[Reprinted from Bikepacking.com]
We set out this morning with little premonition of the hours of hike-a-bike, the glaciers like sapphires scratching the clouds, the fact that our party of four would be separated into three different groups and wouldn’t reunite until tomorrow, the pedaling in the dark or the bus trip or the lively 11pm dinner in a tiny cobbled square of a town that we didn’t know the name of and hadn’t planned to visit. That was all in the splendid future.
Backing up: The publication last year of Isola Press’s Ride Bike! chronicling Jobst Brandt’s influence on cycling culture had me vowing a summer outing in the same spirit as his, namely a fast and light ride in Europe on dirt and tarmac tracks seeking some of the most Homeric Continental cols. Gotthard, Oberalp, Strela, Scaletta, Albula, Alpisella, Umbrail, Stelvio, Mortirolo. I recruited a couple of steady adventure companions as well as my brother-in-law, for whom it would be his first bikepacking trip.
By these middle days, we had achieved a happy cadence sleeping in chalets every night, waking early for an ambitious breakfast to set out on all-day riding. We rode in generous sunshine and sweat through a Swiss fairy tale valley, pastel wrapped silage bales, low notes of cow bells and high notes of sheep jangles. Then a track that was, according to Fred Wright’s Rough Stuff Cycling in the Alps, partly rideable. We discovered that that’s neither true nor false. A walking path, switchbacks, stairsteps, how many Swiss footfalls over the centuries?, a mountain biker with dual suspension on a day trip. We just danced deliberately to put 45mm tires between stone and stream and Edelweiss. Then to a glorious pass with a hut where we could sip beer and soup and eavesdrop on mountain walker banter, everyone exhibiting a polite nonchalance at the thoroughly incorrect bicycles leaning agains the woodpiles.
Finally, a jouncing underbiking tumult down, mad tractionless skittering, the crags oblivious, disappeared protension, our own consciousnesses lost in the going. We arrive the next valley over at least four hours behind our most pessimistic schedule.
Johnny had already skirted ‘round, then had waited twice as long as seemed wise before pressing on. Pat elected to continue along the route I had sketched from home, even if that would entail going over another big dirt climb with no assurance of success before midnight. Brian and I detoured to La Punt Chamues-ch where we knew we could catch a bus to rendezvous in Livigno.
A serene road climb and the inevitable drizzle at the top, racing Brian down the other side, jackets flapping like kites. With little light left, we gamely got on that bus, eager to be dropped off to make quick last effort work of the Forcola. So we watched bemused as it failed to make the turn that we expected it to—ah, we were on the wrong one—and instead descend six thousand feet to the valley below. That implied a multi-hour backtrack and would notably add to the nine thousand feet we’d already climbed. We nodded at the wonder of it and knew that the only solution was to drink some wine and have a lovely meal surrounded by Italian families. We’d see our companions on another day.