Part 10 - A Surreal Survival Story Along the Abandoned Forest Railway
In this blog and ongoing series, you can follow Abandoned Nordic's urbex road trip as we journey from Finland to France along an extended route. The trip will take about a month, and along the way, various things unfold. We pass through Slovakia quickly, as I’m eager to get to Hungary.
The most photogenic part of the railway—one of those rare photos I took in the morning that turned out decent
Our journey across Europe is going smoothly, with the only downside being the July heat and the relentless, scorching sun. We’ll pass through Slovakia in a single day since we only have a few places on our list - nothing special, just some fairly mediocre urbex spots. But my thoughts are already ahead of me, in Hungary.
A few months ago, in May, I visited Hungary with my friend Kata for some urbex adventures. It was sunny the entire time, and a couple of picturesque spots left me feeling slightly unsatisfied. This time, I’ve planned a more flexible route, ensuring we reach these locations either at sunrise or sunset, when even on the clearest days, the light will be perfect for photography.
One of the places I’m especially looking forward to is the forest railway. We’ll visit it together around sunset, but I also plan to return alone the next morning at sunrise. Little do I know that this early morning trip will turn out to be the most intense and strange experience of the entire journey.
Kata walks along the abandoned railway in May 2024
Deep within the Börzsöny Mountains of Hungary lies Csarna-völgy, also known as Black Valley - a hidden gem where time seems to slow, allowing nature to weave its quiet magic. This secluded valley cradles Csarna Creek, a small, unassuming stream that whispers gently through the dense forest. Yet beneath its calm surface lies a fierce power; in 1999, a devastating flood surged through the valley, washing away the narrow-gauge railway that once hugged its banks. The tracks were never restored, and over the years, nature reclaimed what was always hers.
Today, moss and fallen leaves blanket the rusted rails, blending them seamlessly into the untouched wilderness. Trees arch overhead like silent guardians, their roots entwined with the remnants of the old railway, holding stories within their twisted forms. The tracks vanish into the undergrowth, leading hikers into a realm where the boundary between past and present blurs - a place suspended in time, where echoes of creaking train wheels and distant voices seem to linger in the mist.
Built between 1913 and 1919, the railway was once a vital artery, carrying timber through the heart of the forest. It was one of many such railroads scattered across Börzsöny, some still operational, others abandoned and fading into memory. But none are as hauntingly beautiful as the one in Csarna-völgy. The forest here feels ancient, untouched, with towering trees casting dappled shadows over moss-covered tracks and crumbling wooden bridges.
Hiking through Csarna-völgy is like stepping into a forgotten world. The ruins of the railway, untouched by vandalism, stand as silent monuments to a bygone era, slowly dissolving into the landscape. The forest embraces these relics, blurring the line between what was built and what has always been.
In Csarna-völgy, nature and history exist side by side, tangled together like the vines creeping over forgotten rails. It’s a place where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, where every step along the mossy tracks feels like walking through the pages of an ancient, living story - a story written not in words, but in rust, stone, and the quiet, persistent breath of the forest.
We manage to get the last hotel room in a small village near the railway. It turns out there’s a vintage car event happening the next day, and people have arrived early - every accommodation in the village is fully booked. We get the last available room: no air conditioning, no private bathroom - but that’s fine; we didn’t come here to spend time in a hotel anyway.
We drive to the railway, about fifteen kilometers from the hotel. The last five kilometers are in terrible condition - 5 km/h is the absolute top speed. There’s a fragile old bridge and countless deep potholes along the way. But finally, we park the car and head deeper into the forest. Soon, we find ourselves walking along the tracks. Nature here, reclaiming the railway, is stunning - especially now as the sun begins to set and the light softens, casting a golden hue over everything.
The tracks follow a small creek, weaving from its right bank to the left. Occasionally, the deteriorating rails and thick vegetation force us to cross the creek, hopping from stone to stone, laughing at the small stumbles along the way. It feels like an adventure, unfolding in an enchanting, beautiful setting. I’m already looking forward to the morning when I can return here alone, to photograph in peace, with nothing but the quiet rustle of the forest around me.
The night at the hotel is stifling. Sleep comes in restless waves. I wake up sometime before four, the sky still cloaked in darkness. I get dressed, grab my gear, and slip out into the cool morning air, eager to return to that quiet, forgotten place where time seems to stand still.
It’s still dim when I park the car. I grab my gear from the trunk and start walking toward the spot where the railway begins. Soon, my phone loses signal - something I already knew from previous visits. Out here, there’s no reception.
I’ve walked only about 200 meters down the forest path, flanked by dense thickets, when I hear a sound to my left, just a couple of meters away within the brush. The sound is terrifying. It’s a deep, rough growl, resonating from what is clearly a large chest. The sound feels heavy, almost steaming in my mind’s eye. I can’t see anything through the dense vegetation, but in an instant, my mind races through three possibilities: a massive dog, a wild boar, or a bear - and none of them are reassuring.
I freeze, as if hitting an invisible wall. A cold, clammy sweat washes over me, my stomach twists, and my legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly. Slowly, very slowly, I start to back away, trying to recall everything I’ve ever heard about encountering wild animals. I don’t remember ever being this scared.
After slowly retreating about a hundred meters, I start to think. The animal clearly heard or saw me. It was probably sleeping in the thicket, and I managed to get closer than I ever would have under normal circumstances.
When you’re alone in the forest, you tend to move quietly, which likely increases the chances of unexpected encounters with wildlife. There probably aren’t many people around here at this hour, so the animals are used to roaming freely in the dim light. I reason that by now, it’s probably already far away.
Shaking, I consider my options. If it had been a dog - at least a mastiff or something even larger - it probably would’ve come toward me, even though I had startled it. For some reason, I find it hard to believe it was a bear. It would take either exceptionally good - or rather, bad - luck to run into one.
So, I estimate there’s about an 80% chance it was a wild boar. Wild boars are dangerous, especially if they have piglets and you accidentally get between them and the mother. But I reason that by July, there probably aren’t any piglets small enough to pose that kind of risk anymore.
I make the decision to try again, mostly because I have my tripod with me - a tool I’ve mentally relied on for self-defense before. I’ve never actually had to use it, but I’ve been acutely aware of its presence on more than one occasion.
If the animal attacks, I plan to keep the tripod between us, using it to hold the animal at a distance. I extend the legs, gripping it firmly, and set out again - worried, but determined to push forward.
As I move forward, I can’t help but think how incredibly foolish I am - defying such a clear warning. But then again, I woke up so early for this, and we’re only in the area for this morning, so there won’t be another opportunity. That thought pushes me on, despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.
I imagine a large animal charging at me, knocking me to the ground, tearing at my throat - in a forest where there’s not even a phone signal. But I make peace with my own mortality and keep slowly going.
I pass the spot where I heard the growl, and now it’s completely silent. This gives me a bit of confidence, and I continue forward. As I walk, I stomp my feet and nervously hum - just loud enough for any nearby animals to hear me. I trust that no animal truly wants to harm a human, and as long as they hear me coming, they’ll move away. Maybe they’ll even find the melodies I hum reassuring, a sign that I’m not a threat.
Soon, I reach the railway and take out my camera. I continue walking, pausing occasionally to take photos. I move deliberately slowly, giving any animals in the area time to retreat. The narrow creek runs alongside me, with relatively steep slopes rising on both sides. I imagine the animal moving away from me along the creek bed, though I hear nothing.
I remain extremely nervous, and later, when reviewing the photos, it’s painfully clear. The shots are terrible - hundreds of them, most blurry or poorly composed. Nothing but my anxiety can explain it.
Then suddenly, about 30 meters ahead, I see a wild boar. It’s big. I freeze in place, and it stares directly at me. Despite the shock, I feel a strange sense of relief - it’s not a bear, thank goodness! And it doesn’t seem to have piglets. Great!
But then, something rustles to my left, and I turn my head. I see a fallen tree trunk - and I also see wild boar piglets, one after another, their little striped bodies and tiny hooves hopping over the log. They’re close to me, much closer than their mother, who is still fixated on me.
A wave of panic and self-reproach hits me hard. How did I end up in this situation when the boar had already warned me earlier? Am I completely insane or just plain stupid? Of course, there would still be young piglets in July - I can’t believe I convinced myself otherwise.
Those five piglets bounce toward their mother, not even glancing in my direction. The sow remains calm, watching me for a moment longer. Then, once the little ones have gathered around her, the whole group slowly disappears into the dense vegetation ahead of me, fading into the forest as if they were never there.
I reason that since the sow saw me and clearly recognized that I wasn’t a threat to her offspring, she now understands what she’s dealing with. Having made it through two encounters unscathed, I figure I might as well keep going. And so, I do.
I walk with all my senses on high alert, still moving slowly, still humming softly. The dim light of dawn has faded; it’s past six o’clock. I continue taking photos as I go, convinced I’m capturing some good shots - though, in reality, I’m not. I’ve covered about five kilometers from the car and start to think it might be time to turn back, not wanting to push my luck any further. I decide to continue for another half kilometer to a small cabin where I’ve seen a few abandoned rail carts on the tracks before - a good spot to turn around.
Suddenly, a sound. A strange one - sporadic clattering noises, something like metal striking stone, but oddly irregular. At first, I reason it might be some loose metal creaking in the wind, maybe around the cabin that’s now nearby, so I keep walking. But the sound continues, and I’m clearly getting closer to it. I glance up toward the slope on my right; the sound is coming from somewhere up there. This morning has been strange enough already.
Then I hear a shout. It’s a human voice - a woman’s, sounding distressed, speaking Hungarian. I spot a young woman up on the slope, a few dozen meters away, and I call out to her in English, telling her I don’t understand Hungarian and asking if she speaks English. She responds with a yes.
I climb the slope as she carefully makes her way down. As I get closer, I see she’s holding two rocks - the sound I heard was her banging them together. When we’re within speaking distance, she immediately asks, “Did you see the wild boar? Did you see it?”
“Well yes, I did.”
We exchange our wild boar experiences. She had encountered a sow with piglets as well and, after that, decided to make noise so they’d steer clear of her - clearly, we’ve both come up with the same survival strategy.
The thought suddenly hits me - what if the sow and her piglets think they’re being chased from both directions? It’s an unsettling realization, adding a new layer of tension to an already strange morning.
After thinking it through together, we decide it’s time to leave the forest. Since I was planning to turn back soon anyway and she’s heading in the same direction, we decide to continue the journey together.
We’re both curious about what the other is doing here at this hour. I explain my reason, and she tells me she’s a scout, dropped off by the roadside the evening before as part of a survival exercise. She’s been navigating her chosen route through the night without a phone, aiming to reach a checkpoint where someone will be waiting for her later in the morning. She slept for a couple of hours in a ditch by the road, hidden from passing cars. After that, she entered the forest and has been walking through it for hours.
As we walk, we talk about all sorts of things. I don’t take any more photos - I’ve packed my camera away. Soon, we don’t even think about the wild boar anymore; we’ve probably left the group far behind.
By the time we reach my car, it’s almost eight o’clock. She politely declines my offer for a ride, explaining that she still has a few more kilometers to go on foot. To earn the badge she’s working toward, she has to complete the journey on her own.
We part ways, almost moved to tears, wishing each other well for the rest of our lives. This morning has been incredible and I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything, not even for a successful set of photos.
