Poenari Citadel, or Cetatea Poenari in Romanian, is the epitome of creepy. It’s not that it’s October and nearing Halloween either. This is the actual castle of Vlad the Impaler, known in his time as Castle Arges. Here’s the link, be sure to turn on translate. https://muzeul-judetean-arges.ro/ It dominates the spires of rock where plants no longer have soil to grow, surrounded by thick forest it seems to float on top of. The walls change the angle of slanting natural stone to vertical man-made masonry. It’s surrounded by mountains that are almost sheer on three sides. The remaining side connects to the ridge and allows for passage up. And I mean up. There’s fourteen hundred and eighty steps that lead up to it but, I think whoever did that count missed some or lost count. I couldn’t count over the sound of gasping for air or my ready-to-burst heart. Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s closed. We drive by and they’ve buttoned everything up, a sign for the restoration on the gates of the six-foot fence. Concertina wire scrolled along the top winks at me in the afternoon sun. There’s an old mill turned hotel at the roadside where you would normally get tickets. The river bubbles along an alternative course that’s all about hydroelectric power now, off it’s original course, reduced to a trickle running by the old grist mill. The innkeeper (and the silent police officer beside him) informs me it is closed and there is no way up and I try to decide if the cop has the look of someone who’s tossed a “criminal” or two in the gulag.
I walk out discouraged, looking up at the narrow passage from ridge to castle. What is that!? Someone walks across. I see his white shirt and dark pants from the road. My heart beats a little faster. We walk back by the gate, look at the sign, and think about what to do next. Do Not Enter is Nu introduceți just in case you were wondering, or planning on breaking the law. It’s best to know these things.
I spy a trail by the nearby cabin-for-rent place that may be part of the hotel. It’s all fenced off. I take it. The hill is steep and covered with fallen leaves that aren’t dry enough to crunch, but whisper against each other like a hand across a bedsheet. On the hillside from above the roof of each cabin, looks like monopoly board pieces. There’s an electric fence. I look it over. It can’t be on. If it was, it would ground out wherever it touched the trees and leaves. I spot multiple places along its track the insulators are missing or leaves stick to it or it’s wrapped around a tree.
I take precautions anyway. Others have obviously used this place to cross the wire. It’s bent and sagging where they’ve pulled and pushed enough to pass between. I use a stick to push the bottom chord down. I squat and get one leg over and follow it with the other. Keeping my backpack away from the top wire. I hold it for Ashley to follow. She’s an accessory now.
There is construction, but no one is around. They’re rebuilding the staircase, no doubt adding more stairs to the steep rise. The concrete is green (new) but not freshly poured. We take the stairs as quickly as we can and see no one. I don’t hear voices whispered or otherwise besides the leaves against my feet. I’m sweating, wondering when we will run into the hiker I know I saw. We never do.
The gate is unlocked and opens smoothly on greased barrel hinges. There’s more steps to the single walkway across the narrow strip of ridge to the castle proper. Floors are being rebuilt, walls are being reinforced with concrete and some walkways are only partial. There are cameras in place, but they don’t look in use. No wires or antennae come out of their dusty cases. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The view looks out from Mount Cetatea over the Arges river and miles beyond. It had fallen to partial ruin, and Vlad had it rebuilt by his now enslaved enemies after he seized power. Diabolical isn’t it? The nobility of the Danubian Principalities of both Wallachia and Moldova used the same hands that opposed him to rebuild it for him in his own design from the stones of the old citadel there.
We make our way through it from one end to the other before walking back across the narrow walkway. Back at the stairs leading to the narrow walkway, I see something I hadn’t on the way up. There’s two partially naked bodies sprawled across one of the partially built observation decks. I stop breathing.
Now, I retired from a job where I’ve seen a lot of death. My Engineer told me once it was something the guys knew me for. Not seeing dead people, no. Finding them. I grew accustomed to it, it didn’t surprise me anymore. Obviously, it still doesn’t. Probably never will. Had to explain, so you understand my reaction and thought process instead of just thinking I was just another sicko.
Imagine that, I think to myself. I come all this way and sneak in here and I find someone dead. It takes less than a second to realize they’ve been impaled, and only the blink of an eye longer to see they’re mannequins. So what do I do? I turn to Ashley and say “Oh no! Oh no! Do you see that?!” In my most urgent and whispered voice. She looks over my shoulder and sucks in air fast enough to squeak. Her hand goes instinctively to her throat and I can hear her heart beat thrumming in her chest. She grabs my shoulder, her mouth a little round “O”.
I have to let her off the hook. Her eyes are wide as saucers and won’t let me keep going. It’s scary enough doing what we’re doing. “Relax, it’s okay, they’re mannequins,” I tell her with my most charming smile, and she gives me a little slap in the shoulder. “Michael!” She whispers between clenched teeth. Invoking my full name, the only time she uses it is cases like this. We cross the narrow path at the bottom of the stairs and close the gate on our way out.
There’s no one on the way down. The woods are quiet. My toes ram into the tips of my shoes. Going downhill is quickwork. We set foot back to pavement and head to the car. The giggles hit when the doors close. My first breath comes out in a whoosh and I can’t stop laughing. I back out of the parking spot through waves of maniacal tears. We stop at a bridge over the Arges for more photos and catch our adrenaline breath before we continue.
The car may hate it, but, the Transfăgărăşan (yeah, that’s a mouthful) is a paved, winding highway cut into the canyon walls of the Arges all the way to the top of the Făgăraș Mountains. The car’s engine is gasping out the story of “The Little Engine that Could” alongside a reservoir and over small tributaries. Clouds cover snow-dotted slopes above the treeline. We take photos along the way between tunnels and snow slide sheds. It’s one of the most beautiful drives I’ve been on outside the Rockies. We’re close to the top, just a matter of a few meters, or feet, if you prefer, into another tunnel. Water runs down the naked stone and across the road. I have to turn my lights on. It’s long. The bright dot grows in front of us before we squirt out the other side.
My chin hits my chest. I’m flabbergasted. We popped out of the mountain into a little village along both sides of the road. A crystal clear lake sits on each side of the road just behind the shops lining it. A tram with the tallest towers I’ve ever seen for one rides the slack cables down the mountain just as steep as the other side we came from. Big steel doors guard the entrance to the tunnel, avalanche breakers dot the chutes that would cause a problem with the snow. I park and we walk through booths selling things they’ve made. Meats hang from hooks and cheeses line cases that don’t need power for refrigeration. It’s cold.
I come to one of the first booths. The woman there smiles and in Broken English asks if I’d like to try some. She points to meats and cheeses. She also has breads of different types and I can see in her smile the pride in what she makes. I say “of course!” She tells me what they are as I try them. Bear. Goat. Wild Boar. Cheese. I buy a few of them, shake her hand and thank her with a few extra Leu. We walk back to the car, looking out at the steep drop. It zig-zags more than a zipper, turns fold back on each other to handle the descent.
“I ate bear on top of a mountain!” I say. I’m pretty jazzed about the entire experience. Ashley looks at me like I’m some kind of animal. “This place is a pop-up book you can touch.” I tell her before I rip another piece of bear off the hunk I’m carrying. “What’s not to love about Romania?”
