Kicbike listens to calling hills… Prt. II

This post starts with part I

Like all seasoned cyclists, nervous about setting up my tent somewhere is not an issue anymore. We have done this so often that I look at every spot in nature as a potential place to camp, even when I do not need to camp.

Taking into account the wind direction or the absence of trees, as very soon a storm comes my way, has become an automatism. Previous campfires, deer bones scattered around from barbecue parties and beer cans are a clear no go area. Still, the only thing I often fail at is finding a perfect level spot.

I try to camp out of view of possible passersby and with several walking trails crossing through substantial parts of woods, it can become difficult. I might be smelled rather than seen.

I love the boldness of (young) deer, antlers seemingly too small to fight with. Wild boars do not frighten me anymore and so, all is just fine among the forest creatures and me.

A risk of pushing a kickbike on the Kéktúra is that I might face too steep or cascading paths or electrified deer proof and wire mesh fences and that means turning around to where I came from. But that risk is overshadowed by the fun of being on a kickbike, it is pure entertaining to stand on a kickbike (plus, in cold days the feet won’t get affected because they work constantly, unlike on a bicycle, yet the biggest plus is no saddle to retrieve soreness and rash). The smooth twists and turns, the whole body that needs to swirl and tip to get a nice going on uneven paths is placing a smile on my face. At times I whoosh with nearly 50 kilometers an hour down the 7 kilometer long downhill into Bakonybél.

Is there anyone who knows what this sign indicates? I saw it at the entrance of a forest, by which I came out.

It takes me hours to find my way out of the seemingly hundreds of paths to choose from, relying on Maps.me and Google. But then I am on a good path (no bicycles allowed which I can happily agree with). I meet with mating frogs, affectionate horses and only 1 lumberjack or hunter passing me.

‘What is the charm of camping, actually?’ A very reasonable question, one Geo would ask. Geo my sweetheart is totally done with camping and as soon as rain merge with my being outside I can only admit that I am either stupid, heart headed, ignorant or hopeful.

The reason that I tour is that the weather is suddenly very pacifying. It is a warmth that wants me to be outside and feel the simplicity of living outside in nature. I want to be fully in the woods, see the sun setting and rising. I want to see new things never seen before. I want to be surprised by nature. The knowing that cold and rain will come is somehow shoved aside.

The going soon becomes tough but I am very surprised that even in rain I keep my smile and remain enjoying the whole ordeal: a challenge is uplifting. Every difficulty is met with the optimistic thought that ‘we’ are going to tackle it.

Material like dried and fibrous acacia bark, some pine resin and left-over pieces of cut wood found at lumberjack spots are part of the fuel I take along to start fires in the bushbox.

I am not amused when rain meets with me, ensuring a damp sleeping bag, a wet tent and a frosty soil. The fact that I am going home does help a great deal to keep my spirit soaring. My stomach is upset from the processed food, questionable cashew nuts and lacking greens (or from the sometimes not so clear well water).

I never dreamed of knitting my own garment, but I did long for learning new things when I cycled 5 years. Et voilà, knitting my clothes in the forest and on the hills.

To get off route is always a risk but at times there’s no other choice. The quiet paths make for an easy urinoir (leave no paper!) and plenty of camp options. But, as usual, the easy way is boring, now the challenge is to find a room with a view.

Having seen a bicycle down from where I‘d set up my tent, I assume that is the correct way to get out of a very lumberjackish route. It isn’t. The going is tough and I have the unexplainable notion that I have to keep up a strong, unwavering appearance (towards a hunter who has seen me) that pushing a weird loaded vehicle up a steep muddy, clay hill is absolutely fun. It takes me 3 hours to cover 5 kilometers.

Can you see the bicycle tire track beside my kickbike?

I get seriously moody when the weather forecast shows heavy wind and rain for the oncoming week. I sulk, complain to my husband and blame him a bit (that he does not come and pick me up) and then decide to have a selfie competition; that always makes me happy. I go to sleep in a mummified position on an uneven ground with trains and traffic moving in the far distance and I wake up in good spirits. I might have been gifted with a chocolate bunny by a friendly lady for it?

Then the wind becomes a madman sweeping over the puszta with so little consideration it has the back wheel sliding vertical over the tarmac when I am walking. Stormy weather has one advantage and that is that I make a lot more kilometers a day. I decide not to seek shelter, as there is none and headstrong I dive into the ugly weather. It is a challenge to not only accept rainy weather but to ascend above that feeling. As an opposite I perceive the quiet sinking in immediately when leaving the cars behind.

Before and after tent set up and readjusting, according a better wind direction, in heavy wind and light snow fall: a face in a Hilleberg is a happy face!

I am aware that every positive thought has an opposite, one derived from sunny weather will have one opponent experience. But when I push the kickbike through wet forests trying to come near a very particular point of what I had in mind, climbing bit by bit, snow does not bother me. When I have reached the top of a Bakony belonging hill electricity lines swoosh strongly to one side. The hard wind plays guitar on the strings placed one tower after another in one long section of main power lines: worst spot to camp near.

A spot of out of the wind and away from possible falling trees (a tree collapsing is a bigger threat than a human passing by) is now my priority. I succeed. As well as in staying content and warm enough. As a bonus I decide to make a fire in the morning, cold as it is.

The satisfaction of kickbiking (or cycling) lays in the fact of simply doing. In warm sunny weather almost everyone likes to eat outside but it takes a committed unpretentious boyscout to picnic in the rain and hang around in a tent while rain is falling. It helps me tremendously that I go home. Going home is my carrot and kicking in the rain brings me closer to home. With optimism, noticeable energy and vigor I am off. Quite surprising what a seemingly sleepless night in a mummified position can bring about.

A lady at the local grocery in town asks me curiously a few questions, the usual things, but I like to receive this friendliness. She hands me cacao free chocolate bunny and I realize it must be Easter soon.

‘Are you not getting enough of camping?’ asks Geo. A very reasonable question but the answer is ‘no’. Getting inspired by certain spots I have seen from a distance makes me long to truly be there.

This spot was where I aimed for. Via existing trails and non-existing ones I got there, in excellent weather conditions I enjoyed the spectaculair view and feelings of my own efforts.

I want to know Hungary and it’s people better. When a man on the trail says: ‘So you come to see the good side of Hungary; the nature, and not its people,’ I disagree with him, telling that I like the Hungarians. Thinking back of the old man in a village who led me into his home to get tap water and offering me some vitamins as well (orange drink in a bottle) is more humbling now than it ever was. I do wonder whether people would treat me as lovely when they find out I’m kind of German and still don’t speak well Hungarian after 1.5 years (daily practicing)?

The last stretch is known territory, I kick without need to navigate and know where to stop for camp. Easy does it.

The 9^th, the last night, I sleep where I intended to, as the hills above Balaton are one of my favorite spots. It might not look spectacular but the old gnarled mossy acacias teeming with deer and overlooking nearby hills is where I feel almost home.

The last 55 kilometer are reasonable flat and with being almost home and Ajeet’s music powering me I am happy, energetic and home soon.

But, a sleeping bag ought not to be sun dried on high grass and the citronella oil I have at home ought to be applied, as well as the socks that ought to have been tucked in the trousers at all times, for chiggers, or berry mites, are again threading my body. An intense itching stays with me for over a week, decreasing over 4 weeks. Hundreds of spots leave my body behind like sandpaper dotted with red and bloody spots, eventually turning blue from intense scratching. Putting my knowledge into action might not apply to the boyscout I feel but I did enjoy the 10 day kickbike tour (and the shower after 10 days too. And the homegrown food. And the cat giving birth to 3. And, last but furthest from least, Geo).

---