I visited Turbacz (49°32'34.4"N 20°06'40.9"E / 49.542874, 20.111352) three times and, if memory serves me correctly, each time I climbed and descended using a different trail.
At the summit of Turbacz (1,310 m / 4,298 ft above sea level) — the highest peak of the Gorce Mountains in southern Poland — stood a fairly large mountain shelter (schronisko). Such shelters are an important part of Polish mountain culture, offering hikers food, accommodation, and refuge from the often unpredictable weather of the Carpathians.
During our hikes we frequently stopped at small shepherds’ huts known as bacówki. There we drank cold żętyca — a traditional whey-based drink made during the production of sheep’s cheese — and bought oscypek, the famous smoked sheep’s-milk cheese associated with the Polish highlanders (górale). For us, these were almost obligatory elements of any mountain excursion, along with conversations with the local people.
On one occasion, a highlander living in such a hut asked us where we had come from.
— From Warsaw, we replied.
— A few days ago there was an older lady here, also from Warsaw — perhaps you know her?
This was not the first time we encountered such a question. Some people had spent their entire lives in villages or small towns where nearly everyone knew one another by name and where, if they did not, asking a neighbour was enough. It was difficult for them to imagine the reality of a large city, where hundreds of thousands of people remain complete strangers to one another.
Turbacz is also connected in my memory with a dramatic story told to me by my aunt, an enthusiastic mountain hiker who explored the Beskid trails just as passionately as we did.
She happened to be on Turbacz on May 25, 1973.
The weather that day was particularly unpleasant. Thick fog limited visibility and many hikers decided to wait it out inside the mountain shelter.
My aunt was eating a meal in the shelter dining room when suddenly the door burst open and a local highlander woman ran in shouting that a plane had crashed! While passing near the crash site, she had heard the wounded pilot calling for help.
The aircraft turned out to be a Let L-200 Morava, a twin-engine medical aircraft transporting a sick child and the child’s mother to hospital.
A rescue operation began immediately. A helicopter attempted to land on Turbacz but was unable to do so because of the dense fog. As I remember the story, the injured were transported from the crash site by horse-drawn wagons to a nearby town — a reminder of how difficult rescue operations in the mountains could still be in those days.
Tragically, the woman did not survive the crash. The pilot suffered very serious injuries, while the child escaped the disaster with relatively minor harm.
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| At the memorial erected at the crash site |
Several years later, while descending Turbacz along one of the trails, I stopped at a small memorial erected at the crash site. It had been constructed from fragments of the wrecked aircraft itself.
I still remember that moment vividly. Standing in the middle of a peaceful forest, surrounded by silence and mountain scenery, it was difficult to believe that such a dramatic tragedy had once unfolded there.
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This entry is part of a broader collection of personal research and historical documentation across multiple blogs:
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