The Trails Here Rock!

Route: St. Vith to Ardennes Forest Trails Distance: About 30 km It got cold last night, very cold. I’m starting to wonder if leaving home with a 20 degree bag was such a great idea. That and I have no head cover. I can’t imagine how I forgot a winter cap, but there it is. Anyone who knows realizes that it was lucky enough I get the ten poles here, let alone the details like a winter hat and a credit card. Still, watching the trees emerge from the mist like ghosts has got to be close to the view that grandpa had. I really doubt he had time to notice it, busy as he would have been during his first time here on Dec. 17th 1944. Still, he was a painter and does take time in his letters to describe details and scenes through the eyes of artist. Maybe he did notice. He would have shivered at night too, and he wouldn’t have had the benefit of a tent or sleeping bag because they left all that gear behind in the rush here to counter the German attack. Also, when he was here, it was below freezing and snowing. Right now it’s probably 35 degrees and it will be sunny today. So that, plus the fact that I’ve got a much better chance at emerging from St. Vith alive, means I can put up with some cold nights. I had a quick chat with another biker in the camp named Luc. He’s from Holland, big surprise as touring seems to be the national sport, and he was up smoking a roll you own and shivering when I passed on my way to the shower. He had come from Germany and was on his way back to Holland after three weeks on the road. “It’s getting too cold for me!” he exclaimed when I returned from the bathroom. The sun was just beginning to burn off the cold mist of the night, and we could both see that it really was going to be a great day. I planned on heading into St. Vith for two pieces of business. One, stop at the post and get them to agree to accept a package coming to me from Holland (my long lost credit card). This was a bit tough to communicate to the German guy running the place who spoke very little English, but he was very helpful and I got an address to give ti Niek. Two, get online and try to get things posted. I passed the tourist office which had a big lettered sign proclaiming “Internet 24/24” on its window. I entered, and found a polite women in her 40’s sitting behind the desk. I asked her about the internet, and she replied that it was down. She then got out a city map and directed me to a place that had it. Then, just to be safe, she called over and guess what? Their internet was down as well. No cybercafes in town. That’s it, I was shot. I haven’t posted in over a week now and I’ve got a ton of stuff. More to the point, however, was my urgent need to get the address to the city post to Niek so he could send my damn credit card when it arrives. I’m starting to think that there is a monster who eats packages sent from the US to Holland. I still don’t understand why this is such a big deal. I mean, really sending a package from Hawaii to New York is a longer distance, but they somehow manage to get it through in a few days. She could sense my need, and got a mischievous grin on her face while telling me that if I was quick, she would let me use her system which was magically working. I thanked her a million times and sent a few emails. She had that funny French keyboard. The one where you can’t find things like an exclamation point and the A is where the Q is supposed to be. It’s enough different so my emails read like I had spent too much time in a hyperbaric chamber. I could tell she was getting a little nervous when she mentioned that if her boss came in, I was to say that it was an emergency. I hit send on my last email. Her name was Andrea, and as it turns out, she has a brother who is very into World War Two. When she found out what I was doing, called him and set up a meeting for tomorrow. I’m very excited about that because it means I should get some great stories about the fighting around here. After this, I said goodbye for now, and thanked her very much while purchasing a little St. Vith sticker which now resides on my seat tube. I thought with business out of the way, it was early and maybe I’d do a little exploring around town. Not only was my interest hirtsorical, but this town is going to be my home for a few days while I wait out the credit card. With this in mind I made a sweep around the area finding in quick succession the cathedral, the entrance to the bike routes, and the discount grocery store in that order. It’s a much smaller town than I thought last night. The kind of place where the only younger people are married or otherwise tied down. All in all, hard to imagine that one of the bloodiest episodes in recent history happened here. On my way out of town, I ran into Luc headed north. I sidled up and said “There he is!”, he said “Hey, you lost already?”. A few minutes later and we were seated at a comfy outdoor table at a café enjoying a coffee and rolling smokes. Turns out Luc is, of all things, an insurance salesman. You wouldn’t know it by looking at his shaved head, slightly grey, short cropped hipster beard and tattoos covering his arms down to the cuff, but there it is. I guess things are different in Holland. We talked about bikes, touring, and that favorite discussion of kindred biking souls, our worst accidents. “I was coming down this real steep grade, probably 20%, and I was just flying” he started out. “You have to know the trail, you go left, then quick right, then quick left, then straight down. Well, no one told me that they were resurfacing the road on the straight part and I hit 6” of gravel at 45 kph.” “Jeez!” I exclaimed, “You must have rashed your hole body!” “I landed on my face, and skidded for 30 meters on my knees and elbows. I got a little scared of down hilling after that.” This from a guy who has spent the better part of his life on a touring bike. :”I was in South Africa in ’96 just after aparthied ended.” “Wow, I’ve heard that South Africa can be dangerous?” “Well, no…ok yes!” he laughed. “I was in the countryside though, camping next to the Indian Ocean. It was amazing!” “I’ve done a little biking in Alaska, mostly trail riding, but there are a lot of people who tour there. I’d love to go back and do the Alcan someday.” I mentioned not letting on that it would be my life’s goal to run that road. “Yeah, I would like to go to Canada. I’ve never been to the states, but I don’t really want to go you know? Its just not that interesting to me.” He said this after we had talked for a while and he knew I wouldn’t explode with patriotic bullshit. “Yeah, there are of course great parts, but on a whole its sure got nothing on this place.” I said, of course its true, but I’m not in the business of selling the great parts of the US. One thing I’ve learned on this trip is just how great we have it at home. We must have one of the only places in the world with so much land that anyone can camp and be free. Here in Europe, while it’s really great with all the showers little trails and campsites, it’s also a lot more controlled. I didn’t mention those things. We said goodbye after two coffees. He headed north and I south to find the trails. I’ve learned that this place is a Mecca for mountain bikers from all over Europe. There are trails that link this forest from one end to the other. Hundreds of kilometers of old railroad grade, improved bike pathways, and plain old single track. All of it safe and well maintained, and all of it free. I went out looking for these trails. Like everything here, they are not well marked. It took a little doing, but soon I saw the Euro Velo sign, and swung a left. What a difference! All of a sudden I was following a nice paved, but rural path through the deep woods. As I continued downhill, the trees grew thicker and the air colder. I was in the middle of the forest. Suddenly, a clearing was up ahead, and I passed under the giant concrete freeway bridge which spans the valley between two wooded ridges. After a junction with another little trail, I was flying through trees again. Soon I came to a little ancient village nestled in the valley. It’s centuries old central church sat adjacent to a little stream which flowed under the rock bridges and supports. I wondered if grandpa had been through here and seen this little village, which to me looked rather untouched by the war. Suddenly, I got an idea. I took my flipcam, and duct taped it to my helmet. I can never emphasis enough how important duct tape is. Bring it always. So far, I’ve patched my tent, and poles, fixed my water proof map case, and now made a helmet cam with it. After making a test run to check the angles, I headed downhill into the valley below the village. A quick right put me on a tiny street leading to a small tunnel. I was back on the railroad grade. After almost being eaten by a large German Shepard who felt it was his duty to let me know I was invading his turf, I entered back into a small alcove of evergreens. Passing through this the trail transitioned to gravel and I felt like I was mountain biking. I had to mentally remind myself not to think that! I was riding a road bike with road tires. No big jumps, bumps, or mud on the agenda today. Too bad though! There are some great pieces of single track branching off this well marked and kept path. Signs at every intersection reminded me that I was heading toward Prum, Germany. I looked back and they all said St. Vith, Belgium heading the other way. It was pretty hard to get lost. I headed through a long dark railroad tunnel. In the middle, while you could see the other end, it got so dark that I couldn’t see the ground in front of me. Talk about heading for the light! I was just hoping not to get eaten by gnomes. But that’s the kind of place this forest is. Around every little bend in the trail is an ancient Catholic shrine, church or castle. Each little new bridge is always built next to the remains of an ancient stone one probably used by the Romans. Indeed, St. Vith itself was founded as a stopping place on the Roman road to the city of Cologne. It’s as if I rode into a story book. On the way back, instead of taking the tunnel, I took a more promising looking trail leading through a small stand of large Douglas Fir trees. It also had the manners to be a downhill. Well, for a few meters. Then it turned a bend, and headed straight up the side of a hill, and I mean straight up! It was probably a 14% or so grade. Luckily, I was only carrying my daypack and not my full kit. After riding the granny gear very slowly for around 3 km up this hill, I came into yet another amazingly gorgeous little town which I passed right through to the bike lane on the other side of the hill. Here was my reward for that damn hill. I dropped all of that elevation in a blinding series of switchbacks heading down the grassy slope of the other side. I passed under the freeway bridge again, and through another little hamlet at 55 kph. When I reached the bottom, I came out on a stretch of highway that I didn’t recognize. Oh well, I thought, might as well head back toward the bridge. Riding back up the gravel road leading under the bridge, I stopped several times when I noticed that the trees, all second growth sized timbers, were growing out of obviously man made grades like those of an old roadbed. One tree was growing out of a circular shaped hole. It was a shell hole, and the old road grades were probably quickly made bedding for heavy vehicles like tanks and halftracks. I was standing in the middle of a front line defense work area. The more I looked, the more I saw the lines of trenches, the holes dug around the road, and the circular shell holes strewn about at random over everything. All of these marks were rounded and faded under moss, underbrush and trees. It was like looking at a shipwreck after it has been sitting in a corral reed for a century. This must have one of the lines in the southern part of the St. Vith “Goose Egg”. Obviously, it had received a hell of a lot of shelling. Probably, the shelling destroyed whatever forest was here before, and the trees which I stood under now had all grown up afterwards. As I looked more closely at one tree, I saw that it grew right next to much larger stump covered in moss. Growth out of death. Grandpa wasn’t on the south of St. Vith, but rather the north shoulder of this defense. The terrain, however, is very similar. He would have recognized this area in any case because during the retaking of the city in 1945, it was his company that was tasked to capture the hills that I knew rode my bike through. So he had been here after all, maybe right where I was standing, surveying the devestation. At that time, it would have been a moonscape. I’ve seen pictures of St. Vith taken by reconaisence aircraft during the Battle of the Bulge. It is unrecognizable to the town I see today. Through shell and bomb holes, you can make out the fragments of a crossroads town. When the 7th pushed back through in January 1945, the roads were so destroyed that they couldn’t even get jeeps through. This forced my grandpa and his men to walk through town to the place I now stood, some 6 km south. Neik mentioned that when they rebuilt the town after the war, they just brought in bulldozers and wiped the slate clean creating the top of the hill on which the town resides today. “Million dollar hill they call it” he said, “because they just put everyone’s household, jewelry and all, into the ground.” Tomorrow, I’ll head to Rodt, a town 5 km to the west of here. Grandpa was involved in heavy fighting to take it back from the Germans after being pushed back in Decemeber 1944. From there I’ll cross the hill to Poteau again to see if I can get back into the museum. As I’m sitting here writing this, I realize why I love cycling so much. It’s the last free thing. John said that to me back in England, and I agreed, but I didn’t really think about what it meant until now. You just get on and go. No license, registration and proof of insurance. 900 km later, all of it on a bike, it has become quite clear that there really is no limit to what you can do with an idea and a bicycle. Please keep reading, there are a lot of new posts below going back a few days. I’ve had a lot of trouble getting online here. I know it’s the 21rst century, but if you keep in mind that I’m traveling through the South Dakota of Europe right now, maybe that will explain things! Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting! I hope you all enjoy it, and I love to hear what you think on facebook and whatever. Rawk On! Post Script: I just walked into the hills above my campsite. It’s dusk and the sun is setting creating a pink glow in the west. Starting up a rocky hiking trail, I made the first switchback before being engulfed in gloomy trees. It was dark and cold, and soon a figure appeared in front of me coming down the trail. It was a man barely restraining a German Shepard which was barking and jumping at its chain. I froze as a high pitched voice yelled “Halt!” For a second I thought I was seeing a ghost. As the figure walked down the grade toward me, he turned into a smiling old man of around 60 with a harmless shaggy hound who was afraid of me. He laughed when I asked if this was private property. “No, it’s fine!” he pronounced, while dragging his reluctant pooch around me. I continued up the hill. Towards the top, there was a clearing with a fence. The other side was a green field which was full of light. The trail however continued around another switchback and I stopped for no real reason. Then I noticed a ditch cut a long time ago riding the crest of the hill. It was facing toward my camping area in the valley below. Here men had died either attacking or defending this little hill. Probably both. I thought I heard a noise in the brush to my right. I decided it was time to go to bed. Coming down the hill, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being watched. Maybe it’s my nerves, and my over active imagination, but I walked out of that forest. That is why there are few monuments here. There don’t need to be. The hills are lined with them in the form of foxhole lines and trenches. No statue or set of names on a wall can compete with that.