[2021, August]
In midsummer 2021 I’m facing a new challenge: a comprehensive Central European tour, focusing on its major mountain ranges – the Carpathians, the Eastern Alps and the Dinarides. Concretely, I’ve planned a tough 20-ish days long riding marathon, starting in north-eastern Romania and continuing to Ukraine, Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Germany, reaching its apex in the Austrian Tyrol, then coming back through Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina and finally Serbia, as much as possible on winding mountain roads and climbing the highest passes along this route.
Knowing this travel is going to be a demanding endurance test for both my bike and me, I take it to the workshop for the regular maintenance ops and a thorough check over as well, then I pack as much all-weather riding gear as it fits in my luggage bags and, eventually, off I go!
An unexpected full tour of the Romanian Carpathians. 1,070 miles
One early August morning I leave home later than I usually do when I’m starting a long tour of this kind and I’m heading north, straight to the massive barrier of the Southern Carpathian range. I’m in no hurry at all, as this time I’m not eager to cross the border by tonight, but take my time to explore Romania’s north-eastern regions for a couple of days instead. Therefore, further on from the city of Ploieşti I choose to follow the alternative mountains crossing route, by the Cheia resort and the spectacular winding road across the Bratocea pass. Due to the main road’s regular high traffic, this one is also quite crowded with big trucks which are constantly slowing me down, especially on the endless series of tight hairpins climbing the southern slope of the main crest, so that I’m not able to get to Braşov until one o’clock, which is quite late considering the destination I’ve set for tonight. Nevertheless, I still abide to my plan to keep on taking less travelled backroads as far as I can up north and, after crossing the central part of the Perşani mountains through the wonderful riding road along Valea Bogăţii, I continue upstream the Homorod valley. The idyllic landscape of mildly rolling green hills and quiet small villages enroute induces me a tranquil mood which suddenly shatters to pieces when I take the next break, as I notice my bike’s license plate is hanging askew, being kept in place by just one side screw while the other one is missing. There’s no big drama, though, as I’m going to fix it when I’ll get to the next town, in the first repair shop I’ll find on my way – I think for the moment, not knowing this is going to be just the first strike in a series of failures which will eventually spoil and change my original travel plan!
Further on, the valley I’m riding along is gradually narrowing and the road is plunging into dense woods, as it starts climbing the southern slope of the Harghita mountains, up to the small town of Vlăhiţa / Szentegyháza in Magyar, where I turn west to the bigger one of Odorhei / Udvarhely. While riding on this more travelled road, a couple of drivers behind me try to make me aware of my hanging license plate, so at some point I pull over in a roadside parking lot to provisionally tie it up until I get to the town and fix it; eager to get it over with, I hurry and don’t pay attention to the fact the surface is slightly tilted forward, therefore, when I reach for a skipping rope in the left saddlebag, the bike moves and falls off the kickstand and into the side ditch! Luckily there is also a car in the parking lot and, with the driver’s help, I manage to get it up on its wheels, then I inspect the potential damage: nothing is broken or bent, but both the handlebar mirrors got loose from that shock and now they’re hanging in weird positions. Strike two! With no rear view at all, I move on and eventually come to a car repair shop in the town’s outskirts, where the kind guys there help me fix both the license plate holder and mirrors and they don’t even charge me anything for their service.
With a much-improved morale, I get back on my route northwards to the town of Gheorgheni / Gyergyószentmiklós, taking a straight-forward backroad across the forested low altitude Harghita mountains, which had been on my wish list for some time now; it’s not that interesting as I’d imagined it to be, but it does its job to help me avoid some crowded areas and, an hour later, I’m already on the road leading to the highly spectacular Bicaz Gorge. First, I climb some mild hairpins to the 4,120 ft. high Pângăraţi pass, I ride along the Red Lake – a naturally formed reservoir – and then I enter the 5 miles long canyon; its about 1,000 feet tall vertical limestone walls are just 30 feet close to each other in its narrowest section, forcing the two lanes road to creep in awkwardly along the twisted riverbed. Add a 170 yards long bent and dark tunnel followed by few extremely tight hairpins you have to descend and some inspiringly named interest points, as The Stone Gate, Hell’s Throat, The Shrine Rock or The Black Tower, and you get a fabulous route I cannot ride slow enough to admire its fascinating beauty.
Getting out of the gorge, I ride for 15 more miles downstream the gradually widening valley up to the imposing Bicaz dam, which is holding Romania’s largest reservoir – the Mountain Spring Lake. Here I leave the main road which is winding along the lake’s rugged shore and turn uphill on a recently paved bypath, crossing the dense pine forest of the Ceahlău National Park. Although just 20 miles long, it takes me more than half an hour to get to its other end, due to its endless series of bends and limited width, combined with my 10 hours long riding fatigue and the fact I’m being constantly blinded by the low sunset. Eventually I reach the mountain’s northern slope and the Durău tourist resort, where I crush into the riverside campsite and rent a small wooden cabin for tonight, as I’m feeling way too tired to be able to set up my tent.
The next day, I leave the campsite quite early in the morning, taking advantage of no need to pack my tent, but also with the downside of no breakfast available here. I ride down the mountain’s slope to the crooked reservoir’s tail, then I follow the picturesque Bistriţa River valley upstream up to the arch it makes around the extended Călimani massif. Here I take one of Romania’s popular alpine roads, the Transrarău, which is steeply climbing the Rarău mountains’ southern slope in a series of tight hairpins hidden in the dense pine forest. Along this section, the flawless tarmac road is also incredibly narrow, to the extent that even while riding a motorcycle I have to pull over on its verge in order to let cars coming from the opposite direction pass, therefore it takes me some time to get close to the top; a short detour gets me to the Alpin Hotel, which also serves as a parking lot for hikers climbing to the area’s landmark, Pietrele Doamnei / Frauenstein in German – an imposing limestone rock formation. [While the towns I’ve passed by yesterday afternoon in Eastern Transylvania had alternative Magyar names, due to their predominant Szekler population, over here, in the historical province of Bukovina, there are several places bearing German ones, as remnants of its Habsburg administration some two centuries ago.] This place is extremely overcrowded with tourists, so I give up having a snack and coffee in the hotel’s restaurant and continue along the mountain’s quite short and barren crest up to a roadside panoramic viewpoint, where, next to a wooden platform offering nice views across the endless forested mountain ridges and the valleys between them, there stand several kiosks selling traditional products and I have a delicious salty cheese doughnut – they call it by its Magyar name, langoş – and a healthy buffalo yogurt for a late breakfast.
The road down the northern slope is wider, a regular two-laner, but equally spectacular, also with a series of hairpin bends followed by a straight section along a large valley, bestrew with colourful pensions and vacation houses. At the junction with the main road connecting the city of Suceava to the spa resort of Vatra Dornei, I turn towards the latter and start climbing the 3,595 ft. high Mestecăniş pass, the first one in a series of three which are the main attraction points of the excellent riding roads in Northern Romania. Once again on the Bistriţa River valley, although my main route is upstream and north-west bound towards the town of Sighetu Marmaţiei, I first head south-west across the Călimani massif, as I’m going to make a 100 miles long detour to the much-praised Colibiţa reservoir and back. After I pass right through the lively centre of Vatra Dornei, I ride along the tale books picturesque Dorna Depression, featuring mild mountain ridges with houses and farms scattered across the vast green meadows, separated by isolated pine forest clusters. The flawless road gradually climbs the 3,940 ft. high Tihuţa pass, passes by the younger tourist resort of Piatra Fântânele, then descends towards the Transylvanian densely forested hills. Somewhere a few miles away from the main road there is the guesthouses lined “sea between the mountains”, a hot tourist destination lately, which seems a bit overrated to me, as it’s not much different to a lot of other similar places and the multiple construction sites around contribute to a quite messy general look; never mind though, at least the road to and fro it’s worth both the elapsed time and distance!
At about four in the afternoon, I’m back in Vatra Dornei and it’s time to get back on track, as I’ve still got more than 100 miles to go up to my tonight’s planned destination. The recently rebuilt road connecting the Romanian historical provinces of Bukovina and Maramureş follows the scarcely populated upper Bistriţa valley, then climbs the majestic 4,645 ft. high Prislop pass to descend on its other side to the human beehive along the narrow Bistra valley, which is squeezed between the wild Rodnei and Maramureşului mountain ranges. The traffic in this area is overwhelming and I literally crawl at a painful slow speed until I pass through the towns of Borşa and Vişeu, only to be forced to stop in a gas station and put on my rain gear, as black clouds are threateningly gathering ahead of me. That’s been a smart move, because it doesn’t take long until the rain first starts drizzling, then gradually transforms into a downpour I cannot escape of till I get to the hotel I’ve booked in Sighetu Marmaţiei, on the Tisa River valley and the Ukrainian border as well.
Aside from the present weather conditions and the upcoming pessimistic forecast for tomorrow, my morale has been driven disappointingly low by the dreadful discovery I made while taking a break some two hours ago, on my way here: one of the two screws which anchor my left saddlebag holder to the bike’s frame had broken, leaving it hanging awry. I tied the saddlebag in place with an elastic rope, but I’m not really sure for how long either that or the remaining screw can withstand the luggage’s weight, therefore I feel I lack the necessary peace of mind to continue this journey. Moreover, considering the previous mishaps I’ve experienced yesterday, that would be strike three, which is the game breaker for as far as I know, isn’t it? Of course, I may try to find a local repair shop tomorrow and get it fixed over there, but what are the chances to succeed, as I already know those are quite uncommon screws and there’s also a damned lot of work required to change them? Tormented by uncertainty, I guess I’d better sleep on these conflicting thoughts and make the right decision in the morning!
Indeed, my mind is set when I wake up: it wouldn’t be a smart move for me to set off on a several thousand miles long journey with the bike in the current condition, therefore I’ll be heading back home, properly fix it, then figure out a way to ride at least a significant part of the route I’ve initially planned for this summer. As if nature wanted to confirm I’ve made the right decision, the weather forecast for the areas south of the place I’m in is truly encouraging, with no rain on the radar at all, therefore I trustfully launch myself towards the city of Baia Mare and further on to the Apuseni Natural Park. On this occasion, I discover a fabulous riding road across the 3,238 ft. high Gutâi pass, with flawless tarmac and two series of dizzy hairpins both uphill and downhill, which I highly enjoy despite the thick fog that shrouds the higher altitude areas. Up next, after taking a low-speed tour of the city’s old centre, I ride on southwards, out of the province of Maramureş and back into Transylvania, then I follow the Someş and Almaş River valleys on some peaceful and picturesque backroads up to the town of Huedin.
It's already past noon when I enter the vast Apuseni Natural Park – the highest and most spectacular part of the Romanian Western Carpathians, which I cross by another classic riding road, which is nicknamed Transursoaia after the 4,330 ft. high Ursoaia pass. Its uphill section is in a rather mediocre condition and running mostly through dense and dark pine forests, therefore demanding more of a technical than a leisure ride; it features a lot of limited visibility bends, while being narrow and covered in debris and wood chips from the ongoing lodging works, and its only highlights are the Beliş tourist village and its namesake reservoir. The downhill half, on the other hand, though in similar pavement condition, is much more spectacular, as it opens to large views across the lower altitude crests around the Arieş River valley and even becomes quite scary along the incredibly steep and narrow tight bends sneaking between the cramped village of Mătişeşti. Eventually, at about half past three in the afternoon, I get to the town of Câmpeni, where I take a break to decide about tonight’s destination. As I’m still sad about having to abandon my exciting travel plan, I reckon I can somehow compensate this by crossing the Southern Carpathians on my way home in style, that is by the famous Transalpina alpine road, so I book a room in a guesthouse located close to its northern end; regarding the route there, I’ve got more than five daylight hours left today, time enough to make a detour to the fashionable tourist area of Rimetea and Vălişoara Gorge before getting to the A10 motorway along the Mureş valley.
Bearing the decided roadbook within my mind, I start along the Arieş River valley downstream, on a dreadful road featuring extremely long roadworks sections, which had been completely stripped of tarmac and covered in slippery fine gravel. As dissatisfied as I would be with this ongoing nightmare, it eventually proves to be fortunate for me as it forces me to ride at low speed, which allows me to hear a sudden scratching noise coming from the back of my bike. Startled with this, I pull over immediately to check what’s happening and I’m shocked to discover that the left saddlebag is completely off and being dragged behind! The other screw had also broken and it’s just the rope that prevented me from losing it. This is the final strike! Now I have to figure out a way to carry the loose saddlebag on, maybe tie it up on top of either the right one or my huge tailbag, I really don’t know. And then, the strangest and most unexpected thing happens: out of the yard on the right side of the road there come three monks going to the monastery across the road; when they see me, they stop and inquire about my problem, then one of them – the “boss” as he appeared to be – tells me to get my bike inside the yard to their workshop, in order to get it fixed. I try to decline their offer, explaining the repair needs special parts and adequate tools, but to no avail; they don’t accept any refusal, so I half-heartedly push the bike in and start dismantling its left frame cover. Long story short, working side by side with the monks and having the almost proper tools and screws (!) at hand, in about a couple of hours the saddlebag holder is at least temporary fixed – for free, by all means – and I’m ready to go. Now, if you ask me, I’m not sure if it was God’s hand or just the good human nature at work, but I really can’t be more thankful for this event!
Running short of time now, I decide to skip the unnecessary detour I’ve been thinking of, especially that one of the monks told me the roadworks are stretching for more than 40 miles in that direction, and I turn back to Câmpeni and take the shortest route towards Alba Iulia, across the Bucium pass. I ride smoothly and make good progress for about an hour and a half, but when I come to the city’s outskirts, I find myself stranded at the end of a seemingly endless line of cars, which are advancing slowly for just a few yards from time to time. I wait for a couple of minutes, then I realize I’d lose way more time than I can afford to by abiding the rules, so I boldly start overtaking the line on the opposite lane; I go on and on, for about three miles – at some point I even come over a traffic police patrol, but, luckily, the cops just look the other way, and eventually I get to the source of this incredible jam: a badly timed ordinary traffic light! Oh, God, how stupid can people be?!
After I pass through the city of Alba Iulia, I save some time by taking the motorway, even only for a short distance, then I enter the twisted Transalpina road by its northern end. The guesthouse I’m going to sleep at is 17 miles away, in the very last village enroute before the road runs deep into the mountains, and I get there just at the fall of dark. It’s been quite a day so far and, giving the changes it brought regarding my bike’s condition, now it’s time to study the map and reconsider my plans, as there’s no point of going home anymore. I’ve already turned back too far south to stick to the original route, but I can head west to ride its last quarter at least and also extend it further on, to the highest and maybe wildest part of the Dinarides, which is located in Albania and Northern Macedonia. I really like this new idea, so I can’t wait for the next morning to follow it!
Despite the higher altitude low temperature, I travel the remaining 70 miles of the Transalpina road in a quite relaxed mood, focusing on the ride itself and without any concern for taking photos of its landmarks or panoramic views, as I’ve already recently done that earlier this year. The ever-winding section along the Sebeş River valley has only two highlights out of the dense pine forest – the Tău Bistra and Oaşa reservoirs, then a short and rather mild climb across the 5,505 ft. high Tărtărău pass takes me to the tourist hub of Obârşia Lotrului – one of the less polluted places in Romania; another short but this time steep hairpins climb leads to the road’s highest section, in the alpine meadows area, with 360° stunning views of the Parâng mountain range and its grassy crests and glacial lakes, then I cross the 7,037 ft. high Urdele pass – which makes Transalpina Romania’s highest altitude paved road – and approach the insane descent on the southern slope, which is split into two equally steep sections, with the Rânca ski resort between them.
Shortly after noon I merge the busy main road which is heading to the city of Târgu Jiu, then I continue westwards to the Domogled National Park. It’s been an hour-long ride across mild hills and through tranquil villages until I steeply descend into the deep Cerna River valley, which is flanked on both sides by vertical limestone walls; sadly, the road alongside it is currently being rebuilt, therefore I have to crawl at low speed, dodging countless ditches and potholes, up to the Băile Herculane spa resort – the ancient Roman Therme Herculi, with an incredible 2,000 years long uninterrupted existence. I sneak out of the crowds of tourists in the small town’s narrow streets, only to get into the traffic mayhem of the E70 highway a few miles farther. Fortunately, my route diverges soon enough from this one, continuing westwards through the secluded Almăj shire to the spectacular Nera Gorge, where I stop for a short hike to the iconic unique Bigăr Waterfall, which is still preserving its charm, despite the recent collapse of a huge travertine rock from its body. Further on, I cross several forested low altitude mountain crests on an almost deserted backroad and, eventually, at about six thirty in the afternoon I get to decrepit looking old mining town of Oraviţa, which is actually my destination for tonight. Despite being still quite early, I crash at a recently renovated hotel in the outskirts and get some much-needed rest, as tomorrow I’ll start the main part of my journey.
Durău, Camping Ursuleţ
Transrarău alpine road
Colibiţa reservoir
Dorna depression
Prislop pass
Transalpina alpine road
Transalpina alpine road
Transalpina alpine road
Bigăr waterfall
Inside the Balkan powder keg. 745 miles
There are 15 miles from Oraviţa to the Serbian border crossing at Kaluđerovo, which I ride early in the morning on a totally free rural road; I’m the only customer here, so I get over with the passport control in no time and continue westwards in the direction of Belgrade. My first impression on the Serbian part of the historical province of Banat is quite surprising, considering I’m well acquainted with the general appearance of this country, and that’s due to the tidy and good-looking streets of the small town of Bela Crkva / Biserica Albă in Romanian, probably courtesy of its former German heritage. Further on, the traffic increases a bit as I’m getting closer to the city of Pančevo, where I take a much-deserved coffee break, and about three hours later since I’ve left the hotel, I’m crossing the Danube and entering the Serbian capital. Hence this one is a mountain roads tour and I’d also like to be able to get into Bosnia by tonight, I’m not planning to stop here, but I get to feel the city’s vibe, as my transit route passes through its very core, close to both the modern and old centre / Stari Grad; it’s crowded all right, but still reasonably passable, and its boulevards featuring a hectic mix of art nouveau and contemporary style buildings remind me of Bucharest, which is quite normal after all, since both cities share almost the same historical and cultural past.
I get out of Belgrade by the road along the Sava River’s right bank, which I follow up to the A2 motorway connection, then I make a good run for about half an hour more and take the exit towards the city of Valjevo. Further on, I engage on a picturesque and traffic free backroad upstream the Jablanica River valley and past the Rovni reservoir, across the large forested saddle between the low altitude Jablanik and Povlen mountain peaks, to eventually steeply descend in the Drina River valley – Serbia’s natural border with Bosnia-Herzegovina, close to the small town of Bajina Bašta. Absorbed by the idyllic beauty of the landscape along my route, I haven’t even noticed the time passing by and now it’s already two in the afternoon; the Bosnian border crossing at Vardište is just an hour’s ride away, therefore I’ve got enough time left to make the detour I’ve been thinking of, uphill into the Tara National Park. I follow the Drina valley upstream for a few miles, up to the Perućac reservoir, where I get to see the first sign of the difficult to understand – to me, at least – multiple ethnic and political divergences in this troublesome part of the continent: the lake’s opposite shore is the territory of the federal state of Bosnia-Herzegovina, precisely of its ethnic Serbian component – Republika Srpska [RS]; although they’re sharing the same religion, language and culture with their Serbian neighbours, a republic’s blatantly large flag is flapping in the wind, as to make a loud and bold statement!
The Tara mountain’s main attraction is the Zaovine reservoir, accessible by a spectacular road which climbs the steep northern slope in tight hairpins and through stone carved dark tunnels, opening to stunning views over the entire Drina valley. Further on, it goes deep into the dense pine forest, winding in endless bends up to the lake’s northern shore; a row of small villages, consisting of scattered farms and vacation lodges, is encircling the intense blue lake, connected by a 15 miles long poorly maintained track, totally worth a ride though. Back to the Mitrovac recreation centre, both the starting and the ending point for this lap, I choose to go downhill by a different road, which seems to be endlessly winding through the dark forest up to the village of Kremna, where it joins the E761 main road going into Bosnia. Indeed, just twenty minutes later I enrol to the long line of cars waiting for the double border control and, at seven o’clock sharp, I arrive 15 miles farther to the historical town of Višegrad and check-in at a cheap motel overlooking the emerald green water of my former acquaintance, the Drina River. I spend the rest of the evening walking to the old centre and across the Ottoman 16th century arched stone bridge, having a delicious traditional pljeskavica and a couple of beers for dinner and making plans for tomorrow’s route throughout the rugged mountainous territory of Bosnia-Herzegovina.
In the morning, I follow the Drina valley upstream, which soon after exiting Višegrad turns into a 10 miles long canyon, with spectacular vertical walls siding the surreal green river water; further on, the landscape becomes gradually milder and I get to the Muslim outpost of Goražde, part of the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina [FbiH]. Since I’m heading towards the city of Sarajevo, I divert from the Drina valley and start climbing the forested mountain on its left bank, where I take a short break at the Rorovi memorial park, a site dedicated to the 1995 Civil War siege of the town, featuring a tall white stone column and several JNA – which stands for Jugoslovenska narodna armija / the Yugoslav People’s Army – artillery pieces and tanks which had been used during that time. The solitude and absolute silence of this place induces an unease sensation to me, making me wonder once more what on earth had made these people sharing the same language, but different religion, fiercely kill one another some 25 years ago!
The first section of this road to Sarajevo, across the Jabuka pass, runs within the Goražde corridor on the FBiH’s territory, then continues over the internal border to the RS and, seemingly, that’s the reason for it being abandoned in a decrepit state, with its tarmac cracked and full of potholes and the vegetation growing wildly on both its sides, and completely void by any traffic at all. Thus, I’m forced to a challenging and slow ride, well aware of the fact that I’d be helpless in case of a failure or crash, with no service on my phone as well. Miraculously, right after I descend to the Prača River valley and into the RS territory, the road broadens and gets much better, which is another proof of the rupture existing between the two components of this state; moreover, I notice that the roadsigns on each side are not indicating the next major town, in case that one is across the border, but only the last village ahead of it. Man, that’s absolutely crazy and there’s even more: while the federal capital of Sarajevo falls within the FBiH territory, according to the 1995 Dayton agreement drawn IEBL [Inter Entity Boundary Line], the RS authorities, out of resentment and rampant pride probably, established their own capital in the 10 miles away Pale municipality, which has been included in the newly formed, but actually non-existing city of Istočno / Eastern Sarajevo, together with some of the real city’s suburbs and neighbouring villages!
Sarajevo, also known as “Jerusalem of the Balkans” due to its centuries long religious and cultural diversity, is a pulsating city, located in a large valley surrounded by 6,000+ ft. high mountain peaks. Its bazaar-like maze of narrow streets and pedestrian alleys in the Old City / Stari Grad are crowded with both locals and tourists, moving frantically from one souvenir shop, café or street restaurant to another and I join them for about an hour, before moving on northwards, across the Bukovik mountain range, in the direction of Olovo. Here I leave the main highway and take a single lane freshly paved backroad alongside the Krivaja River valley, which first sneaks into a narrow rocky canyon, then is winding through a dense pine forest, passing by small clearings here and there, where groups of locals are having picnics, continues to a more populated area by several scattered villages and, 50 miles farther, eventually ends into a large depression in the town of Zavidovići. This entire area in Central Bosnia seems to be a Muslim stronghold, as I notice a lot of men wearing traditional taqiyahs and most of the women have their heads covered in hijabs and, of course, there are also plenty of mosques around. Overall, the general impression is of a more modern and developed society than the Serbian one, which is quite surprising to me, considering the long and fierce civil war that scarred it less than 30 years ago. However, the animosity and resentment are vividly present over here, too, as I’ve seen numerous monuments and graffities marked with the inscription “6,671. We shall never forget!”, referring to the 1995 Srebrenica massacre. That’s sad, as I think people on both sides should really get over with the past and move on, in order to prevent those crimes from happening again in the future, although this seems highly unlikely by the way things are looking right now!
It's already three in the afternoon by now and, this place being the northernmost point of my route in Bosnia-Herzegovina, I take the highway running back to Sarajevo along the Bosnia River valley, which is meandering through the mountains in the direction of the industrial city of Zenica. There’s nothing interesting to see over there, so I turn westwards onto a steep shortcut across the Vilenica mountain and descend to the Lašva River valley and the towns of Vitez and Travnik, both featuring a Catholic Croatian demographic majority, which are the tidiest and most modern looking I’ve been into so far in Bosnia. I’m about 40 miles far from the place where I plan to stop overnight and, to get there, I have to go round the Vitorog mountain which stands boldly in front of me; considering tomorrow I’ll head south on an alternative route back to Sarajevo, I reckon now it’s better to go along its northern slope, by a backroad which climbs the saddle adjacent to the imposing Vlašić mountain. Sadly, when I get to the maximum altitude point, in a large meadow hosting several wooden huts where local dairy products are for sale, the tarmac suddenly disappears and the ongoing track is just gravel and dirt, which I don’t have the courage to ride on and I have to turn back for about 8 miles to the main road. It’s been a long day until now, I’m feeling tired and this setback just adds to my already anxious mood; I can’t wait to arrive at the campsite I’ve spotted nearby the town of Jajce, so I ride the 40 miles up there quite recklessly, speeding up on the traffic free road across a forested crest, then along the Vrbas River valley up to the magnificent Pliva Waterfall, where I’ve got to take a break to admire it and also catch my breath a bit. At about eight o’clock I eventually get to the Autocamp Plivsko Jezero, a large and tidy campsite, where I rent a secluded bungalow overlooking the calm greenish lake beneath.
Today I’m heading southeast, all the way throughout Bosnia and into Montenegro. I leave early in the morning and take the road back along the Vrbas River valley, to the towns of Donji Vakuf, Bugojno and on to Uskoplje, this time much slower than yesterday evening, taking my time to actually see the places I’m passing by. The valley and neighbouring mountain slopes are green, the towns quiet and tidy and the tarmac quality more than reasonable, what else do one need for a pleasant and relaxed ride? Further on, I cross the low altitude Makljen pass – the site of a famous WWII battle fought by Tito’s partisans against the Axis forces – and enjoy a spectacular descent to the Rama canyon and the 20 miles long Jablanica reservoir on the emerald green Neretva River. As I join the highway connecting the city of Mostar to Sarajevo, the traffic gradually increases to the point of forming erratic jams around the town of Konjic, so I decide it’s time for a coffee break over here. This strategically important town had been besieged and severely damaged during the civil war and, while sitting at a table on the gas station’s terrace, I stare in astonishment at the bullet holes which are still present in the apartment block’s walls across the street, even 25 years later!
From Konjic, my route heads east, back into the Republika Srpska and towards the Montenegrin border but, the same case as yesterday evening, I’ve got to go round a massive mountain range to get there and there are two options available: either along the spectacular Neretva River valley, by its southern slopes, or through Sarajevo’s ski resorts, by the northern side. As I generally don’t like to go twice in the same place during my journeys, I’d prefer to take the southern route but, unfortunately, the quite limited information I have on the road’s condition seems to suggest there is a mountainous unpaved section along it and I really don’t want to take my chances to ride it, so I have to settle with the other one. Therefore, taking advantage of the fact that the traffic has thinned during my break, I continue towards Sarajevo, climbing the Ivan Sedlo pass, then avoiding the motorway and taking the now deserted old road, downstream the Zujevina River valley. Few miles before entering the city’s suburbs, I turn right and climb the 6,781 ft. high Bjelašnica mountain, the site of the former Winter Olympics facilities, most of them now in a derelict state. The road is in a rather poor condition, neither the landscape impresses me too much, so I’m quite satisfied when I start descending to the Željeznica River valley, which I follow in the opposite direction from Sarajevo, towards the RS territory. The last brick in the Bosnian inter-ethnic animosity wall I get to witness is just across the demarcation line, in a gas station outside the townlet of Trnovo: I’m having a coffee on the terrace, while several Serbian guys – out of whom one is a traffic policeman monitoring the nearby hidden speed trap – are sitting at the table next to me; at a certain moment, the device signals that an upcoming car is speeding over the limit, but the cop just takes a glance, then takes no action; when the other guys ask him why (I’m able to understand quite a few words in Serbian), he answers he could tell by the license plate that the car is registered in the RS and he’ll let it go, as he’s only hunting for the FBiH owned ones! I’m stunned, as I can foresee this is the one-way road to the complete rupture, extended to all possible levels, from state authorities to law enforcement officers and finally to the simple citizens.
I’ve got 40 miles left up to the Montenegrin border, half of which I ride along the highly spectacular Bistrica canyon, winding between tall vertical limestone walls. Both the fabulous views and the road’s technical features force me to cruise at moderate speed and that’s good, as this way I manage to dodge another speed trap close to the junction ahead of the town of Foča, where I turn upstream my former acquaintance, the Drina River, which also flows at the bottom of a wide and deep canyon. The last 15 miles to the Šćepan Polje border crossing are in an extremely dreadful condition, as this road seems it haven’t been maintained at all in the last 30 years, since the dissolution of Jugoslavia; the remnants of its no more than 8 feet wide strip of tarmac are slippery, cracked, potholed and severely affected by landslides, the bends are tight and inclined and I have to face an almost uninterrupted flow of upcoming cars, as it’s Sunday afternoon and a lot of people are probably returning home from the beach and mountain resorts in Montenegro. Albeit I try to keep my speed as low as possible, at one point I still get a huge thrill facing an imminent collision, when a van cuts a bend and suddenly appears in front of me; I brake abruptly with both my wheels, the rear one slides sideways right to the van’s left side, but I manage to bounce back and avoid the crash in the very last moment, just inches wide! Damn, that was really close! I stop for a moment to catch my breath, then I continue at merely 15 mph up to the border, where finally I get some rest, due to a more than half an hour long wait in line for the passport control.
The last part of my route today is actually its icing on the cake. Right after I enter Montenegro, I ride along the stunning 20 miles long, 4,000 ft. deep Piva canyon, including its namesake reservoir and the imposing Mratinje dam. Ahead of the slender bridge leading to the town of Plužine, I turn left onto the track looking road which is climbing the almost vertical slope towards the Durmitor National Park; the road itself is an incredible sequence of extremely tight hairpins, carved into the rocky walls inside dark bent tunnels, one of them hosting even a junction to a fire road. This is the third time I’m riding this road in the past few years and I still can’t have enough of it! Half an hour later, I get to the wide grassy plateau where the 4,900 ft. altitude Trsa hamlet is located and, although it’s still quite early according to my usual riding hours, I stop at my local favourite guesthouse – Eko Selo Durmitor, have dinner and a couple of beers, rent a small cabin and call it a day. This is the perfect place to spend a quiet night!
Rovni reservoir on the Drina River
Tara National Park
Goražde, Rorovi memorial park
Sarajevo
Jablanica reservoir on the Neretva River
Konjic, bullet marks on the town buildings
Piva canyon
Piva canyon
Reaching for the sky. 590 miles
I start a new day with a delicious traditional products breakfast, say goodbye to my host, then head out southwards taking the most popular half of the spectacular Durmitor Ring alpine road, across the Sedlo pass and beneath the majestic 8,278 ft. high Bobotov Kuk summit. I don’t take too many viewing and photo breaks this time, as I’ve already ridden this road several times so far – the most recent one just two months ago, the only changes being the absence of the 10 feet high roadside snow walls and the much stronger presence of tourists, and I continue beyond the Žabljak resort town downhill to the Ɖurđević arched concrete bridge across the fabulous Tara canyon, the longest and deepest one in Europe. From this point on, I’ll be following the Tara River upstream for about 50 miles, almost up to its source, in the Komovi mountain range. The first section of this route is absolutely traffic free, then, between the towns of Mojkovac and Kolašin, it merges the E65 highway, which is the main road connecting Montenegro and Serbia, and the conditions are changing dramatically; endless lines of cars and trucks are crawling in both directions, I try to overtake some of them, but to no avail, so I just resign myself and wait until I divert on the M9 towards the town of Andrijevica. In order to get there, I have to ride across the 5,118 ft. high Trešnjevik pass, by a 20 miles long poorly maintained road through a dense and humid beech forest, which once more gives me the thrills of turning impassable right after each next bend. Fortunately, it doesn’t and I eventually descend to the Lim River valley, which I follow upstream to the Plav glacial lake and beyond, up to the Albanian border crossing at Vermosh.
The previous time I’ve been here, a few years ago, the border crossing point had been recently opened, the last mile of the road leading to it on the Albanian side was unpaved and there was no electricity, therefore the officers weren’t able to electronically register my entry and they also forgot to stamp my passport, which created some trouble for me getting out of Albania later on. This time, the road is paved but there’s still no power, so I’ve learned my lesson and carefully look out for the stamp before I go on up the Bashkimi canyon to the 4,419 ft. high Qafa e Bordolecit pass, then down the Cemi River valley towards Tamarë. The landscape in this secluded area of Northern Albania is dramatic, with tall rocky mountain crests sheltering minuscule hamlets scattered here and there on the bottom of the narrow valley, while the road is clinging to the steep slopes, offering stunning views over this wild and hostile environment. 25 miles from the border, the road leaves the valley and climbs the breathtaking Rrapsh serpentine, an insane series of tight hairpins gaining 1,800 feet in altitude in a mere couple of miles, then it descends in a somewhat milder incline to the enormous Shkodër Lake, the largest one in Southern Europe.
I’m not done with the mountains though, as nearby the small town of Koplik I turn left onto the infamous SH21 road leading to the Theth National Park. This one is trapped in the middle of the Albanian Alps, just below their 8,838 ft. Maja Jezercë highest summit, and until recently has been almost inaccessible by most cars or motorcycles, as the road up there required extreme off-road capabilities; well, actually it still is a bit difficult to get right there, while the roadworks are currently ongoing and the paved section reaches just 10 miles short of the Theth village, but this doesn’t discourage me, as I’m planning to ride as farthest as I’ll be able to. The first part of this route runs through lively villages and cultivated fields, then, beyond the settlement of Dedaj, the road narrows to a single lane and starts gradually climbing into the mountains, along a wide valley covered in shrub clusters; up next, there is a steep series of tight hairpins, where I’ve got to use mostly the 1st and 2nd gears, until I come to the 5,545 ft. high Thore pass. The wild Theth valley is opening broadly in front of me, surrounded by magnificent rocky summits painted in surreal colours by the flaming sunset. Unfortunately, the tarmac ends just 200 yards farther, therefore this is the closest I’m able to get to it and I stop for tonight at the nearby Buni i Bajraktarit campsite; although midsummer, it’s too cold to sleep in my tent, so I rent a tiny wooden cabin out of a row which is lined near an artificial pond and spend the evening by the campfire the hosts set off for the numerous tourists. Today’s surprise comes when a girl from an English-speaking group, seeing my bike’s license plate, says hello in Romanian! God, we’re spread really everywhere in the world!
These remote and hardly accessible areas of the Dinarides in Northern Albania have still got a lot to offer and be admired, so today I’ll be hanging around amidst them. The equally spectacular and pristine sibling of the Theth National Park is the Valbona Valley one, which is located just across the 5,912 ft. high Valbona pass; that’s so close, yet extremely difficult to reach, as roads are rather missing in these secluded and scarcely populated mountains and the only direct connection between these two is just a six hours long hiking trail. In order to get there by my bike, I have to ride a 160 miles long detour, back downhill to the Shkodër Lake’s shore, then eastwards along a forested mountain crest to finally enter the valley from its opposite end. There is one more option, too, by ferry from close to the city of Shkodër upstream the Drin River’s reservoirs system, but I’m here for riding, not sailing, so that one doesn’t fit me. Therefore, I turn back the same road I came onto up to Koplik, then I sneak into the rambling traffic in the streets of Shkodër, overlooked by the mighty walls of the Rozafa Castle ruins, which I skip this time, as I’ve already been there before. 10 miles down the main highway to Tirana, I turn left towards the twin dams on the Drin River nearby the town of Vau i Dejës, then I start climbing the barren mountain slopes, on an ever-twisting empty backroad. I ride on for almost two hours up and down an ocean of rolling mountain crests, with barely a human being in sight, the only exception being the brief encounter I’ve had with four guys in an old sedan, who stopped beside me as I was having a break nearby a roadside spring. Shortly after I pass by the shabby town of Fushë-Arrëz, I turn northwards alongside the 45 miles long Fierzë reservoir on the Drin River, taking an even narrower and this time unkempt backroad, which is winding in hundreds of twists and bends following the rugged mountain slope. It takes me two more hours of riding in absolute solitude through this beginning of the world landscape, until I get to a bit more civilized area between the Fierzë dam and the town of Bajram Curri, which is located along the road connecting the Komani Lake ferry terminal to the Kosovo border. The only distraction I’ve got during this grim interval are the encounters I have with an Italian couple riding two-up on an adventure motorcycle, by repeatedly overtaking each other while having short roadside breaks and exchanging thumbs-up signals to confirm we’re technically and physically ok.
The secluded small town of Bajram Curri is the entrance gate to the Valbona Valley National Park, a pristine area in the middle of the Albanian Alps, featuring stunning landscapes and several welcoming accommodation facilities. I ride upstream the rapid and foamy Valbonë River, first sneaking into a narrow and tall limestone canyon, then winding up the broad green valley up to the road’s end, in a cul-de-sac surrounded by rocky sharp mountain peaks, out of which the 8,838 ft. high Maja Jezercë and the 8,314 ft. high Kollata summits are boldly standing out. Taking a glimpse of the map, I notice I’m just 6 miles away as the crow flies from the place I’ve slept last night but, as it took me almost ten hours of tiresome riding to get here, it’s definitely time to call it a day. Therefore, I rent a room in a good looking but quite worn-out hotel, then spend the rest of the evening in its tourists crowded terrace restaurant, enjoying a tasty traditional meal, a couple of beers and another breath-taking flaming sunset.
In the morning, I wake up to a furious torrential rain, accompanied by close lightnings and loud thunders, which keeps me stuck in my hotel room until way too late for my usual daily routine. A bit worried by this unexpected bad weather outbreak, I take a look at the grim forecast for the greater Western Balkans area and I decide it’s time to get out of the mountains as fast as I can, hoping to be able to outrun this atmospheric front by moving on eastwards. The only problem with this plan is that, due to not having a Kosovo valid insurance for my bike, I need to head south first, then round the prominent Korab massif to Northern Macedonia and further on towards Bulgaria on my way home. Eventually, short of ten o’clock the rain seems to thin out for a while and I take advantage of this opportunity to hurriedly get out of the Valbonë valley. Once again, I ride along the Fierzë reservoir, this time on the opposite side, where the road – as narrow and less circulated, but in a slightly better condition than the one I’ve rode yesterday – runs across some barren mountain crests and a few scattered villages. At least, still in a secluded and scarcely populated area, I don’t feel that extreme solitude sensation anymore, as I get to see people from time to time, even chat to some, like the overly kind and curious boys who fill up my gas tank in the small town of Has. At about noon, I pass through the bigger town of Kukës, located beside the motorway connecting the Adriatic Sea shore to Kosovo’s capital in Priština, whose streets are quite crowded with cars and pedestrians; I continue southwards, taking the road which is running along the steep and rugged foothills of the 9,025 ft. high Mount Korab, through crammed villages and in an endless series of turns, bends, ups and downs, which really dizzies me. It’s been more than a week since I’m riding like this and I really feel I’ve had enough mountain roads for now, so I can’t wait to get to the milder landscape of North Macedonia.
After three hours of making a painfully slow progress due to the road’s condition, I come to the town of Peshkopi, just 10 miles ahead of the border crossing point at Blato. The documents control formalities last for a while over here, due to Macedonia’s strict pandemic restrictions, but I get in trouble free eventually and head on for the nearby town of Debar, where I finally turn northwards, along the eastern slopes of the same massive Mount Korab. The road to Skopje passes through the Mavrovo National Park and by its main attractions, the Radika Gorge and the Mavrovo reservoir, but I’m not quite in the appropriate mood for sight-seeing right now, so I keep on advancing steadily towards the city. Downhill by the town of Gostivar I reach the far end of the “Mother Teresa” motorway, which I gladly take for the final 40 miles to my tonight’s destination, a cosy hotel right in the city centre. I arrive there at the fall of dark and, although I’m feeling tired as hell, I still take a short walking tour to the statues lined, brightly lit Macedonia square and the 15th century arched stone bridge across the Vardar River, two of Skopje’s most prominent landmarks.
Durmitor National Park
Durmitor National Park
Rafting on the Tara River
Cemi canyon
Rrapsh serpentine
Thore pass
Buni i Bajraktar campsite
Fierzë reservoir on the Drin River
Valbona National Park
The Black Drin valley
Skopje
The long leap home. 420 miles
I leave Skopje in the morning under the silent threat of a compact grey sky, heading east towards the Bulgarian border. Given the distance I have to cover by tonight, today I’ll be in a constant hurry, so I take the motorway up to the town of Kumanovo, then I continue onto the currently being rebuilt road in the direction of Kriva Palanka. The traffic is not so hard as I expected it to be and I make quite a good progress for about 50 miles, until I start climbing the foothills of the Osogovo mountain range, which is North Macedonia’s natural border with Bulgaria. Unfortunately, right about this moment the atmospheric front which I’ve been trying to escape of even since yesterday morning catches up with me and a light drizzle starts moistening the tarmac. At first, I’m not worried at all, as I’ve been cautious enough to put on my rain gear when I left the hotel, but the rain keeps on gradually building up, until it transforms in a real downpour. Now, besides the certainty of eventually getting soaked to my skin, I’m also facing the risk of imminent skidding on the uphill bends, as the amount of rainfall is so consistent that the tarmac is completely covered in a half-inch deep water coating, therefore I have to stop and find some shelter, at least until the rain eases out a bit. Luckily, a couple of hundreds yards farther I come to a corrugated sheet bus stop refuge on the side of the road, I pull over and wait over there for almost a full hour for the rain to let me move on.
Eventually, I take advantage of a short break in the rainfall and get to the border crossing point, then continue downhill by the town of Kyustendil to the A3 “Struma” motorway heading north towards Sofia. Meanwhile, the rain starts falling again lightly, making the tarmac quite slippery, especially in the inclined bends around the town of Dupnica, so I have to ride carefully and at a rather low speed. All this stress soon makes me want to take another break, but I’m under the pressure of time and, as the rain stops again, for good this time I hope, I reckon it’s better to keep on riding, so that my clothes would also dry out in the airflow. And here I go, past the city of Sofia, then onto the A2 “Hemus” motorway across the Vitinya pass, to the Danubian lowlands beyond the Balkan mountain range. Shortly after passing by the town of Botevgrad and filtering through several miles-long lines of cars which are crawling slowly in a jam caused by an accident, I take the much desired break in a gas station, affording to spend half an hour on a coffee and snack; I haven’t stopped for more than 3 hours and 150 miles, anyway, and now I’m confident I’ll be able to get home by the fall of dark, even though I’ve still got more than 200 miles left up there.
The last section of my route in Bulgaria, from the motorway’s end, past the city of Pleven, to the border crossing at Ruse runs through a dull and boring landscape of rolling hills and vast cultivated fields, which I try to compensate by riding as fast as I can, although the road is quite bumpy and unkempt. Consequently, I put my bike to a tough test by doing this and I get the outcome just 40 miles short of the border, when I stop in another gas station for a rest. While I’m staying in line to buy a coffee, a truck driver approaches me – asking if I’m the rider on that ‘big cruiser’ :) – and points out that he saw I’ve got no license plate attached to it. Damn, not again! I rush out to the parking lot to discover he’s right, the plastic frame broke, probably due to the repeated shocks and vibrations it took lately, and I’ve lost the darn plate once more. As pissed off as I’d be, I shrug my shoulders and prepare to get going, as there’s nothing I can do about that anymore, to the truck driver’s awe, who’s suggesting to go back on the road I’ve come onto and search for it, or I’d have big trouble at the border otherwise. Calm down, my friend, this isn’t the first time I’m doing this! :) – I reply, then I take off, leaving him in bewilderment.
Indeed, almost an hour later, I cross the Danube bridge at Ruse and inherently the Romanian border absolutely trouble free, without anybody noticing my bike lacks its license plate. As I supposed, I’m left only with the hassle of getting a replacement one during the upcoming days and working out a way to fix it, so that I won’t lose it again in the future. The last 70 miles up home is business as usual, with heavy traffic around and inside Bucharest, despite the late hour, and at about eight o’clock I put an end to this quite twisted and complicated journey. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed it big time, although I guess it’s going to be a while until I’ll set off onto some mountain roads again!
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