European Divide Trail: The Jura

Day 8

We wake up next to the fishing pond and the day starts well. Although we gain a fair bit of elevation, it’s nothing compared to the forest paths of the Vosges. Dennis has done some quick calculations and concludes that the rest of the day will only get easier. Not even five minutes later we’re standing in the middle of a forest where the GPS says there should be a path — but there’s no path to be found anywhere. Luckily there’s a cycle path along the canal nearby. We can cruise along nicely, so the mood is good. About 40 kilometres from the end of the day we are surprised by a solid climb, which we have to walk a stretch of again. A day without hike-a-biking is a day not lived.

After this climb we reach the Chemin du Train. A railway line used to run here and it’s now a cycle path, which means there are very few steep sections. We roll beautifully downhill towards our campsite in Pontarlier. We even arrive before dark, and that’s after covering 137 kilometres today. The day feels like a welcome rest day after all the grinding of the past few days.

Day 9

We continue along the Chemin du Train and ride into the Jura. We take it easy in the morning: we have breakfast at a little bakery and quickly make the second coffee stop of the day. Today we enjoy the good weather while it lasts, as rain is forecast for the rest of the week.

The start of the Jura is beautiful, but the route quickly becomes challenging again. There are lots of steep little climbs, and in many places there’s snow forcing us to walk. Just after we ride into Switzerland, we come across a beautiful shelter where we have lunch. We would have loved to sleep here, but it’s only two in the afternoon, so we decide to push on a bit further. Dennis has once again calculated that after this climb the hardest part of the day should be behind us…

The morning went smoothly so we’re feeling good. But — for the hundredth time on this trip — that changes after lunch. In Switzerland they’ve managed to make terrain that looks flat on the map feel enormously slow. We follow a rocky hiking path running along the border and we can barely make any progress. Two hours after lunch we’ve only covered eight kilometres. The big lesson of today: I’d better stop relying on Dennis’s calculations. A few times we try to find a more rideable path, but that doesn’t seem to exist here. The plan for today was 130 kilometres, but when we finally emerge from the forest we’re only at 70 and it’s already half past five. Luckily we’re masters at adjusting expectations by now, so we stop at the next supermarket and look for a different sleeping spot for tonight.

All the campsites in the area are closed and there are no shelters to be found on the map, so we prepare for the first night wild camping in our tents. There’s a stretch of forest coming up, so we decide to look for a suitable spot there.

That turns out to be harder than expected. We’re mostly riding along a main road and there are signs everywhere saying wild camping is not allowed.

Then suddenly a shelter appears along the road. We’re certain it wasn’t on the map, but we stop to check whether it’s accessible. At first we’re not sure whether people are actually meant to sleep here, but then we spot a sign that reads — roughly translated — “For everyone’s enjoyment, please leave this place as you found it.” That sounds like we’re more than welcome.

We have dinner by candlelight and get ready for the night. It’s the first time we even have a door in our shelter, and the surprise element of the place makes it extra special.

Day 10

The first stretch of the day goes smoothly. The paths run through the forest but aren’t as bad as yesterday. Until the path suddenly ends, while the GPS says we should just keep going. It’s not the first time we’ve lost the trail a bit, so we walk through the undergrowth in the direction the GPS is pointing. A bit later we’re standing in an open field with no paths visible anywhere.

On the map we can’t see any paths near us either. This genuinely feels like the most lost we’ve been so far. After some discussion about the best plan we head back towards where we last had a clear path. There we spot a faint track that must once have served as a path. Not long after we’re back on a clear trail and end up exactly where the GPS wanted us to be.

By now the sky has completely closed in. Neither of us thinks it’s a good idea to be lost in a forest on a mountain when a thunderstorm hits, so we reroute via a nearby main road. Shortly after we feel the first drops, and for the first time on the trip we pull out our rain jackets. The road route is manageable and in the first village we stop for coffee to wait out the shower.

“Pain is just the French word for bread.”

After 55 kilometres we reach the highlight of the day (for Dennis): a climb of over 20 kilometres with nearly 900 metres of elevation. Dennis has been looking forward to this for two days. The original plan was to start today’s ride with this climb, but yesterday’s delay meant he had to wait a little longer.We agree to ride the climb at our own pace and wait for each other at the top. There, the highlight of the day for me awaits, the pain au chocolat we picked up at the bakery this morning. By now the sun has come back out. The climb certainly doesn’t disappoint. It starts on a tarmac road where trees have just been felled, so even there we have to scramble over tree trunks. But the real challenge begins as soon as we dive into the forest. Of course there are hike-a-bike sections again. Mentally the climb feels endless; I count every meter. I’ve been in my lightest gear for a while and don’t really have a choice about how much effort to put in — if I go any slower, I’ll fall over. Along the way I find myself thinking about the sticker at Filipe’s house: “Pain is just the French word for bread.”

Just over two hours later we reach the top, where we find a nice grassy spot for lunch. Unfortunately, the weather doesn’t let us enjoy the pain au chocolat for long, as the sky closes in again and it starts to rain. We also have another problem: we’ve both been nearly out of water for a while and according to the map there are no water points ahead for the time being. When we pass a farmhouse I ask in my best French for un peu d’eau, and the friendly man restocks us.

Unfortunately the climbing isn’t over for today. We can see a sizeable lump on our GPS. As soon as we start the climb we spot hiking signs pointing towards “Le Grand Colombier” — a well-known mountain that’s often climbed in the Tour de France. Neither of us knew it was in our route, but it’s obviously nice to be able to say you’ve climbed it. It doesn’t come for free though. We’re on the gravel ascent, with long steep sections where we have to walk again. When we finally reach the top comes the big disappointment of the day: we’re at the top of the climb in our route, but not at the summit of the Grand Colombier. We can see the top from where we stand, but that would mean a fair bit of extra climbing and it’s already quite late in the day (and we’re both done for today). Dennis finds it hard to accept that we’re not going to the summit. My mind is already on the warm shower at the campsite and I’m honestly fine with it — two hours ago I didn’t even know we’d be anywhere near that summit.

The descent is still super technical and brutal. Dennis does an acrobatic somersault over his handlebars, but fortunately the landing is soft. It’s a good thing we didn’t ride to the summit, because we’d probably have had to do this section in the dark. In Culoz we find a campsite with a beautiful view of the mountain — so we can still enjoy it from there. The pizzeria has run out of pizza dough so we eat two bread rolls and tiramisu. Far too little, but after that I can finally get under a hot shower.

Day 11

The day starts with rain, so we have breakfast in our tents and pack up our wet things. Luckily it’s dry when we get on the bikes. We follow a beautiful cycle path along the Rhône, surrounded by lovely nature, and we can really put the power down.

But what had we learned again about smooth mornings? Right. That setbacks are lurking.

During the first climb we again hit a stretch where the route doesn’t seem to exist. Even though last time we’d agreed to check the map first in that situation, I claim I can still see the path — so it’ll be fine. Not long after I’ve lost the path anyway (oops), and we have to drag our bikes through bushes and lift them over fences.

In a few places there’s barbed wire on the ground. Despite trying to be careful, I hear the dreaded sound of a puncture. Once we’ve found the road again I need to deal with that. It’s raining again, we’re both cold, and the hole is hard to find because everything is wet and dirty. When I’ve finally patched it and put the wheel back on, I hear that same sound again… My heart sinks.

I check whether the first patch didn’t hold, but it’s fine — so there’s a second hole in the tyre. This time I don’t have the energy to find the hole, so I just put in a new inner tube. We’ve been standing still in the rain for over an hour and we’re both thoroughly cooled down. You can imagine the mood isn’t exactly cheerful at that point. We agree to keep riding until we find somewhere with a roof, so we can make a plan for the rest of the day.

The shelter takes a long time to appear — which is actually fine, because it gives us the time to warm ourselves up by pedalling.

Once we’ve stopped at a bus shelter we are both completely soaked. The rain doesn’t look like it’s going to ease up in the coming hours or possibly days. Luckily we both agree that we’d rather just put our heads down and ride hard in this weather than spend the rest of the day cold in the tent. We make a coffee stop where we reroute along main roads. We find a campsite 50 kilometres away. It’s still quite far, but we put ourselves in motor mode and get to work.

“If you’re cold, you have to pedal faster”

Dennis and I are used to grinding for hours with our heads down from triathlon — and that’s exactly how we race to the campsite. Actually it goes pretty well. And actually the scenery is genuinely stunning, especially with the rain clouds hanging mysteriously between the mountains. Every now and then I look around and can even take a moment to enjoy it.

The campsite location is absolutely beautiful. Maybe it’s because I had low expectations of this part of France that I’m extra impressed. At the campsite we make a complete mess of the toilet block with our wet things hung up in the hope they’ll dry at least somewhat. Our dinner consists of the bread we’d actually bought for lunch — it was far too cold and wet for that today. Luckily there’s a covered area at the campsite where we can sit inside, which is nice. In the end we still covered 138 kilometres today, but it felt like an enormously long day. We’re a little bit dreading it if the rest of the week is going to look like this.

Then I get a message from my aunt, who’s been following our trip. She and her family are at their holiday house in Dieusse, in the south of France. She writes that it’s raining heavily there and hopes we’re having better luck with the weather. That gets me thinking: how far is Dieusse from our route? It turns out we’ll be passing very close by. If we push hard (168 kilometres), we could even be there tomorrow evening. It’s a considerable distance, but the promise of a warm bed doesn’t make us hesitate for even a second. We agree to stay with them tomorrow night.

Now that we’re out of the Jura, we can make up some kilometres. The rain is a shame, but actually we feel fine. And if tomorrow we don’t have to climb into a wet tent again, suddenly the whole thing feels a lot less endless. We’ve truly arrived at the final stretch of the trip.