Mountain of Stories

Jan Vondrák, 8/22

I run out of my city—it's Friday afternoon, and everything around is so peaceful. Raindrops hit the hot, dry road, and each one seems to hiss softly as it touches the ground. The summer rain merges into a continuous pssssst, as if saying: please relax, don't think about anything right now.

I run through an old neighborhood built about a hundred years ago by wealthy, mostly German factory owners, heading toward the forest just a few hundred meters ahead. Subtle details reveal how the current tenants live here today. A clothesline with freshly washed laundry hanging in a former parlor hints that the new owners lead a somewhat different life than the industrialists at the turn of the twentieth century. The faded plaster is a quiet reminder that the days when Liberec was one of Europe's wealthiest cities are long gone. I feel a mix of sadness and fascination looking at the armless or headless statues decorating some of the villas that haven't yet had the "good fortune" of being turned into offices. And maybe I like these houses best of all—because they haven't been given that merciful coat of generic apricot paint just yet.

 As I look around, I stumble on the cobblestones and nearly crash onto the wet granite. Just around the bend, an elephant trumpets. Even though it sounds completely surreal, I know everything is fine. My mind isn't playing tricks on me from exhaustion—that sound simply announces that I'm by the zoo and finally approaching the forest. I pass Lidové sady and start heading uphill. Well, heading up the hill, or rather the mountain, because today I'm running up Žulový vrch—the first peak of the Jizera Mountains.

 "Žulák" is a legend. Anyone who runs even a little in Liberec knows what it is. The first metaphorical step into the Jizera Mountains shows no mercy to the untrained, and it can thoroughly punish those who are. Scrambling to its top by the transmitter is no walk in the park. Yet, as tough as this mountain may seem, it hides just as many stories, tales, and mysterious spots.

 The forest below the peak is part of a large suburban park where even today, a hundred years later, people still go for a spaziergang—a stroll along the promenade. The ladies might no longer wear layered skirts, and the gentlemen might not wear fine frock coats, but the place still works its magic. On Sundays, the forest is full of people in tracksuits, and during mushroom season, it's packed with grandmothers crawling on their knees, carefully picking pine needles off king boletes and placing them with a smile into their hand-crocheted mesh bags.

 I leap over the stone gutters draining water off the sandy paths like a mountain goat, but the steep climb is taking its toll. Raindrops aren't just falling on my head and shoulders anymore; they're landing on my tongue, hanging out somewhere far ahead of me. I pass the junction to Liberecká výšina and keep following the red trail.

Liberecká výšina was built in 1901 by the prominent textile magnate Heinrich Liebieg. Fascinated by Romanticism, this entrepreneur and patron of the arts had a restaurant with a lookout tower constructed to resemble a watchtower in Nuremberg. To achieve the desired historic effect, weathered stone and aged roofing tiles from demolished Nuremberg houses were used in its construction.

 About a kilometer further, I reach the Sentinel Beech (Strážní buk). The sky is starting to clear up a bit, and my watch buzzes with some data that I couldn't care less about right now. The massive beech tree owes its name to the soldiers who used to guard this spot during exercises at a nearby shooting range to ensure no one got hurt. Its huge, leafy canopy spreads above me like a vast green sky. Before the first snow falls in the Jizera Mountains, the beech trees will cover all the paths and trails in a layer of golden leaves. This time of year is a wonderful preparation for the upcoming wade through deep snowdrifts among the rocks. However, beneath that smooth layer of leaves, the paths hide many traps, making this season the time I get injured most often. Watch your step.

 The dark, cloudy sky is slowly clearing, and here and there a sunbeam pierces through the dense green canopy of the surrounding trees, which blur into a continuous green streak in my runner's high. My legs are moving, and I'm finding my rhythm. The red trail markers are a bit misleading here; it should really be a black trail at this point, I think to myself as I tackle a steep incline that forces me to slow down again. After about two hundred meters, the rocky path leads to a place known for its somber past. The wind whipping against the surrounding rocks tells the sad stories of two unsolved murders that took place here independently of each other. Both crimes remain unsolved, shrouded in mystery to this day. I pay my respects to Löwi, who was shot, and to the nurse Soňa Kučerová, who was stabbed, feeling the usual chill run down my spine as I recall these two cut-short lives.

 I run up to the junction where the red trail meets the easier path to Česká chalupa, turning left onto the gravel. The weather has turned nice. As I step off the main path onto a forest trail, I'm glad I went out today. Following the path where pinkish boulders of the legendary Rudolfov granite stick out, I pass the quarry through a birch grove toward the transmitter. The freshly showered forest smells of a thousand scents. Every now and then, my foot slips on the wet rocks among the tall birches and spruces. Their branches periodically refresh me with a cold shower, snapping me out of my runner's daydream.

 Rudolfov granite is a world-famous product quarried at the foot of Žulový vrch since time immemorial. After all, it gave the mountain its name (Granite Peak). At first, it was mined in small quarries that are now slowly overgrown like healing scars, disappearing into the green jungle just below the summit. Today, granite is quarried in a large pit; the fresh scar carved into the mixed forest above Horská Street can be seen from afar. The stone from here was used not only to build the Liberec Town Hall, but also in much more distant places. We walk on Rudolfov granite outside the National Theatre in Prague, in metro stations, and it even left its mark on the Letná Stalin monument, where it was used for the pedestal.

My shoes are completely soaked from the mountain grass, but the low afternoon sun is already shining between the clouds, working its magic through the water drops on the grass. Steam rises from the forest floor, promising a rich mushroom harvest ahead. The voices of day-trippers from the lower part of the hill have died down, and I'm up here all alone. Tracks of running shoes from those who were here before me are visible in the mud, and I ask myself how many stories this mountain hides. Some remain captured as silent traces in the forest landscape—in the form of overgrown stone walls covered in moss, sad wooden crosses, or deep, steep pits. Others have faded into oblivion, along with their people, lost in the dense mists of the past.

Winter runs up here are tough. Shins scraped raw by the icy crust of the snow, and sometimes sinking in up to your thighs—it feels more like military training than a proper run. But now it's September, and those experiences will have to wait a few more months. I symbolically touch the granite marker at the peak and immediately start descending down a steep clearing. At the bottom, the clearing meets the path to the Rudolfov Dam. Together with the Bedřichov Dam, it tames the wild peat waters of the Black Nisa river, turning their force into electricity. Both dams were built over a hundred years ago to protect Liberec from flash floods that often ravaged the city and nearby villages. Since then, both stone beauties have merged seamlessly into the landscape. The upper dam in particular is a unique place, reminiscent of lakes much further north, deep in the Swedish forests. A romantic spot where the atmosphere changes as quickly as the weather on the Jizera ridges.

I'm not running back up today; I turn left and descend through a young spruce forest. The path has turned into a rocky trail again, and I love it. For a moment, I forget all about my wobbly ankles. Step by step, I pick up speed, hopping from rock to rock on the stony path. But this reaction game has strict rules: your eyes read the stones many meters ahead so your brain gets enough information, making sure your feet land exactly where there's no risk of twisting an ankle.

After a few hundred meters, out of breath, I reach the top of the quarry—a spot known as Miller's Cross (Mlynářův kříž). The cross was erected in memory of Antonín Jäger, a miller from Rudolfov who died at this spot in 1864. There are many such crosses in the Jizera Mountains. They tell stories of joy and sorrow, of gratitude and grief. Right next to the cross, there used to be a small spring. Sadly, it can no longer be found. The nearby quarry affects the groundwater levels, and many of the springs where you used to be able to refresh yourself while running are losing their flow or disappearing altogether.

Following the connecting path, I continue for about half a kilometer to the edge of the quarry. The cliff of the quarried rock offers a beautiful view not only of Liberec, but also of the Ještěd ridge and the nearby Lusatian Mountains. The huge blocks of excavated stone are fascinating, as is all the heavy machinery used for mining. Week after week, the stone blocks are slowly moved around the site between small steel shelters used to protect the blasters during detonations. At the edge of the quarry, there's a clearing with a fire pit—a great spot for a date or just for sleeping under the stars with one of the best views around Liberec.

I take the trail back to the yellow-marked path by Miller's Cross. Following the singletrack, which is very technical again, I head toward Jezdec. Tree roots intertwined with rocks can be a nasty trap for tired legs—and for the crazy mountain bikers who use these wild trails to pump adrenaline into their veins with death in their eyes.

"Jezdec" (The Rider) is what they call a rock formation with carved steps, the remnant of a small medieval outpost. It stood here to guard the trade route from Liberec to Frýdlant. Legend has it that a highwayman named Black Jíra hid here. Jíra was no good guy; according to the tale, he was in cahoots with a witch who lived near a nearby rock called The Anvil (Kovadlina). The bandits met their fate when they kidnapped the beautiful daughter of the Lord of Hamrštejn and held her at the outpost. The enraged Hamrštejns came for the maiden and slaughtered the bandits. Only Jíra managed to escape on horseback by jumping from one of the castle rocks down into the valley of the wild Black Nisa river. Whether he jumped straight into the clutches of hell or actually made his escape, nobody knows.

What is certain is that Jezdec offers a stunning view of the roaring valley, which used to be an important trade route and, later on, thanks to the energy of the river's amber waters, a major hub for the textile industry. Aside from a few old chimneys and dilapidated factory owners' villas that have lost all their past glory to time, not much remains in the valley that was once crisscrossed by power canals. It's as if everything has gone quiet here, with the river and time reclaiming what undeniably belonged to nature in the first place.

Below Jezdec, however, one last survivor remains, making sure no one forgets what happened here over a hundred years ago. A small weir with a millrace gushes water for most of the year, acting like an artificial waterfall—another lovely stop on today's run. From spring to autumn, I can't resist taking a dip here. Water falls from a height of four meters onto my overheated head, and I recall my grandmother's story about a boy on a bicycle who leaped into a pond on a hot summer's day out of breath, and his heart burst. Every grandmother has a story like that which definitely happened—just like the one about Jíra—but it still brings a smirk to my face. I slide down the slippery boulder into the deep pool one last time, get dressed, and push on.

My route follows a paved road called Horská for a few hundred meters before I branch off onto a discreet trail. The path climbs steeply onto a small ridge. At the top, I turn left and throw myself into the final descent. The beech forest turns into pine, and suddenly I feel like I'm somewhere above Lake Mácha. I weave through a mesh of smaller trails, passing tiny ponds created by flooded old quarries. Within a few minutes, the path widens, and I find myself back on the threshold of the city.

On my right, I pass the recently renovated Forest Pool (Lesní koupaliště), running the last few meters along the Jizerský Brook. The city park works brilliantly. On warm evenings, dozens of small campfires fill the air with smoke, reminding you just how unique our city is. I've run about ten kilometers, I'm back at Lidové sady, and I'm just happy to live here. I hate it when people talk about Liberec as a "city of sports." There's something much better here: there's this granite mountain, and another hundred behind it, all telling stories of what used to be—and maybe what's yet to come. You just have to listen carefully.