Black Forest – mid-September 2003

After our first real climb in the Black Forest

As we crossed the Rhine into Germany, I had the impression that, all of a sudden, everything was a little bit foreign. It was the language, of course. We could hear boaters passing, all speaking German. It was a bit disconcerting, thinking that each time we pass a new border we’d have to get used to a new language and to deciphering new street signs. At least the greetings in German are easy: Hallo, Guten Morgen (or simply Morgen), and Guten Tag, or Tag (‘Afternoon).

Aside from the language, the first thing that we noticed in Germany were the bike paths. Germany is known throughout Europe for its system of extensive bike paths and we’d heard this many times, but it was still a surprise to see how wide and well-maintained they were. It’s hard to know whether it was the number of bikers that inspired the building of all the bike paths or whether it was the bike paths that inspired people to ride, but in any case, a lot of people bike in this country. It was nice to see the large number of older people that bike. We saw one or two of these older people almost fall over trying to get off of their bike and couldn’t believe that they were still cycling when they could barely stand up straight. Maybe because they’re more stable on two wheels!

We camped not far from the canal on our first night in Germany. My first thought was to turn on the radio and listen to some German music. I was a little bit disappointed because in flipping through the stations, I discovered that all of the music was American or English. The deejays spoke in German, of course, but I couldn’t find any German music. In fact, the first song I heard when I turned on the radio was “The Streets of Philadelphia” by Bruce Springsteen. I thought, “Wow, what a welcome!”

The next day, I was again reminded of home, when, passing through our first large town, I saw a man riding his Harley Davidson down the street, wearing a “Philadelphia Eagles” football jacket.

That’s one difference that you can see with France: the motorcycles. In France, the motorcycles are relatively small and easily maneouvrable. People use them in large towns because it’s easier and faster than cars. The motorcycles pass the lines of cars that are stuck in traffic, and they often ride on the sidewalks to bypass the traffic. I’ve been surprised more than once by a motorcycle behind me on the sidewalk. In Germany, I’ve noticed that they like their motorcycles bigger and more powerful. Harley Davidson and BMW are popular.

Our first destination in Germany was the Black Forest. We arrived on our second day in the country. After passing through a cute medieval town on the Kinzig River called Schiltach, we began a seemingly never-ending ascent high into the mountains of this dense forest. Luckily, we began the day very early that morning, so that we hit the mountains while we were still fresh. We ascended almost 2000 feet in only 3.5 miles. A real treat. It’s a question of mind over matter. Your body rebels and puts up a fight, saying, “No. You can’t make me do this. I can’t go any farther. No, no, no!” You ignore the messages saying you’re breathing your last breath, and you block out everything from your mind except for the bike and the road, which is passing oh so slowly beneath you. You start to wonder if it’s even possible to go any slower before gravity takes over and pulls you backwards down the hill. And still you continue, if only because you know that if you stop now, you’ll have to start up again in a few minutes, and that would be even more tortorous. About half-way up this hill I began to wonder if we really needed our pharmacy bag. Or the clothing bag. And what about the heavy bags of food? I could drop that by the side of the road, and maybe Stéphane, who was ahead of me, wouldn’t even notice.

Biking through picturesque villages

At each curve in the road, I thought, “The last hill! We made it!” And at the top of each turn, I was proved wrong, again and again. At the top of each twisting curve was a statue of Jesus on the cross, looking down on me mockingly, seeming to say, “You think you have it hard?” You don’t know what hard is. I had it hard. I survived much greater difficulties than this.” Okay, okay, so I can survive this, too.

Whew! The top eventually did come, and we were rewarded for our perseverance by a clear view overlooking the lovely pine forest. And yes, like its name suggests, the Black Forest is indeed black and somber. We rested a bit, but didn’t stay long because the temperature had changed considerably with the change in altitude, and I was dressed for the weather down below. Here, 2000 ft. higher, it was quite chilly.

Later that day, after passing some hills in the afternoon, the scenery gradually changed to relatively flat, open country. We had passed out of the Black Forest after two days. As the evening drew on and we followed bike trails towards Schwenningen, we wondered at one point if we had taken the right path. Seeing two bikers approaching us just at that moment, Stéphane decided to ask them. He signalled to the first one to stop, and the second one, not paying attention, realized at the last moment, and slamming on his brakes, flew over the handlebars headfirst! It happened in slow motion, exactly like in the cartoons – you could see every move as he somersaulted onto the ground. How embarrassing! Especially as it was indirectly our fault. The worst part was my almost uncontrollable desire to laugh right out loud. It’s terrible when someone is laying on the ground and you don’t even ask if he’s okay because you’re afraid that if you open your mouth, you’ll burst out laughing. So I tried my best to suppress the laughter and let Stéphane do the talking. After they left, we had a good time re-playing the scene.

The next morning, we decided to buy milk from the farmer who lived up the road from where we had camped. After talking to the farmer’s wife, however, we understood that the milk truck had just passed. I showed her on a map where we came from and where we were going, and as we were leaving, she offered us a couple of bottles of juice and wished us a good journey.

Danube’s source. We will follow the Danube River through Europe.

We reached Donaueschingen that morning, which for us, was a sort of milestone in the fact that it is home to a fountain which is considered the official source of the Danube, which we plan to follow (with a few detours) until it empties 2800 km. (1700 mi.) later into the Black Sea. We stopped to marvel at the circular fountain and threw a penny into it to wish for good luck as we follow the river over the next couple of months.

We picnicked in a beautiful park overlooking the castle in this charming town and then continued on bike paths through open country. The landscape was dotted with trees here and there, but where were the dense forests of one day ago? Now that we had enough water for a shower, I was really looking forward to one, but couldn’t find any wooded area. I would have to wait one more day. Life’s tough.

As we cycled over these windy bikepaths, we discussed…benches. Yep, that’s right – benches. There are bike paths connecting the smallest of villages, and I suppose someone must have thought that all these bikers just might get tired, so they put a bench under every tree in the region. Just in case. Stéphane’s theory is that they had a sale on wood, and not knowing what else to do with it, decided to make benches.

At the end of the day, we reached the top of a hill which was apparently the preferred hang-out for the bikers of the region. Motorcyclists, that is. I checked out all the bikes in the parking lot, and there were a dozen different names, but one thing they all had in common was that they were shiny and sparkling. Brand-new, or at least looking like it. The bikers were seated at the picnic tables on the panoramic terrace watching the sun set over the valley below. Drinking beer, in appearance, they could have been American bikers. Some were wearing Harley Davidson jackets. But, their mugs of beer were a good deal larger. And they were speaking German.

Camp is packed up, ready to ride!

Unable to find a good spot for the tent that night, we put it up on the edge of a cornfield. Afraid of being chased by the farmer the next morning, I awoke early and watched the sun rise over the crest of the hilltop. I could hear, but not yet see, the sound of horses in the little mist-enshrouded town below us. As the mist rose and the dew lifted, the farmer appeared in his big 4X4, dog at side. He told us we weren’t allowed to camp there, but didn’t really seem to mind all that much. I was relieved. I think the fact that we were already packing up and were foreigners helped us. Also, the fact that he could see that we left no garbage behind us. He left a few minutes later with a smile and a wave, his big friendly dog bounding along at his side and barking happily.