Passing rusted billboards permeated by bullet holes, we reach Gola Plješevica’s peak at 1649m, astounded by its austerity, revered by the sweeping earth below. Ribbons of clouds float against a pale sky and all is quiet except for the wind and our panting breath. We have the mountain to ourselves. It was the first day of December. The warmth of autumn dwindled as the Croatian winter crept in. Thanks to our unlikely hitched sunset ride, my travel companion, Davis, and I found ourselves at the family-owned Falling Lakes Hostel in the intimate village of Korenica. They were surprised to see two high-spirited backpackers so late in the year, particularly on their last night for the season. “Oh you mean Gola Plješevica?”, responded a hostel owner to my reference of the snow-capped peak observed en route. It was thereafter decided: they would stay open an extra night for us to hike the mountain the following day. From behind the village’s only Chinese restaurant, Kun Lun, the 18km trek, situated in northern Croatia’s Dinaric Alps, began with a road. A long road. We followed the flat trail for 5km until our first checkpoint: the ‘red shed’. As if we were expected, amidst a gathering of cats, a scruffy, enthusiastic border collie bounced over. This same warm-spirited creature, we later discovered to be a friend of the hostel they named Manjey, guided us up the mountain. A small red sign indicated the official beginning of the 3 - 4 hour climb. We meandered through low lying shrub, up an increasingly steep, stony path to a glorious forest covered in snow. Devoid of suitable footwear for such a terrain, I slipped. Incessantly. Between episodes of struggling lungs and speaking in random accents, “daarrrrrrrrling”, we approached the ‘old road’. Sunlight dappled through the forest as its leaves rendered the wind tangible. Over, around, up. We continued painfully ascending through the blanket of snow before an opening appeared from within the trees. Up, up. Amidst a celebratory biscuit ceremony for three by a cluster of looming red and white radio towers, shedding their ice disturbingly close, our radically plummeting body temperatures and stationary soaking feet were our cues to continue. Note: the mountain sits right on the border between Croatia and Bosnia/Herzegovina. The Bosnian/Herzegovinian side still possesses active land mines from the Yugoslavian war. So if we’d walked as little as 20m in the wrong direction … Boom. Bang. Dead. Framed within a melancholic mass of frozen shrubbery, around the bend was an unexpected tunnel venturing into the cliff face. Another world awaited inside. My subsequent research revealed that this mountain hid within its bowels the former Željava Air Base. Beginning in 1948, it required two decades and approximately $6 billion to complete, becoming Europe’s largest and most expensive military project. Was it worth it? War relics littered the brutally beautiful summit, from derelict checkpoints to eerie abandoned military barracks. We had to peak inside. Crumbled hallways, shattered living quarters, remnants of kitchens, sofas, grim mattresses in squalid rooms. Then down the void of 1, 2 … 7, 8 flights of stairs to an icicle-adorned cave. To enter the tunnel’s enigmatic darkness or the luminescent opening from the cliff face? The latter called. We slid down a steep descent to a profound rock formation up which Manjey leapt effortlessly. We climbed cautiously, too, reaching the top. And how significantly insignificant I felt. In the midst of such a vast natural landscape, clarity filled my vessel, my spirit. We sat smiling in silence, absorbing each fragment of detail. Croatia lay before us. Bosnia/Herzegovina behind. The sun, however, would soon set and we’d been warned about wolves. Dusk illuminated the forest, softly glittering, as we descended at a pace. I imagined the wind carrying whispers of fallen warriors, of souls lost in the abandoned labyrinth. Rocks still clenched in our palms, we’d safely returned to the dirt road, with the only four-legged presence being the ever-animated border collie. With the physical and visceral toll of nine hours on the mountain and the glimpses into another era, spectacular and abstract, our uncanny adventure reached an end. The day’s light had receded. Manjey remained loyally by our side.