Croaking Frogs and Baby Ducks

Feeling very Hemingway-ish, Christopher and I found a footpath at our campsite that took us down a dusty, white road to a calm stretch of the river. Being ourselves, we promptly found an overgrown side trail and silently agreed to follow it instead of said dusty, white road. Chris was bitten by a fire ant while scrambling in the underbrush to a "nice" patch of dirt, helping me in furthering my suggestion that we see where the actual trail might take us before we set up for an afternoon of baking in the sun. In a rare stroke of luck, I was right about the trail, which led us to a bend in the river with a series of small waterfalls that were evidently created by the remains of a concrete structure that I romanticized as having been blown up during that whole Yugoslavia thing. We tromped across the river and settled at the top of what was likely a small spillway to the highly strategic, water-powered mill I had made up in my head and vowed to not set foot off the trail, as de-mining efforts were probably "still in progress".

You can tell in this image just how smug I'm feeling about being right about a hiking-related fact.

And you can tell in this image that Chris has been studying how female European backpackers pose with nature (I, meanwhile, have been studying how they tilt the camera until the horizon is crooked enough to make you ill). 

Yesterday, we discovered the wonders of the upper reaches of Plitvice. We had the distinct pleasure of standing in line for 30 minutes to take a ferry across a lengthy, ocean-deep stretch of one of the lakes. Chris took 47,000 pictures of this duck being chased by hordes of fish. I'll share the best one with you.

Rather like a scene from Jaws. Poor, unsuspecting, leggy duck.

The lower end of Plitvice is somewhat like something you would expect to see in the mountain forests of China - massive, blue-green stretches of water that suddenly tumble over green, leaf strewn rocks with unnerving force, pooling at the bottom for mere moments before the next upheaval begins. Upper Plitvice, meanwhile, is lagoony without the creature. The water is that clean cerulean you see on travel agency propaganda advertising Figi and the smaller falls are tucked around each corner, shaded by overhanging trees and feeling distinctly more tropical. At lower Plitvice, one misstep on the creaky, wooden walkways constructed in a manner that would never meet OSHA standards, and you are most definitely being swept to your ridiculously scenic doom. Upper Plitvice is the relief, the guarantee that falling in would likely be quite pleasant, and not in the least bit deadly. The creature might even help you back to shore and pose for a snapshot, if you're lucky. (Both prospects were equally exciting for different reasons). Best of all, the constant thrum of water falling served to utterly drown out the voices of the 87000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 people that were understandably as interested in Plitvice as we were. It was like being alone in backcountry America, except tour groups kept trying to bop us off the walkways. Below, you will find that Christopher's interpretations are much more beautiful than mine. 

This is just a taste of the talent I bagged with Christopher. For the true representation of his skills, head to his portfolios at chrispadesky.com. Prepare to be floored.