The bus pulled into Białowieża just after two, and the first thing I noticed was the quiet. After a week in Warsaw, the absence of trams and traffic was almost a physical sensation. The terminus on ul. gen. Waszkiewicza is just a wide bit of road with a few benches and a timetable board, and beyond it, the forest just... starts. It's not a park edge or a treeline; it's a wall of green that surrounds the village on all sides. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and I stood there with my backpack for a good minute, just taking it in. This is the last stop. Beyond this point, there's only the forest and then the border with Belarus.
I'd taken the long way around, as it turned out. Public transport from Warsaw is something like eight or nine hours with a couple of changes, so I'd booked a seat on a direct minibus that a guesthouse owner recommended. About three hours east via Białystok, and the landscape shifted from suburban sprawl to flat farmland to something darker and denser the closer we got. The driver dropped me right at the terminus, and I actually had to check my phone to make sure I was in the right place. It's a village of maybe two and a half thousand people, and it feels like it. But it also feels like a place that knows exactly why it exists.
My room for the next few nights is at a guesthouse called Pokoje Przy Stoczku, which is a ten-minute walk from the centre along a quiet lane. The owner, a woman in her sixties named Mrs. Halina, met me at the door holding a plate of pierogi, which I'm starting to think is the Polish national greeting. The room is simple — a bed, a wardrobe, a bathroom down the hall — and costs about ninety zloty a night, which is roughly twenty-five dollars. For that I also get a breakfast of bread, cheese, and the strongest coffee I've had since I arrived. I dumped my bags and sat on the little porch for a while, watching a family of storks wheel over the meadow behind the house.
The village proper is just a few streets, and you can walk it in fifteen minutes. The heart of it is the compact core along ul. gen. Waszkiewicza, where you'll find the small market, a couple of souvenir shops, and a café called Sarenka Cafe Gallery that does a decent cappuccino for about fourteen zloty. I stopped in for one after I'd settled in, and the woman behind the counter asked where I was from. When I said Warsaw, she nodded like that explained my pace. She told me that most people who come here are from Warsaw or Kraków, or from abroad, looking for the forest. And that the forest delivers, if you let it.
My first proper destination was the European Bison Show Reserve, Rezerwat Pokazowy Żubrów. It's a fenced area near the park entrance, and for about twenty-five zloty — six or seven dollars — you can walk a loop and see the animals that are too old or too habituated to live fully wild. I was a little skeptical; part of me wanted to see bison only in the wild. But the reserve is where you can guarantee a sighting, and honestly, seeing them up close is something else. The bulls are enormous, dark brown, with that hump of muscle over the shoulders. They moved with a slowness that felt deliberate, like they knew they were the kings here. There were also wolves, lynx, and wild boar in separate enclosures, but the bison were the show.
The show reserve is a good introduction, but the real forest is the Białowieża National Park, the oldest in Poland, established in 1932, and a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1979. The Strictly Protected Area, the old-growth core, is only accessible with a licensed guide, and I'd booked a walk for the next morning. In the late afternoon, though, I just walked the free trails around the Palace Park, the old tsarist estate. The palace itself was destroyed in 1944, but the English garden remains, with about ninety species of trees and shrubs, and it's free to wander. The Nature and Forest Museum is there too, and I paid the modest entry fee to get an overview of the forest's ecology. The museum is excellent, with dioramas and a viewing tower, but the real thing was waiting outside.
I ended the day at the Gospoda Pod Żubrem, a restaurant in a wooden building near the park entrance. It's the kind of place that has the menu on a chalkboard and the décor made of antlers and old forestry tools. I ordered kartacze z mięsem, the giant potato dumplings stuffed with meat, which are a Podlasie specialty. The plate came with a dollop of fried onions and a side of sauerkraut, and it was everything I wanted after a day of travel. The whole meal came to about forty-five zloty, a little over eleven dollars, and I sat on the terrace as the evening cooled, watching the light change through the trees. The forest at dusk is not silent; it's a low hum of insects and rustling leaves, and once the day-trippers left, I had the place almost to myself.
In the morning, I met my guide, a forester in his fifties named Tadeusz, at the park's administrative building. He'd been working in the forest for thirty years, and his knowledge was staggering. We walked into the Strict Reserve, and within minutes the character of the forest changed. The trees were massive, ancient oaks and lindens with trunks two or three meters around, their crowns forming a canopy so dense that the undergrowth was sparse. The ground was a soft carpet of moss and fallen leaves, and the air was cool and still. Tadeusz pointed out the signs of the forest's age: the dead wood left to rot, the fungi that break it down, the new generation of seedlings reaching for the gaps in the canopy. It's a forest that has been allowed to be a forest, without interference.
We walked for three hours, and I kept stopping to look up. The silence inside the old-growth stands is different from the silence outside; it's full, like the forest is holding its breath. Tadeusz told me about the fight over this place, the logging disputes that went to the European courts, and the current plan to expand the national park into almost the whole forest. He was careful with his words, but I could tell he was torn. On one hand, he loves this forest more than anything. On the other, the local community has depended on forestry jobs for generations, and the village is losing people. It's a tension you can feel in every conversation here, and it's not going away soon.
For lunch, I took his advice and went to a place called Fanaberia, a small café and restaurant on the other side of the village. It's the kind of spot where the owner knows everyone by name, and the menu is written on a blackboard. I had a żurek, the sour rye soup, with a hard-boiled egg and a slice of sausage, and it was the perfect midday meal. The soup is tart and comforting, and it cost about twenty zloty, around five dollars. I sipped it slowly, listening to two men at the next table talk about the upcoming Zubr Fest, a new festival that's apparently replacing a cancelled techno rave that had been moved and then pulled entirely. The forest is a battleground, but also a stage.
In the afternoon, I walked the Żebra Żubra trail, the 'Ribs of the Bison' boardwalk that winds through a swampy part of the forest. It's a raised wooden path, and it lets you get close to the wetland ecosystem without disturbing it. The boardwalk is about seven kilometers, and it took me a few hours with stops. I saw red deer in a clearing, and a beaver lodge, and I heard, but didn't see, a woodpecker hammering somewhere high up. The light in the swamp was soft and green, with dragonflies skimming the surface of the dark water. It felt like walking through a different world, one that existed before the one I knew.
The Strict Reserve walk had been the centerpiece of my day, and as I made my way back, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had been given a glimpse of what Europe used to look like. The forest is not a relic; it's a functioning ecosystem, and it's been here, in some form, for over ten thousand years. The fact that it survives at all is a miracle of politics and stubbornness. I sat on the porch of my guesthouse for a long time that evening, watching the sunset turn the sky orange and pink behind the trees. The storks had come back to their nest, and the village was quiet except for the clatter of dishes from the nearby kitchen.
Dinner that night was at Restauracja Białowieżanka, a more formal place in the village center. I had a plate of grilled trout with potatoes and a side of cranberries, and it was excellent, though the price, around sixty zloty, reminded me that this is a tourist town in peak season. As I walked back under the stars, I thought about the day. I had come to see bison, and I had seen them, but I had also started to understand the forest itself, the thing that makes this place worth fighting for. The bison are the emblem, but the forest is the soul. I felt a deep gratitude that places like this still exist, and a resolve to stay present while I have the chance.
Tomorrow, I'm planning to visit the Orthodox church of St. Nicholas, with its porcelain iconostasis from St. Petersburg, and maybe the skansen, the open-air museum of wooden Rus' architecture in the Zastawa district. There's also the Royal Oaks Trail in Stara Białowieża, where the oldest named oaks stand, each with its own history. The village is small, but it's full of layers. And beneath all of it, the forest breathes, patient and immense. For now, the adventures are done for the day, and the night is quiet. This is a good place to be. Dobranoc, from Białowieża.
I'll be here for a few more days, exploring the forest and the borderland culture, and I'll bring you along. If you're thinking about coming here, and you have the time, make the journey. It's not the easiest place to reach, but the distance from the busy world is the point. This is the rough edge of Poland, where the trees are older than any nation, and the stories are told in the rustle of leaves. Until next time, keep exploring, and let the forest find you.