Bikepacking Berlin to Grünheide, Germany 2021

On a whim, I asked Lena if she wanted to go bikepacking over the weekend. I proposed we ride 40 kilometers east of Berlin to a lakeside campground in Brandenburg for one night outside of the city. It would be Lena’s longest day of riding ever, but she didn’t hesitate before saying yes. In the end, the route ballooned to 50 kilometers but we were still happy and confident about the weekend’s planned adventure.

On Saturday, just after 2 p.m., we loaded our gear on our bikes and set off through the glass-covered streets of East Berlin. We made our way south through Neukölln to the canals for the scenic route to Müggelsee. Ever the food opportunist, Lena insisted we stop to munch on some boysenberries discovered along the way.

After our snack we wound our way south of Müggelsee before swinging north through Erkner and finally arriving at the campground at around 7 p.m. The woman at reception guided us past rows of mobile home bungalows surrounded by gardens ranging from disheveled to perfectly cultivated.

After leaning our bikes on a nearby pole, we stripped down and jumped in the clear water of the lake to cool off and get rid of the grime of the trail. Feeling much cooler and cleaner, we donned long sleeves and pants and sprayed bug repellant on our hands and faces before preparing dinner. The mosquitoes were already relentless a couple of hours before sunset. Our European backpacking meals were underwhelming compared to the great options in the U.S., but we still ate our fill. After dinner I settled in to read a bit before bed but it was hard to focus with all of the mosquitoes buzzing about our heads.

We reapplied bug spray and bundled up with our rain jackets to try to keep them away from our faces and settled in, assuming that after dusk the mosquitoes would turn in for the night. In the meantime, I tried using the towel as a makeshift tent to cover our hands and faces but it was so stiflingly hot underneath that we couldn’t breath. At 11 p.m. the mosquitoes were still buzzing about and skewering through our clothes. It was so hot in our sleeping bags and rain jackets that we gave up and stripped naked and ran to the lake. We quickly sat down in the water, leaving only our heads exposed, relying on bug spray to keep our faces safe.

After a few minutes of respite from the heat, the lateness of the hour pushed us back towards our sleeping bags where we tried to fall asleep again.

At 1 a.m. neither of us had slept a wink and I was certain that the mosquitoes weren’t going anywhere that night so Lena and I started spitballing solutions. I floated the idea of giving up on sleeping altogether, packing up, hopping on our bikes, and biking back to Berlin in the dark. Lena considered it but didn’t like the idea of biking so far in the dark. She proposed a taxi but neither of us had phone service or any hope that a taxi would come to the middle of the woods an hour after midnight. I then remembered that on a walk around the campground a few hours before I had noticed a gazebo wrapped in mosquito netting. I proposed that we bring our sleeping bags and pads across the campground and sleep in the safety of the gazebo. Before committing to it Lena and I agreed that I should check and see if the mobile homes surrounding the gazebo were occupied—we didn’t want a rude awakening the next morning when an old German man found us squatting in his outdoor dining room.

After a quick look around I was certain that none of the spaces around were occupied and went back to our camp. Lena and I quickly grabbed the essentials and threw our tarp over the rest of our gear before walking across the camp grounds to our safe haven.

We hurriedly slid our gear under the mosquito netting and slipped in after as quickly as possible in an attempt to keep out the gazillion mosquitos swarming around us.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we lay on our pads without the familiar buzz of mosquitoes dive-bombing our faces. Finally, we could lay in the heat without our sleeping bags closed up as tightly as possible to keep the horde at bay. I pulled my book out to try and wind down before falling asleep. Five minutes later I heard an unfamiliar ding from a nearby cell phone. Lena and I looked at each other.

“Is that yours,” I asked. She shook her head no.

We held our breaths and looked at the darkness surrounding us, waiting for any noises. The phone dinged again. Then we heard voices.

An elderly German couple was talking—at 2 a.m., no less—and we were camped in their gazebo. It seemed that the “empty” mobile home that was 2 meters from Lena’s feet wasn’t so empty after all.

Lena and I looked at each other, horrified. I imagined an angry old man kicking open the door to his trailer and finding us in his mosquito haven. I gulped in fear and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I assured Lena that if they came outside and found us we could calmly explain the situation to them and they would have to understand. Right? I knew it was true deep down, but at 2 a.m. and half crazy from the never ending onslaught of mosquitoes I was having a hard time convincing myself. Lena wasn’t having it. We laid there for another 20 horrified minutes waiting for them to come outside and discover us. Instead, the voices slowly disappeared and were replaced by snoring. I set my alarm for 5 a.m.—just in case we fell asleep—so we could vacate their space before they woke up.

I offered to Lena that I could stay up and talk to anyone who might discover us but she was as stressed as I was and neither of us could imagine sleeping any time soon. Even without the mosquitoes. So we both lay there in the ironic half-safety of the netted gazebo trying to fall asleep. After another 30 minutes the exhaustion finally took its toll and we dozed off here and there. We slept in nightmare-plagued 15-minute spurts, constantly jumping in our sleep imagining that someone was just outside the mosquito netting looking in on us.

Despite the nightmares the night passed uneventfully. When my alarm went off we dragged ourselves out of our sleeping bags and cleared our things out of the gazebo. We hustled away as fast as possible in case we had woken them again while putting their table and chairs back where we found them. We dropped our stuff back on our tarp and, with nothing else to do, stripped down for a morning swim before the rest of camp woke up.

Our mosquito net-engulfed gazebo was both a safe haven and nightmare-fuel.

The sunrise was amazing, but both of us would’ve rather gotten a few more hours of sleep before enjoying it. We swam in small circles in the lake with the purple and pink clouds unfurling above us—swatting at mosquitoes all the while. The second we stepped out of the water they went in for the kill so we jumped back in our sleeping bags for protection, certainly not sleep. We decided that a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee were necessary to fuel our departure back to Berlin. Estimated time of departure? ASAP.

The plan was to bike 10 kilometers, much less than the 50 we biked the day before, to the nearest train station that could take us home: Erkner. The second we were packed up we hit the road without a second glance at our cursed campsite. With the wind in our faces and no mosquitoes buzzing around our ears we suddenly felt infinitely better. We started to laugh about how ridiculous our experience had been.

Before we knew it we were already in Erkner. Despite our rough night it felt too soon to get off the bike for the day so we pushed on past Erkner and through Müggelsee. After 30 kilometers we hopped on the train in Köpenick for a quick ride home. We topped up on lost calories with a quick meal before Lena donned a sleeping mask and napped for a few hours. I made the couch my home and turned on the Olympics in the background while I googled affordable two-person tent options with the hope that I might convince Lena to join me for another bikepacking adventure. If it ever happens again I’m sure you’ll read about it here.

Kiefersfelden, Germany 2020

The holidays were a little bit different this year. With travel restricted and lockdowns blanketing Europe my sister and I found ourselves an ocean away from our parents but only a 7-hour drive from each other. Rather than travel by plane, train, and automobile to California I rented a car, pointed it south, and bobbed my head to energetic music for 700 kilometers. Cruise control did the heavy lifting and before I knew it I was in Kiefersfelden, a tiny border town, and my sister’s new home. We hung out with our parents via video chat for the three nights of Christmas and spent as much time outside during daylight as possible.

Restrictions were tight but I was determined to be as active in the mountains as possible, and hiking was allowed. Everything past the Austrian border was off-limits but that still left plenty to explore. To kick things off I put my finger on the map and picked a peak to summit by myself while my sister was working. I hopped in the car on the cold morning after I arrived and navigated Kiefersfelden’s narrow Bavarian streets on my way to the mountains. I wound my way up into the hills, gingerly weaving around churches and wood-clad alpine homes. As I drove I kept an eye on the thermometer in the car’s display. It was hovering around 2º celsius as I made my way through town but as I gained elevation it dropped to -1º.  To be safe I took turns at 10 km/h. I was investigating every patch of road along the way, wondering if it was icy but I couldn’t see any.

The backdrop to my slip and slide.

And that’s why it’s called black ice. I didn’t even have time to panic and try to fix my mistake. The moment my tires hit the patch of slick icy asphalt it was already too late. I slid sideways in slow motion, staring at the stone wall on the side of the road. I was resigned to my fate. My brand new rental car and the quickly approaching rock were about to become very intimate.

But then I jolted to a halt. I looked to my right across the empty passenger seat and inspected the rock wall, wondering why it was so far away. I climbed out of the car and noticed that there was a patch of gravel half a meter wide separating the pavement from the rock wall, which had stopped my slide. I let out a sigh of relief.

After a few minutes to steady my nerves, I started the car up and cautiously pulled back onto the road, driving even slower than before. As I neared the trailhead I came upon a field of ice blocking my way. Centimeters thick and blanketing the road as far as I could see up the hill into the distance, I realized I had no chance of making it to the top to my destination. I was discouraged by the weather but not willing to give up so I returned to the main road and drove until I found a parking lot packed with cars and vans.

Trusting the locals, I pulled over, suited up, and walked until I found a trail marker. It wouldn’t be the same as my planned hike, but after months in Berlin with not a mountain in sight, any peak would make me happy.

Hiking 4.5 kilometers through the mud, snow, and ice I gained 610 meters of elevation before reaching the peak, Wildalpjoch. The flat plains of Bavaria spread out to the north, the Wendelstein weather station capped the peak to the west, and the jagged peaks of Austria jutted up to the south and east. After a quick snack and two dozen photos, the cold alpine wind was too much to bear. I took one last look at the vast snow-capped mountains in the distance and headed back down to the car.

Two days later my sister and I set our sights on Brünnstein, a peak in the last row of mountains before the Austrian border. The trek started off easy enough. We wandered through empty muddy fields dotted with alms. During normal times these huts would be crowded with hikers looking for a warm place to rest their feet and a hot meal before continuing on. But these weren’t normal times. We passed hardly a soul on the hike and the alms were deserted, locked down to curb the spread of the virus.

This route is only for experienced alpinists.

Pointing out Wendelstein and Wildalpjoch in the distance.

Just before the peak as the tree’s thinned our path became rocky, steep, and dotted with alpinist’s cables. We clambered up the nearly vertical slopes, using our arms to pull ourselves along the path. At the top, we were greeted by a warning sign, a tiny shrine, and a view spanning dozens of snowy peaks. We celebrated with a local summit beer and then continued back down the mountain along our 16km route.

That night and into the next day Bavaria was dusted with snow. From the valleys to the peaks everything was white. Neither my sister nor I had the right gear (read: boots) but we were both determined to get outside so we donned our warmest socks and porous running shoes and ventured into the cold, wet mountains once again. We drove two towns up the road and parked the car at the Wendelstein train station.

We didn’t have a goal in mind but started to walk in the direction of Wendelstein, not sure if conditions would let us get close to the summit. Before too long we were making our way through ankle-deep snowdrifts. More than one local looked at our footwear and grimaced. How un-German to be unprepared for a snow hike.

We had thought our 10:30 am start had been plenty early but at 1 pm it became clear that if we went for the Wendelstein peak we wouldn’t make it back to the car before dark. After a short debate on the risks we unceremoniously turned around and made our way back down the mountain, trekking 18 kilometers in all.

After seven days in the mountains and more than 75 kilometers of walking, hiking, and trudging through the snow I was sad to return north to Berlin. But I was also endlessly grateful that my sister’s new home provided the perfect mountain getaway. Despite the wholly non-traditional virtual Christmas celebration it still turned into a genuinely good holiday in the middle of the pandemic.

Sassnitz, Germany 2019

It was mid-September when we sat there—in the middle of a Fall cold-spell that blanketed Berlin—lamenting the early end of a hot summer. The city had traded 30° days for 12° days all too quickly and it felt like we were staring at the cold darkness that is Berlin winter right in the teeth. We couldn’t accept this was the best weather that we’d have for the next 6 months so we did the only logical thing despite the souring weather: we made the unwise decision to travel North.

I’d heard of a cheap weekend train ticket from Berlin to the Baltic Sea from a coworker so we decided that if we were going to be cold no matter what, at least we could see some open water while we shivered. As we looked out of the train window a few weeks later it didn’t take long to transition from vibrant Berlin to the dark, foggy, flat landscape of former East Germany. We zipped past decrepit train stations and neglected roads on our way north, unsure of what lay ahead. Despite our low hopes, the weather went from near-freezing and overcast to crisp but sunny while we sat in the warm safety of the train.

Four hours later we clambered off of the train and checked into our hotel before we dropped our things off and headed for the water. Olena and I ambled along the jetty that protects the harbor and watched the sunset with the lighthouse to our backs before we stepped onto an old boat in search of a hearty dinner. As we took our seats an older gentleman leaving the table recommended number 11: Baltic flounder. After we ordered said flounder and a beer we settled into our seats. 

The boat rocked us back and forth gently while we waited for, and then devoured, our food. Suddenly exhausted with our stomachs full of food and drink we paid and stepped outside to head back to the hotel. And of course that was when it started to rain. Hard. We bundled our jackets around ourselves to stave off the wind and water and hustled back through town as the cold rain fell through the darkness.

After that first rain the weather held all weekend, which gave us the chance to comfortably explore Jasmund National Park all day without getting drenched. We popped in and out of the ancient Beech forest as we walked down the coast towards Sassnitz, taking our time in the sun and hustling through the shade to stay warm. We walked down the steep stairs to the rocky beach below the cliffs and wandered up and down the coast along with the few other off-season tourists.

As we stumbled back into town I glanced at my watch and noticed how late it was. No wonder I was starving. We went straight to the harbor and stepped onto the first boat-restaurant we could find. The sun set across the harbor as we scarfed down battered shrimp and fish with fries and beers. Despite the cold we stayed on the upper deck of the boat until after the sun had set before we called it a night and made our way to the hotel.

The next morning we bought tickets for a boat tour that took passengers 45 minutes up the coast to look at the cliffs from the water. It smelled like diesel fumes inside the cabin so we stood outside at the bow as the cold sea air swept past and blew our coats around our faces. The weather was crap—overcast and cold—so the cliffs didn’t look majestic, but they still looked impressive from sea-level.

We stepped off the boat and realized that we had 4 hours to kill until our train so I searched for an earlier option on my phone.

“6 minutes,” I said to Olena, “the next train is in 6 minutes, can we make it?”

She swore. Sassnitz is a small town but we were at least 10 minutes from the station. I thought for half a second and started to jog towards the station as Olena yelled after me.

“I’m not waiting 3 hours in this town, there’s nothing left to do,” I yelled behind me.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and ran after me with an evil look in her eye.

Somehow we made it to the train with two minutes to spare. Either we underestimated how fast we can run or how small the town is. We plopped into our seats and huffed and puffed while we stripped our jackets off—just as the train pulled out of the station.

After the hour long train ride to Stralsund we still had 4 hours to kill until our regional train to Berlin. We explored for an hour before we succumbed to a cozy coffee shop on the main square and pulled out our books.

Later, after we made our way to the train station and found our platform we heard a voice on the loudspeaker. Our train was cancelled. After five minutes of despair we learned that an inconvenient alternative only got us into Berlin 2 hours late, so we pulled out our books and settled in to wait.