Bikepacking through the Black Forest: Two brothers in search of adventure
Dimitri Lehner
· 29.01.2026
"Oh come on, now you're taking that stupid rucksack again," says Laurin.
"I'll have to," I say. "I definitely don't want to fit a handlebar bag."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to see the carbon fork on my gravel bike. Look how it stretches the bars forwards - like the legs of a supermodel. Sexy!"
"You're so 1990," says Laurin.
Then we set off on our bikes.
Bikepacking welcome
Cuckoo clocks, Bollenhüte hats, cherry cake, smoked ham and lots of dense, green forest - these are the Black Forest clichés. Beautiful clichés. True clichés. And important ones. Because we long for home and the countryside, for peace and quiet and breathing space in an increasingly confused world.
The Black Forest in the south-west of Germany is known as the Canada of Germany: a mini British Columbia without bears and dangers, but with inns, snack huts, capercaillies and fire salamanders. Canada light. Ideal for a time-out. Ideal in summer. Ideal for bikepacking and gravel biking. Because there really is one thing in abundance here: forest tracks with the finest gravel. There are said to be around 24,000 kilometres.
The tourism authority has been trying for some time to polish up the image of the low mountain range as a garden gnome. To attract gravelers and bikepackers, it offers four two-day tours. For 79 euros, you get GPX data and overnight stays in specially equipped forest camps - after all, wild camping is prohibited in Germany, except in emergencies.
Laurin and I opt for tour number three in the north. It's called: 3-valleys & foresight. Sounds good.
What is that?
We park our car behind old glass containers at a sports field near Achern and wind our way uphill through vines in the midday heat. Our destination is the Mummelsee at 1078 metres. Tarmac becomes gravel, gravel becomes sand and finally forest floor. Shade at last. Forest at last. It smells of resin and wood, we are alone under tall beech trees, accompanied only by the rattling of our lungs.
I have learnt a lot about the Mummelsee. When Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels was meeting on the nearby Bühler Höhe, he is said to have said: "It's not a lake, it's a hole!" In fact, the lake on the slopes of the Hornisgrinde only measures around 800 metres in circumference - you can walk around it in 15 minutes. And yet it is the most visited lake in the Black Forest.
The Black Forest High Road, which connects Baden-Baden with Freudenstadt, is to blame. Completed in 1940, the solitude has been over ever since. Or as Laurin says: "Little Mummel, little lake - but plenty of hustle and bustle."
We roll out of the forest straight into Oktoberfest chaos: coaches, motorbike convoys, children shouting, Indians, Chinese, orthodox Jews with felt hats and temple curls. Queues at the car park ticket machine, at the beer bar, in front of the toilet. The mermaids - called mummels - that are said to live here have long since taken flight.
"Or they were run over by pedal boats," says Laurin.
We find a quiet spot far back on the shore, eat smoked sausage with Weckle and drink beer at tourist prices. When Laurin tries to throw a stone into the water, I shout with my mouth full: "No!"
"What is it?"
"That causes storms. Stones annoy the mermaids."
Laurin looks at me as if I've lost my mind.
Then we jump into the water. Moorish brown. Cool.
Off to the strawberry hole
Relieved, we leave the Mummel hustle and bustle behind us and follow the GPX data back into the forest. The Black Forest is omnipresent: trees in front, behind, right and left. Hardly any peaks above the tree line, distant views are rare. Only at Hohfels in Grimmerswald, where we climb onto a rock, do we see the mountains: blue dragon's backs on the horizon.
Our destination is called Erdbeerloch, a designated forest camp. But the journey is a long one. In the afternoon, we follow a tin sign: Public house - open. The pub is closed. The vision of sauerbraten, spaetzle and draught beer is shattered.
"Down into the valley?" asks Laurin.
"And then back up again in the heat? No way."
We fill up with water at springs, cross streams on wooden bridges and finally stand in front of the Allerheiligen monastery ruins near Oppenau. Another legend: a sack of gold is said to have slipped off the back of a donkey here, on the exact spot where Uta von Schauenburg had the monastery built in 1195.
"Nice story," says Laurin. "But the monastery pub is still closed."
Summer. Weekend. Holiday time - and yet everything is closed! We curse, head hungrily for the strawberry hole - with water in our bottles and a Powerbar in our pockets. It's difficult to find our way. Laurin asks a young farmer's wife who is unloading shopping from her Lada jeep.
"We're looking for the strawberry hole."
She scowls and disappears into the courtyard.
"Maybe a bit too direct," I say.
Change of course
The Strawberry Hole is surprisingly unerotic: a bend in the path in the forest, hut, fireplace, wooden platforms in the undergrowth. Full of overnighters. Frenchmen besiege the barbecue and pile mountains of meat on the grill. The aroma is cruelly good.
We don't have a tent. No barbecue. We chew energy bars, smoke in the window frame of the hut and wait for darkness. The next morning, we follow the GPX data like breadcrumbs through the terrain: up, down, often too steep. Brakes, pressure on the wrists. No suspension. Our off-road racing bikes want to go the distance. And so do we.
"What do you say we go home?" I ask.
Our mum lives in the southern Black Forest.
'Oh yes,' says Laurin.
Free, freer, freedom!
The decision unleashes euphoria. We race down the pass road to Oppenau like Tom Pidcock - freed from the dictates of GPX data. Blueberry slice, cappuccino. Then, on what is supposed to be the hottest day of the year, on to Oberharmersbach.
Sandstone fountains, sawmills, water treadmills, half-timbered farms with their sad-looking crippled hipped roofs - time seems to stand still in the Harmersbach valley. We travel through space and time under the handlebars.
Strawberry hole? Lützelhardt stings!
Emergency. Wine, beer, cheese, olives, apples, bread - my rucksack is too heavy, my back is crooked. Night falls. By chance, we find ourselves at perhaps the most beautiful bivouac site in Germany: the ruins of Lützelhardt Castle.
"There must be another one of your legends," says Laurin.
'A creepy one,' I say. "The lord of the castle had Count Walter von Geroldseck captured because he was hunting in his forest. Two years later, the count escaped, returned with knights and had the castle burnt down in 1245."
"Pretty harsh punishment for a bit of poaching," says Laurin.
"Different times, different punishments," I say.
We dangle our legs over the wall, eat olives and drink red wine. Bats flutter through the starry sky, the fire crackles.
"It's a good thing we got into trouble," says Laurin.
Like a whole summer
Swimming in the Schutter near Wittelbach, a stormy ride from Schönberg, sausage salad and brägele in Sexau, a match race through cherry orchards near Gundelfingen - our concept is simple: take little with you, plan little, just start cycling. Everything else just happens. Three days in June feel like a whole summer.
When we arrive at our mum's, Laurin says: "Now we've travelled through the Black Forest from north to south and from east to west. Next, I want to do the real route."
"What do you have in mind?"
"The Baltic Sea. From Munich. A thousand kilometres."
"Good idea," I say. "Let's do it."
Dimitri Lehner
Editor
