When I look up at the snow-covered mountains above Bansko, at the sharp silhouettes of the Pirin range, it feels like looking straight into my own inner landscape. Up there, between stone and sky, there are not only peaks and trails – there are memories, fears, dreams, and that strange feeling that every step is also a step through life itself.

Two years ago, I stood on the summit of Vihren for the first time.
I was 62 years old. Now I am 64, and I am preparing to climb again.

2,914 meters above sea level.
2,914 meters may not sound like much, but for me – and for everything my body has been through – it is an enormous achievement.
It was not a heroic expedition in any alpine sense, no flag on the top, no triumphant pose. But for me, it was something bigger. It was proof that I still could. That my body carried me, that the will was still there, that the years had not closed all doors – they had only changed the locks.

Now, as summer approaches again, the thought has grown into something more.
Not just Vihren.
This time, I want to go further.
Across Koncheto Ridge.

Two days in the mountains. Two days where everyday life cannot reach me. Two days where every breath matters and every step must be taken with respect.

The Memory of Vihren

I remember exactly how it felt the first time I truly saw Vihren. Not as a distant silhouette from Bansko, but up close, when the trail began to rise and the forest slowly gave way to stone, wind, and a different kind of light. There is a moment in every hike when you leave safety behind – when cafés, roads, and well-trodden paths disappear – and you step into something that feels older than any map.

Vihren is not cruel.
But it is not kind either.
It simply is.
Massive, indifferent, eternal.

When I stood on the summit that day two years ago, the world suddenly became silent in a way that cannot be recreated anywhere else. Not silent like a room, but silent like space. The wind moved, clouds drifted past, yet inside me everything was still.

That was when I understood why people, throughout history, have been drawn to the mountains. Not for the view. Not for the photographs. But for that rare feeling of being exactly where you are supposed to be – and nowhere else.

The Dream of Koncheto

Koncheto Ridge is something entirely different from Vihren. Where Vihren stands proud and majestic, Koncheto is narrow, sharp, and demanding. A knife-edge of stone between two worlds. On one side, a drop. On the other – another drop.

The name literally means “the little horse’s back.” And anyone who has seen it understands why. A narrow spine of rock, sometimes no wider than a pair of boots, with a safety cable as your only companion when the wind rises.

This is not a place for those who want to impress.
It is a place for those who want to meet themselves.

For me, this journey is not about being brave. It is about being honest. About acknowledging fear, but not letting it rule. About feeling the pulse rise when the ground falls away beneath your feet – and still taking the next step.

The Preparation

The plan is simple, but demanding.

Day one: up toward Vihren again. The same mountain, but not the same journey. This time not only as a goal, but as a beginning.
A night at high altitude, under the open sky, where darkness falls quickly and the stars feel so close you almost believe you could reach up and touch them. A pause from the world below – and a deep breath before the next day.

Day two: an early start. Hiking toward Koncheto Ridge while the morning is still cool and the mountains are still asleep. That is when the trails are most honest – before the sun draws out both fatigue and courage.

It is not an expedition in the traditional sense. But it is far enough from the world of comfort to feel like a true adventure.

Why Now?

Many people ask: why do you put yourself through this? Why not settle for valleys, cafés, and gentle walks?

The answer is simple. Because the mountains remind me of who I am when everything around me grows quiet.

In everyday life, we carry so many roles. Producer. Partner. Citizen. Friend. Critic. Parent. Rebel. Visionary. Skeptic. We are a thousand versions of ourselves – often at the same time.

But on a narrow trail, where every step must be deliberate, all of that disappears. What remains is just a human being who breathes, balances, and moves forward.

That is where I find myself again.

The Night on the Mountain

I can already see the evening coming. The sun slowly sinking behind the jagged peaks of Pirin. Shadows stretching like long fingers across the fields of stone. The air growing colder, cleaner, almost crisp.

In the mountains, even water tastes different.

It is then, when the world shrinks to a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a small stove, that thoughts begin to move freely. Not in panic, not in stress – but in long, slow arcs.

Maybe I think about the years that have passed. Maybe about all the times I changed direction in life. Maybe about how strange it is that one can feel more at home on a rocky slope than in certain rooms full of people.

The Morning Toward Koncheto

There is nothing more beautiful than a mountain morning. When the sun has not yet warmed the air. When the world is blue, grey, and silver. When sounds are few and clear – the wind, the footsteps, the breath.

And then, suddenly: Koncheto.

Not as something dramatic that explodes into view. But as a line. A thought in the landscape. A challenge that does not shout, but whispers: are you ready?

That is where the real journey begins.

Because on Koncheto, you do not move on autopilot. Every meter is a decision. Every handhold a trust. In yourself. In your equipment. In life.

Fear as a Companion

I am not afraid of heights in the sense that I freeze. But I have respect. And respect may be the most underrated force in the mountains.

Fear is not the enemy here. Fear is the guide. It says: slow down. Breathe. Feel. Look where you place your foot.

Anyone who feels no fear on Koncheto has not understood where they are.

And maybe that is why I want to go there. Because in a world where so much has become abstract – politics, economy, technology, identity – fear on a mountain ridge is concrete. It can be understood. It can be faced.

When the World Becomes Small

There is a moment, somewhere in the middle of Koncheto, when you stop thinking about how far you have left and how far you have come. When time ceases to be linear and becomes circular.

Then there is only the present.

No notifications. No deadlines. No headlines. Just stone beneath your boots and sky above your head.

In that moment, I know the whole journey is worth it. Whether I feel strong or tired. Brave or uncertain.

Back Down

When it is all over, when the trail widens again and the world slowly returns, that strange feeling comes. A mix of relief and melancholy.

Relief at being whole.
Melancholy at leaving something that felt so true.

But I also know the mountains do not disappear. They remain. Vihren. Koncheto. Pirin.

And every time I look up from Bansko, I will know: up there, I have walked. Up there, I have been more than anything else – just human.

A Promise to Myself

This summer is not about performance. It is about presence. About giving myself two days where life is allowed to be as simple as it was always meant to be.

Walk. Breathe. Rest. Walk again.

And when I once more stand down in the valley, with the mountains behind me and everyday life ahead, I will carry something that cannot be seen in photographs.
Not a merit.
Not a victory.
But a certainty.

That movement is my language.
That direction is my choice.
That life does not wait – and neither do I.

I walk. And I wait for no one.