The Ghosts of Papusa Peak - A Winter Hike To Remember

January 31st, 2026. The Iezer–Papusa Massif was shrouded in a thick winter blanket, frost glinting on the rocks, snow crunching under newly acquired crampons, and the sky a cold, unfriendly grey. At the heart of this frozen world, Cristi Portan, a seasoned (non-profit) mountain guide, led a small group of hikers along the ridge of Iezer–Păpușa Massif, a lesser-known neighbour of the Făgăraș Mountains.

The group had come expecting a mildly challenging winter hike and breathtaking views, even if it was -10 °C. What they didn’t expect was the ridge itself to feel alive.

At first, it was subtle. A gust of wind carried what seemed like a voice across the snow. Items hung from backpacks disappeared and were considered dropped somewhere back down the track; items from people's pockets vanished, only to reappear hours later in unlikely spots along the trail. Alexandru, the group’s resident comedian, laughed nervously and tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, Cristi, is this your new idea of a prank? Hiding our gear in the fog?”

Cristi shook his head, carefully scanning the ridge. “I promise, it’s not me,” he said, but even he couldn’t explain the strange echoes and ghostly footsteps that seemed to follow them in the mist.

Andra, the brave one, was fearless and steady and had placed a hand on Georgiana’s shoulder. Georgiana was less sure of the situation. Eyes wide at the shapes that she thought had flitted through the drifting fog, shapes that vanished before anyone could confirm they were real. “Don’t worry,” Andra whispered. “We stick together; nothing will touch us.”

Irina, the accountant of the group, tried to occupy her mind by making mental tax calculations—an attempt to ignore the creeping unease. Meanwhile, Radu, always adventurous and curious, kept straying slightly from the path, peering into the mist, drawn toward the unknown.

The Crow, aka the group’s musician, broke the tension by singing old Romanian songs. His voice carried up the ridge, melancholy and haunting, like a Legionaries slow marching song, and yet it was strangely comforting. For some time, the fog seemed to pause and listen to him, the eerie silence broken only by his notes and the crunch of snow beneath boots.

But then the aura intensified. Hiking poles disappeared from the side of a hiker’s pack. Minutes later, they were found hanging from a branch, but off the trail, in a place no person could have placed them unnoticed. The sound of distant bells rang in the mist—but no sheep were nearby. The group froze, unsure whether to laugh or panic. Alexandru cracked another joke, trying to mask the fear, but even his voice was unsteady.

Cristi moved carefully ahead, guiding everyone along the icy ridge. Ana, his girlfriend and co-guide, walked close behind him, eyes sharp. She noticed the subtle shifts in the fog, the way the ridge seemed to breathe, almost watching their every step. “Cristi,” she murmured, “it’s not a joke. It’s… alive.”

By late afternoon, the fog began to thin, revealing the jagged peaks and icy expanses of Păpușa. The missing gloves, scarves, and poles were all recovered, mysteriously displaced along the trail. Radu was fascinated, inspecting footprints and snow patterns, while Georgiana and Irina exhaled in relief. Andra gave everyone a reassuring smile, and Alexandru muttered, “Okay… maybe I won’t tell anyone about this… or they will think me mad”

As they descended to the safety of Cabana Voina, the group was quiet, carrying a mixture of awe, unease, and disbelief. Cristi spoke softly, “The mountains have their own will. They test you, watch you… Sometimes they even play with you.” Ana nodded, eyes on the distant ridge, as if expecting it to move again.

And so, the hike ended, to be followed by a night of music and drinking games, and soon, people put the events out of their minds for now, but the story of that January day on Păpușa Ridge—the fog, the missing items, the ghostly echoes, and the mountain’s silent, watchful presence, remained with each of them. A reminder that even in the familiar Carpathians, ghostly spirits can make the mountains alive with mystery, and sometimes, the ridge is more than just rock and snow—it is a living legend.