Route: Bonn to Hartegasse via Cologne
Distance: about 100 km
Well, wow. Today was a mindblower! Waking up in my plush hotel room in Bonn. I showered for the first time (it’s a real luxury when your camping) and headed down for my included breakfast. Thank God the German don’t mess around with the kind of make your own Bisquick waffle “continental breakfast” that you get in the states. In a huge buffet was served, among other things, a huge pot full of scrambled and eggs along with pretty much any possible meat product that you could desire.
I know I’ve made this point many times, but food is fuel on a bike trip, so I helped myself. I also brought my backpack down with me to see if I couldn’t take a few pastry- like things with me. I managed two full plates of breakfast, and several sweet roles. This is amazingly good because the roles will last, and I don’t have to stop and pay for more for a few days. I ignored the stares of the perfectionist staff and the business people getting ready for their morning meetings. Are any of them going to get on a bike loaded with 60 pounds and ride 100 km up and down hills all day?
I left armed with a street map of Bonn given to me by the incredibly helpful dude at the front desk. He was really fishing for a tip! Anyway, I ended up finding Ippendof no problem. It makes sense that every place where grandpa fought is basically at the top of a hill. This suburb of Bonn is no exception. I went from river level up to about 250 meters in 2 km. Riding up and up into a section of hill overlooking, and thus commanding, the city. Here, the Germans put up a fight in a vane effort to hold the city west of the Rhine.
Today, it looks just like an urban neighborhood. Bonn is a large city, some 3 million people, so anywhere this close to the center is basically just another city pocket. An old church, and two old looking wood and stucco buildings are all that remain of the old town center. Perhaps grandpa walked past these very buildings. Everything else is new, not just since the war, but new since I would say the 1990’s.
From this now nondescript location, it was on to Kessinich, another suburb of Bonn. Here Grandpa had what he called in his letters “a chateau on the Rhine”, now it’s what looks like a former well to do place filled with older somewhat rundown houses. Also, the former West German government buildings seem to have been placed pretty much right in the middle of the neighborhood.
While waiting for a train to pass, along with 10 or so other people on cycles in the rain, we were all treated to a half musical, half drunk speak soliloquy given by a very intoxicated gentlemen astride a Pugeot ten speed complete with front string basket. He went on and on while those around me looked away in discust. I couldn’t help laughing quietly to myself as he tried to talk to the unfortunate truck driver next to him. I didn’t have to speak German to understand his main points.
“Allas Kaput, allas shizza!” he toned on and on standing in the rain at the train crossing at 9 in the morning on a Thursday. I thought to myself, I know man, I know. There really is nothing I like better than a good “yeller” as I call them.
Rolling across the Rhine was the start of my real km today. After I got across the third great water barrier on this trip, I realized that I had no idea where I was going on the other side. Originally, I had thought that I would role south back down to Remagen, only on the east bank, but once there, I was only going to turn right around and head back north to Cologne. So, I decided, given the time I have left, to simply head upriver to that great ancient city Koln, and go east to Schmallenburg from there. In that sense, today was another day where I had a lot of road to burn.
Riding up the river, I found the usual perfectly paved bike path running down stream and flirting with the vestigial stands of oak forest on the banks. Really, the entire length of the river from Bonn to Cologne is one large suburb. What I mean is that, in stark contrast to the forests and mountains of the past two weeks, today was primarily an urban ride. I had to dust off the riding in city skills which definitely become a little rusty, especially as the Germans seem to hate it as much as us Americans when you get on their highways with a bike.
As I approached Cologne, the first thing I could see, towering above the city, was the great Cathedral. I had hoped that this famous building would not appear small or in some other way be a let down. It did not disappoint at all. As someone who has practiced architecture for 10 years, I truly am boggled by how they built something so tall out of stone without any steel reinforcement. The towers of the cathedral have to be easily over 300 feet tall. Maybe more like 350 or 400. That is a roughly equivalent to a 25 story building! To say that this great edifice dominates the skyline of this ancient, and yet very modern city, is an understatement.
Cologne is perhaps the oldest continuously occupied city in Western Europe. It began under the reign of Octavian Ceasar as the major shipping and commercial center on the Rhine. The great cathedral, having been composed of several buildings built on top of one another, was founded at the end of the Roman Empire during the era when Christianity became the official state religion. During late antiquity and the early middle ages the city served as one of the great centers of western thought at a time when the light of civilization was dimmed in Europe.
All of this history was nearly destroyed during the battle for Cologne during World War Two. The Nazis had made a practice of blowing up all church towers in every city as they retreated because they made perfect observation posts.
Rolling on the cobblestone rail switchyard on the East bank of the river, the city lazily sliding by on left side, it occurred to me that I had no idea how to get out east to where I planned on camping that night near Lindlar. It is a big city, and it seemed that I had spend the better part of the day getting to it, getting lost in it, and trying to find my way out.
Soon my journey upriver came to the point where I had to turn east. The usual bike signage was nowhere to be seen, and the rail yards I had been riding up the east bank were ending. I had to do something, so I picked a street and turned east on it. In a matter of minutes I was lost in a maze of urban decay, graffiti and broken glass. It can’t be that bad, I thought to myself, there are still cyclists on the road, windows in the buildings, and people walking on the streets. Then it got bad, real bad.
Certainly when living in New York, you sometimes find yourself in these types of neighborhoods. The ones where all the windows are gone from the buildings, long ago replaced boards or simply never replaced. You can always tell a really bad neighborhood because no one is walking around, and generally the only people you see are hanging out in windows, or in doorways staring at you.
In situations like these, I often find that discretion is the better part of valor, by which I mean, I put my head down and get through it as fast as possible. This is no problem when your on a bike, you just keep going. Don’t stop for signs or lights, just keep up a steady pace that doesn’t betray any fear, but yet gets you out of the bad part fast.
Well, in doing this in Cologne, I ended up in a not so terrible suburb which was anybodies guess on the map because it didn’t appear. I knew kind of where I was supposed to be, and kind of where I was. As I sat studying my map over and over again trying to will street names to appear that simply weren’t there, a smiling very German looking dude rolled up on a touring bike. It was as if he appeared from a crack in the universe just when I needed a guide.
Christian had long silver hair, a full white beard, and large smiling countenance set behind plastic prescription sports goggles. He asked, in extremely accented English where I was going. After a long, and somewhat difficult conversation I gathered that Christian rode his bike everyday to work in Cologne, that rode over 1000 km per year on holiday alone, and he thought I was nuts for trying to camp where I had planned. Later events surprisingly proved him correct, but we’ll get there.
Soon we were pedaling through the forest, in the middle of the city, on a “short cut” he knew. Granted, I had just met the guy, so I at first used the pretext that I was carrying a lot of weight to keep him in front of me. Of course, he actually was a lot faster than me, and I ended up having to really pull on those pedals to keep him in site on muddy curvy trail.
We soon popped out into another suburb which looked exactly like one I was lost in, and my fears of being mugged by some gang of Christians buddies in the trees proved ridiculously wrong headed. He turned out to be just another in a long line of very well meaning people on bikes who’ve helped me along the way when I needed it.
At a roundabout, he stopped and directed me the rest of the way out of the city via a series of hand signals and landmark phrases like “big hill” and “shopping place” as indicators of where I was turn either left or right. There are so many damn little roads here. To be honest, I’m really starting to question whether I know what left and right mean any longer. With a wave and “good luck” shouted back over his left shoulder, Christian the Bike Viking disappeared around a corner and back in whatever dimension he is from.
I actually managed to follow his directions, and ended up out of town and headed on the right road. Truly a case of symbiotic minds working together, because anyone will tell you that back at home I have trouble remembering where I put my shoes, phone and wallet, let alone some geometrically complicated set of directions in a foreign country.
Once I made it out of Cologne, finally, it was getting dark and I had at least 30 km to go to what my map indicated was a set of two camp areas near the town of Lindlar. I can smoke 30k if I need to in an hour. This is no problem, if I knew which way to go. I figured, I have about an hour and a half till dark, I’ll just hammer down, follow the signs and get there.
Follow the signs.
Well, the signs seemed to lead me in circles for 30 minutes or so. I seriously went over the same river 4 times, up and down what looked like different places on the same hill, and through around 45 identical looking little towns before I found the signs for Lindlar. It was darker and starting to rain.
The signs directed me onto highways filled with rush hour traffic from Cologne just now getting out to the country. When Germans get out of the city on the roads after work, its game day; I mean, there is no speed limit, and everyone drives a BMW or a Mercedes. In short, I had my life flash before my eyes more times getting to Lindlar then I’ve ever had riding to work in Manhattan. These guys haul ass, and they don’t care that you’re on the road.
Finally arriving at the vaunted metropolis of Lindlar, I stocked up on dinner foods per normal, grabbed some cash for the campsite, and headed out of town in the dusky rain. 15 minutes later when my third attempt to find the right road to the campsite failed, I asked a very nice woman who spoke a little English. What followed were another set of arcane directions involving taking three lefts and two rights, then your first exit from the first roundabout, the third from the second one, and riding up a huge hill. Of course, by the time I actually found the hill, it was fully dark and freezing cold.
If course when I actually got to the town where the camping was supposed to be, it wasn’t. So, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I purchased half a chicken from the lone street vendor figuring that I’d at least have something warm to eat whenever I got to wherever I was going. She explained, through her large drunk friend who supposedly spoke English that the camping was actually in the next town, which just happened to be down the other side of the hill I’d just spent 15 minutes climbing up.
When I descended the hill into the spooky darkness of the German forest below, the wind froze my hands and face. I needed to find a place to get warm. Finding no camping in the next town, I knocked on a door and was greeted by a well meaning housewife who indicated that the camping was in the next town. I felt like Cortez on his quest for Eldorado talking to the Indians. “Oh you mean THAT golden city. Yeah, that’s in the next town man, just keep walking that way. Thanks for the horses and smallpox!”
Finally, it was really and truly night. I was in a town that looked just like every other town I’d seen before, and figured I’d at least go get warm and grab a beer or something. Maybe someone at the bar would know a place to camp.
Walking in, I was greeted by a middle aged guy who looked like he knew how to drink beer, a charming older bar maid in glasses, and a blonde girl about my age who spoke perfect English. Thank God! She, I think, was looking for an excuse to get away from Johny von Grabby hands at the bar, and offered right away to drive me around looking for camping at all the surrounding towns.
Stefi was a graphic designer in Cologne who literally jumped up and down with excitement when she heard I was from New York. In our brief acquaintance, she drove me all over the area and translated for me in three separate bars. No luck. Finally, she talked to the owner of a local hotel about a block from the bar where we met, and I ended up with a great room, with private bathroom, for 30 Euro! Breakfast included! That is hands down the best deal I’ve yet found. Those little hotels man!
Of course, just like ordering drinks at a club, it helps when you show up with a very attractive blonde girl. As we returned to the bar where we met, I offered to buy her a few beers for helping me. I ended up discovering that the local brew was very good, and only .90 cents a glass. This coupled with the warm cozy bar and the German conversation made for a very good ending to what could have been a very crappy night of poaching a camping spot somewhere in the forest.
She came with me back to the hotel when I got tired to make sure that I got breakfast included with my room. On the way over, she talked about how she was going to New York for Revit training soon. I mentioned that I’d be happy to show her and her friend around the city. Then, she mentioned that she and that same friend were going to Oktoberfest in Munich the next day, and that she could arrange for me to come with.
I feel the need to paraphrase Ghostbusters here again; when the blond girl asks you to go to Oktoberfest in Munich with her and her girlfriend “you say YES!” Of course, it didn’t work out with the friend. Stefi texted me later that night with “bad news”, there was no room at the place they were staying. I’m sure the conversation with her friend actually went something like this: “You want to bring a smelly homeless biker that you just met at a bar with us to Munich for 4 days? ahhhhh..and I can’t believe I have to say this to you…no.”
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Heimbach to Altenahr
Route: Heimbach to Altenahr via Mechernich, Euskirchen and Bad Munstereifel
Distance: about 70 km
So, breaking spokes is just a normal part of life now. I woke up to a cloud covered morning sky next to my little meandering river. The clouds had held in the heat of the day, and I overslept comfy and warm in the sleeping bag for a change. Getting up, I just didn’t want to leave, but I knew I had to. A rest is fine, three days in one place isn’t a rest, its lack of motivation.
Somberly putting my gear into the bags, and checking over the bike I noticed that another spoke had gone sometime during my wandering around Heimbach and associated trails. That was two new spokes that I needed to replace. I was going to have to find a bike shop, and this meant going to a city. Also, while shaking out the tent, one of the main poles snapped. Duct tape to the rescue again, I hope. Once the pole breaks, it’s kind of hard to set up the tent!
I’m know that grandpa wanted to come home the entire war, based on his letters, but his prose definitely became more terse and to the point after the Battle of the Bulge. He is no longer full of boyish sayings like “in the last fracas the old boy got the silver star”. I’ll find some better quotes, but he is very tired of being in the war at this point. I think all the men were to some extent.
I am tired of being on the road and that is certain. Tomorrow marks my one month anniversary since leaving New York. That’s four long weeks away from Becky and home, three on the bike, and I’ve got two more ahead of me. She joked about me coming home early and Lord knows I would love to. I can’t help but feel, however, that if I did that, the story would only ¾ done, and I will have missed the end. So, just as the war wasn’t over in March 1945, I’m not done here and I will see it through.
Even though it was apparent that Germany was going to loose after the Bulge, they didn’t give up, and the war dragged on for three more months. They fought a defensive holding action all the way back to the Rhine River, and grandpas unit, after resting and training new replacements, went into the attack south of Bonn centered around a town called Ippendorf.
The Germans were trying desperately to maintain a bridgehead on the west side of the Rhine as an escape route for troops left behind after the Bulge, and as a jumping off point for another offensive that Hitler was planning. Contrary to popular belief, a large German army remained in the Ruhr Pocket, and they were a force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile, the Allies were trying staging troops and equipment for an assault across the Rhine to the north of the Ruhr. This was to be the final offensive of the war. If they could get across the river, only the smaller Elbe River stood between them and Berlin. The end was in sight, but it wasn’t done yet.
While grandpa was busy fighting to take Ippendorf and close the German salient west of the river, a sudden breakthrough came to the south. Elements of the 3rd Armored Division, under standing orders to take any intact bridge they could across the river, found one by shear luck at Remagen. The now famous Luddendorf Railway Bridge was taken intact by a platoon of Armored Infantry on the run. During the assault, the frantic Germans blew explosives which had been mounted to the bridge in an attempt to destroy it, and as many Americans with it as they could.
As soon as the Americans had crossed the bridge however, teams of combat engineers had gone to work disarming the explosives to the effect that, when they were detonated, they failed to fully destroy the bridge. While the engineers started to reinforce the damaged bridge, under a hail of machine gun, mortar, artillery, and last ditch Luftwaffe air raids, the 3rd Armored moved all of their heavy armor across as fast as possible, and a small, but defensible bridgehead on the east of Rhine had been established.
Upon hearing this news, the US 1rst Army starting putting as many units as they could across the damaged bridge while engineers built pontoon bridges to the north and south of the Luddendorf. All of this was done under heavy enemy fire, and some artillery units from the 7th armored were called into action defending the airspace around the bridge. Finally, the bridge collapsed, taking a lot of American lives with it. By then, however, the damage was done, and we were firmly across the Rhine.
Grandpas unit was called south to cross during the mad rush to get a bridgehead established, and breakout of the geographic confines around the east bank at Remagen. The 48th crossed the Rhine on March 24, 1945. I’m not as yet sure exactly how, but most likely on a Baily pontoon bridge. They then attacked east through the bridgehead, and spearheaded the allied advance into the heart of Germany.
My route will actually be the reverse due to the fact there are no bridges left at Remagen. I’ll go to Remagen, and work my way north up to Bonn, cross there and come back down south to visit some of the towns that the 48th took on their advance. I may let myself have the luxury of a hotel room in Bonn, we’ll see! Internet, showers, and clean clothes. Hmm.
And now for something completely different: I was sitting in my tent last night, contentedly feeding my nerdery by designing the perfect touring bike on some graph paper I had acquired at the market, when my reverie was disturbed by a very loud helicopter flying over. Being an aviation enthusiast to the most embarrassing degree, I find it impossible to not look up at the sky whenever some form of flying machine is present. It’s a conditioned response.
So, I stuck my head out of the tent, and saw a red and yellow painted Bell of some type I didn’t recognize flying directly over the field I was camped at. The site, I should mention, was completely surrounded by forested hills. He was flying over, and getting lower by the minute. Interesting, I thought, as I continued to watch from the apparent safety of my tent.
Suddenly, the whirlybird swung a hard left, and came around on a tight 180 directly over my tent. The pilot popped the door open, and looked down at me. I looked up at him. The whine of the engines, and the downwash from the rotor made me instinctively jump up out of the tent and stare up at this object as it continued to descend rapidly.
It took a while for it to occur to me that I was probably watching an emergency landing in progress. As the helicopter got down to treetop level, it swung out over the little stream in front of my site. With the pilot looking down from the open door like one does when backing up into a tight parking spot, he quickly brought the helicopter down gain to land perfectly in a soccer field filled with children directly across the stream.
I saw a mob of them run screaming from the chopper as the pilot powered down the aircraft. The engine exhaust finally subsided enough for me to hear the sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles. That was some damn good flying!
An ambulance came, along with some other vehicles. I couldn’t quite see because the helicopter was blocked from my view by some trees where it had come down. After about 20 minutes, the ambulance drove away, and the chopper powered up and took off, flying along over the hills as if nothing had happened.
After last night’s excitement, the route today, like the weather, was kind of a let down. I thought it was going to rain pretty much all day, I could see the low hanging grey clouds coming from the north. It never did, but as soon as I climbed out of the valley around Heimbach, bidding the amazing castle and little town goodbye on my way, the air turned damp and cold. October is almost here, and the weather is definably changing. The leaves are starting to be blown off the trees, and the farmers of all burning the fields, getting ready for winter.
The increasingly pained sounds coming from the back wheel, along with a noticeable shutter on the rotation told me that I had to get the wheel fixed, and fast, or I would be buying another one. I looked at the map and figured that a town the size of Mechernich should have a bike shop.
Passing from the tall hills covered with trees into the rolling farm land east of the Ruhr, I saw more cows than cyclists and, sure enough, when I arrived in the dumpy looking, graffiti coated town of my hopes, I was told that the only bike shop was in Euskirchen, some 15 km to the north.
I was again not sure if the wheel could make it that far. Well, that and it was 15 km out of the way to the north. That would mean a 30km detour in the middle of the day. Damn. Looking at the wheel, and weighing my options, I could see that going to Euskirchen was my only option.
Grandpa must have suffered from equipment failure all the time. An armored unit was always working its gear to the breaking point. The maintenance crews attacked to each armored division worked around the clock, under combat conditions, to make sure that they tanks and halftracks moved when they were supposed to. Theirs was truly a thankless job, toiling away in a muddy field in the middle of winter to change an engine in a tank. That was real work, but it had to be done. It was just as important as firing a rifle.
Euskirchen, I had been warned by the cute waitress from the café two days ago, was not a place I should go. I think she said, “It is bad there, don’t go.” Now, I live in New York City. I am used to some questionable neighborhoods, but the last thing I want to do is get stuck for a night in some messed up German ghetto.
True to her word, on arrival into this thriving metropolis filled with angry looking men in their 40’s staring at the streets from windows, and graffiti encrusted everything, I felt a little unwelcome in this stronghold. Taking a wrong turn on the bike path, and ending up in a not so great looking patch of woods from which I had to extricate myself by cutting a trail to the nearby highway, I came across a concrete overpass with a swastika spray painted on it.
This symbol, as with all other sayings, songs, related artwork, etc., is forbidden in Germany today. I’ve seen that emblem of hate painted on a thousand walls and in a thousand stalls all over the US, but there is something more palpable and potent about seeing it splattered roughly on a concrete wall under the highway here in the country of its misuse. It is as if the reason for the symbol lays dormant under this veneer of civilization. I turned away from it, and went the other way.
Finding a bike shop, in a crappy part of town, I met Jurgen, a friendly bike guy about my age. He took one look at my wheel, and quickly got to work replacing all my spokes. While he was in the shop, people kept coming into the shop and asking me for help. I felt like I was back at work in New York, and the only reason why I didn’t help out was the language barrier.
I get the sense that the stereotype of all German school kids learning English is really only true in the richer cities. Here in this working class, mostly Turkish, city the kids that came in did not speak a word of English, and to compound this, their parents spoke only Turkish.
Jurgen was running back and forth trying to explain to this one kid over and over again why a used bike was priced the way it was. When the kid bought the bike, and instantly brought it back to complain about the brake lines getting caught on the front reflector, I felt like I was in some German alternate bike universe with Jurgen playing my role. I’m not sure about all of what he said, but their conversation ended with Jurgen pointing to the reflector and saying “Shiza” repeatedly.
After a while, a friend of the shop came in and we chatted for a bit. Then I told them I was from New York, and worked in a shop there. Both of them looked at me funny and asked, “New York and you’re here? Why?” I explained the project and the book.
“Let me show you my bike!” Jurgen’s friend interrupted me. “It’s from New York too! You see?” He pulled out a German made dual suspension mountain bike roughly equivalent to a Specialized Epic.
“Yeah, nice wheels man!” I exclaimed, while Jurgen slowly tightened the new spokes. I was happy to get the service, but I also wanted to get back on the road.
After a few minutes of broken English discussion about Jurgen’s and his buddy’s bikes, the buddy pedaled out of the shop, and Jurgen presented me with a newly spoked rear wheel. I checked the bearings, and had him reset them. I think with all the commotion he just forgot to do it.
With more customers coming in, I told him to go ahead and try to sell some stuff while I set the brakes, and generally checked over the work. I noticed that he tightened the cassette down way too much, and I wanted to see what else he did. I mean, he was a really nice guy, but some mechanics just feel the need to tighten everything down like it had to hold back the vacuum of space.
Back on the road and running as fast as I could, I followed the signs for Bad Munsterereifel, a town surrounding a castle, still surrounded by its ancient walls. Germany has a great bike trail system. It’s not as extensive as The Netherlands, but you can still generally count on bike paths and trails to every major destination. Usually, the main highways ill also have corresponding paved bike paths running alongside them.
They are surprisingly not well marked, however, and more than once I had to double back or run around a little village asking for directions. I do feel now that I’m starting to get the logic behind these little medieval towns. There is, or was once, always a castle or church smack in the center. If the original town wall still exists, there is usually a park around these with a road built into it. If the walls are gone, they are the road. Either way, there is a serpentine road which runs around the center of town. If you get lost, just find the main orbiting road. Pretty easy.
Off of this road, there are several branches which lead in all directions. They are usually marked with the names of the large cities that they run towards. Sometimes, the streets are actually named for the cities that they lead to. In this case, it’s just a matter of riding the orbital road enough times to get used to the signs, and then pick the one with the name that most closely approximates your destination. So far this method has served me pretty well. That and a compass.
Pulling out of Bad Munstereifel, while feeling a pang of guilt for not stopping to check out the intact medieval castle and town, I soon found myself in the longest uphill I’ve yet had. 4 km straight up and gaining probably close to 300 meters. I glanced at my contourless map and surmised that I would be going over a pass at around 540 meters. That’s over 1500 feet up a rock pathway through the woods at the end of the day.
It took all the strength I could muster not to simply pull off to the side and camp in the trees. Back home, that just camping, but here you would get a sizable ticket. The Germans love their forests, and they love them untouched, which is great, but it also means that you end up camping in trailer parks with crappy bathrooms in less than desirable parts of whatever town you’re staying in. Currently, I’m adjacent to a heavily used railroad track and there is a bum rustling in the bushes behind my tent. Charming.
All of my effort was rewarded when I crossed out of the woods, and back onto the open road. Soon a long series of downhill switchbacks opened up before me, and I felt like James Bond swooshing down the narrow windy roads of Europe to the canyon below. My Surly with the bum rear wheel is a far cry from an Austin Martin, but what the hell.
At the bottom, I heard the sweet sound of yet another spoke breaking. Yes! Luckily, before I left Jurgen’s shop, I had him cut 10 extras for me!
Distance: about 70 km
So, breaking spokes is just a normal part of life now. I woke up to a cloud covered morning sky next to my little meandering river. The clouds had held in the heat of the day, and I overslept comfy and warm in the sleeping bag for a change. Getting up, I just didn’t want to leave, but I knew I had to. A rest is fine, three days in one place isn’t a rest, its lack of motivation.
Somberly putting my gear into the bags, and checking over the bike I noticed that another spoke had gone sometime during my wandering around Heimbach and associated trails. That was two new spokes that I needed to replace. I was going to have to find a bike shop, and this meant going to a city. Also, while shaking out the tent, one of the main poles snapped. Duct tape to the rescue again, I hope. Once the pole breaks, it’s kind of hard to set up the tent!
I’m know that grandpa wanted to come home the entire war, based on his letters, but his prose definitely became more terse and to the point after the Battle of the Bulge. He is no longer full of boyish sayings like “in the last fracas the old boy got the silver star”. I’ll find some better quotes, but he is very tired of being in the war at this point. I think all the men were to some extent.
I am tired of being on the road and that is certain. Tomorrow marks my one month anniversary since leaving New York. That’s four long weeks away from Becky and home, three on the bike, and I’ve got two more ahead of me. She joked about me coming home early and Lord knows I would love to. I can’t help but feel, however, that if I did that, the story would only ¾ done, and I will have missed the end. So, just as the war wasn’t over in March 1945, I’m not done here and I will see it through.
Even though it was apparent that Germany was going to loose after the Bulge, they didn’t give up, and the war dragged on for three more months. They fought a defensive holding action all the way back to the Rhine River, and grandpas unit, after resting and training new replacements, went into the attack south of Bonn centered around a town called Ippendorf.
The Germans were trying desperately to maintain a bridgehead on the west side of the Rhine as an escape route for troops left behind after the Bulge, and as a jumping off point for another offensive that Hitler was planning. Contrary to popular belief, a large German army remained in the Ruhr Pocket, and they were a force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile, the Allies were trying staging troops and equipment for an assault across the Rhine to the north of the Ruhr. This was to be the final offensive of the war. If they could get across the river, only the smaller Elbe River stood between them and Berlin. The end was in sight, but it wasn’t done yet.
While grandpa was busy fighting to take Ippendorf and close the German salient west of the river, a sudden breakthrough came to the south. Elements of the 3rd Armored Division, under standing orders to take any intact bridge they could across the river, found one by shear luck at Remagen. The now famous Luddendorf Railway Bridge was taken intact by a platoon of Armored Infantry on the run. During the assault, the frantic Germans blew explosives which had been mounted to the bridge in an attempt to destroy it, and as many Americans with it as they could.
As soon as the Americans had crossed the bridge however, teams of combat engineers had gone to work disarming the explosives to the effect that, when they were detonated, they failed to fully destroy the bridge. While the engineers started to reinforce the damaged bridge, under a hail of machine gun, mortar, artillery, and last ditch Luftwaffe air raids, the 3rd Armored moved all of their heavy armor across as fast as possible, and a small, but defensible bridgehead on the east of Rhine had been established.
Upon hearing this news, the US 1rst Army starting putting as many units as they could across the damaged bridge while engineers built pontoon bridges to the north and south of the Luddendorf. All of this was done under heavy enemy fire, and some artillery units from the 7th armored were called into action defending the airspace around the bridge. Finally, the bridge collapsed, taking a lot of American lives with it. By then, however, the damage was done, and we were firmly across the Rhine.
Grandpas unit was called south to cross during the mad rush to get a bridgehead established, and breakout of the geographic confines around the east bank at Remagen. The 48th crossed the Rhine on March 24, 1945. I’m not as yet sure exactly how, but most likely on a Baily pontoon bridge. They then attacked east through the bridgehead, and spearheaded the allied advance into the heart of Germany.
My route will actually be the reverse due to the fact there are no bridges left at Remagen. I’ll go to Remagen, and work my way north up to Bonn, cross there and come back down south to visit some of the towns that the 48th took on their advance. I may let myself have the luxury of a hotel room in Bonn, we’ll see! Internet, showers, and clean clothes. Hmm.
And now for something completely different: I was sitting in my tent last night, contentedly feeding my nerdery by designing the perfect touring bike on some graph paper I had acquired at the market, when my reverie was disturbed by a very loud helicopter flying over. Being an aviation enthusiast to the most embarrassing degree, I find it impossible to not look up at the sky whenever some form of flying machine is present. It’s a conditioned response.
So, I stuck my head out of the tent, and saw a red and yellow painted Bell of some type I didn’t recognize flying directly over the field I was camped at. The site, I should mention, was completely surrounded by forested hills. He was flying over, and getting lower by the minute. Interesting, I thought, as I continued to watch from the apparent safety of my tent.
Suddenly, the whirlybird swung a hard left, and came around on a tight 180 directly over my tent. The pilot popped the door open, and looked down at me. I looked up at him. The whine of the engines, and the downwash from the rotor made me instinctively jump up out of the tent and stare up at this object as it continued to descend rapidly.
It took a while for it to occur to me that I was probably watching an emergency landing in progress. As the helicopter got down to treetop level, it swung out over the little stream in front of my site. With the pilot looking down from the open door like one does when backing up into a tight parking spot, he quickly brought the helicopter down gain to land perfectly in a soccer field filled with children directly across the stream.
I saw a mob of them run screaming from the chopper as the pilot powered down the aircraft. The engine exhaust finally subsided enough for me to hear the sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles. That was some damn good flying!
An ambulance came, along with some other vehicles. I couldn’t quite see because the helicopter was blocked from my view by some trees where it had come down. After about 20 minutes, the ambulance drove away, and the chopper powered up and took off, flying along over the hills as if nothing had happened.
After last night’s excitement, the route today, like the weather, was kind of a let down. I thought it was going to rain pretty much all day, I could see the low hanging grey clouds coming from the north. It never did, but as soon as I climbed out of the valley around Heimbach, bidding the amazing castle and little town goodbye on my way, the air turned damp and cold. October is almost here, and the weather is definably changing. The leaves are starting to be blown off the trees, and the farmers of all burning the fields, getting ready for winter.
The increasingly pained sounds coming from the back wheel, along with a noticeable shutter on the rotation told me that I had to get the wheel fixed, and fast, or I would be buying another one. I looked at the map and figured that a town the size of Mechernich should have a bike shop.
Passing from the tall hills covered with trees into the rolling farm land east of the Ruhr, I saw more cows than cyclists and, sure enough, when I arrived in the dumpy looking, graffiti coated town of my hopes, I was told that the only bike shop was in Euskirchen, some 15 km to the north.
I was again not sure if the wheel could make it that far. Well, that and it was 15 km out of the way to the north. That would mean a 30km detour in the middle of the day. Damn. Looking at the wheel, and weighing my options, I could see that going to Euskirchen was my only option.
Grandpa must have suffered from equipment failure all the time. An armored unit was always working its gear to the breaking point. The maintenance crews attacked to each armored division worked around the clock, under combat conditions, to make sure that they tanks and halftracks moved when they were supposed to. Theirs was truly a thankless job, toiling away in a muddy field in the middle of winter to change an engine in a tank. That was real work, but it had to be done. It was just as important as firing a rifle.
Euskirchen, I had been warned by the cute waitress from the café two days ago, was not a place I should go. I think she said, “It is bad there, don’t go.” Now, I live in New York City. I am used to some questionable neighborhoods, but the last thing I want to do is get stuck for a night in some messed up German ghetto.
True to her word, on arrival into this thriving metropolis filled with angry looking men in their 40’s staring at the streets from windows, and graffiti encrusted everything, I felt a little unwelcome in this stronghold. Taking a wrong turn on the bike path, and ending up in a not so great looking patch of woods from which I had to extricate myself by cutting a trail to the nearby highway, I came across a concrete overpass with a swastika spray painted on it.
This symbol, as with all other sayings, songs, related artwork, etc., is forbidden in Germany today. I’ve seen that emblem of hate painted on a thousand walls and in a thousand stalls all over the US, but there is something more palpable and potent about seeing it splattered roughly on a concrete wall under the highway here in the country of its misuse. It is as if the reason for the symbol lays dormant under this veneer of civilization. I turned away from it, and went the other way.
Finding a bike shop, in a crappy part of town, I met Jurgen, a friendly bike guy about my age. He took one look at my wheel, and quickly got to work replacing all my spokes. While he was in the shop, people kept coming into the shop and asking me for help. I felt like I was back at work in New York, and the only reason why I didn’t help out was the language barrier.
I get the sense that the stereotype of all German school kids learning English is really only true in the richer cities. Here in this working class, mostly Turkish, city the kids that came in did not speak a word of English, and to compound this, their parents spoke only Turkish.
Jurgen was running back and forth trying to explain to this one kid over and over again why a used bike was priced the way it was. When the kid bought the bike, and instantly brought it back to complain about the brake lines getting caught on the front reflector, I felt like I was in some German alternate bike universe with Jurgen playing my role. I’m not sure about all of what he said, but their conversation ended with Jurgen pointing to the reflector and saying “Shiza” repeatedly.
After a while, a friend of the shop came in and we chatted for a bit. Then I told them I was from New York, and worked in a shop there. Both of them looked at me funny and asked, “New York and you’re here? Why?” I explained the project and the book.
“Let me show you my bike!” Jurgen’s friend interrupted me. “It’s from New York too! You see?” He pulled out a German made dual suspension mountain bike roughly equivalent to a Specialized Epic.
“Yeah, nice wheels man!” I exclaimed, while Jurgen slowly tightened the new spokes. I was happy to get the service, but I also wanted to get back on the road.
After a few minutes of broken English discussion about Jurgen’s and his buddy’s bikes, the buddy pedaled out of the shop, and Jurgen presented me with a newly spoked rear wheel. I checked the bearings, and had him reset them. I think with all the commotion he just forgot to do it.
With more customers coming in, I told him to go ahead and try to sell some stuff while I set the brakes, and generally checked over the work. I noticed that he tightened the cassette down way too much, and I wanted to see what else he did. I mean, he was a really nice guy, but some mechanics just feel the need to tighten everything down like it had to hold back the vacuum of space.
Back on the road and running as fast as I could, I followed the signs for Bad Munsterereifel, a town surrounding a castle, still surrounded by its ancient walls. Germany has a great bike trail system. It’s not as extensive as The Netherlands, but you can still generally count on bike paths and trails to every major destination. Usually, the main highways ill also have corresponding paved bike paths running alongside them.
They are surprisingly not well marked, however, and more than once I had to double back or run around a little village asking for directions. I do feel now that I’m starting to get the logic behind these little medieval towns. There is, or was once, always a castle or church smack in the center. If the original town wall still exists, there is usually a park around these with a road built into it. If the walls are gone, they are the road. Either way, there is a serpentine road which runs around the center of town. If you get lost, just find the main orbiting road. Pretty easy.
Off of this road, there are several branches which lead in all directions. They are usually marked with the names of the large cities that they run towards. Sometimes, the streets are actually named for the cities that they lead to. In this case, it’s just a matter of riding the orbital road enough times to get used to the signs, and then pick the one with the name that most closely approximates your destination. So far this method has served me pretty well. That and a compass.
Pulling out of Bad Munstereifel, while feeling a pang of guilt for not stopping to check out the intact medieval castle and town, I soon found myself in the longest uphill I’ve yet had. 4 km straight up and gaining probably close to 300 meters. I glanced at my contourless map and surmised that I would be going over a pass at around 540 meters. That’s over 1500 feet up a rock pathway through the woods at the end of the day.
It took all the strength I could muster not to simply pull off to the side and camp in the trees. Back home, that just camping, but here you would get a sizable ticket. The Germans love their forests, and they love them untouched, which is great, but it also means that you end up camping in trailer parks with crappy bathrooms in less than desirable parts of whatever town you’re staying in. Currently, I’m adjacent to a heavily used railroad track and there is a bum rustling in the bushes behind my tent. Charming.
All of my effort was rewarded when I crossed out of the woods, and back onto the open road. Soon a long series of downhill switchbacks opened up before me, and I felt like James Bond swooshing down the narrow windy roads of Europe to the canyon below. My Surly with the bum rear wheel is a far cry from an Austin Martin, but what the hell.
At the bottom, I heard the sweet sound of yet another spoke breaking. Yes! Luckily, before I left Jurgen’s shop, I had him cut 10 extras for me!
German Beer Is Stronger than American Beer.
Route: To the bathroom 47 times last night
Distance: About 100 m each way
You know when 30 beers are just not enough? Also, don’t you hate having to keep getting up and opening another normal sized can of beer every two seconds?
Well, the Germans, with typical efficiency, have solved this problem by making small kegs available for sale at practically every store, gas station, and vending machine that you see. While I definitely was tempted to go the “large” on beer with dinner last night, I knew that purchasing said keg was a commitment that this author was just not willing to make. Well, that and I couldn’t fit it into my backpack.
While speaking English with a wonderfully charming woman I met at the gas station named Mirium, I was running around the inside of the shop grabbing what few items one could term as food. This state of affairs for the evening meal came about because Germany, like France, closes down on Sundays as well. This was the only store in town that was open, and more importantly, took visa.
Mirium could sense that I wasn’t from Germany, and began our conversation by asking what I was doing in town, and if I had a place to stay. She quickly followed this up by saying that she had a husband and three boys, and I was welcome to sleep in the garage. Her husband is a cyclist from Wales, and they offer the garage to other cyclists who come through town.
I was, however, camped in the nicest spot I’ve had yet. It’s in an open grass field surrounded by steep forested hills, and right next to a fresh sounding river. I really wanted to stay where I was, plus I had already paid, so I regretfully turned down her generous offer knowing that I would probably get a lot of stories out of it.
Instead what I did was buy some cheese, salami and beer for dinner. I chose the smaller cousin of the pony keg, which I will term a goat keg. It was a large black can of beer, big enough to keep me happy, but small enough not to affect my performance the next day. This is, of course, before I got half way through it and realized that it was 10%, and by then the damage was already done.
Needless to say, this morning I awoke to the sunlight streaming through the tent, a headache the likes of which I haven’t had since college, and knew that I wasn’t going anywhere today. It was hard even pedaling down the hill to the only open café in town on Monday morning, where I wolfed a breakfast of coffee, various bread product, and cheese. I guess you can’t get omelets in Germany?
Oh well, I needed a rest, and now I’ve got one in the most beautiful little town I’ve yet found. After eating, I walked up to the castle, and climbed the great round watchtower to the top to get the view. The three gorges that this castle commands come together at the point of rock upon which it is perched. From the top of the tower, the little houses, streets and open spaces of the town below clung below the castle like barnacles on a rock at sea. The whole town is organic.
The other great thing about this part of Germany is that it was left pretty much intact by the war. By the time the Allies got this far, the Germans had pretty much all retreated back to the Rhine, which is around 40 km to the east of here. Thank God at least some of these towns and their history were preserved because it is amazingly gorgeous.
As I descended the tower, and rode back through the meandering cobble stones to the camp ground, bleary eyed locals were starting to stir and move about. Yesterday was Sunday, and the town had been filled with motorcyclists and tourists buzzing around, drinking beer, and hanging out at the outdoor cafes. This morning I felt like I was the only one left at the party.
I returned the café where I’d eaten because the locals all seem friendly, and they have power. For the price of a cup of coffee, I get to sit, relax and write to my hearts content. Not bad! Tonight, I will sleep soundly next to the river, the sound of the water running into my dreams, and tomorrow I will make the Rhine.
Distance: About 100 m each way
You know when 30 beers are just not enough? Also, don’t you hate having to keep getting up and opening another normal sized can of beer every two seconds?
Well, the Germans, with typical efficiency, have solved this problem by making small kegs available for sale at practically every store, gas station, and vending machine that you see. While I definitely was tempted to go the “large” on beer with dinner last night, I knew that purchasing said keg was a commitment that this author was just not willing to make. Well, that and I couldn’t fit it into my backpack.
While speaking English with a wonderfully charming woman I met at the gas station named Mirium, I was running around the inside of the shop grabbing what few items one could term as food. This state of affairs for the evening meal came about because Germany, like France, closes down on Sundays as well. This was the only store in town that was open, and more importantly, took visa.
Mirium could sense that I wasn’t from Germany, and began our conversation by asking what I was doing in town, and if I had a place to stay. She quickly followed this up by saying that she had a husband and three boys, and I was welcome to sleep in the garage. Her husband is a cyclist from Wales, and they offer the garage to other cyclists who come through town.
I was, however, camped in the nicest spot I’ve had yet. It’s in an open grass field surrounded by steep forested hills, and right next to a fresh sounding river. I really wanted to stay where I was, plus I had already paid, so I regretfully turned down her generous offer knowing that I would probably get a lot of stories out of it.
Instead what I did was buy some cheese, salami and beer for dinner. I chose the smaller cousin of the pony keg, which I will term a goat keg. It was a large black can of beer, big enough to keep me happy, but small enough not to affect my performance the next day. This is, of course, before I got half way through it and realized that it was 10%, and by then the damage was already done.
Needless to say, this morning I awoke to the sunlight streaming through the tent, a headache the likes of which I haven’t had since college, and knew that I wasn’t going anywhere today. It was hard even pedaling down the hill to the only open café in town on Monday morning, where I wolfed a breakfast of coffee, various bread product, and cheese. I guess you can’t get omelets in Germany?
Oh well, I needed a rest, and now I’ve got one in the most beautiful little town I’ve yet found. After eating, I walked up to the castle, and climbed the great round watchtower to the top to get the view. The three gorges that this castle commands come together at the point of rock upon which it is perched. From the top of the tower, the little houses, streets and open spaces of the town below clung below the castle like barnacles on a rock at sea. The whole town is organic.
The other great thing about this part of Germany is that it was left pretty much intact by the war. By the time the Allies got this far, the Germans had pretty much all retreated back to the Rhine, which is around 40 km to the east of here. Thank God at least some of these towns and their history were preserved because it is amazingly gorgeous.
As I descended the tower, and rode back through the meandering cobble stones to the camp ground, bleary eyed locals were starting to stir and move about. Yesterday was Sunday, and the town had been filled with motorcyclists and tourists buzzing around, drinking beer, and hanging out at the outdoor cafes. This morning I felt like I was the only one left at the party.
I returned the café where I’d eaten because the locals all seem friendly, and they have power. For the price of a cup of coffee, I get to sit, relax and write to my hearts content. Not bad! Tonight, I will sleep soundly next to the river, the sound of the water running into my dreams, and tomorrow I will make the Rhine.
Woffelbach to Heimbach
Route: Woffelbach to Heimbach via Schmidt
Distance: about 15 km
Ok, so you all can make fun if you want! I only made it 15 km today, yay! But, you guys should see this place. Steep hills covered with a green carpet of firs, bursting with bike trails, castles, Roman ruins, and really cool little towns every few km. I am in the Eifel Naturpark in Western Germany, so I never touched a highway today on my router here. Instead, I rode mountain bike trails all the way!
The only time I touched pavement was the lung pounding set of switchbacks I rode, up what was easily a 10% grade, to arrive at the village of Schmidt. This little eagles nest of a town is perched on the heights overlooking the Ruhrsee, a man-made lake that formed by the Ruhr River Dam. I camped on the lake last night, and today I was cycling its perimeter.
The reason why Schmidt was this important for me to see was that it was at the center of the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, which was the woods I was now riding through. While climbing the road into the uncut wilderness, it’s easy to see that having to fight here would have been a brutally horrific experience.
When Grandpa’s unit came here to rest and take on replacements after the Bulge, he was have been able to see the flashes of artillery and here the cracking of small arms echoing from the steep hills above his camp. For him and his men, the war was never far, even during a rest period.
Today for me, however, the war was the farthest thing from mind as I pedaled uphill out of Woffelbach. I was anxious to leave the sketchy “campground” that was really just a trailer park filled with goth kids and wasted looking dudes in their 40’s. Sometimes, I sleep with my bike inside the tent due to the rain, or neighborhood. In this case it was to present the endless parade of drunks walking through my site with slightly less of a target. One small problem that spoiled my quick getaway plans this morning, however, was that I discovered two broken spokes on my new rear wheel while pulling the bike inside the tent.
Fortunately, the Surly Long Haul Trucker comes with 2 replacement spokes cleverly attached to the rear wheel stays. It’s as if the designers at Surly are saying, “We know the wheels we spec’d on this bike are crap, so we’re going to attach the parts to build new ones on the bike for you!” Needless to say, I will be purchasing a quality set of wheels when I return to New York.
So, instead of leaving first thing this morning, I got to rebuild my wheel. Now, replacing a spoke isn’t the most difficult thing to do on a bike, but it does require you to tear down the rear wheel somewhat. This means, removing the tire and tube, the rim strip, and the rear cassette to allow for enough clearance to install the new spoke.
Whoever told me (Phil) that I didn’t need to bring cone wrenches, a hub tool and chain whip with me is going to get a strongly worded email whenever I can find another McDonalds! Just kidding dude, you rock. Point being, I have none of the proper tools to service my wheels, so I had to get creative with the spokes and it took a while.
The church bells rang 9am before I had my bike reassembled and ready to go. I should also point out that I noticed the bearings are already worn, and will need servicing very soon. I need to find a bike shop again! Thank you Shimano, I’m buying Phil hubs.
After monkeying around with maps, and two or three false starts, I found the right road out of town as the church bell toned 10. This is way too late to make real distance. Soon, the nice paved road I was riding turned into a rocky hiking trail, which was obviously going to follow the edge of the entire lake. The going was beautiful, but slow, and again not good for making distance.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting very far today, I finally adjusted my sight to the scenery. The virgin forest closed in around the trail. Huge stands of old growth timber stood up the steep hillside to my left, smaller scrub pine to my right running all the way to the waters edge. This was easily the most backcountry area I had yet found in Europe, and I rode my full packs and tenuous bearings down single-track, mountain biking my way around the lake.
Soon, I came to a quick uphill which was obviously joining a road grade coming down the hill from my left. With all of my muscle, I pulled the pedals and road the bike up out of the trees and into a paved parking lot with a signpost that read Schmidt in it. More uphill, but one of my major trip goals lay at the top.
On the top, in a field of well manicured grass, I sat on a bench and ate breakfast consisting of a pear while watching a grey cat that I had kicked out from over the bench, orbit me waiting for its home back.
Soon an old woman whom I had passed on the rail above came walking over to me and said hi.
“Nein Schprekin Duetsch”, I replied. “English?”
“Oh, nein.” She said, “Habla Espaniol?”
“Nein”
“Espaniol…” then started speaking German, but the gist of it was that I should at least learn Spanish because it’s one of the most international languages of the world.
I decide right then and there that my kids, if and when any arrive, will grow up speaking two languages. Maybe I could learn with them. If I didn’t, they would probably just make of me to my face in Spanish or German while they were growing up.
Not being bilingual, however, is one of the great regrets I have. This entire trip experience would have been so much richer if I knew French or German; thank you Central High School for tempting me with a live on TV Japanese course complete with a hot Japanese woman leading the class.
On the way back down the road, the dug-in defenses and earthworks were plainly evident. At every switchback on this narrow draw up the hill, a ditch was dug across. I imagined machine gun and mortar emplacements across the entire width. This combined with mines and barbed wire obstacles and supported with artillery, would have covered the very small and steep draw in a murderous field of fire. Attempting a ground assault up the hill would have been nothing short of suicide. That’s what the battle of Hurtgen Forest was like. By the time they got to Schmidt, four months of fighting, bombing and artillery had wiped the town off the face of the earth. The village today is brand new.
Soon, I rejoined the little rocky bike path through the woods. Luckily, it was all downhill through the woods. Coming around a corner, I head an ominous “twang” come from my back wheel. I knew instantly that I had just popped another spoke. Upon inspection, I found the two that I had just replaced this morning intact. Need a bike shop.
The rocks on the trail soon became sand. The sand became pavement. Then the pavement became filled with tourists taking pictures, and lazily blocking the bike path. I knew I was getting close to civilization. A quick hop across the highway, and down the backside of the huge earthen dam, and I was spinning along at the base of a steep canyon. The sun barely touches this little part of the world due to the steep hills on either side. The path was slick, and the air was cold.
While riding along the little river at the base of the canyon, I rounded a corner and saw a red stone fortress growing out of a rock outcropping above me. By the straight up and down round tower filled with arrow slits surrounded by the high palisades, I could tell that this castle was the real thing, probably dating from around 1000 a.d. Once I circled the base of the structure, I could tell that the keep and tower were strategically located to command the approaches of three similar gorges which converge at this point.
What were once peasant’s fields, and no doubt, battlegrounds, were now filled with children playing on swing sets and riding bikes next to the river while parents strolled in the sunlight. As I took in this scene, I realized that I was in Germany without a map, I had no cash, I was hungry, and my bike was breaking. Maybe it was time to stop, stay at this town, and plan my German strategy.
The town surrounding this castle was a perfect study in medieval mazes. Old wood frame and stucco houses, beer gardens, and shops arrayed on streets which radiated like the points of a star from the battlements above. I swung around the corner below the castle, and found street cafes filled with motorcyclists out from Aachen for a Sunday beer. Turning right and heading uphill, I fell in behind a young couple on bikes. They were slow, but passing was not an option due to the constant stream of motorcycles and sports cars screaming by. It was evident that we three cyclists were all heading to the castle.
We soon approached a very steep cobblestone pathway leading directly up to the portcullis, which was intact and was flanked by two round defensive towers. The girl in front of me hesitated, and stopped at the bottom while her boyfriend continued up the path. Instantly reverting to a 12 year old, I low geared past the stalled girl who was still straddling her bike and trying to get her boyfriends attention, and pro-rolled the whole grade up through the gates, through the outer keep, and into the castle itself!
What stopped me were two things: 1. I was being ridiculous. 2. I had just actually pedaled into an outdoor café filled people enjoying their lunch who all stopped and stared at the lost biker in their midst. Turning around as quickly as I could, and actually saying “I’m sorry” in English, I rode back down through the keep and out of the front gate while the blond couple with bikes smiled at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. At least I didn’t fall.
But, who knew that the castle was a restaurant? I guess there are so many of these things kicking around this part of Germany that I won’t be surprised if the next one I come across is a transmission repair shop or something.
What finally put the nail into the distance coffin today was stopping for the first hot meal I’ve had since Holland. Lunch at a sit down actual café, with real food, and real waitresses, what a treat! Not knowing what to order, I first got a beer (mistake) and next asked the cute English speaking waitress what I should order.
Two beers and some sort of bacon and cheese covered pancake later, it finally became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere today. This wasn’t out of any lack of trying. After eating, I got on my bike and climbed off along a road leading out of town thinking that I would give it a try at least. I ended up on a very busy and narrow mountain highway, headed the wrong direction.
Descending back into town, and passing the café where I had just eaten again, the waitress smiled when she saw struggling. She came over and helped me with directions to the camping area, which upon first inspection looked very much like the one I had just left. Trailers, white trash, lots of empty wine and beer bottles collected in the recycling bin.
Only when I road downhill, and waded through this disappointing muck, did I find the most amazing spot I’ve had yet in Europe! Imagine the smile on my face when I found this open field surrounded by high hills next to the river. I’m writing now with the sun shining down, my trusty Surly leaned against an oak tree and the sound of the river and wind as my only two muses.
This is without a doubt, the best spot I’ve found yet. I may have to stay another night here. Hell, even Grandpa took a rest during the war, and it is Sunday after all.
Distance: about 15 km
Ok, so you all can make fun if you want! I only made it 15 km today, yay! But, you guys should see this place. Steep hills covered with a green carpet of firs, bursting with bike trails, castles, Roman ruins, and really cool little towns every few km. I am in the Eifel Naturpark in Western Germany, so I never touched a highway today on my router here. Instead, I rode mountain bike trails all the way!
The only time I touched pavement was the lung pounding set of switchbacks I rode, up what was easily a 10% grade, to arrive at the village of Schmidt. This little eagles nest of a town is perched on the heights overlooking the Ruhrsee, a man-made lake that formed by the Ruhr River Dam. I camped on the lake last night, and today I was cycling its perimeter.
The reason why Schmidt was this important for me to see was that it was at the center of the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, which was the woods I was now riding through. While climbing the road into the uncut wilderness, it’s easy to see that having to fight here would have been a brutally horrific experience.
When Grandpa’s unit came here to rest and take on replacements after the Bulge, he was have been able to see the flashes of artillery and here the cracking of small arms echoing from the steep hills above his camp. For him and his men, the war was never far, even during a rest period.
Today for me, however, the war was the farthest thing from mind as I pedaled uphill out of Woffelbach. I was anxious to leave the sketchy “campground” that was really just a trailer park filled with goth kids and wasted looking dudes in their 40’s. Sometimes, I sleep with my bike inside the tent due to the rain, or neighborhood. In this case it was to present the endless parade of drunks walking through my site with slightly less of a target. One small problem that spoiled my quick getaway plans this morning, however, was that I discovered two broken spokes on my new rear wheel while pulling the bike inside the tent.
Fortunately, the Surly Long Haul Trucker comes with 2 replacement spokes cleverly attached to the rear wheel stays. It’s as if the designers at Surly are saying, “We know the wheels we spec’d on this bike are crap, so we’re going to attach the parts to build new ones on the bike for you!” Needless to say, I will be purchasing a quality set of wheels when I return to New York.
So, instead of leaving first thing this morning, I got to rebuild my wheel. Now, replacing a spoke isn’t the most difficult thing to do on a bike, but it does require you to tear down the rear wheel somewhat. This means, removing the tire and tube, the rim strip, and the rear cassette to allow for enough clearance to install the new spoke.
Whoever told me (Phil) that I didn’t need to bring cone wrenches, a hub tool and chain whip with me is going to get a strongly worded email whenever I can find another McDonalds! Just kidding dude, you rock. Point being, I have none of the proper tools to service my wheels, so I had to get creative with the spokes and it took a while.
The church bells rang 9am before I had my bike reassembled and ready to go. I should also point out that I noticed the bearings are already worn, and will need servicing very soon. I need to find a bike shop again! Thank you Shimano, I’m buying Phil hubs.
After monkeying around with maps, and two or three false starts, I found the right road out of town as the church bell toned 10. This is way too late to make real distance. Soon, the nice paved road I was riding turned into a rocky hiking trail, which was obviously going to follow the edge of the entire lake. The going was beautiful, but slow, and again not good for making distance.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting very far today, I finally adjusted my sight to the scenery. The virgin forest closed in around the trail. Huge stands of old growth timber stood up the steep hillside to my left, smaller scrub pine to my right running all the way to the waters edge. This was easily the most backcountry area I had yet found in Europe, and I rode my full packs and tenuous bearings down single-track, mountain biking my way around the lake.
Soon, I came to a quick uphill which was obviously joining a road grade coming down the hill from my left. With all of my muscle, I pulled the pedals and road the bike up out of the trees and into a paved parking lot with a signpost that read Schmidt in it. More uphill, but one of my major trip goals lay at the top.
On the top, in a field of well manicured grass, I sat on a bench and ate breakfast consisting of a pear while watching a grey cat that I had kicked out from over the bench, orbit me waiting for its home back.
Soon an old woman whom I had passed on the rail above came walking over to me and said hi.
“Nein Schprekin Duetsch”, I replied. “English?”
“Oh, nein.” She said, “Habla Espaniol?”
“Nein”
“Espaniol…” then started speaking German, but the gist of it was that I should at least learn Spanish because it’s one of the most international languages of the world.
I decide right then and there that my kids, if and when any arrive, will grow up speaking two languages. Maybe I could learn with them. If I didn’t, they would probably just make of me to my face in Spanish or German while they were growing up.
Not being bilingual, however, is one of the great regrets I have. This entire trip experience would have been so much richer if I knew French or German; thank you Central High School for tempting me with a live on TV Japanese course complete with a hot Japanese woman leading the class.
On the way back down the road, the dug-in defenses and earthworks were plainly evident. At every switchback on this narrow draw up the hill, a ditch was dug across. I imagined machine gun and mortar emplacements across the entire width. This combined with mines and barbed wire obstacles and supported with artillery, would have covered the very small and steep draw in a murderous field of fire. Attempting a ground assault up the hill would have been nothing short of suicide. That’s what the battle of Hurtgen Forest was like. By the time they got to Schmidt, four months of fighting, bombing and artillery had wiped the town off the face of the earth. The village today is brand new.
Soon, I rejoined the little rocky bike path through the woods. Luckily, it was all downhill through the woods. Coming around a corner, I head an ominous “twang” come from my back wheel. I knew instantly that I had just popped another spoke. Upon inspection, I found the two that I had just replaced this morning intact. Need a bike shop.
The rocks on the trail soon became sand. The sand became pavement. Then the pavement became filled with tourists taking pictures, and lazily blocking the bike path. I knew I was getting close to civilization. A quick hop across the highway, and down the backside of the huge earthen dam, and I was spinning along at the base of a steep canyon. The sun barely touches this little part of the world due to the steep hills on either side. The path was slick, and the air was cold.
While riding along the little river at the base of the canyon, I rounded a corner and saw a red stone fortress growing out of a rock outcropping above me. By the straight up and down round tower filled with arrow slits surrounded by the high palisades, I could tell that this castle was the real thing, probably dating from around 1000 a.d. Once I circled the base of the structure, I could tell that the keep and tower were strategically located to command the approaches of three similar gorges which converge at this point.
What were once peasant’s fields, and no doubt, battlegrounds, were now filled with children playing on swing sets and riding bikes next to the river while parents strolled in the sunlight. As I took in this scene, I realized that I was in Germany without a map, I had no cash, I was hungry, and my bike was breaking. Maybe it was time to stop, stay at this town, and plan my German strategy.
The town surrounding this castle was a perfect study in medieval mazes. Old wood frame and stucco houses, beer gardens, and shops arrayed on streets which radiated like the points of a star from the battlements above. I swung around the corner below the castle, and found street cafes filled with motorcyclists out from Aachen for a Sunday beer. Turning right and heading uphill, I fell in behind a young couple on bikes. They were slow, but passing was not an option due to the constant stream of motorcycles and sports cars screaming by. It was evident that we three cyclists were all heading to the castle.
We soon approached a very steep cobblestone pathway leading directly up to the portcullis, which was intact and was flanked by two round defensive towers. The girl in front of me hesitated, and stopped at the bottom while her boyfriend continued up the path. Instantly reverting to a 12 year old, I low geared past the stalled girl who was still straddling her bike and trying to get her boyfriends attention, and pro-rolled the whole grade up through the gates, through the outer keep, and into the castle itself!
What stopped me were two things: 1. I was being ridiculous. 2. I had just actually pedaled into an outdoor café filled people enjoying their lunch who all stopped and stared at the lost biker in their midst. Turning around as quickly as I could, and actually saying “I’m sorry” in English, I rode back down through the keep and out of the front gate while the blond couple with bikes smiled at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. At least I didn’t fall.
But, who knew that the castle was a restaurant? I guess there are so many of these things kicking around this part of Germany that I won’t be surprised if the next one I come across is a transmission repair shop or something.
What finally put the nail into the distance coffin today was stopping for the first hot meal I’ve had since Holland. Lunch at a sit down actual café, with real food, and real waitresses, what a treat! Not knowing what to order, I first got a beer (mistake) and next asked the cute English speaking waitress what I should order.
Two beers and some sort of bacon and cheese covered pancake later, it finally became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere today. This wasn’t out of any lack of trying. After eating, I got on my bike and climbed off along a road leading out of town thinking that I would give it a try at least. I ended up on a very busy and narrow mountain highway, headed the wrong direction.
Descending back into town, and passing the café where I had just eaten again, the waitress smiled when she saw struggling. She came over and helped me with directions to the camping area, which upon first inspection looked very much like the one I had just left. Trailers, white trash, lots of empty wine and beer bottles collected in the recycling bin.
Only when I road downhill, and waded through this disappointing muck, did I find the most amazing spot I’ve had yet in Europe! Imagine the smile on my face when I found this open field surrounded by high hills next to the river. I’m writing now with the sun shining down, my trusty Surly leaned against an oak tree and the sound of the river and wind as my only two muses.
This is without a doubt, the best spot I’ve found yet. I may have to stay another night here. Hell, even Grandpa took a rest during the war, and it is Sunday after all.
St. Vith to Woffelsbach
Route: St. Vith to Woffelsbach, Germany via Waimes, Butgenbach, Monschau, Simmerath and Steckenborn
Distance: about 80 km
I am leaving St. Vith today! I’m headed north into Western Germany to a town called Steckenborn. The chances of me making it there today are slim because the country I’m coming into now becomes more mountainous.
Ok, did I say it was “all down hill from here” at one point? It most certainly was mostly uphill today. I gained about 500 meters coming into Monschau. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was great to be able to leave St. Vith today. After dropping of a couple of post cards at the post, and thanking Christine one more time for her help with my credit card problems, I was off!
The first 12 km were a breeze up the old railroad grade bike path to Waimes. Grandpa had come back and staged at Waimes before retaking St. Vith in Jan. 1945, so I wanted to see it. It looked like every other little town in this part of Belgium, church in the middle, houses around the church, countryside around the houses. Forgive me if I’m getting a little flippant with this paradigm, but can you tell that I’m ready for a change?
Enter Germany. I knew that I stood a good chance of making it to Germany today, I just wasn’t sure of the grades. Riding off of the bike path back onto highways after Waimes was a bit of a let down, but I knew that the German frontier wasn’t far. It was, however, pretty much all uphill.
As I ran uphill, ipod playing a great mix of ACDC, Hi Tek and The Roots into my ears, I gradually became aware that I had left the valleys below, and was surrounded by fir trees once again. The signs all warned of death and had a skull depicted on them to either side of the road. Others read “zone militarie”. It was apparent that I wasn’t supposed to go into the woods. Maybe there were still mines from the war?
It was actually the German frontier, now demilitarized, but a few years ago filled with troops, army bases and border police. No one knows border security better than the Germans! Now with the EU, all such frivolities are a thing of the past. I got the sense that I was riding through a layer cake of fear; first with Hitler’s West Wall defense, then with the cold war borders.
Coming down from the tree coated highlands which separate the two countries, the only indicator that I had passed the border was that everyone was out mowing their well maintained lawns, in their well maintained suburbs, on their perfectly maintained streets complete with paved bike lanes. How can I complain about separate paved bikes lanes? Sure, the people are a little stiff, and the drivers are crazier than New York, but the bike lanes are great!
I was riding toward several towns whose names held a meaning to me. Simmerath, Steckenborn, and Monschau. All of these towns had played a major role in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest. This lesser known battle of the war is lesser known because it was a needless bloodbath, perpetuated once begun, by imbecilic officers who did not know how to stop it once it started. There was no stated tactical objective except to “kill Germans” the hills surrounding the Ruhr River Valley. What started in September 1944 as a small mission to clear a section of woods threatening the allied southern flank, turned into a 5 month extravaganza, completely separate from the Battle of the Bulge, which killed over 50,000 Americans and God knows how many Germans.
The fighting centered around a forested area near, but not directly adjacent to, the Ruhr River, which ha hydroelectric dams at a few points, creating lakes like the one I’m camped at now. The Germans held the total advantage during this fight. They were snug in well prepared defensive positions, in possession of the high ground in all case, with pre sited artillery a phone call away. In short, they slaughtered over 7 American infantry and 3 armored divisions in the months around the Battle of the Bulge.
Why don’t we hear about this battle? Because it was a huge mistake. There was never any need to send so many American’s to die in this forest. It wasn’t until Feb. 1945 that the dams over the Ruhr River were identified as military objectives (4 months into the battle), and in the end, the Germans opened the floodgates on these, and slowed the Allied advance to the Rhine by weeks. In this light, it was a German victory through and through.
Anyway, when Grandpa was posted here after the bulge, his unit had suffered over 50% casualties. They needed a quiet place to rest and train, before heading back into the fray. The town of Steckenborn was quiet only because it was 4 miles from the front. No doubt during this entire period of rest, grandpa could here the guns fringing the distance.
I came across a pack of middle aged German cyclists today. They were all clustered around a series of signs at a node in the cycling trails in the town of Born, Belgium. I needed directions, and as soon as I opened my mouth indicating that I spoke English, a series of people shouted back, in a European game of telephone, calling for “Suzette!” Suzette evidently was the only one who spoke English.
Now, I really like the Belgian bike trails. They really are top notch, except of course Holland’s but that’s another story. The only thing is the navigation system. It is confusing as all hell. Each little piece of trail seems to have a random number associated with it.
Distance: about 80 km
I am leaving St. Vith today! I’m headed north into Western Germany to a town called Steckenborn. The chances of me making it there today are slim because the country I’m coming into now becomes more mountainous.
Ok, did I say it was “all down hill from here” at one point? It most certainly was mostly uphill today. I gained about 500 meters coming into Monschau. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was great to be able to leave St. Vith today. After dropping of a couple of post cards at the post, and thanking Christine one more time for her help with my credit card problems, I was off!
The first 12 km were a breeze up the old railroad grade bike path to Waimes. Grandpa had come back and staged at Waimes before retaking St. Vith in Jan. 1945, so I wanted to see it. It looked like every other little town in this part of Belgium, church in the middle, houses around the church, countryside around the houses. Forgive me if I’m getting a little flippant with this paradigm, but can you tell that I’m ready for a change?
Enter Germany. I knew that I stood a good chance of making it to Germany today, I just wasn’t sure of the grades. Riding off of the bike path back onto highways after Waimes was a bit of a let down, but I knew that the German frontier wasn’t far. It was, however, pretty much all uphill.
As I ran uphill, ipod playing a great mix of ACDC, Hi Tek and The Roots into my ears, I gradually became aware that I had left the valleys below, and was surrounded by fir trees once again. The signs all warned of death and had a skull depicted on them to either side of the road. Others read “zone militarie”. It was apparent that I wasn’t supposed to go into the woods. Maybe there were still mines from the war?
It was actually the German frontier, now demilitarized, but a few years ago filled with troops, army bases and border police. No one knows border security better than the Germans! Now with the EU, all such frivolities are a thing of the past. I got the sense that I was riding through a layer cake of fear; first with Hitler’s West Wall defense, then with the cold war borders.
Coming down from the tree coated highlands which separate the two countries, the only indicator that I had passed the border was that everyone was out mowing their well maintained lawns, in their well maintained suburbs, on their perfectly maintained streets complete with paved bike lanes. How can I complain about separate paved bikes lanes? Sure, the people are a little stiff, and the drivers are crazier than New York, but the bike lanes are great!
I was riding toward several towns whose names held a meaning to me. Simmerath, Steckenborn, and Monschau. All of these towns had played a major role in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest. This lesser known battle of the war is lesser known because it was a needless bloodbath, perpetuated once begun, by imbecilic officers who did not know how to stop it once it started. There was no stated tactical objective except to “kill Germans” the hills surrounding the Ruhr River Valley. What started in September 1944 as a small mission to clear a section of woods threatening the allied southern flank, turned into a 5 month extravaganza, completely separate from the Battle of the Bulge, which killed over 50,000 Americans and God knows how many Germans.
The fighting centered around a forested area near, but not directly adjacent to, the Ruhr River, which ha hydroelectric dams at a few points, creating lakes like the one I’m camped at now. The Germans held the total advantage during this fight. They were snug in well prepared defensive positions, in possession of the high ground in all case, with pre sited artillery a phone call away. In short, they slaughtered over 7 American infantry and 3 armored divisions in the months around the Battle of the Bulge.
Why don’t we hear about this battle? Because it was a huge mistake. There was never any need to send so many American’s to die in this forest. It wasn’t until Feb. 1945 that the dams over the Ruhr River were identified as military objectives (4 months into the battle), and in the end, the Germans opened the floodgates on these, and slowed the Allied advance to the Rhine by weeks. In this light, it was a German victory through and through.
Anyway, when Grandpa was posted here after the bulge, his unit had suffered over 50% casualties. They needed a quiet place to rest and train, before heading back into the fray. The town of Steckenborn was quiet only because it was 4 miles from the front. No doubt during this entire period of rest, grandpa could here the guns fringing the distance.
I came across a pack of middle aged German cyclists today. They were all clustered around a series of signs at a node in the cycling trails in the town of Born, Belgium. I needed directions, and as soon as I opened my mouth indicating that I spoke English, a series of people shouted back, in a European game of telephone, calling for “Suzette!” Suzette evidently was the only one who spoke English.
Now, I really like the Belgian bike trails. They really are top notch, except of course Holland’s but that’s another story. The only thing is the navigation system. It is confusing as all hell. Each little piece of trail seems to have a random number associated with it.
St. Vith to Recht
Route: St. Vith to Recht via bike trails, looped return to St. Vith via Neder-Emmels
Distance: about 20 km
You can tell when you’ve been someplace for too long. For me it’s a strange combination of being annoyed with things that become routine, contrasted with an unforeseen nostalgia about things that I know I will miss.
Case in point: A very loud middle aged couple moved into the campsite across the way. I should say, they came to their private vacation mobile home. The woman, a small shrewish looking creature, is constantly babbling on and on while the man simply says “ya” every now and then. I can even here her at night from inside their camper. Their entire relationship seems to be a series of arguments, some loud, some slightly quieter, but always fighting. As I write this, the man is mowing the lawn of the place about 5 feet from my tent. It’s time to leave.
Thank whatever God or spirit you believe in, because today I went to see Christine, and (light shining down from heaven) my credit card arrived! Finally! I can leave!
When I do leave, though, I leave behind a few people with whom I feel like I’ve formed friendships; Andrea and her brother Freddy to name a couple. Christine at the post office sort of too, as well as Stephen at the computer store who I have seen around town a few times and had a few words with. He’s really curious about New York. I really got along with Freddy though, and I had a blast riding trails with him.
It’s strange, of course I never intended to stay for 5 days, but after this time I do know this place very well. I’m familiar with all the bike paths and the side streets. I know the history, and some of the local culture. This little town reminds me, in a way, of the place where I grew up in the Willamette Valley. It’s about the same size, and the same age oddly, and is beginning to exert the same repulsive force. Maybe that’s why there is no one between the ages of 17 and 40 in town.
Most of all, I do think it’s an interesting point that I had to stay here for the same length of time as grandpa; 5 days. His coming here was definitely not by choice, but he certainly couldn’t leave until someone said ok. In a way, my credit card showing up now is like receiving the order to move out.
The overall conclusion based on my time here is that this trip has now passed a marker of sorts. It is past the midway point. I’ve got less than 3 weeks left, and the rest of my time will be spent visiting simple areas for one night and moving on, as grandpa did during the spring of 1945 when the war was winding down.
In a sense, for him, the war was far from over after the Bulge, he went on to fight for 6 more months, but there was no longer any uncertainty over who would win. In that same vein, I know now that I’m heading into Germany and that once I do, it will be seen in a quick succession of cities, towns and other locations that Grandpa fought through on his way to the Baltic.
None will likely hold me as long as St. Vith, or remain as fixed in my memory as being in the place where the whole tide of the war hinged and turned in favor of the Allies. Certainly, for me, this place will always be the location that was a high point of this trip.
Today’s ride took me back up into the forest trails above Poteau and Recht in the general location where I know grandpa’s unit was during the opening days of the battle. I was hoping to find something more tangible like a sign saying “48th AIB Fought Here” with an arrow pointing to a line of trenches.
Yesterday, while riding with Freddy, he mentioned that he has always wanted to see the great American Civil War battlefields like Gettysburg and Manassas. I told him that they were very different for a number of reasons, but I think the most striking one is that every little action is marked by a sign, or a gravestone, or a line of cannon standing as if ready to fire. We love to celebrate our battles in America. Every American battlefield of this scale is marked, sometimes costs a fee to enter, and has everything from a snack bar to a self-guided kiosk where you pick up and drop off your digital players.
Riding through the pock marked forest again today, and seeing the shell holes, trenches and fragments of shrapnel lying around, I thought it was fitting, maybe even better, not to have turned this battlefield into an amusement park. Battles have been fought on these hills since the times of the Romans, and maybe will be fought here again. Better to forget about it, and go on with life as St. Vith has done; a town literally built on the ruins of its former self.
As I reached the northern edge of the woods, I saw a very intact line of trenches running alongside the road. At first, I thought they were simply drainage ditches, but when it continued for at least a mile and had branch trenches running off at all major crossroads, I realized that I was staring at the front line defenses of CCA. These must have been the trenches near where grandpa was.
It’s exactly the location on the maps, and the spacing of the foxholes and alignment with the forest edge is correct for a defensive line of the period. Every so often, there was a larger open space surrounded by ditches like a mini castle with a moat. These would have been field guns like 105 field guns and 155 howitzers. In between, men would have lined these trenches and laid in the dirt throwing off attack after attack from the Germans trying to come up the hill from the North, and into these trees.
I looked for some shrapnel, or other paraphernalia of war, but these trenches have been here on this main bike trail for 65 years. They are picked clean, overgrown with tall trees, and full of underbrush. To get the good stuff, you have to go way up on the hills east of here, and walk into the woods off the trails. It’s a little nerve-wracking because you never know if there’s a bomb or a mine or something left buried.
As I mentioned in my last posting, Freddy laughed at me when I asked him about this as we were traipsing about the forest. Never mind that every single guide book states not to do this in very bold print. He’s been at it most of his life. Still, on my hike this evening to the top of the ridge overlooking the campground, I was a little scared to go off trail and follow the trenches I found the other night. I supposed that’s a testament to the power of war.
Don’t worry parents I still have all of my limbs.
Distance: about 20 km
You can tell when you’ve been someplace for too long. For me it’s a strange combination of being annoyed with things that become routine, contrasted with an unforeseen nostalgia about things that I know I will miss.
Case in point: A very loud middle aged couple moved into the campsite across the way. I should say, they came to their private vacation mobile home. The woman, a small shrewish looking creature, is constantly babbling on and on while the man simply says “ya” every now and then. I can even here her at night from inside their camper. Their entire relationship seems to be a series of arguments, some loud, some slightly quieter, but always fighting. As I write this, the man is mowing the lawn of the place about 5 feet from my tent. It’s time to leave.
Thank whatever God or spirit you believe in, because today I went to see Christine, and (light shining down from heaven) my credit card arrived! Finally! I can leave!
When I do leave, though, I leave behind a few people with whom I feel like I’ve formed friendships; Andrea and her brother Freddy to name a couple. Christine at the post office sort of too, as well as Stephen at the computer store who I have seen around town a few times and had a few words with. He’s really curious about New York. I really got along with Freddy though, and I had a blast riding trails with him.
It’s strange, of course I never intended to stay for 5 days, but after this time I do know this place very well. I’m familiar with all the bike paths and the side streets. I know the history, and some of the local culture. This little town reminds me, in a way, of the place where I grew up in the Willamette Valley. It’s about the same size, and the same age oddly, and is beginning to exert the same repulsive force. Maybe that’s why there is no one between the ages of 17 and 40 in town.
Most of all, I do think it’s an interesting point that I had to stay here for the same length of time as grandpa; 5 days. His coming here was definitely not by choice, but he certainly couldn’t leave until someone said ok. In a way, my credit card showing up now is like receiving the order to move out.
The overall conclusion based on my time here is that this trip has now passed a marker of sorts. It is past the midway point. I’ve got less than 3 weeks left, and the rest of my time will be spent visiting simple areas for one night and moving on, as grandpa did during the spring of 1945 when the war was winding down.
In a sense, for him, the war was far from over after the Bulge, he went on to fight for 6 more months, but there was no longer any uncertainty over who would win. In that same vein, I know now that I’m heading into Germany and that once I do, it will be seen in a quick succession of cities, towns and other locations that Grandpa fought through on his way to the Baltic.
None will likely hold me as long as St. Vith, or remain as fixed in my memory as being in the place where the whole tide of the war hinged and turned in favor of the Allies. Certainly, for me, this place will always be the location that was a high point of this trip.
Today’s ride took me back up into the forest trails above Poteau and Recht in the general location where I know grandpa’s unit was during the opening days of the battle. I was hoping to find something more tangible like a sign saying “48th AIB Fought Here” with an arrow pointing to a line of trenches.
Yesterday, while riding with Freddy, he mentioned that he has always wanted to see the great American Civil War battlefields like Gettysburg and Manassas. I told him that they were very different for a number of reasons, but I think the most striking one is that every little action is marked by a sign, or a gravestone, or a line of cannon standing as if ready to fire. We love to celebrate our battles in America. Every American battlefield of this scale is marked, sometimes costs a fee to enter, and has everything from a snack bar to a self-guided kiosk where you pick up and drop off your digital players.
Riding through the pock marked forest again today, and seeing the shell holes, trenches and fragments of shrapnel lying around, I thought it was fitting, maybe even better, not to have turned this battlefield into an amusement park. Battles have been fought on these hills since the times of the Romans, and maybe will be fought here again. Better to forget about it, and go on with life as St. Vith has done; a town literally built on the ruins of its former self.
As I reached the northern edge of the woods, I saw a very intact line of trenches running alongside the road. At first, I thought they were simply drainage ditches, but when it continued for at least a mile and had branch trenches running off at all major crossroads, I realized that I was staring at the front line defenses of CCA. These must have been the trenches near where grandpa was.
It’s exactly the location on the maps, and the spacing of the foxholes and alignment with the forest edge is correct for a defensive line of the period. Every so often, there was a larger open space surrounded by ditches like a mini castle with a moat. These would have been field guns like 105 field guns and 155 howitzers. In between, men would have lined these trenches and laid in the dirt throwing off attack after attack from the Germans trying to come up the hill from the North, and into these trees.
I looked for some shrapnel, or other paraphernalia of war, but these trenches have been here on this main bike trail for 65 years. They are picked clean, overgrown with tall trees, and full of underbrush. To get the good stuff, you have to go way up on the hills east of here, and walk into the woods off the trails. It’s a little nerve-wracking because you never know if there’s a bomb or a mine or something left buried.
As I mentioned in my last posting, Freddy laughed at me when I asked him about this as we were traipsing about the forest. Never mind that every single guide book states not to do this in very bold print. He’s been at it most of his life. Still, on my hike this evening to the top of the ridge overlooking the campground, I was a little scared to go off trail and follow the trenches I found the other night. I supposed that’s a testament to the power of war.
Don’t worry parents I still have all of my limbs.
Location: St. Vith
Weather: Rainy
Trip Status: Credit Card Crisis Day 19
I received a text message from my sister, Mary. She is a new mother, and Mom visits her a lot. It said simply “Mom wants to know if your still alive.” This also represents the first communication from Mary on this trip. Dryness runs in the family, and it made me miss her.
No card today. I went to the post office first thing and was confronted with a completely new set of people at the windows than on the previous two days. They had no idea what I was talking about when I went to the window and asked about my letter from Holland. They also both didn’t speak a word of English. It was just like going to the post office in New York.
After a very frustrating 10 minutes trying to explain what it was I was looking for in very limited French, a woman who spoke English finally came to the window. Jennifer was a kind looking blond haired German in her mid-40’s. She asked about my trip, what I was doing, what it was about. She seemed to care about who I was and why I was trying so hard to get this package. She will check for me in the mail bags first thing tomorrow morning and, with some luck, it will be there. She stressed being patient with the Belgian mail system. I can’t really explain to anyone just how patient I’ve been. It’s been fully three weeks since I ordered the new card. I probably could have crossed the ocean in a rowboat by now.
Oh well, I have to think positively. That will give me ample time to check out everything around here in detail, and then some. Due to the rainy cold weather, I’ve made another comb through on the reports, so I have a very detailed idea of grandpa’s locations during the whole battle. It’s amazing that so many men died fighting over this little town in the forest. It’s a small town today so in 1944 it must have been a tiny village.
All in all, today was kind of disappointing. I was expecting the card to arrive at the post, it didn’t and then it rained. Camping in the rain has never been very much fun, although I do retain many fond memories from doing just that as a kid with the family. I remember for a while there, it seemed like we picked the rainy weekends to go camping on purpose. I guess a fringe benefit is that only a select group of people (crazy) go camping in the rain, so you have the forest to yourself.
The day wasn’t a total waste, however. I went to meet Freddy at the family hotel at 3pm as planned. The building itself sits on a long private driveway leading into a ring of fir trees surrounding a pond. There are classical statues of women in various states of undress around the pond. The hotel is an older-looking building probably salvaged from the war because it had been slightly out of town at that time.
I was a little early, and I waited inside the dining room. It was such formal German hunting lodge atmosphere complete with ticking clock, dark wood paneling festooned with ancient looking tapestries and paintings of men from the 1830’s riding horses and blowing bugles while dogs did most of the work.
A woman of about 28 was busy setting the tables for the dinner hour, 3 glasses, 5 forks, seventeen knives and thirty seven bowls to a setting. A glance at the menu let me know the type of clientele the place serves; $400 a plate for a full dinner. Yeah. The amazing thing is that people actually fill this place every night. It’s well known locally, and the chef is excellent.
The chef is, in fact, Freddy who was walking through the door precisely at 3pm excusing himself for being late, and offering me a cup of fresh coffee while he changed into his bike gear. I didn’t really want one, but it quickly became apparent that I was having a coffee and that was that. He snapped his fingers, and the woman who was setting the table went to the bar and starting making me a strong Belgian coffee.
“She will make your coffee, and I will change ok?” Freddy said.
“Ok”
Freddy is a fit man in his 40’s. He rides a German custom built hard tail mountain bike with a Fox fork, some very nice looking hydraulic disk brakes of a type new to me, full Shimano XT and XTR components and Rovell wheels. The bike is about as good a hardtail as money can buy. And, I could tell by the mud splotches it gets used.
The clock continued to tick inside the cavernous wooden hall while my coffee was presented, in correct serving manner, in a small mug and saucer set with Belgium sweet cream, a sugar cube with the hotel’s name on it, and a cookie.
“Danke.” I said to the woman, feeling a little guilty that she had to make this and serve me like some feudal lord.
“No problem.” She replied.
“Oh, English! Thanks so much for the coffee. My name is Gavin.” I held out my hand.
“Rosanna.” She said, while eying my outstretched hand for a second before quickly shaking it and returning to setting the tables.
The clock ticked some more while I loudly sipped my coffee. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a chicken clucking and rattling its cage emanating from the kitchen.
“Do you guys have a chicken in there?” I asked Rosanna.
She looked at me funny.
“A chicken?” I asked again?
“I’m sorry, my English is …”
“Oh” I got why she was so quiet now.
This study in awkwardness ended when Freddy returned to find me mimicking a chicken with my arms and pointing at the kitchen while repeating the words “chicken” and “egg” over and over again with Rosanna staring at me with a slight grin on her face. I think she thought I was mentally handicapped.
As we pedaled down the tree lined driveway out to the mean streets of St. Vith, we came to the base of a rise on the western edge of the old town. It is a man-made hill which the locals call “billion dollar hill”. According to Freddy, when the army pulled back the Air Corps bombed St. Vith, back into the Stone Age on Christmas day. When the 48th retook the “town” in January, there were two buildings left standing; the train station and railroad workers housing. They were in the train yard protected from the bombardment by a lucky hill between them and the rest of the town.
It was so bad, that the army simply declared it “liberated”, bulldozed the entire town, and pushed the refuse over to the side of the old town walls. This created the new hill. It got its name because into it went all of the possessions, valuables, and infrastructure of the town that had been. No doubt, there are also people buried in the rubble as well.
We made a right at the main traffic hub and soon were pedaling down a rolling country lane surrounded by fields full of sanguine cows.
“Here” he pointed to his left, “was a German roadblock. The Americans never got past this point to the south. Up in the trees beyond, there are many foxholes and trenches. Also, there was an artillery gun mounted in that flat pond there to the right of the crossroads.”
As I looked, I could see all of the depressions in the earth that he mentioned. To the casual passerby, it would look no different than any other crossroads. Here men died. We continued down the road.
Suddenly, we were passed by three minivans marked “Polizie”. One stopped. The window rolled down, and Freddy went up to the driver, a blond haired blue eyed German man in his early 20’s. They exchange a few hurried words, after which the policeman rolled up the window and took off like a shot back towards town.
“They are looking for a couple of kids.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, they said if we see them to call.” Freddy looked at me with a smile that indicated that he wasn’t about to rat anyone out.
“Is there a lot of that around here?”
“Yes, well there is now a lot of foreigners here; Russians mostly, and former Soviets. And, they are isolated. They don’t speak the language, so they are completely isolated. There is nothing to do for them.”
The road we were following came to a dead end.
“Here, this was the road straight to Prum in the south. Now there is the freeway that cut through it, but right on the other side of the freeway there.” He pointed across the now visible superhighway cut to a small grove of trees with a single house under them. “There was the German CP in this area south of St. Vith until they came and took the town from the Americans.” A freeway cut had done what no American or German road block could achieve, and we weren’t able to get to the CP.
We swung to the left and followed the road as it curved downhill. We passed a log truck sitting astride the entire width of the road and hit a little bike trail to the right. I soon found myself in very familiar surroundings because we were cycling past my campsite all of a sudden.
“In those above,” Freddy pointed to the hills that I had climbed a few nights ago finding a trench line, “That was the last ditch defense line for the Americans. They put everyone up there to hold back the Germans. Cooks, Clerks, Staff Officers, Shoe Shiners, Truck Drivers, anyone who could hold a rifle and throw a grenade was on that hill in trenches pointing to the East.”
“They must have been slaughtered.”
“Yes, well a lot of them were captured. Many died, but many also lived.”
At the junction of the trail system, and the forest service road net, we swung our bikes uphill and rode to the crest of the hill. The forest closed in around us, and the trees stood tall on either side of the road, which was becoming more like a paved trail.
“Here, on either side, you will see foxholes.”
I looked. On the mossy covered ground were tons of them; shallow depressions, now melted into the forest floor with six decades of time, but visible in rows, lines and some even connected with trenches. There were also larger pads carved out of the forest floor.
“Those are for artillery or anti-aircraft guns.” Freddy said as we dismounted and walked into the forest battlefield. Within three steps into the trees, he reached down and flung something back at me saying “Here you go.”
It was a twisted metal remnant of what looked like a mortar shell. Rusted, and deformed from sitting in a foxhole for 65 years along with several other undefined pieces of metal laying all about the area.
“When I was young, you used to find ammunition clips, canteens, mess kits, boots, and sometimes helmets. But that was 35 years ago man. Now you find some things, but you need a metal detector.”
“Wow. Are there any live things here? Like mines or grenades and stuff that we have to worry about?”
Freddy laughed and said, “Oh no, they made the Germans clean it all up right after the war.”
I remembered the story that Neik told me about how they did that. They would make the German POW’s comb through an area and pull all the mines out. Then they would make all of them turn around and march through the area that they had just “cleared”. Insurance.
Like a tourist stealing a rock from Mesa Verde, I slipped the twisted piece of rust into my pack; intended use: paperweight.
As we wound down the other side of the hill, down from the battle area, we came to a road and headed toward Mayerode. Halfway to the town, log trucks and sports cars whipping past us on this major highway, we made a quick left up another non-descript looking forest service trail.
“These woods are where some Americans held out after the Germans came through. One of them was found up here by the farmers and there is a memorial to him. As you can see though,” he pointed around us to the thick woods coated with underbrush and little streams, “This is a perfect area for a guerilla war. These woods were very hard for the Germans to clean out.”
We wheezed up the steep trail and finally came to a little grove of apple and pear trees arranged in a semi-circle around a dark marble cross which read:
“Capt. Eric Fisher Wood U.S. Army - January 1945.”
The story of Capt. Wood is famous to those of who are nutty enough to have studied the Battle of the Bulge. Like many others in the 106th Infantry Division, he was cut off behind the Germans when they advanced. As his convoy was coming down the road to Mayerode, the very highway we had just left, it was ambushed. He was the only one who got away and he ran into the hills where we now stood.
With the help of the local farmers, who took a great personal risk by feeding him, he swore to keep fighting his own little war in these hills. Over the course of the next month, German supply convoys were repeatedly ambushed. German railway and bridge construction was blown up. Random outposts were attacked, and the men found there killed. He had gathered a few men with him at this point and they were fighting their own private war.
When Wood didn’t return to his usual farm for food one week in January, the farmers went up into the forest. At the very spot I was standing with Freddy, they found his body, surrounded by 7 dead Germans. Since he had money, his photos and most of his personal belongings on him, it was assumed that he had died last.
I thought about Grandpa, cut off with his men in much the same circumstances as Capt. Wood. What thoughts and fears must have raced through his mind?
We got lost on the ride back, and had to ask directions from a French kid who was getting stoned in his car. He looked more than a little surprised to see two guys on bikes coming up on his car, and asking him stuff in German. Needless to say, I can relate, and of course, he had no idea where he was.
So, Freddy picked a direction, and we headed that way until we came to the main highway, a concrete military road built by the US Army in 1945. It was flowing with traffic because it was now 5:30, rush hour. We hauled ass back south to the turn off for the railroad trail leading to St. Vith. Once on it, Freddy told me that before World War One, the railroads here had been huge, employing well over 1000 people in St. Vith. This didn’t include the Russain slave labor that had been brought here to actually build the things during WW1. This whole area had been part of Germany until 1922, as stipulated in the Treaty of Versailles.
“There are Russian mass graves here,” Freddy continued “one here and one at Eupen. They are marked, 200 Russians Here, that sort of thing.”
Jeez, I thought, what is it with the Germans and Russians? It seems like one country is always enslaving half of the other. Then, I remembered that our own railroads in the US were built primarily by Chinese labor. They did receive wages for the work, but they were treated like slaves, and buried in mass graves as well all along the way. Ours are unmarked.
The ride ended back in town next to the train station, where Freddy’s own grandfather had worked during the occupation.
“He was sent away to the East in the army by the Germans, but he ran away, and came back here hiding in town until the Americans came in September 1944. He then came out of hiding, and went back to work at the railroad. But, when the Germans came back in December, well. It was hard times.” Freddy made a gun out of right hand, pointed it to his head and made a sound resembling a bullet impacting flesh and bone.
“Oh my God,” said, “really? I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well he was a German deserter you know. He was to be shot.”
Weather: Rainy
Trip Status: Credit Card Crisis Day 19
I received a text message from my sister, Mary. She is a new mother, and Mom visits her a lot. It said simply “Mom wants to know if your still alive.” This also represents the first communication from Mary on this trip. Dryness runs in the family, and it made me miss her.
No card today. I went to the post office first thing and was confronted with a completely new set of people at the windows than on the previous two days. They had no idea what I was talking about when I went to the window and asked about my letter from Holland. They also both didn’t speak a word of English. It was just like going to the post office in New York.
After a very frustrating 10 minutes trying to explain what it was I was looking for in very limited French, a woman who spoke English finally came to the window. Jennifer was a kind looking blond haired German in her mid-40’s. She asked about my trip, what I was doing, what it was about. She seemed to care about who I was and why I was trying so hard to get this package. She will check for me in the mail bags first thing tomorrow morning and, with some luck, it will be there. She stressed being patient with the Belgian mail system. I can’t really explain to anyone just how patient I’ve been. It’s been fully three weeks since I ordered the new card. I probably could have crossed the ocean in a rowboat by now.
Oh well, I have to think positively. That will give me ample time to check out everything around here in detail, and then some. Due to the rainy cold weather, I’ve made another comb through on the reports, so I have a very detailed idea of grandpa’s locations during the whole battle. It’s amazing that so many men died fighting over this little town in the forest. It’s a small town today so in 1944 it must have been a tiny village.
All in all, today was kind of disappointing. I was expecting the card to arrive at the post, it didn’t and then it rained. Camping in the rain has never been very much fun, although I do retain many fond memories from doing just that as a kid with the family. I remember for a while there, it seemed like we picked the rainy weekends to go camping on purpose. I guess a fringe benefit is that only a select group of people (crazy) go camping in the rain, so you have the forest to yourself.
The day wasn’t a total waste, however. I went to meet Freddy at the family hotel at 3pm as planned. The building itself sits on a long private driveway leading into a ring of fir trees surrounding a pond. There are classical statues of women in various states of undress around the pond. The hotel is an older-looking building probably salvaged from the war because it had been slightly out of town at that time.
I was a little early, and I waited inside the dining room. It was such formal German hunting lodge atmosphere complete with ticking clock, dark wood paneling festooned with ancient looking tapestries and paintings of men from the 1830’s riding horses and blowing bugles while dogs did most of the work.
A woman of about 28 was busy setting the tables for the dinner hour, 3 glasses, 5 forks, seventeen knives and thirty seven bowls to a setting. A glance at the menu let me know the type of clientele the place serves; $400 a plate for a full dinner. Yeah. The amazing thing is that people actually fill this place every night. It’s well known locally, and the chef is excellent.
The chef is, in fact, Freddy who was walking through the door precisely at 3pm excusing himself for being late, and offering me a cup of fresh coffee while he changed into his bike gear. I didn’t really want one, but it quickly became apparent that I was having a coffee and that was that. He snapped his fingers, and the woman who was setting the table went to the bar and starting making me a strong Belgian coffee.
“She will make your coffee, and I will change ok?” Freddy said.
“Ok”
Freddy is a fit man in his 40’s. He rides a German custom built hard tail mountain bike with a Fox fork, some very nice looking hydraulic disk brakes of a type new to me, full Shimano XT and XTR components and Rovell wheels. The bike is about as good a hardtail as money can buy. And, I could tell by the mud splotches it gets used.
The clock continued to tick inside the cavernous wooden hall while my coffee was presented, in correct serving manner, in a small mug and saucer set with Belgium sweet cream, a sugar cube with the hotel’s name on it, and a cookie.
“Danke.” I said to the woman, feeling a little guilty that she had to make this and serve me like some feudal lord.
“No problem.” She replied.
“Oh, English! Thanks so much for the coffee. My name is Gavin.” I held out my hand.
“Rosanna.” She said, while eying my outstretched hand for a second before quickly shaking it and returning to setting the tables.
The clock ticked some more while I loudly sipped my coffee. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a chicken clucking and rattling its cage emanating from the kitchen.
“Do you guys have a chicken in there?” I asked Rosanna.
She looked at me funny.
“A chicken?” I asked again?
“I’m sorry, my English is …”
“Oh” I got why she was so quiet now.
This study in awkwardness ended when Freddy returned to find me mimicking a chicken with my arms and pointing at the kitchen while repeating the words “chicken” and “egg” over and over again with Rosanna staring at me with a slight grin on her face. I think she thought I was mentally handicapped.
As we pedaled down the tree lined driveway out to the mean streets of St. Vith, we came to the base of a rise on the western edge of the old town. It is a man-made hill which the locals call “billion dollar hill”. According to Freddy, when the army pulled back the Air Corps bombed St. Vith, back into the Stone Age on Christmas day. When the 48th retook the “town” in January, there were two buildings left standing; the train station and railroad workers housing. They were in the train yard protected from the bombardment by a lucky hill between them and the rest of the town.
It was so bad, that the army simply declared it “liberated”, bulldozed the entire town, and pushed the refuse over to the side of the old town walls. This created the new hill. It got its name because into it went all of the possessions, valuables, and infrastructure of the town that had been. No doubt, there are also people buried in the rubble as well.
We made a right at the main traffic hub and soon were pedaling down a rolling country lane surrounded by fields full of sanguine cows.
“Here” he pointed to his left, “was a German roadblock. The Americans never got past this point to the south. Up in the trees beyond, there are many foxholes and trenches. Also, there was an artillery gun mounted in that flat pond there to the right of the crossroads.”
As I looked, I could see all of the depressions in the earth that he mentioned. To the casual passerby, it would look no different than any other crossroads. Here men died. We continued down the road.
Suddenly, we were passed by three minivans marked “Polizie”. One stopped. The window rolled down, and Freddy went up to the driver, a blond haired blue eyed German man in his early 20’s. They exchange a few hurried words, after which the policeman rolled up the window and took off like a shot back towards town.
“They are looking for a couple of kids.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, they said if we see them to call.” Freddy looked at me with a smile that indicated that he wasn’t about to rat anyone out.
“Is there a lot of that around here?”
“Yes, well there is now a lot of foreigners here; Russians mostly, and former Soviets. And, they are isolated. They don’t speak the language, so they are completely isolated. There is nothing to do for them.”
The road we were following came to a dead end.
“Here, this was the road straight to Prum in the south. Now there is the freeway that cut through it, but right on the other side of the freeway there.” He pointed across the now visible superhighway cut to a small grove of trees with a single house under them. “There was the German CP in this area south of St. Vith until they came and took the town from the Americans.” A freeway cut had done what no American or German road block could achieve, and we weren’t able to get to the CP.
We swung to the left and followed the road as it curved downhill. We passed a log truck sitting astride the entire width of the road and hit a little bike trail to the right. I soon found myself in very familiar surroundings because we were cycling past my campsite all of a sudden.
“In those above,” Freddy pointed to the hills that I had climbed a few nights ago finding a trench line, “That was the last ditch defense line for the Americans. They put everyone up there to hold back the Germans. Cooks, Clerks, Staff Officers, Shoe Shiners, Truck Drivers, anyone who could hold a rifle and throw a grenade was on that hill in trenches pointing to the East.”
“They must have been slaughtered.”
“Yes, well a lot of them were captured. Many died, but many also lived.”
At the junction of the trail system, and the forest service road net, we swung our bikes uphill and rode to the crest of the hill. The forest closed in around us, and the trees stood tall on either side of the road, which was becoming more like a paved trail.
“Here, on either side, you will see foxholes.”
I looked. On the mossy covered ground were tons of them; shallow depressions, now melted into the forest floor with six decades of time, but visible in rows, lines and some even connected with trenches. There were also larger pads carved out of the forest floor.
“Those are for artillery or anti-aircraft guns.” Freddy said as we dismounted and walked into the forest battlefield. Within three steps into the trees, he reached down and flung something back at me saying “Here you go.”
It was a twisted metal remnant of what looked like a mortar shell. Rusted, and deformed from sitting in a foxhole for 65 years along with several other undefined pieces of metal laying all about the area.
“When I was young, you used to find ammunition clips, canteens, mess kits, boots, and sometimes helmets. But that was 35 years ago man. Now you find some things, but you need a metal detector.”
“Wow. Are there any live things here? Like mines or grenades and stuff that we have to worry about?”
Freddy laughed and said, “Oh no, they made the Germans clean it all up right after the war.”
I remembered the story that Neik told me about how they did that. They would make the German POW’s comb through an area and pull all the mines out. Then they would make all of them turn around and march through the area that they had just “cleared”. Insurance.
Like a tourist stealing a rock from Mesa Verde, I slipped the twisted piece of rust into my pack; intended use: paperweight.
As we wound down the other side of the hill, down from the battle area, we came to a road and headed toward Mayerode. Halfway to the town, log trucks and sports cars whipping past us on this major highway, we made a quick left up another non-descript looking forest service trail.
“These woods are where some Americans held out after the Germans came through. One of them was found up here by the farmers and there is a memorial to him. As you can see though,” he pointed around us to the thick woods coated with underbrush and little streams, “This is a perfect area for a guerilla war. These woods were very hard for the Germans to clean out.”
We wheezed up the steep trail and finally came to a little grove of apple and pear trees arranged in a semi-circle around a dark marble cross which read:
“Capt. Eric Fisher Wood U.S. Army - January 1945.”
The story of Capt. Wood is famous to those of who are nutty enough to have studied the Battle of the Bulge. Like many others in the 106th Infantry Division, he was cut off behind the Germans when they advanced. As his convoy was coming down the road to Mayerode, the very highway we had just left, it was ambushed. He was the only one who got away and he ran into the hills where we now stood.
With the help of the local farmers, who took a great personal risk by feeding him, he swore to keep fighting his own little war in these hills. Over the course of the next month, German supply convoys were repeatedly ambushed. German railway and bridge construction was blown up. Random outposts were attacked, and the men found there killed. He had gathered a few men with him at this point and they were fighting their own private war.
When Wood didn’t return to his usual farm for food one week in January, the farmers went up into the forest. At the very spot I was standing with Freddy, they found his body, surrounded by 7 dead Germans. Since he had money, his photos and most of his personal belongings on him, it was assumed that he had died last.
I thought about Grandpa, cut off with his men in much the same circumstances as Capt. Wood. What thoughts and fears must have raced through his mind?
We got lost on the ride back, and had to ask directions from a French kid who was getting stoned in his car. He looked more than a little surprised to see two guys on bikes coming up on his car, and asking him stuff in German. Needless to say, I can relate, and of course, he had no idea where he was.
So, Freddy picked a direction, and we headed that way until we came to the main highway, a concrete military road built by the US Army in 1945. It was flowing with traffic because it was now 5:30, rush hour. We hauled ass back south to the turn off for the railroad trail leading to St. Vith. Once on it, Freddy told me that before World War One, the railroads here had been huge, employing well over 1000 people in St. Vith. This didn’t include the Russain slave labor that had been brought here to actually build the things during WW1. This whole area had been part of Germany until 1922, as stipulated in the Treaty of Versailles.
“There are Russian mass graves here,” Freddy continued “one here and one at Eupen. They are marked, 200 Russians Here, that sort of thing.”
Jeez, I thought, what is it with the Germans and Russians? It seems like one country is always enslaving half of the other. Then, I remembered that our own railroads in the US were built primarily by Chinese labor. They did receive wages for the work, but they were treated like slaves, and buried in mass graves as well all along the way. Ours are unmarked.
The ride ended back in town next to the train station, where Freddy’s own grandfather had worked during the occupation.
“He was sent away to the East in the army by the Germans, but he ran away, and came back here hiding in town until the Americans came in September 1944. He then came out of hiding, and went back to work at the railroad. But, when the Germans came back in December, well. It was hard times.” Freddy made a gun out of right hand, pointed it to his head and made a sound resembling a bullet impacting flesh and bone.
“Oh my God,” said, “really? I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well he was a German deserter you know. He was to be shot.”
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