The Peaks of Shala: Part I
In which I search for Rose Wilder Lane's shadow in the Albanian Alps
When the sun rose over the blue, snow-crested mountains that are the southern-most slopes of the Dinaric Alps, it made, on the Scutari plain, a pattern of our shadows; shadows of our Albanian mountain guide, a twenty-something Dutch couple, an Austrian woman, and me, a 55-year-old American.
Today I will hike the 15-mile mountain pass from Valbona to Theth, following the same path Rose did 103 years ago and documented in her travelogue, The Peaks of Shala. That I am viewing the same mountains Rose Wilder Lane saw makes me excited, thrilled, over the moon, and concerned for my knees.
“There is no helicopter rescue in Albania,” Errand, our guide, warns the group. “Only donkey rescue. They plop you on the saddle.”
Errand is short and strong, with dark, cropped hair, his olive skin tanned from years in the outdoors. Errand loves to talk, loves Albania, and he’s a little bit bossy — in short, well-suited for work as a guide. At the thought of a tourist plopped on a donkey, he throws back his head and laughs. Then, remembering his job, freezes mid “ha.”
“But seriously, be careful and do what I say,” he says.
“Yes, of course,” the Dutch woman says. She tolerates Errand’s bossiness but has grown impatient of the lectures. She can afford indignation because she has the nimble legs of an Albanian mountain shepherd.
“I still don’t like those shoes,” Errand says. Not for the first time, he frowns at my Chaco sandals.
“These are real shoes,” I insist, with the lightest garnish of whine.
When Rose hiked this path, the Albanian Alps remained isolated from Western Europeans and Americans. The same tribal codes governed clans as they had for centuries, like the vestige of Hammurabi. These codes included extensive ethics for protecting women and the men traveling with them, which made Albania a unique travel destination for the adventurous female traveler.
In 2024, I didn’t need tribal codes for protection. I didn’t need a packtrain. I didn’t need an interpreter as most Albanians under 40, especially those who work in the tourist industry, speak English. Through the magic of a bus, a ferry across Lake Komani, and two car rides, I completed a journey in 24 hours a journey that took Rose weeks. The Valhone Pass has evolved from a remote adventure to a popular destination for outdoorsy types.
Still, I know my limits when it comes to wilderness; I sprang for a guided tour. The trip included all transportation, (delicious meals), and two nights in quaint guesthouses for $435. Donkey not included. (For fun, I looked up the price for a guided hike in Utah — one hike, no lodging. Food included a “cold, refreshing non-dairy treat.” The price? $225. Which explains why Albania has become a popular vacation spot.)
Even with a guide, a 15-mile hike over a mountain pass is a 15 mile-hike over a mountain pass. I knew from living in Montana and Utah that people overestimate themselves and fall off cliffs pretty regularly. Nature doesn’t so much as shrug. Nature can’t be sued. Nature feels zero remorse. You can’t exact revenge from nature. If we die in nature, we have to accept the consequences of leaving our perfectly nice homes.
The night before in our Valbona guesthouse, I had a minor meltdown, tossing and turning in my otherwise delightful room. Had I overestimated myself? I’d hiked a similar elevation gain and mileage before — but only twice, and over five years ago. Weathering a pandemic in Ohio had made me soft. I have asthma and menopause bones. After multiple surgeries, my knees are Willy Wonky; they live in a world of imagination. Pickleball with retired seniors twice a week isn’t exactly a fitness regime.
I didn’t really think I would die. I also didn’t want to get carried out by donkey.
I stepped out on the deck, which provided a stunning view of the Albanian Alps, which, unfortunately, reminded me of the book cover of Into Thin Air by John Krakauer, the story of the disastrous Everest expedition.
“I don’t think it will rain,” Errand kept saying. “But it might rain. I don’t know. But I don’t think it will rain. Did you bring raingear?”
Reader, what do you think?
The next morning, I strap on my Chacos; they will have to do. After breakfast, our group piles into an wheel-drive vehicle that rumbles and tumbles our group over a dry riverbead of white rocks, trimming three miles off the hike. I feel kinda guilty as we pass those who didn’t hire a guide, but my knees sing a sweet song of gratitude. The wind blew the clouds away last night, revealing a sturdy, bright sun.
I’m bouncing in a truck! Whee!
As we chuck around like shoes in a dryer, Errand asks us how old we are; in addition to being a little bit bossy, he’s a little bit nosy. I can’t help but feel targeted. Obviously, I am the oldest. Now we all know I am the oldest by 18 years.
At the trailhead, after his lecture about sticking close, Errand finds a best friend. Errand has many besties. It’s part of the guide experience I enjoy, he’s obviously known these people for years and they all possess a great affection for one another. They shake hands, smile and catch up. Albanians are like Southerners that way. There’s always time to ask, how’s your momma and them?
The man holds the reins of a small pack horse, the kind Rose would have hired over a century ago. The horse's expression tells me he’d rather not haul my American-sized body out.
“I’m tougher than I look,” I inform the horse.
The horse delivers a doleful look.
“You are a good group. We should be okay,” Errand says again, but now, in addition to wondering about my Chacos, he’s considering my age. He hands me a hiking pole to borrow and I’m smart enough to take it.
The pole will be useful, but even more critical to my success is the superpower I share with Laura Ingalls Wilder and her daughter, Rose Wilder Lane. This superpower grants me the ability to renovate old houses. Grants me the strength to move across the country to start over and over and over. Grants me the ability to tackle jobs for which I have little or no experience but figure out anyway.
Today, this superpower will get me over the mountain, the same way it got Rose over this same mountain.
If you read Rose’s journals and letters, she kvetches, moans, whines and cries. Ohhhhhh! Poor me! Ahhhhhh. I can’t go on another second. But if you glance over the story of her life, her sheer number of adventures will stun you. Her journal entries can be a bit much, but look at all she did.
I admire how Rose clearly suffered tremendous anxiety and depression but forged this incredible life anyway. In my first book, My Life as Laura Ingalls Wilder, I tell the story of how I retraced the pioneer journey of Laura Ingalls Wilder, leaning on my literary heroine’s bravery and strength to self-actualize.
Fifteen years later, I’m on a new mountain journey with her daughter, who had more than a small hand in crafting this literary heroine I’ve always admired. On this journey (sticking with the Jung analogy), I’m here to embrace my shadow self, the me who kvetches, moans, whines and cries, but travels to Albania to hike a mountain anyway.
Because Rose and I share this superpower:
WE ARE STUBBORN AF.
I look up the switchbacks and take the first step.
To be continued…
*If you recognize the first sentence of this post as an imitation from Rose’s travelogue, The Peaks of Shala, you get a Laura Ingalls Wilder SuperSuperDuperDuper Megafan Badge.”
You are not the only one who has quoted a LIW/RWL passage in her head to trick herself into bravery. That stubbornness will be something you admire in your golden years. Remember 50s are the FRESHMEN of old people!
See also: Swims with sharks in Belize.