A Dictionary on Bikepacking in Central Europe

When Alex Kopp and Karen Ekman set out from Innsbruck with dreams of Dolomiti gravel, sunshine, and espresso-fueled climbs, the forecast had other plans. What followed was less of a straight route and more of a story told in weather maps, rail tickets, and trail detours—a drifting journey across borders, cultures, and expectations.

Speaking different languages, Alex German and Karen Finnish, both share a common rhythm: a mix of sarcasm, stubbornness, and curiosity. Whether it was Alex urging them on from a snowy trailhead or Karen pausing for a well-timed “chokladpaus,” they moved forward, not always smoothly, not always dry, but always with the sense that something unexpected was waiting just around the bend.

This is their ride through the shifting landscapes of Central Europe. A journey shaped not by a set route, but by instincts, improvisation, and a growing collection of words, each one capturing a feeling, a place, or a moment along the way.

A perfect example of our usual conversation, we come from two different countries, speak different languages, and often see things from different angles—but somehow the mood still worked. Half joking, half serious, and fully aware that plans had already gone out the window. What began as a spring ride towards the Dolomites quickly turned into something else—a ride shaped by weather, instinct, and curiosity. This is a story about letting go, shifting course, and finding something unexpected along the way.

Schwoafing Tuláks (drifting - wanderers)

We had gotten together in Innsbruck to gear up and head out for a week of bikepacking to get the season started. Our oblivious vision of sun, pizza, espressos, and glorious Dolomiti Gravel quickly got shattered by the forecast for the southern parts of the Alps. When all weather apps and storm radars agreed on torrential rain and thunder for the southern districts, we found ourselves frantically looking for any and every other possibility out there. 

The main Alpine ridge played a crucial role here, acting as a kind of meteorological divide: bad weather in the south often means sun in the north, and vice versa. This time, different weathers were pushing in from all southern directions - west to east. Eventually, all options pointed in one direction: northeast, into the only mountainous area unaffected by the storms – the Bohemian Forest on the border between Germany and Czech Republic.Taking the train – bikes in tow – turned out to be our saving grace this time around. There are many advantages to living in the heart of the Alps, one being the surprisingly dense (if not always punctual) rail network stretching over the whole country. So we booked tickets for the next day's early morning train, and escaped east - using the few slow hours on the train to scout the map for routes and areas to visit. 

It was cloudy, and the time was something around mid-day. The train station we got off at was quiet, the town very small. But it was the last Austrian town before heading towards a route that would criss cross the Czech Republic and the German border. And so we filled our water bottles and started pedalling. The small disappointment we’d been feeling for missing out on the high Alpine was quickly replaced by the excitement of not knowing, we were rolling into areas unknown for both of us. Like two Schwoafing Tuláks, a combination of a Bavarian and a Czech word, we felt like roaming wanderers. Guided by the weather forecast and curiosity, fueled by the endless possibilities that come with exploring central Europe.

Šumava (humming sound of trees in wind)
Hummhmmhumm, the wind hums the treetops. A slight rattle in the raincover of our tent wakes us up, on the third morning of our bike trip. Like spring, we slowly awoke out of a half sleep state - stretching out the stiff limbs and turning towards the first rays of sun. 

The night before we had pushed our bikes up the last stretch in the dark, feet slipping in the loose gravel lit up by our head torches. After having found a spot flat enough to pitch a tent and hung the bibs to dry off the tree branches, we tucked into the sleeping bags reminiscing on the day. Day three was not much different to day two and one - meandering along the country border taking in the variety of greenery, terrain and views peering through the occasional clearing in the dense forest. Lot of time was spent below the treeline, leading to feelings of isolation only occasionally eased by a high hill with an open view, showing the forest stretching towards the horizon.

That humming sound in the trees has given the name to this national park - Šumava, an elongated low mountain range along the border between Germany's Bavaria and Czech Bohemia. The Czech named the area after the sound of the wind blowing through the forest, the German named it Böhmerwald - the Bohemian Forest. Gently rolling hills, vast forests, moorlands, remote lakes, and sparsely populated high plateaus stretch over hundreds of kilometers. Between places like Bayerisch Eisenstein, Železná Ruda, Modrava, and Kvilda, a quiet, almost otherworldly landscape unfolds. Once a political border zone and restricted area, the region today is a peaceful retreat – with barely trafficked roads, small villages, and a rugged, often surprisingly wild atmosphere. Exactly what we were looking for.

Bikepackers have already discovered this region through events like the Bohemian Border Bash, a demanding race that challenges its riders with rough gravel paths, remote forest tracks, and significant elevation changes. The race follows winding routes that trace the old borderlands, pushing participants to navigate both the physical terrain and the region’s rich, sometimes hidden history. It’s a perfect example of how Šumava’s wild, serene environment can offer adventure and solitude for those willing to explore its depths on two wheels.

Wegerl (small path – very lovingly saying)

After having left the highest points of the Bohemian Range behind us, our focus promptly shifted towards new points of interest. Equipped with suspension bikes we found a real pull to discover beyond the long and wide stretching agricultural gravel roads - to the wegerl, the Bavarian word for small paths. We found the Transbayernwald route, a challenging and scenic bikepacking trail that weaves through the heart of the Bavarian Forest, offering a mix of rugged forest singletracks, narrow mountain paths. Spanning over 350 kilometers, it connects remote villages, dense woodland, and gently rolling hills, often crossing through protected natural areas and UNESCO biosphere reserves. The trail is known for its technical sections, varied terrain, and breathtaking views. Riding the Transbayernwald meant immersing ourselves in a landscape shaped by centuries of forestry and tradition, far from the bustle of larger towns, where every Wegerl promised new discoveries.

What followed felt like a game of hide and seek—only it was the singletracks doing the hiding, and we were the eager seekers. Hours slipped by beneath the sun as we chased the signs guiding us along the Transbayernwald route. With whoops of excitement, we rolled off the main bike paths and plunged into shadowy forests, following arrows that led us down yet another almost invisible trail. No mind can stay fully adult when tires bite into grippy soil, carving through the flow of a hidden singletrack. Laughter echoed through the trees as we skidded and giggled our way to the trail’s end, bursting out of the forest and racing each other toward the next secret detour.

Weidafoan (keep rolling)

Reaching the end of the Bohemian Forest marked the beginning of Germany’s seemingly endless agricultural stretches. As the balance tipped—transition trails outnumbering flowy singletrack - we sat down over an ice cream to reassess—weather apps and trailmaps open between us. Neither of us had reached the wafer cone before the decision was made: we’d catch another train back south. The worst of the rain had passed, and there was forecasted sun for the northern Alpine regions. It was time to weidafoan, to move on.

Darkness had settled over Salzburg by the time we arrived. The city bathed dimly in the orange hue of streetlights as we coasted down the paved multi-laned roads. Streets, bars and corner shops brimmed with life—and we felt a vivid contrast of “the real world” knocking on the door of our bikepacking bubble. 

We found home on a beach by the river, with the city glowing in the back. Come morning—we saddled our steeds and, finally, headed into the Alpine. In less than five hours, we had decided, boarded a train, pedaled through one of Austria’s largest cities, and set up camp at the foot of the mountains. Exploring unfamiliar terrain in the deep forests of Šumava had been exciting—and at times challengingly isolating—but in truth, we were made for the mountains. Both of us thrive in the high alpine. And so, we were content with our spontaneous return—just as the time felt right.

Ois hod sei Zeit (all in good time)

That we camped by the foot of the mountains was no exaggeration. As soon as we set off, the climbing began — and it never really stopped. The Karwendel doesn’t ease you in. It throws you right into the steepest of steeps, especially once you leave Achensee behind - Plumsjoch at its best. Switchbacks, forest roads, snow patches in the shade. It's raw, close, and utterly beautiful.

There’s something about being in the mountains that slows things down. Maybe it’s the gradient. Maybe the fact that you have time. Maybe just the reminder that you're small and everything else is not. Time expands, thoughts stretch out, and there's space for everything else.

And, that’s probably what we were looking for in the end—a reminder that everything comes in its time. Not every ride needs a planned route, a peak, a finish line, or a caption. Not every plan needs to succeed. Some stories unfold slowly. Less linear. Less loud.

Few bikepacking destinations offer as much flexibility, and as many shifts in country borders, languages, landscapes, and cultures, as Central Europe. It’s a region where traditions intertwine and where every junction offers a new perspective. The compactness of these countries and the remarkably efficient public transport network make it easy to follow the weather, chase curiosity, or simply change course on a whim.

We’re grateful to have such an extensive rail network at our doorstep — it gives us the freedom to improvise. To chase the sun. To escape storms. And to find our way, even when we’re not quite sure where that is.