The Battle of the Albulapass

After the bad weather day, we were finally able to get on our bikes on Sunday. After a delicious Swiss breakfast with microscopic toasts and baby pretzels at astronomically high prices, Hans and I were somewhat strengthened to tackle the first ascent to Val Suvretta. Critically eyed by the glaciated giants of the Bernina group, we reached the pass after some easy pushing sections and 800 meters of elevation gain in an otherwise quiet side valley far away from the hustle and bustle of St. Moritz. Well, at least the valley is probably quiet on the other 363 days of the year because today 500 gasping mountain bikers were competing to be the first ones to reach the pass, blocking our buttery smooth trail. The Engadin Bike Giro took place on this particular weekend. So, both of us ended up as ghost riders in the stop-and-go traffic down to the next valley, which dampened the downhill fun a bit.

Hans did well though. He handled his first bikepacking pass with confidence, both uphill and downhill, and actually seemed to enjoy it. But the real challenge was still to come. First, we had to climb up the boring road of the Albulapass. By the way, I have no idea what's so great about racing up there with a motorbike, SUV, or Porsche to envelop us in exhaust fumes and overtake us with a few millimeters of distance.

Once we reached the top, the real adventure began for us. According to the map, our destination for the night was a small lake on a rock ledge high above the road. The only thing separating us from it was this narrow path that wound steeply through the rocks. With rough gravel and many rock steps, we had to forcefully push our luggage and bikes uphill. After we finally reached the rocky plateau, exhausted, we realized we were not the only ones who had struggled up here. A herd of cows stared at us in bewilderment. As a result, the lake was not deep blue but rather cow dung brown. So, we decided to climb even higher until we reached the next rock step. And suddenly, the seemingly questionable use of leisure time to carry a mountain bike up a steep mountain made sense again. At least for Hans and me. We had reached a breathtaking campsite - alone on a small mountain meadow at an elevation of 2,500 meters, surrounded by mighty, rugged peaks speckled with white snowfields. Far below us stretched the high plateau that led to the pass, soaking up the golden light of the setting sun. It could have been the perfect evening. But there was still the herd of cows.

In my previous outdoor activities, I have had to deal with a variety of animal challenges, whether it be grizzlies, wolves, nasty shepherd dogs, poisonous horned vipers, or rattlesnakes. All manageable. But I never would have imagined that I would fail because of the common Swiss Alpine cow. Shortly after we had set up our tents and were preparing our well-deserved dinner, they appeared. Three beauties who had left their herd to follow us with curiosity. Circling us at first, keeping a respectful distance, these bovines soon dropped all inhibitions and attacked our bikes. Sniffing and even licking, they defiled the tires and handlebars. Startled, we jumped up to deter these perversions by shouting and waving our arms with the authority of farmers. And nothing happened. The animals simply stood there, staring at us dumbly, and continued licking.

At this point, dedicated animal lovers should probably stop reading, because we could only regain our monopoly of violence to some extent by using medium-sized stones and push the cunning creatures back onto the next hill. But as soon as we retreated into our tents, the trio sneaked up on the completely exhausted and unsuspecting Hans once again and continued licking his bike. Only after violently repelling the nocturnal advances of our enemies several times, victory began to emerge for us, and with it, a well-deserved night's rest.