The raw sheep’s milk was warm. Under a family’s reassuring gaze, I drank their offering. As the milk’s warmth filled my hungry stomach, I no longer felt lost. Alas. Here, in the Prokletije Mountains, a warm glass of milk is the remedy for lifting a curse. --- We were completely lost. A state my travel companion vehemently denied; instead we were “en route to orientation.” Regardless of semantics, this was our third time walking through the meadow before us. The now-familiar expanse of tall needle grass laughed into the winds. “You were tricked”, it whispered. We were supposed to be on the Peaks of the Balkans, a 192-kilometer hiking trail established as a testimony of peace between Montenegro, Albania, and Kosovo. But a charming driver lured us away from the official trailhead with the false promise of a lovelier route: a shortcut through the Montenegrin portion of the Prokletije Mountains. “A mere 15-euro taxi ride”, he persuasively claimed. Musing over our ill-fated morning, the rationale for the name Prokletije – The Accursed – became amusingly apparent. These mountains curse those who dare trespass. While coming to this conclusion, we spotted a cement bunker perched on the far side of the meadow, partially hidden by young pine trees. The remnant of Balkanization stood abandoned, a forgotten witness of a century of conflict and a reminder of the ravages of war: of the Balkan, World, Cold, and Kosovo Wars. “Which one does this bunker belong to?” I question the now silent needle grass. Needing no more proof of an accursed borderland, we hastily left the meadow onto a route we hoped would intersect with the Peaks of the Balkans. --- Five hours into our hike, a sharp bark sounded off in the distance. A Šarplaninac, the guardian of the Balkan sheep, sang his warning. “Stay away”, the sheepdog threatened. As we cautiously moved forward, the mountain pass revealed a modest log cabin centered in a sloping pasture full of grazing sheep and a sole amber-brown mare. The Šarplaninac paced in front, eyeing us trespassers. Its ash-speckled coat glistened as the noontime sun peeked from the dissipating overcast. One by one a family of four emerged, each time startling the bouquet of dried Queen Anne’s lace hanging above their wooden door. First, a plump boy rushed out to try and calm the growling Šarplaninac. His sister quickly followed, bundled up in a bright pink jacket and matching knit hat. Then the parents emerged, sun-ripened from laboring so close to the sun. Their initial looks of surprise quickly transformed into a welcoming smile. “Zdravo!” I projected, exhausting the entirety of my Montenegrin vocabulary. “Hello!” The baba (father) responded, exhausting his one word of English. To relay our lost state, we frantically pulled out our frayed map. The baba’s eyes lit up. Apparently years had passed since he last examined one. He excitingly began to point out their story, using the map as a translator. He was Albanian, she Montenegrin. A decade prior they moved to this pasture to start a family. Arriving on horseback via the Peaks of the Balkans trail, this family defied Balkanization by building a home in an accursed borderland. Our new friends viewed this map differently from me. I saw the border drawn in red between Albania and Montenegro: a divisive line made absolute during the Balkan Wars. They saw a scattering of villages in the process of healing: a borderless borderland where family, friends, and memories live on after a bombing campaign only two decades before. The mëmë (mother) gently offered us a glass full of fresh sheep milk. It was warm and rich. I had never had warm milk before. As its warmth filled my body, I felt my worries lift. I even began to thank the taxi driver for bringing us to this moment. The shepherds’ trick to navigating these mountain passes was simple: keep your left shoulder to the mountainside. This will always lead you to the official Peaks of the Balkans. Reluctant to leave, we departed their pasture with light smiles full of gratitude. The once Accursed Mountains were now our guides, escorting us on our left side. No longer were we cursed trespassers, but blessed guests.