned, Krešo and Marko had already left in the other car. Marko had all the keys to the houses. There was nothing to do but wait, so we sat on a low stone wall while Zdenka laid out a nail file and buffer on her knee. I never knew a manicure set could be such essential hiking gear.

After Bobotov Kuk, we were ready for something easier—a lap around Crno Jezero and a barbecue. Boots stayed behind; we set out in our regular sneakers. The lake path looks flat enough on a map, but the ground had other ideas, and not everyone stayed upright. That’s just how it goes.

A few of us had already walked around the lake on the first day, coming down from Savin Kuk—I was among them. So after a swim in Crno Jezero (a very welcome 22°C), a small group of us continued on to Zmijinje Jezero. It won’t win any beauty contests against Crno Jezero, and you can’t swim in it, but there’s something worth seeing: the tall conifers pressing in close around it, and a color that runs noticeably lighter than the lake we’d just left.

The moment Monika called out “Let’s go for a walk!” We knew better than to take that lightly. Sure enough, she clocked our arrival at the lake against the posted sign—40 minutes, done in 30—and immediately set a new target: back in 25. We ran.

Monika stepped on a pine cone with a sickening crunch, her ankle rolling violently beneath her. She caught herself against a tree, breathing through the pain, and somehow kept walking. Not five minutes later, Mirta declared, “We’re not going into the mud,” just as her white sneaker slid out from under her. She landed hard, one hand plunging wrist-deep into the black peat. We didn’t make it back in twenty-five minutes; we spent ten of them at the lake’s edge while Mirta scrubbed thick, clinging mud from her shoes and socks with a handful of reeds. By the time we got back, my watch showed 10 km and over 200 meters of elevation gain—all in sneakers. The lack of sleep from the previous night’s barbecue and stories didn’t help.

After a day of “rest,” we took the shortest route to Prutaš, starting from Šarban. We had briefly entertained the idea of descending toward Škrčke jezera on the way back—something we were quietly glad to have abandoned. Of all the Durmitor peaks we’d climbed so far, Prutaš offered the most rewarding views. The trail opens early with a striking look back toward Sedlena greda, and by the time you reach the top, that view has only grown.

The Šarene pasove are worth pausing for—the massif folds and tilts in every direction as it climbs. The final approach to Prutaš runs along a ridge that opens into a broad meadow, and if anything, it looks even better on the way back down. The summit itself is grassy and unhurried, the kind of top you can actually spread out on. The Škrčke jezera aren’t visible from there without committing to a real descent in their direction—which most of us skipped, heading straight up. Krešo, Marko, and Matej took the longer way around, got their swim in, and made the most of the view, particularly of the smaller lake. The fun wore off quickly enough once they hit the climb back out: steep going, loose grass, soft dirt underfoot.

Other hikers had warned us that the Todorov Do route was just as steep. We chose it anyway—a shortcut that promised to spit us out on the road just 700 meters from the van. But the trail soon dissolved into the mountainside. Dragomir broke off, compass in hand, heading straight for the vehicles. The rest of us stuck with the blue line on Leon’s phone. It led us to a steep, grassy slope where no path had ever been.

At the same moment, Dragomir appeared above us on a cliff face about ten meters up—and somehow picked his way down to where we stood. We descended to the road together, relieved. It was there that we came across the sheep, and Snežana, still not over Leon’s app, looked at them and said: “Sheep and a horse.” Later we found out that Krešo, Marko, and Matej had come down the same way—Marko’s own “discovery,” apparently. Krešo mentioned, with some satisfaction, that he had introduced Marko’s helmet to his hiking pole for leading them onto that slope after an already brutal climb. The lesson: don’t trust your navigation app in Durmitor without question. It may route you past livestock or earn you a tap on the head from a very tired friend.