12-15 October 2019.
Into the Heart of the Dinaric Alps Amidst the Wonderful People of Serbia.
301 miles with 18260 feet of climbing.
Into the Heart of the Dinaric Alps Amidst the Wonderful People of Serbia.
301 miles with 18260 feet of climbing.
If the heart of a mountain system as magnificent as the Dinarides (Dinaric Alps) exists then I was there, surrounded by its nourishing and beating ventricles in my here and now, and had been since I approached Jablaničko Lake and pedaled through Konjic, Mokro, and Rudo in Bosnia on my way to Sarajevo; and deeper still, as I rode to Nova Varos through the Serbian towns of Priboj, Rutosi, and Kokin Brod. Ahead, I should have expected that the heart of the Dinaric Alps would be extensive and deliver many challenges, but my tired mind and body were focused on the present, the proximate hill, food for a meal or two at a time, and conversation with locals whenever I had the opportunity to interact with them. Looking back from Nova Varos to Split, Croatia, the route I had ridden and would complete, on a long, steep, and winding descent from Kopaonik west of Niš, Serbia, transected the most extensive, widest, and elevated folds of the Dinarides. How I arrived to this particular transect involved chance and planning, However, once there, it was a fitting space to comprehend, for the first time, the unanticipated coming together of a pair of beating hearts, one small enough to fit inside the chest of a curious, adventure cyclist; another, epic in scope, an expanse of stone and atmosphere that would easily fill several of the Moon's largest craters.
On my transect so far through the Dinarides, using memory and my mind’s eye, it was obvious that I'd ridden through a minimum of four, north-south trending ecological and climatological zones. In Croatia, soils were thin, especially on the coasts and islands, and forests often had no overstory and minimal ground cover. A transition zone was apparent between Vrgorac, Croatia, and Mostar, Bosnia, as I rode east. In this transition zone, forests gradually became more complex, eventually with obvious upper, middle, and lower canopy components. Soils also thickened and matured. These changes were in response to, I suspect, increasing moisture levels relative to Croatia's coastline, inner ridges and valleys. Additional moisture provides for increased plant production, including foliage and woody material that eventually litter the ground; chemical weathering of local bedrock also increases with moisture availability. Working in collaboration, these processes are responsible for building mature soils necessary to support man's agricultural needs as well as complex, forest ecosystems.
On the ascent to Jablaničko Lake from Mostar, Bosnia, I ascended into a third zone with fully developed forests, and eventually wide valleys, beyond Konjic, and associated agriculture and pastures that benefited from well developed soils comprised of plant matter and pulverized bedrock constructed over millennia by natural processes. During my adventures through Bosnia and Serbia the day and part of the evening before, I'd ultimately, a fourth zone, cross into an impressive intermontane system of alpine summits that towered, in rugged profile, above a series of forest types down to productive valleys watered by fast flowing streams. This would be the pinnacle not only in space but more importantly in mental and physical achievement of my exploration of the Dinaric Alps and worth every effort to arrive there.
As I rolled-out of Nova Varos on 12 October 2019, 53 days into my tour, I saw for the first time, in the absence of darkness and fatigue from the night before, mature forests on the slopes adjacent to and above town. From my saddle perspective, tall, straight, high-elevation (loving) pines formed a monoculture similar to lodgepole pine forests found not far below treeline in the Rocky Mountains (United States). But unlike those Rocky Mountain lodgepole pine forests, there were far fewer trees per unit area and diameter at breast height (DBH), a popular forestry metric, was consistent with North America's ponderosa pine which grow at a similar elevation.
I was already above 3000 feet as the road began to climb after a short descent from the guest house where I'd spent the night. However, a brief assessment of my proximate atmosphere did not raise any concerns as far as inclement weather, and temperature was a cozy, for a cyclist, 64 degrees Fahrenheit. For the next hour and a few minutes, I climbed over a series of higher and higher passes, their summits were at roughly 3900, 4400, 4600 feet above sea level, respectively. From the top of the last, I descended a modest 500 feet to an extensive intermontane parkland, similar to South Park in Colorado (United States) on a smaller scale. Beyond this picturesque open space, the road climbed again and I ascended back to just under 4100 feet before initiating an impressive 40 mile descent, with a few short exceptions, that concluded in the big town of Novi Pazar. Conveniently, I followed Route 29 the entire distance, roughly 60 miles.
Other than a few middle-sized towns along the way that presented no challenges for a seasoned bicycle rider and otherwise a significant opportunity to express my curiosity, the entire section was scenic and rural, a pleasure to explore on my first full day in Serbia. About 20 miles above Novi Pazar, I ascended a series of switchbacks before descending into a narrow valley which I can easily recall weeks later as I sit writing (4 February 2020) the Serbian chapter of my travelogue. Homes were sparsely distributed amidst familiar agricultural and horticultural scenes, forest patches, and lazy creeks. Forests clung to the edges of fence lines, opposite green fields and pastures, in anticipation of any opportunity to refill the valley. Beyond those edges, framing the valley floor, steep slopes, rarely broken by exposed ledges and other bedrock features, rose up to modest, smooth domed hills. Like the Sava Valley in Slovenia, I occasionally had a clear view, through a notch in those hills, to much higher summits, their vast scree slopes and extensive alpine zones.
Under blue skies, inside a warm atmosphere, I was comfortable and content despite a massive fatigue stored just beyond my perception at that moment. A few villages above Novi Pazar, I chanced upon two young cyclists, one seasoned and the other just getting to know the limitless possibilities of the bicycle, and they stopped right away to introduce themselves and learn more about the far-flung stranger in their midst. I enjoyed their energy and thirst for adventure and that seemingly, as it turns out, reset the small part of the universe that was directing my moment-by-moment to a modus operandi that prioritized social opportunity.
An experience the previous day at the Bosnia-Serbia border adjacent to the village of Uvac, Bosnia, not far from the north bank of the River Lim, the longest tributary of the River Drina which is the longest tributary of the familiar, from Slovenia, Sava River, was on my mind as I rolled into the outskirts of Novi Pazar. That experience involved a long row of decorated cars containing a variety of occupants, from smiling adults to riotous youngsters, all part of a wedding celebration that was either on its way or coming from the ceremony. The vehicles were intentionally loud and the occupants shouted at me with friendly intentions but nevertheless elevated my anxiety. Simultaneously, they also blasted a cacophony of hand-held air horns in my direction and every other. The space above the River Lim in my immediate vicinity was overwhelmed and I was eager to depart from this most recent realization of the chaos of man as I was simultaneously brought to a standstill behind the caravan that also wanted to cross the border. Each vehicle contained no fewer than two passengers, some as many as four or more, but it only took minutes for the whole wave to get through Bosnian and then Serbian check points. I came next, and with similar efficiency I was inside of Serbia without incident other than the memory of high energy youngsters, their cars, exhaust pipes, and other means of disturbing the peace that were now somewhere ahead of me, perhaps en route to Novi Pazar.
As I rolled into Novi Pazar, sounds like those I experienced at the border, exhaust pipes in particular, accumulated and then reached a crescendo as I arrived to the main drag strip through the western part of town, amidst gas stations and a variety of shops. No doubt in part due to elevated sensitivity brought on by accumulated fatigue, my response to the noise wasn't favorable and that feeling nearly sent me out of town without much of a look other than to avoid the usual risk of carnage that comes with proximity to urban traffic and infrastructure. However, if there is one opposing feeling that can always distract me on a bicycle tour, even from the chaos of man, it's my seemingly limitless desire to drink coffee.
Beyond a few bakeries and other possibilities I spotted a cafe on the right, a few customers sitting outside, and decided to check it out. A moment later, as I'd experienced elsewhere on this tour, the rule rather than the exception, I found myself in the company of a friend, my most recent at that time during my short tenure on Planet Earth. Among new friends, Meca Medjedovic and her coffee shop in Novi Pazar, Serbia, were exceptional and certainly serendipitous. She adopted me right away and refused compensation despite all the Turkish coffee that I drank, no fewer than three rounds, as I set to work making decisions about the next stage of my tour.
By this point, I'd spent a lot of time looking at maps and those observations, along with suggestions provided by Ado back in Sarajevo at the Green Gate, were the primary reasons why I had arrived to Novi Pazar. Similarly, from this juncture, I had a good sense of what lay ahead, to the east, as far as options and terrain, including a transect through nearby Kosovo. What remained, similar to the decision that I made over a cappuccino in Mostar, was a choice among well understood options that would dictate my itinerary from Novi Pazar to Sophia, Bulgaria. From Meca's shop, I could make my way south then east through Kosovo; or north then east all within Serbia; or north then south into Kosovo then east. Within the comfort and company of friends lodged inside Meca's cafe in Novi Pazar, a foreign land that nonetheless was already beginning to feel familiar, I decided to commit to the northern routes and then make one last choice, Kosovo or not, when I reached Rudnica, Serbia, where Route 210 turned left towards Kopaonik, a mountain range, village, and ski resort, and Route 31 dove south and within a few miles crossed the border into Kosovo.
Hindsight is rarely as bright-eyed and bodacious as it was following my decision, hours later, to take a left onto Route 210. Cycling has taught me many things that are relevant to cycling and life in general, one of them being if you settle into any challenge versus fighting it every step of the way then you can accomplish some amazing outcomes. That was my thinking as I began to ascend into the Kopaonik Mountains. On any given day on a randomly chosen climb, that attitude would have been more than sufficient to get me over the top and well beyond the summit before dark. However, in this case, in hindsight, what I began was mammoth in scale, exceptional within my seasoned experience. As such, and this late in the tour, the climb ahead would deplete my internal well to a depth several inches below its sandy bottom. I don't know if I did any damage to my central nervous system during this climb by going to depths in my resources that are typically reserved for emergency survival scenarios, that's possible; but for sure before I reached (not quite) the top I was physically and mentally shattered, laboring to turn-over the pedals and suffering the consequences of a mind, normally constrained by mental discipline, that was deep in the hate zone.
My ride from town was exceptional, the route building software Ride With GPS showed a clear secondary road that paralleled the main Route 22 heading north all the way to Raska, a distance of roughly 15 miles from Meca's shop, where I transitioned onto Route 31. The surface was rough but any obstruction was easy to avoid even at fast, grinning, speeds as I took advantage of a gradual, downhill, grade above the Raska River. Along this road I passed farms and other obscurity, including youngsters exploring their youth and other aspects of a normal human life and priorities in the countryside. A set of priorities that we all know and understand, despite my newness to Serbia, because intuition leads to only one conclusion, that these are shared by man, beast, and vegetable. A place to live-out our lives, to explore the periphery, to have a family if we desire, friendships, to grow old, to remember, to gain perspective along the way in a peaceful space free of fear and conflict. As I rode alongside the farms, homes, and livestock in this area I was grateful that I arrived and I felt a kinship, throughout, to the land and people. Serbian's are not so much different from me, language aside, in fact they are for the most part the same.
Back on Route 31, I stared up at an ascent that gave me no concern. I'd just declined an opportunity to arrive, perhaps in 10 minutes or less, to the Country of Kosovo, so new to the political scene that some nations do not recognize its sovereignty including Serbia, recall the brief yet exceptionally tragic Kosovo War, from 1998-1999. The first few bends began to open up the scenery around me, a landscape reminiscent of scenes from Mokro, Bosnia, and similar hill and valley landscapes below higher summits elsewhere on my tour of the Dinarides region central. However, what was unlike those places was a seemingly endless and random (versus in neatly arranged rows) collection of mountains, smooth topped but nonetheless grand, that flowed to the horizon in all directions. It was as if I was afloat in a galaxy-sized ocean, the hills were the tops of swells and valleys the troughs between the same. In late afternoon light, alone for the most part despite occasional passing vehicles and homes widely separated along the road, I was living a moment so privileged that it inevitably found its way deep into my heart and my memories. This image and another posted to Instagram capture the setting.
As I ascended, I eventually became aware of a high ridge that included some buildings that I could see, and more as I progressed. And eventually, farther along, I knew what my fate was going to be, an ascent to that distant ridge even as light was beginning to fade from the sky. All told, from the turn that could have brought me to Kosovo to the initial expression of Kopaonik's ski resort town I climbed for two hours, over 10 miles, ascending 3500 feet along the way. And incredibly, the next morning I climbed for another 30 minutes before I reached the summit of this remarkable climb at close to 6000 feet above sea level, where I digitally "snapped" this photo. Like the day before, the scene the next morning was mountains rising and falling towards all horizons, with the exception that east, much to the satisfaction of my tired mind and body, there seemed to be a divergence from flowing mountains to, perhaps, isolated hills and summits on expansive plains. But for the moment, that landscape remained far away.
Below the ski resort, by now deep in the hate zone, I struggled and repeatedly failed to stay positive despite all that I was witnessing, the images taken and attitude that accompanied them farther down the slope an inaccessible memory despite proximity. From here, I labored to each vantage where I could assess how much more of the climb remained and each time the answer was no end in sight. With each of those conclusions, I descended a bit farther into an unhinged state of mind whilst those structures, on the ridge, nevertheless came ever closer. Below the outskirts of town the road turned sharply right, up a steep grade now under starry skies, then left into the initial hub-bub zone of the ski resort town which was sleepy by all measures this time of year.
As I climbed past this network of facilities, options for lodging presented themselves, a few that seemed within budget. I approached two or three but these were closed for the season. A fourth, a classic, antique, ski lodge built of local wood, stained brown by generations of inn owners, contained the owner, his only waiter, and a couple of customers in the restaurant. I inquired about a sobe ("room") and was shocked by the response, 20 euro per night, "includes breakfast and dinner." That's how my exceptionally memorable ascent of the Kopaonik climb ended; a climb that I knew was coming but had failed to notice just how significant it was until darkness approached and I was, by then, totally wasted from crossing the Dinaric Alps to this point and riding from Scotland the weeks before. In another context, rested and ready among them, I'd love another crack at this monumental ascent which demands respect and gets it no doubt from every cyclist that plans to and subsequently visits the mountain with an abundance of freshness and form fit for the challenge.
The following morning, when I finally reached the true summit on Route 211, a pass below the highest point in the Kopaonik Central Massif, Pančić's Peak, I had a new respect for the Dinaric Alps and their significance on a bicycle journey wherever they might get integrated, in my case towards the conclusion of an ambitious tour. At a road-side pull-out, I snapped a few photos and chatted with a couple of Serbian youngsters that were exploring their country, heading in the opposite direction. And then, for the next 20 enviable miles, other than cool, elevation-inspired, autumn temperatures that easily nipped through my light cycling gear, I descended, and descended, and descended until I was nestled in a valley deep inside Serbian wonderland. Even on a tour that encompassed thousands of miles through a myriad of landscapes, villages, and cultures, what I discovered here in a valley nestled deep within a fortress of summit and hills, was exceptional. And for a cyclist, the descent off the top of Kopaonik was also very special, an exhilarating plummet from the upper atmosphere into solitude, and silence broken only by the sound of moving water that was making a similar, hasty descent towards somewhere.
Beyond the steepest section of the descent, I approached and rode through a series of hamlets, each one enveloped in rising wood smoke and spelled-out on dilapidated signs using letters from the Serbian Cyrillic Alphabet. In all directions except descending on the road ahead, the bulging mass of the surrounding heart of the Dinaric Alps closed in, for perhaps one last offer of friendship, in a format consistent with a hug, to a stranger that arrived with their own heart open to the land and the people that live there. Elsewhere, friends and family occasionally typed messages that outlined their concern for my safety in Bosnia and Serbia. In contrast, I found nothing but cherished memories in these spaces, some with faces that resembled people that I'll always remember, others that reflected an essence of wilderness like few other places that I've visited on Planet Earth. Beyond the borders of those spaces, I have often, since, heard a siren's beckon to return that I only partially understand but what remains of that mystery doesn't matter, and it's certainly not something to fear.
Beyond fast moving creeks, their beds burdened by massive stones, part of the early evolution of valley formation towards the Neretva at Mostar in Bosnia, I arrived to ca. 1300 feet above sea level in the town of Brus, Serbia. Behind, back to the summit where it all started that morning, was a drop of no less than 4500 feet. Ahead, and much to my pleasure for long and short term mental and physical comfort, was even more descending, gradual in every sense of the word relative to the initial plummet from Earth's upper atmosphere from Kopaonik. At Brus, I transitioned to Route 268 and headed south and east to Paзбојиа where I picked up my next route, 38, south towards Cucale following the grade of the nearby, descending, Blatašnica River. The river and my route abruptly exited the mountains at Cucale. A few more miles ahead, on an expanding plain in my small part of the universe, I departed the primary Route 38 at Blace in favor of the unknown, which turned out to be a mix of tertiary roads, from tractor track to single lane, paved roads, through small villages and farmland.
When I arrived to the next outpost, a large town in fact, Prokuplje, it was early afternoon, and I was ready for an espresso inspired beverage if I could find one. Since departing Croatia, a place visited by millions of tourists annually, for far less visited Bosnia and Serbia my coffee consumption had made a dramatic shift from espresso to Turkish-style coffee involving grounds that are mixed with the water and poured into the cup from the vessel used to boil the brew. Complicating matters as far as finding espresso in a country that preferred Turkish coffee, it was a Sunday when I arrived to Prokuplje. Challenges withstanding, I actually found an espresso machine at a bar where a few locals including the owner were sitting around in the sunshine, waving to friends on the busy street in front of the shop, and enjoying the day. The bar was technically closed, but that didn't stop the owner from making me an espresso on the house. And subsequently, he dashed home and back again, so that I could try the "local scotch" made from fermented grapes. I was grateful and the concoction was delicious but the experience nonetheless left me lightly intoxicated for the next hour or perhaps a bit more.
No doubt in part due to the alcohol, I managed to drop into a cavernous cul-de-sac, all witnessed by a group of neighborhood kids, before reversing direction and making my way east out of town. The bar owner had provided excellent directions and suggestions, for activity on and off the bike. However, I decided to stick to the route on my Garmin 1030 that I'd built the night before. On the outskirts of Prokuplje, I turned right on the first of a series of rough roads that were nonetheless far better than many I'd ridden in the past two weeks through, especially, Croatia and Bosnia. The route also kept me beyond the negative consequences, for an otherwise peaceful mind state, of noise and other unpleasantries generated by unleashed humanity. Soon I was following a ridgeline, then another, and between briefs dips that I enjoyed as I carefully avoided deep potholes and other obstructions.
Roughly ten miles east of Prokuplje, I chanced by a small village and it’s even more modest village shop that was open, seemingly anyway, given the dozen or so local men of all ages that were sitting outside the shop around picnic tables and make-shift chairs. Each one of them was enjoying a locally crafted beer. My food stores had been light all day and so I was eager to find something to eat, anything to curve the mounting depletion that I was already feeling. Inside my options were desperate as far as healthy options; I eventually concluded my search with a family-sized bag of potato chips and ate most of them in the company of curious strangers, taking a place at the picnic table that some of them jumped up to offer when I came out of the store. Translation was minimal, but as usual we nonetheless managed to transfer much more through facial expression, hand waving, and nearby associations. Closest to me sat the oldest among them, he never tired of smiling and his kindness comforted me beyond words. I probably learned his name but that, like the spellings of the town and their pronunciations, were quickly lost despite the fond memories.
Not far ahead, I transected my first Serbian autobahn, the A1, and then turned north-northeast, maintaining my connection to the countryside and its variable tracks all the way to the outskirts of Niš, the third largest city in Serbia. Amidst planning and sipping in the comfort of Meca's cafe back in Novi Pazar, I'd taken a leap of faith, one of so many on this tour, that I would arrive hours later to Niš, and so by now I was comfortably pedaling across flat ground towards the same place that I could see a few miles ahead. It may have been the warmest day of the tour to date, certainly among them, my Garmin 1030 suggests 75 F at the outskirts of Niš at about 4:30 pm. Here's a video that I recorded just before I transitioned from podunk country road to tarmac and a fast descent into the city center towards the Nišava River and, nearby, Laguna Green Oasis where a private apartment and a hot shower, for just $20.19 per night, were awaiting my arrival.
Dusan and his father have assembled a fabulous oasis close to the city center but otherwise protected from most of the inevitable noise and other distractions that man's urban environments produce. I settled in easily and comfortably, so much so that I quickly decided to add a full day of rest and a second evening at the Laguna Green Oasis. Not far away, each evening I walked over to a restaurant that had a partnership with the oasis, no discount but I assume a promise to treat guests to a genuine Serbian-inspired meal which they certainly delivered on, with kindness which eventually led to introductions to other members of this family-owned and run restaurant.
This is how I came to meet Luka Miladinović, son of the sister that seemed to be the primary manager of the restaurant, to dine as a member of the family with Luka, his girlfriend, parents and others on my last night; and the day before, on my full rest, day, explore the city with Luka and his friend that became mine as well. The three of us sauntered in constant conversation to a popular cafe beyond the Ottoman-era walls and gate above the deeply channeled Nišava River. Just above each bank of the river, old stone architecture ascends in gradual transitions, involving walls, slopes, and steps, to the rim and the city, where a smattering of trees, possibly planted European sycamores, and their yellow, autumn foliage forms a smooth and comfortable transition from this narrow strip of parkland into urbania.
Once assembled on the lawn among a cross-section of Planet Earth's cultures, biased in number by local Serbians of course, the three of us ordered and then sipped as we contemplated and commented on each curiosity that arose during the conversation. One of mine took our minds to places I rarely go amongst strangers, to the architecture of the women of the city, their origins, and in particular why it seemed that such a high number of them were, as we might say in America, "gorgeous." I first noticed this phenomenon, potentially but not quite to my demise, as I made my way across town to the Laguna Green Oasis the day before. The opportunity to ask Luka and hear his comments entertained all of us, of course; but his pause was also interesting, before he spoke, clearly what I observed was a bias that everyone knew about but no one understood to the depth that I was asking. As far as mysteries go, for Niš and its male occupants, leaving the full spectrum of male and female lust and sexual preference aside, this one certainly was enviable and it will not soon, I suspect, evaporate from that five-percent of my mind that represents my consciousness.
On my second morning in Niš, a Tuesday, October 15th, 2019, I made my way back to the old Ottoman fortress and primary gate, alone other than strangers that intersected without incident or conversation. I captured images (including this one) with my motox4 cell phone camera, for sharing and reflection, and then made my way down a series of stone steps to a bicycle and walking path, surfaced at this juncture with stone pavers where I resumed my cycle east, a trajectory initiated in far away, Lismore, Ireland weeks past, on September 1st.
As I cycled, slowly absorbing a handful of miles above the nurturing Nišava River, the way transitioned to fine gravel, then two-track with grass in the middle, then on and on until I was adjacent to the river and nearby towns, grass below my tires, with no evidence of a road or path nearby. From here, I reluctantly climbed the last of the local flood control diversions, a modest bank, and found my way to a dirt road that I could see on my Garmin 1030 GPS. This brought me through the back door of the nearest village, then on to the primary road, the 224, where I turned left with a breath and an accompanying wish that the next few miles would not be too raucous. My visit to the ancient city of Niš, where three Roman emperors were born, concluded at this juncture but the memories of that place, so far from my childhood home in Franklin, Massachusetts (United States), and it's lessons, provided by Luka and others, will forever be a part of a perspective that I will cherish even whilst I encourage that imaginary border, no less real, outwards in all directions towards modesty and empathy fitting for one soul in a sea of so many others that share my needs and desires.
A few miles beyond the suburbs of Niš, a prominent split in the road gently redirected me onto a smaller, secondary, route 427. From this point, I was following a suggestion provided by Luka, he himself had cycled this way on an adventure that lives in his heart, an experience that contributed to the person he is today like few others, a man with exceptional character and wisdom for his age. By taking the 427 east versus the 259 (part of this route is designated as the A4), I'd be avoiding a narrow, ascending canyon with tunnels and accompanying high speed whackos. Conveniently, the outcome of both routes was the same, about 20 miles ahead, the large town of Vrandol which is roughly forty miles from Dimitrovgrad, the border town with Bulgaria in this part of Serbia.
Luka's route turned-out to be exceptional, through a landscape of valleys and farmland, including vineyards. When I approached the other side, refreshed by the experience, I returned to concerns that I'd been processing, off and on, for a few days. In particular, what I would find at the border beyond Dimitrovgrad and whether or not I could proceed on the only road that continued east from there into Bulgaria; an A-road on maps that Ride With GPS refused to connect, a bad sign, to other routes in Bulgaria. In my experience, most of the time when Ride With GPS refuses to cooperate in this way then "you can't get there from here" applies. That would be a very serious outcome at this juncture, so late in the tour, involving a very long detour and its own list of "unknown unknowns" to possibly contend with along the way. I'll recall the remainder of the story through Serbia, and my complete Bulgarian recollection, in the next chapter of my travelogue...
On my transect so far through the Dinarides, using memory and my mind’s eye, it was obvious that I'd ridden through a minimum of four, north-south trending ecological and climatological zones. In Croatia, soils were thin, especially on the coasts and islands, and forests often had no overstory and minimal ground cover. A transition zone was apparent between Vrgorac, Croatia, and Mostar, Bosnia, as I rode east. In this transition zone, forests gradually became more complex, eventually with obvious upper, middle, and lower canopy components. Soils also thickened and matured. These changes were in response to, I suspect, increasing moisture levels relative to Croatia's coastline, inner ridges and valleys. Additional moisture provides for increased plant production, including foliage and woody material that eventually litter the ground; chemical weathering of local bedrock also increases with moisture availability. Working in collaboration, these processes are responsible for building mature soils necessary to support man's agricultural needs as well as complex, forest ecosystems.
On the ascent to Jablaničko Lake from Mostar, Bosnia, I ascended into a third zone with fully developed forests, and eventually wide valleys, beyond Konjic, and associated agriculture and pastures that benefited from well developed soils comprised of plant matter and pulverized bedrock constructed over millennia by natural processes. During my adventures through Bosnia and Serbia the day and part of the evening before, I'd ultimately, a fourth zone, cross into an impressive intermontane system of alpine summits that towered, in rugged profile, above a series of forest types down to productive valleys watered by fast flowing streams. This would be the pinnacle not only in space but more importantly in mental and physical achievement of my exploration of the Dinaric Alps and worth every effort to arrive there.
As I rolled-out of Nova Varos on 12 October 2019, 53 days into my tour, I saw for the first time, in the absence of darkness and fatigue from the night before, mature forests on the slopes adjacent to and above town. From my saddle perspective, tall, straight, high-elevation (loving) pines formed a monoculture similar to lodgepole pine forests found not far below treeline in the Rocky Mountains (United States). But unlike those Rocky Mountain lodgepole pine forests, there were far fewer trees per unit area and diameter at breast height (DBH), a popular forestry metric, was consistent with North America's ponderosa pine which grow at a similar elevation.
I was already above 3000 feet as the road began to climb after a short descent from the guest house where I'd spent the night. However, a brief assessment of my proximate atmosphere did not raise any concerns as far as inclement weather, and temperature was a cozy, for a cyclist, 64 degrees Fahrenheit. For the next hour and a few minutes, I climbed over a series of higher and higher passes, their summits were at roughly 3900, 4400, 4600 feet above sea level, respectively. From the top of the last, I descended a modest 500 feet to an extensive intermontane parkland, similar to South Park in Colorado (United States) on a smaller scale. Beyond this picturesque open space, the road climbed again and I ascended back to just under 4100 feet before initiating an impressive 40 mile descent, with a few short exceptions, that concluded in the big town of Novi Pazar. Conveniently, I followed Route 29 the entire distance, roughly 60 miles.
Other than a few middle-sized towns along the way that presented no challenges for a seasoned bicycle rider and otherwise a significant opportunity to express my curiosity, the entire section was scenic and rural, a pleasure to explore on my first full day in Serbia. About 20 miles above Novi Pazar, I ascended a series of switchbacks before descending into a narrow valley which I can easily recall weeks later as I sit writing (4 February 2020) the Serbian chapter of my travelogue. Homes were sparsely distributed amidst familiar agricultural and horticultural scenes, forest patches, and lazy creeks. Forests clung to the edges of fence lines, opposite green fields and pastures, in anticipation of any opportunity to refill the valley. Beyond those edges, framing the valley floor, steep slopes, rarely broken by exposed ledges and other bedrock features, rose up to modest, smooth domed hills. Like the Sava Valley in Slovenia, I occasionally had a clear view, through a notch in those hills, to much higher summits, their vast scree slopes and extensive alpine zones.
Under blue skies, inside a warm atmosphere, I was comfortable and content despite a massive fatigue stored just beyond my perception at that moment. A few villages above Novi Pazar, I chanced upon two young cyclists, one seasoned and the other just getting to know the limitless possibilities of the bicycle, and they stopped right away to introduce themselves and learn more about the far-flung stranger in their midst. I enjoyed their energy and thirst for adventure and that seemingly, as it turns out, reset the small part of the universe that was directing my moment-by-moment to a modus operandi that prioritized social opportunity.
An experience the previous day at the Bosnia-Serbia border adjacent to the village of Uvac, Bosnia, not far from the north bank of the River Lim, the longest tributary of the River Drina which is the longest tributary of the familiar, from Slovenia, Sava River, was on my mind as I rolled into the outskirts of Novi Pazar. That experience involved a long row of decorated cars containing a variety of occupants, from smiling adults to riotous youngsters, all part of a wedding celebration that was either on its way or coming from the ceremony. The vehicles were intentionally loud and the occupants shouted at me with friendly intentions but nevertheless elevated my anxiety. Simultaneously, they also blasted a cacophony of hand-held air horns in my direction and every other. The space above the River Lim in my immediate vicinity was overwhelmed and I was eager to depart from this most recent realization of the chaos of man as I was simultaneously brought to a standstill behind the caravan that also wanted to cross the border. Each vehicle contained no fewer than two passengers, some as many as four or more, but it only took minutes for the whole wave to get through Bosnian and then Serbian check points. I came next, and with similar efficiency I was inside of Serbia without incident other than the memory of high energy youngsters, their cars, exhaust pipes, and other means of disturbing the peace that were now somewhere ahead of me, perhaps en route to Novi Pazar.
As I rolled into Novi Pazar, sounds like those I experienced at the border, exhaust pipes in particular, accumulated and then reached a crescendo as I arrived to the main drag strip through the western part of town, amidst gas stations and a variety of shops. No doubt in part due to elevated sensitivity brought on by accumulated fatigue, my response to the noise wasn't favorable and that feeling nearly sent me out of town without much of a look other than to avoid the usual risk of carnage that comes with proximity to urban traffic and infrastructure. However, if there is one opposing feeling that can always distract me on a bicycle tour, even from the chaos of man, it's my seemingly limitless desire to drink coffee.
Beyond a few bakeries and other possibilities I spotted a cafe on the right, a few customers sitting outside, and decided to check it out. A moment later, as I'd experienced elsewhere on this tour, the rule rather than the exception, I found myself in the company of a friend, my most recent at that time during my short tenure on Planet Earth. Among new friends, Meca Medjedovic and her coffee shop in Novi Pazar, Serbia, were exceptional and certainly serendipitous. She adopted me right away and refused compensation despite all the Turkish coffee that I drank, no fewer than three rounds, as I set to work making decisions about the next stage of my tour.
By this point, I'd spent a lot of time looking at maps and those observations, along with suggestions provided by Ado back in Sarajevo at the Green Gate, were the primary reasons why I had arrived to Novi Pazar. Similarly, from this juncture, I had a good sense of what lay ahead, to the east, as far as options and terrain, including a transect through nearby Kosovo. What remained, similar to the decision that I made over a cappuccino in Mostar, was a choice among well understood options that would dictate my itinerary from Novi Pazar to Sophia, Bulgaria. From Meca's shop, I could make my way south then east through Kosovo; or north then east all within Serbia; or north then south into Kosovo then east. Within the comfort and company of friends lodged inside Meca's cafe in Novi Pazar, a foreign land that nonetheless was already beginning to feel familiar, I decided to commit to the northern routes and then make one last choice, Kosovo or not, when I reached Rudnica, Serbia, where Route 210 turned left towards Kopaonik, a mountain range, village, and ski resort, and Route 31 dove south and within a few miles crossed the border into Kosovo.
Hindsight is rarely as bright-eyed and bodacious as it was following my decision, hours later, to take a left onto Route 210. Cycling has taught me many things that are relevant to cycling and life in general, one of them being if you settle into any challenge versus fighting it every step of the way then you can accomplish some amazing outcomes. That was my thinking as I began to ascend into the Kopaonik Mountains. On any given day on a randomly chosen climb, that attitude would have been more than sufficient to get me over the top and well beyond the summit before dark. However, in this case, in hindsight, what I began was mammoth in scale, exceptional within my seasoned experience. As such, and this late in the tour, the climb ahead would deplete my internal well to a depth several inches below its sandy bottom. I don't know if I did any damage to my central nervous system during this climb by going to depths in my resources that are typically reserved for emergency survival scenarios, that's possible; but for sure before I reached (not quite) the top I was physically and mentally shattered, laboring to turn-over the pedals and suffering the consequences of a mind, normally constrained by mental discipline, that was deep in the hate zone.
My ride from town was exceptional, the route building software Ride With GPS showed a clear secondary road that paralleled the main Route 22 heading north all the way to Raska, a distance of roughly 15 miles from Meca's shop, where I transitioned onto Route 31. The surface was rough but any obstruction was easy to avoid even at fast, grinning, speeds as I took advantage of a gradual, downhill, grade above the Raska River. Along this road I passed farms and other obscurity, including youngsters exploring their youth and other aspects of a normal human life and priorities in the countryside. A set of priorities that we all know and understand, despite my newness to Serbia, because intuition leads to only one conclusion, that these are shared by man, beast, and vegetable. A place to live-out our lives, to explore the periphery, to have a family if we desire, friendships, to grow old, to remember, to gain perspective along the way in a peaceful space free of fear and conflict. As I rode alongside the farms, homes, and livestock in this area I was grateful that I arrived and I felt a kinship, throughout, to the land and people. Serbian's are not so much different from me, language aside, in fact they are for the most part the same.
Back on Route 31, I stared up at an ascent that gave me no concern. I'd just declined an opportunity to arrive, perhaps in 10 minutes or less, to the Country of Kosovo, so new to the political scene that some nations do not recognize its sovereignty including Serbia, recall the brief yet exceptionally tragic Kosovo War, from 1998-1999. The first few bends began to open up the scenery around me, a landscape reminiscent of scenes from Mokro, Bosnia, and similar hill and valley landscapes below higher summits elsewhere on my tour of the Dinarides region central. However, what was unlike those places was a seemingly endless and random (versus in neatly arranged rows) collection of mountains, smooth topped but nonetheless grand, that flowed to the horizon in all directions. It was as if I was afloat in a galaxy-sized ocean, the hills were the tops of swells and valleys the troughs between the same. In late afternoon light, alone for the most part despite occasional passing vehicles and homes widely separated along the road, I was living a moment so privileged that it inevitably found its way deep into my heart and my memories. This image and another posted to Instagram capture the setting.
As I ascended, I eventually became aware of a high ridge that included some buildings that I could see, and more as I progressed. And eventually, farther along, I knew what my fate was going to be, an ascent to that distant ridge even as light was beginning to fade from the sky. All told, from the turn that could have brought me to Kosovo to the initial expression of Kopaonik's ski resort town I climbed for two hours, over 10 miles, ascending 3500 feet along the way. And incredibly, the next morning I climbed for another 30 minutes before I reached the summit of this remarkable climb at close to 6000 feet above sea level, where I digitally "snapped" this photo. Like the day before, the scene the next morning was mountains rising and falling towards all horizons, with the exception that east, much to the satisfaction of my tired mind and body, there seemed to be a divergence from flowing mountains to, perhaps, isolated hills and summits on expansive plains. But for the moment, that landscape remained far away.
Below the ski resort, by now deep in the hate zone, I struggled and repeatedly failed to stay positive despite all that I was witnessing, the images taken and attitude that accompanied them farther down the slope an inaccessible memory despite proximity. From here, I labored to each vantage where I could assess how much more of the climb remained and each time the answer was no end in sight. With each of those conclusions, I descended a bit farther into an unhinged state of mind whilst those structures, on the ridge, nevertheless came ever closer. Below the outskirts of town the road turned sharply right, up a steep grade now under starry skies, then left into the initial hub-bub zone of the ski resort town which was sleepy by all measures this time of year.
As I climbed past this network of facilities, options for lodging presented themselves, a few that seemed within budget. I approached two or three but these were closed for the season. A fourth, a classic, antique, ski lodge built of local wood, stained brown by generations of inn owners, contained the owner, his only waiter, and a couple of customers in the restaurant. I inquired about a sobe ("room") and was shocked by the response, 20 euro per night, "includes breakfast and dinner." That's how my exceptionally memorable ascent of the Kopaonik climb ended; a climb that I knew was coming but had failed to notice just how significant it was until darkness approached and I was, by then, totally wasted from crossing the Dinaric Alps to this point and riding from Scotland the weeks before. In another context, rested and ready among them, I'd love another crack at this monumental ascent which demands respect and gets it no doubt from every cyclist that plans to and subsequently visits the mountain with an abundance of freshness and form fit for the challenge.
The following morning, when I finally reached the true summit on Route 211, a pass below the highest point in the Kopaonik Central Massif, Pančić's Peak, I had a new respect for the Dinaric Alps and their significance on a bicycle journey wherever they might get integrated, in my case towards the conclusion of an ambitious tour. At a road-side pull-out, I snapped a few photos and chatted with a couple of Serbian youngsters that were exploring their country, heading in the opposite direction. And then, for the next 20 enviable miles, other than cool, elevation-inspired, autumn temperatures that easily nipped through my light cycling gear, I descended, and descended, and descended until I was nestled in a valley deep inside Serbian wonderland. Even on a tour that encompassed thousands of miles through a myriad of landscapes, villages, and cultures, what I discovered here in a valley nestled deep within a fortress of summit and hills, was exceptional. And for a cyclist, the descent off the top of Kopaonik was also very special, an exhilarating plummet from the upper atmosphere into solitude, and silence broken only by the sound of moving water that was making a similar, hasty descent towards somewhere.
Beyond the steepest section of the descent, I approached and rode through a series of hamlets, each one enveloped in rising wood smoke and spelled-out on dilapidated signs using letters from the Serbian Cyrillic Alphabet. In all directions except descending on the road ahead, the bulging mass of the surrounding heart of the Dinaric Alps closed in, for perhaps one last offer of friendship, in a format consistent with a hug, to a stranger that arrived with their own heart open to the land and the people that live there. Elsewhere, friends and family occasionally typed messages that outlined their concern for my safety in Bosnia and Serbia. In contrast, I found nothing but cherished memories in these spaces, some with faces that resembled people that I'll always remember, others that reflected an essence of wilderness like few other places that I've visited on Planet Earth. Beyond the borders of those spaces, I have often, since, heard a siren's beckon to return that I only partially understand but what remains of that mystery doesn't matter, and it's certainly not something to fear.
Beyond fast moving creeks, their beds burdened by massive stones, part of the early evolution of valley formation towards the Neretva at Mostar in Bosnia, I arrived to ca. 1300 feet above sea level in the town of Brus, Serbia. Behind, back to the summit where it all started that morning, was a drop of no less than 4500 feet. Ahead, and much to my pleasure for long and short term mental and physical comfort, was even more descending, gradual in every sense of the word relative to the initial plummet from Earth's upper atmosphere from Kopaonik. At Brus, I transitioned to Route 268 and headed south and east to Paзбојиа where I picked up my next route, 38, south towards Cucale following the grade of the nearby, descending, Blatašnica River. The river and my route abruptly exited the mountains at Cucale. A few more miles ahead, on an expanding plain in my small part of the universe, I departed the primary Route 38 at Blace in favor of the unknown, which turned out to be a mix of tertiary roads, from tractor track to single lane, paved roads, through small villages and farmland.
When I arrived to the next outpost, a large town in fact, Prokuplje, it was early afternoon, and I was ready for an espresso inspired beverage if I could find one. Since departing Croatia, a place visited by millions of tourists annually, for far less visited Bosnia and Serbia my coffee consumption had made a dramatic shift from espresso to Turkish-style coffee involving grounds that are mixed with the water and poured into the cup from the vessel used to boil the brew. Complicating matters as far as finding espresso in a country that preferred Turkish coffee, it was a Sunday when I arrived to Prokuplje. Challenges withstanding, I actually found an espresso machine at a bar where a few locals including the owner were sitting around in the sunshine, waving to friends on the busy street in front of the shop, and enjoying the day. The bar was technically closed, but that didn't stop the owner from making me an espresso on the house. And subsequently, he dashed home and back again, so that I could try the "local scotch" made from fermented grapes. I was grateful and the concoction was delicious but the experience nonetheless left me lightly intoxicated for the next hour or perhaps a bit more.
No doubt in part due to the alcohol, I managed to drop into a cavernous cul-de-sac, all witnessed by a group of neighborhood kids, before reversing direction and making my way east out of town. The bar owner had provided excellent directions and suggestions, for activity on and off the bike. However, I decided to stick to the route on my Garmin 1030 that I'd built the night before. On the outskirts of Prokuplje, I turned right on the first of a series of rough roads that were nonetheless far better than many I'd ridden in the past two weeks through, especially, Croatia and Bosnia. The route also kept me beyond the negative consequences, for an otherwise peaceful mind state, of noise and other unpleasantries generated by unleashed humanity. Soon I was following a ridgeline, then another, and between briefs dips that I enjoyed as I carefully avoided deep potholes and other obstructions.
Roughly ten miles east of Prokuplje, I chanced by a small village and it’s even more modest village shop that was open, seemingly anyway, given the dozen or so local men of all ages that were sitting outside the shop around picnic tables and make-shift chairs. Each one of them was enjoying a locally crafted beer. My food stores had been light all day and so I was eager to find something to eat, anything to curve the mounting depletion that I was already feeling. Inside my options were desperate as far as healthy options; I eventually concluded my search with a family-sized bag of potato chips and ate most of them in the company of curious strangers, taking a place at the picnic table that some of them jumped up to offer when I came out of the store. Translation was minimal, but as usual we nonetheless managed to transfer much more through facial expression, hand waving, and nearby associations. Closest to me sat the oldest among them, he never tired of smiling and his kindness comforted me beyond words. I probably learned his name but that, like the spellings of the town and their pronunciations, were quickly lost despite the fond memories.
Not far ahead, I transected my first Serbian autobahn, the A1, and then turned north-northeast, maintaining my connection to the countryside and its variable tracks all the way to the outskirts of Niš, the third largest city in Serbia. Amidst planning and sipping in the comfort of Meca's cafe back in Novi Pazar, I'd taken a leap of faith, one of so many on this tour, that I would arrive hours later to Niš, and so by now I was comfortably pedaling across flat ground towards the same place that I could see a few miles ahead. It may have been the warmest day of the tour to date, certainly among them, my Garmin 1030 suggests 75 F at the outskirts of Niš at about 4:30 pm. Here's a video that I recorded just before I transitioned from podunk country road to tarmac and a fast descent into the city center towards the Nišava River and, nearby, Laguna Green Oasis where a private apartment and a hot shower, for just $20.19 per night, were awaiting my arrival.
Dusan and his father have assembled a fabulous oasis close to the city center but otherwise protected from most of the inevitable noise and other distractions that man's urban environments produce. I settled in easily and comfortably, so much so that I quickly decided to add a full day of rest and a second evening at the Laguna Green Oasis. Not far away, each evening I walked over to a restaurant that had a partnership with the oasis, no discount but I assume a promise to treat guests to a genuine Serbian-inspired meal which they certainly delivered on, with kindness which eventually led to introductions to other members of this family-owned and run restaurant.
This is how I came to meet Luka Miladinović, son of the sister that seemed to be the primary manager of the restaurant, to dine as a member of the family with Luka, his girlfriend, parents and others on my last night; and the day before, on my full rest, day, explore the city with Luka and his friend that became mine as well. The three of us sauntered in constant conversation to a popular cafe beyond the Ottoman-era walls and gate above the deeply channeled Nišava River. Just above each bank of the river, old stone architecture ascends in gradual transitions, involving walls, slopes, and steps, to the rim and the city, where a smattering of trees, possibly planted European sycamores, and their yellow, autumn foliage forms a smooth and comfortable transition from this narrow strip of parkland into urbania.
Once assembled on the lawn among a cross-section of Planet Earth's cultures, biased in number by local Serbians of course, the three of us ordered and then sipped as we contemplated and commented on each curiosity that arose during the conversation. One of mine took our minds to places I rarely go amongst strangers, to the architecture of the women of the city, their origins, and in particular why it seemed that such a high number of them were, as we might say in America, "gorgeous." I first noticed this phenomenon, potentially but not quite to my demise, as I made my way across town to the Laguna Green Oasis the day before. The opportunity to ask Luka and hear his comments entertained all of us, of course; but his pause was also interesting, before he spoke, clearly what I observed was a bias that everyone knew about but no one understood to the depth that I was asking. As far as mysteries go, for Niš and its male occupants, leaving the full spectrum of male and female lust and sexual preference aside, this one certainly was enviable and it will not soon, I suspect, evaporate from that five-percent of my mind that represents my consciousness.
On my second morning in Niš, a Tuesday, October 15th, 2019, I made my way back to the old Ottoman fortress and primary gate, alone other than strangers that intersected without incident or conversation. I captured images (including this one) with my motox4 cell phone camera, for sharing and reflection, and then made my way down a series of stone steps to a bicycle and walking path, surfaced at this juncture with stone pavers where I resumed my cycle east, a trajectory initiated in far away, Lismore, Ireland weeks past, on September 1st.
As I cycled, slowly absorbing a handful of miles above the nurturing Nišava River, the way transitioned to fine gravel, then two-track with grass in the middle, then on and on until I was adjacent to the river and nearby towns, grass below my tires, with no evidence of a road or path nearby. From here, I reluctantly climbed the last of the local flood control diversions, a modest bank, and found my way to a dirt road that I could see on my Garmin 1030 GPS. This brought me through the back door of the nearest village, then on to the primary road, the 224, where I turned left with a breath and an accompanying wish that the next few miles would not be too raucous. My visit to the ancient city of Niš, where three Roman emperors were born, concluded at this juncture but the memories of that place, so far from my childhood home in Franklin, Massachusetts (United States), and it's lessons, provided by Luka and others, will forever be a part of a perspective that I will cherish even whilst I encourage that imaginary border, no less real, outwards in all directions towards modesty and empathy fitting for one soul in a sea of so many others that share my needs and desires.
A few miles beyond the suburbs of Niš, a prominent split in the road gently redirected me onto a smaller, secondary, route 427. From this point, I was following a suggestion provided by Luka, he himself had cycled this way on an adventure that lives in his heart, an experience that contributed to the person he is today like few others, a man with exceptional character and wisdom for his age. By taking the 427 east versus the 259 (part of this route is designated as the A4), I'd be avoiding a narrow, ascending canyon with tunnels and accompanying high speed whackos. Conveniently, the outcome of both routes was the same, about 20 miles ahead, the large town of Vrandol which is roughly forty miles from Dimitrovgrad, the border town with Bulgaria in this part of Serbia.
Luka's route turned-out to be exceptional, through a landscape of valleys and farmland, including vineyards. When I approached the other side, refreshed by the experience, I returned to concerns that I'd been processing, off and on, for a few days. In particular, what I would find at the border beyond Dimitrovgrad and whether or not I could proceed on the only road that continued east from there into Bulgaria; an A-road on maps that Ride With GPS refused to connect, a bad sign, to other routes in Bulgaria. In my experience, most of the time when Ride With GPS refuses to cooperate in this way then "you can't get there from here" applies. That would be a very serious outcome at this juncture, so late in the tour, involving a very long detour and its own list of "unknown unknowns" to possibly contend with along the way. I'll recall the remainder of the story through Serbia, and my complete Bulgarian recollection, in the next chapter of my travelogue...
Top, opening scenes in Serbia en route from Rudo, Bosnia; Lower, balcony and inside view of my room in Nova Varos, Serbia.
Novi Pazar, Serbia: Meca Medjedovic and her coffee shop in Novi Pazar, Serbia, where she adopted me right away and asked for no compensation despite all the turkish coffee that I drank as I was planning the next stage of my tour on the fly.
Ascending the Kopaonik Massif on 12 October 2019 through the village of Mure then higher onto the slopes of the mountain.
Making my way from Novi Pazar to Niš, Serbia, then several images from inside of the city itself including getting to know a few of the locals in the courtyard at Laguna Green Oasis where I rested in blissful comfort for two nights.