Good Night 2025 Roundup: Community Campouts (Part 1)

Since 2020, our Good Night Campout has invited folks from our global community to load up their bikes and pedal out for one last overnighter to close out the year. Thousands have answered the call and shared snippets from their getaways on Instagram and in comments here on the site, inspiring us to keep this six-year tradition going at full steam and to participate ourselves. Especially amid the hectic weeks leading up to New Year’s Day, a quick bikepacking getaway has powerful potential to shake up your routine, offer a moment of calm and connection, and leave you feeling refreshed. That was precisely the case for many who made it out in 2025, as you’ll discover in their vignettes below.

As always, we partnered with a handful of great brands to offer prize packages to randomly selected participants as an incentive to participate. This year’s prizes include bags from Rogue Panda, tires from Rene Herse, and racks from Tumbleweed. We’ll announce the winners next week. For now, read on for the first of two Good Night 2025 roundups shared by a diverse mix of fellow readers spread across seven beautiful countries.

Evan Sollberger

location California, USA instagram @evdog_sd

For months, I’d been itching to hit up the local mountains to do one of my favorite rides, a 45-mile loop connecting Mt. Laguna in the Cleveland National Forest with Anza-Borrego and Cuyamaca State Parks that I call the Laguna Loop. Having done the route many times, though, it kept getting pushed off in favor of other priorities. The window for doing this ride was in danger of closing, as short days and colder nighttime temps that come with winter can make it unfun for a cold-weather wimp like me. But an opportunity arose as a few days of unseasonably warm temperatures arrived ahead of a series of incoming storms. I often ride the Laguna Loop as a day ride, but mid 50s overnight on the winter solstice made it too tempting not to do an overnighter.

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My ride started at the Penny Pines trailhead by Mt. Laguna two hours before dark. I got a few miles of Sunrise Highway out of the way first, then hopped onto the Lucky 5 Trail, which is in Anza-Borrego State Park. I slowed down to enjoy some great views down into the desert as the sun faded away. Night riding is one of my favorite things, especially in T-shirt weather, which I was enjoying, except for a few cold air drains. My campsite would be a mile off route. Temperatures dropped quickly as I rode down a small valley, but climbed back up at the other end as I turned and climbed above the cold air just a short way up a hill. I found a spot that looked like it should have a great view of sunrise and set up my little camp as water boiled for dinner. I enjoyed a beverage from my sleeping bag before drifting off to sleep under a bright, starry sky.

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Its flexibility is one of the reasons I love this loop. You can pick from a number of starting points, and there are many ways to switch up the route or add side quests to nearby peaks that completely change your experience. The loop is long enough that you’ll probably catch either sunrise or sunset from the trail as a day ride, and you can pick your starting point to make sure you’re in a perfect spot. The same is true for an overnighter. There are lots of options, so if you’re like me and are challenged to get out of the house on time, you can start a couple of trailheads north to make sure you still get to your desired campsite when you want. I was expecting a killer sunrise from this spot, and I wasn’t disappointed!

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I took my time getting ready and got back on the trail. The first 10 miles trended downhill, followed by 10 more that trended up. Being a weekday, the trails were empty. I took a detour to climb up Oakzanita Peak, which offers views of the ocean on a clear day. No such luck as the marine layer had settled in over the coast. I stopped in at the Granite Springs trail camp for lunch, and then it was on to the Deer Park Trail, which is always a treat to ride.

The climb up Indian Creek Trail is the physical and technical crux of the route and involves some hike-a-bike for most riders. I did more than usual with the loaded bike. A kind soul installed a bench at Champagne Pass, which is the top of the climb, making it a great spot to take a break. From there, it is a fast drop down the other side, on a section of trail we call Pinball. By the time I climbed up to the Laguna meadow, temps were dropping, so I opted for a quick lap around the Laguna before booking it back to the truck. Itch scratched! And longer days from here on out. Good night, 2025!

Bons Selvagens

location Portugal instagram @bonsselvagens

We are a collective that enjoys immersing ourselves in Portugal’s natural beauty. We like exploring hidden places, finding genuine projects, and inspiring those around us. We go by the name Bons Selvagens, and we’re here to tell you how we ended 2025 on uma aventura invernal pelo centro de Portugal, a winter adventure through central Portugal.

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On day one, we left Lisbon early toward the start of our route. We follow a conscious lifestyle, with ecological principles, and therefore, whenever we have to make a longer connection, we opt for the train, which for us is the best ally of the bicycle! That’s how, four hours later, we sighted the Serra da Estrela and disembarked in Vila Franca das Naves.

The highest mountain range in mainland Portugal shaded us all morning as we cycled along trails bordered by ancient walls and native trees, with the largest Portuguese river, the Mondego, as a faithful reference point. Sitting on one of these walls was Mr. António, who showed us his work. This local artist, now in his 90s, works with assemblage and shares his pieces by the trailside. As we chatted, night and the cold were falling. It was time to find a good place to spend the evening. It wasn’t long before we were enjoying some pasta with tuna and a potato puree with lentil curry, dehydrated at home. We warmed up and prepared for a pleasant starry night.

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The night was bathed in a clear moonlight, in an oak grove that served as our roof and floor. On the second day, after some ups and downs, we came across a centuries-old cedar tree that has watched over those traveling through Fornos de Algodres for generations. The climb to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Good Success was challenging, but the summit offered centuries of history in sight. We passed several alminhas, small crosses dedicated to the souls of those who have passed away, and managed to climb the banks of several streams, but the Dão River gave no respite. This winter has been very rainy, and so we were forced to travel a few kilometers south, where we finally found a bridge to cross. There, already under the cover of night, we pitched our tent in what seemed to be a discreet place.

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The last day was the longest, but the terrain offered a break. At the top of the last big climb, Viseu, a medium-sized city, appeared on the horizon. From there, the route glided south along the iconic Dão Greenway. Throughout the day, we cycled in perfect winter sun, tearing through the carpet of oak, chestnut, and, unfortunately, countless acacia (an invasive species) leaves. We arrived at Santa Comba Dão station at night, certain we had said goodbye to 2025 in the best way. The train took care of the rest and gently took us back to Lisbon, ready to welcome a new year. May many good trips come!

Daniel Layton

location Mugla, Turkiye instagram @thingsgoincycles

My partner Kıymet, our dog Torik, and I set out from the small village of Akçapınar in Muğla, Türkiye, aiming for the hot springs at Köyceğiz Lake. We started along quiet back roads and made a brief highway detour to grab what I’ve come to think of as the best croissants in Turkey at Etna Bakery in Kızılyaka. Refueled and caffeinated, we veered onto a “gravel” route recommended by Komoot. True to Turkish form, it was a wild mix of baby-head rocks, massive boulders, and eventually a running stream, which quickly became unrideable. After soggy feet and some careful reconsideration, we backtracked and found an alternate trail skirting the hills, following a larger river toward Döğüşbelen.

After refueling on Köfte and çay at a roadside stop in Döğüşbelen, we joined minor roads around the lake—paved with blocks and tarmac—cycling through pines and deep green valleys, eventually reaching the vast, still waters of Köyceğiz Lake. That evening, we arrived at the hot springs around dusk, enjoying the quiet off-season atmosphere. The chill in the air contrasted pleasantly with the hot waters, and winter winds rolling down the hills tried their best to waft away some of the sulphurous fumes. After a bit of nighttime scouting, we found a sheltered camp with a view of the lake, tucked among the bushes. The next morning, we brewed herbal tea while packing, then headed into Dalyan, home of the Ancient City of Kaunos.

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Crossing the river by ferry, we paused to admire the Lycian rock tombs that overlook the town—ancient cliffside monuments carved for wealthy Romans. Before leaving, we refueled with Turkish kahvaltı and menemen (and of course more çay). From there, we followed a mix of small roads and trails along the lake’s east coast, winding through soft beech woods and navigating farm tracks, rickety bridges, and shallow river fords. At one point, a tiny suspension bridge tested our balance, and an electric fence gave me a sharp surprise, but time among the rivers and quiet forests made every challenge worthwhile.

In Köyceğiz, we visited the local market and indulged in my favorite cağ kebab, followed by künefe and more çay, recharging for the final stretch. Leaving town, we pedaled west through more deciduous forests and, near home, stopped at a small roadside spot famous for its beans—one of two nearly identical family-run eateries just fifty meters apart, a legacy of sibling rivalry. With full bellies and tired legs, we made the last short ride home under fading light. Torik, perfectly exhausted, settled quietly in her box, ears down.

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Looking back, this was our last overnight campout of the year. Winter is creeping in, and even in southern Türkiye, the chill and mud are catching up with us. Since then, our rides have been day trips, though we continue to adventure vicariously through the Warmshowers guests we regularly host. It’s always a joy to share stories, local knowledge, and hospitality. Türkiye remains a gem for bikepacking, with off-road routes that challenge and delight, welcoming people, and food that makes the effort worth it.

Fernando Biagioni

location Minas Gerais, Brazil instagram @fernandobiagioni

Two years ago, I left home a few days after Christmas to participate in the Good Night Campout. Things didn’t go exactly as planned. A sudden change in weather, right when I was setting up my tent, made me abort everything. I was forced to give up at midnight and sleep on my porch, witnessing a spectacle of lightning and thunder cutting across the sky. Minas Gerais in Brazil is no joke when it comes to thunder and lightning during summer. I wrote about that experience, and how the mountain would always be there, but to be able to tell other stories, it was necessary to be alive. It wasn’t worth being struck by lightning.

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Although I’ve been cycling for almost four decades, in recent years, I’ve drifted away from the bicycle. My riding has been replaced by trail running, which lets me reach places my bicycle couldn’t always get to. And I never minded pushing it or even carrying it on my back when necessary. Even so, my bike sat leaning against the wall, waiting. Today, I don’t know how to properly explain why I spent so much time without cycling, especially without bikepacking.

Recently, some friends from the trail-running group have started cycling. They watched bikepacking films and were captivated by the idea of going further, slower, carrying their own home on two wheels. Soon, we started talking about how we would one day camp by bicycle in the nearby mountains, the same area where I tried a couple of years ago.

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That day arrived in a simple, almost improbable way. There were four of us. We left for camp at 10 p.m., right after I closed the pizzeria where I make pizzas on Saturdays. I traded the hot oven for the cool night, and we got on our bikes. The weather seemed much better than in previous years. We pedaled until 1 a.m., in the silence of the empty roads, with our headlights streaking the darkness and our conversations blowing in the wind. When we arrived at our destination, the Bico de Pedra, we pitched our tents under an absurdly starry sky, the kind that makes you consider leaving society forever.

We slept a little, as almost always happens on these outings, but we woke up early enough to see the day slowly dawning. The arriving light seemed like an irresistible invitation to a nearby waterfall. We went there and drank our beer by the water. Even though it was warm, it didn’t matter much. It’s not always the case that a beer goes well with breakfast. Between the cold water of the waterfall and the sun beginning to warm my body, I made peace with my bicycle. I understood that traveling is, above all, a state of mind. Bikepacking is liberating. Even an overnighter. It’s a type of experience that only two wheels can provide: time slows down, the world takes on a human scale, and we feel like we fit into our own lives again.

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It was a successful bikepacking baptism for my friends, too. In the end, that’s what remains. The reminder that what’s important is living simply. That sometimes, life fits entirely into a bicycle, a tent, good friends, and a path of stars in the sky.

Henry Scharf

location Arizona, USA

We left mid-morning, my bike and I, with plenty of stuff. The route would be flatish and shortish. Some weight was needed to provide a sense of accomplishment and stoke hunger for the burrito dinner, which would naturally be a little banged up from the ride. A chair, some watercolors, a stove whose only purpose was hot tea, and a string of lights I wouldn’t actually use in the end. Gram upon gram of luxury and potential energy.

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The Tucson Mountains are remarkably good at providing a feeling of seclusion without ever really removing you from civilization. From the ridges and peaks, roads and housing developments remind you where you are, but down in the subtle valleys on a weekday afternoon, it’s just a red tail hawk and me. Maybe next year I’ll invite a friend.

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The light is nice for painting, photography, headlamping, and moon gazing. Cactus spines glow, then turn black and steely with the desert night. There are no fires allowed here, and the windy chill that sets in after the sun recedes is enough to put me in my sleeping bag around the same time my almost-seven-year-old is probably curling up with her own headlamp and bedtime stories at home. Nighty night, 2025.

AJ Van Grinsven

location Utah, USA instagram @ajvan64

For me, 2025 brought seasons of pain and waves of excitement, but it altogether rushed past in a blink and deserved a sendoff that moved at a deliberately slower pace. Disconnected and quiet. Getting away from the bustle of town felt like the right move, so I asked a friend to join me for a night outside, exploring the desert by bike and braving the cold despite the possibility of inclement weather.

We rolled into the Utah desert just outside Capitol Reef National Park late on Saturday, December 27th, welcomed by an all-too-familiar desert wind that grew bolder as we tried to rest up for the morning’s departure. I braced myself for a textbook case of type-two fun, knowing what hours of punishing cold headwind can feel like on the bike. Instead, Sunday arrived with blue skies and a rare calm.

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Rolling out at a modest warm-up pace, we’d navigate our way through the handful of paved miles toward Caineville, thankful for the minimal off-season traffic. Eager to leave trails in the dirt, we decided to grab our first bite, shed layers, and snap a photo beside the route’s unofficial welcome sign.

Thanks to the full weight of winter gear and centrally located water stores, my proudly homemade frame bag had a few stitches starting to protest and show signs of distress. Before I knew what was happening, a rogue gust swept in and knocked our bikes over from their precarious pose. Due to the water weight, the frame bag broke free, vacating the front triangle almost entirely. The only way forward was to adapt and overcome, so from there, my rig’s new racing stripes were a reminder that we can’t control everything.

Crisis averted, we were off, eager to see how our legs—and our Salsa Cutthroats—would handle the counterclockwise Cathedral Valley loop. Gradually climbing through the upper valley, each mile offered better views than the last, ushering us along looking for the next vista. Riding into the sunset toward camp, we knew a substantial climb stood between us and our destination.

At the top of the ridge, we found our home for the night, complete with unexpected amenities and one of the best views of the trip. There was no holding back on snacking and rehydrating our meals and ourselves with warm delights straight from the stoves. After the fire had worked its way through the small amount of wood available, I retreated into my sleeping bag and stayed there longer than I ever have, quietly looking back on my day, the weeks of luck that led to it, and the year I was leaving behind.

Just like the morning before, we were greeted by serenity. With warm breakfasts and a few cups of surprisingly good coffee in us, we steadily worked through the easy load-out that always comes after merrily eating and drinking mid-journey. Reasonably well rested, we took our time soaking up the sun before rolling out of camp.

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The remaining 30 miles and 2,200 feet of descent welcomed us around every bend. We rode through time, bearing witness to millions of years of history carved into the earth’s layers, thankful for the road less traveled. We stopped to appreciate the more recent relics left by people long gone, to be reminded just how fleeting our mark on the world really is.

Our strategy paid off. Saving the river crossing for the end proved ideal in the winter temperatures. Without hesitation, we kicked off our shoes and socks, slipped into sandals, and pushed our bikes through the ice-lined and flowing Fremont River. Capping off the ride—and the year—with a cold plunge for our feet and calves felt like exactly what the doctor ordered. Our cups were full.

Giacomo Santi

location Italy instagram @trauzl

From a naturalistic point of view, Milan doesn’t have much to offer. Located in the middle of the Po Valley, one of the most polluted and densely populated areas in Europe, it’s surrounded by industries and other urban centers, and every year, the few remaining green areas nearby disappear to make room for new construction sites. However, if you have the patience to push a little further north, less than 50 kilometers from the city, the thick fog of the plains gives way to the magic of the Alps, which, in this season more than ever, show themselves at their very best. That’s exactly what we did on the last weekend of 2025.

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Early in the morning of December 28th, I jumped on a train with Andrea and Daniele, bound for Lugano, where we met our friend Iva from Zurich and headed together toward Monte Garzirola, one of the first peaks over 2,000 meters, right on the border between Switzerland and Italy. The route was pretty straightforward: a big climb, a night at the top, and a big descent. Unfortunately, we severely underestimated the snow level, and after passing 1,300 meters in elevation, we spent most of the time pushing our bikes, reaching camp exhausted and with completely frozen feet. But there’s nothing a good night of chatting with friends can’t fix. In the end, the cold wasn’t that bad, and I even managed to cowboy camp on the snow, spending an unforgettable night under the stars.

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The following morning, we woke up without any rush, taking all the time we wanted to enjoy a proper breakfast while feeling the sun on our skin. We eventually started riding around midday, realizing that, unlike the climb, the 20 centimeters of snow on the ground made the descent incredibly fun… and sketchy!

We spent hours shredding up and down the old smugglers’ trail along the border, enjoying clear views over the alpine arc and riding quite technical but fun singletrack between Passo San Lucio and Monte Bar. We made it back to Lugano covered in mud, with the feeling of having been away for days and days, grateful for this format that gives us an excuse to go bikepacking every year, even when most people stay under the blankets or go skiing—though this time, we probably should have listened and brought skis instead.

Ali Ramirez

location Zambales, Philippines instagram @aliwally

On the last Saturday of the year, my partner Jeiel and I woke up really early—1:30 a.m. early—to meet up with our friends Kevin and Eugene at the bus station. There was a chill in the air. It finally felt like a real December in the Philippines. We were about to embark on a six-hour bus trip to Masinloc, Zambales, to ride our bikes to Coto Mines, a decommissioned chromite mine. We were all very excited.

Physically and mentally, we were prepared to ride the 30 kilometers to the campsite. Eugene said as much. What the rest of us didn’t account for was that it would be 95% climbing on gravel. We quickly realized we might not be as prepared as we thought. To say the route was rocky is a huge understatement. Every so often, you’d hear a yelp, a grunt, or a scream. We took many breaks, mostly in the comfort of sari-sari stores selling snacks and drinks. Sometimes we’d hear, “You still have a long way to go!” or “You can do this!” and some “Oh, wow, are they really biking this?!” from people we encountered.

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The sun was about to set by the time we arrived at camp, and there was just enough light for us to pitch our tents. After everything was set up, some of us decided to dip our toes in the river before prepping dinner. We let the ice-cold water wash away the dirt and exhaustion from our bodies. There was immediate relief. I looked up and realized that it had been a while since I’d seen so many stars.

The next morning, after breakfast, we spent all our time just hanging out by the river. The water was still cold, but there was warmth from the sun and the tequila we brought. The river was quite strong, and we found a nook where we could get a river massage. We examined the rocks and found that many of them sparkle. “Is this chromite?” We laughed about the stupidest things. Before we knew it, it was time to break camp, and we still had a long way home.

Jacob Mole

location Raglan, New Zealand instagram @jacob_mole_aye

Being mid-summer in New Zealand, it wasn’t hard to rally our friend group for an overnighter. Especially when Hannah pitched us her route: one night, coastal gravel, native forest, and plenty of snack breaks. The plan would take us out to the western coastline of New Zealand’s North Island, looping around the base of Mount Karioi before descending into the dense bush behind the mountain to return. It felt like the perfect way to cap off a year of biking with a big crew and comfy distances.

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We started from Raglan, a groovy surf town known for its coffee, sunny hills, and enterprising hippies. After getting our caffeine fix at the famous Raglan Roast and filling up on flaky baked goods, we decided it was time to start pedaling. We rode across the footbridge over the harbor, cheering on the local kids jumping off to practice their “manus.” Finding a pump track on the other side, we made an obligatory detour before climbing away into the coastal hills.

Our group quickly jumped onto gravel roads high atop the ridges. Going up and down and up, each pinch climb rewarded us with breath-taking views of the coast below, dotted with little wind-surfers. Enjoying the breeze and warm, scattered showers, we made many stops to keep the group together and compare who had brought the best snacks. Bikepacking is the perfect time to brag about the new spicy, crunchy-coated broad beans you found, and then trade a few for some sour worms. Turning inland, we crossed little estuary bridges transitioning into dense forest, feeling the heat of the day starting to wear on the group morale. With five kilometers left, we checked our GPS to realize we’d been Komooted. Our connecting “paper road” did not exist, and we still had another 15 kilometers. With some extra chocolate bars shared around, we rallied on and made it to Hakea Eco Camp for the evening.

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Nestled down in a forested valley, Hakea is inspiring. An off-grid intentional community of people focused on living off the land and connecting with Papatuanuku (Mother Earth). They take “commune with the homies” to the next level: composting toilets that nurture their food forest, goats and chickens roaming about, hot showers, solar fairy lights, soft grass festival grounds, and little sheds scattered about for art, conversation, and dancing. After cosplaying as flower children for an evening, we had a restful night and woke to native birdsong and resident cats trying to break into the tent for a cuddle.

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Day two was a different flavor, with rolling farmland framed by Mt. Karioi in the distance. Tucked in between grassy knolls, we passed over country roads to the approving moos of roaming dairy cows. Fluffy clouds drifted in the blue sky above, casting dramatic shadows across unbelievably green hills. The legs spun and the mind wandered as we chatted away about buying our own property and how we’d run our own little eco-community. We detoured to go view Bridal Veil Falls for lunch, which was a surprisingly tall waterfall hidden only a 10-minute walk off the road. Admiring from the top, our sore legs convinced us to avoid the hundreds of stairs down to the base, and we headed back to the bikes. From there, refueled, we rejoined the sealed road on a rapid downhill descent back into Raglan, struggling to keep our eyes on the road and not the huge wind turbines lining the horizon beside us.

Overall, I was stoked to get off-grid with my favorite people. With classic New Zealand landscapes and lots of laughs, we set the tone for the coming year to our favorite lie: “It’s all downhill from here!”

Cory Knott

location California, USA instagram @theadventuregent

As 2025 wound down, I found a window to head out on the road for a short bikepacking trip. After weeks of high temperatures—quite unusual for this time of year—and rain on the forecast for the week ahead, I had just enough time to fit in the 140-mile trip from my front door in Julian, California, to Joshua Tree National Park.

I had been fixing up a Specialized Street Stomper gravel bike for a friend and was looking forward to giving it a go on this adventure. I plotted a route through Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, the largest state park in the state, and spent a day preparing my panniers and food supplies as I strived to be as self-contained as possible for the ride.

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Winding mountain roads quickly turned into rolling chaparral hills as I hit the road for the first leg of the trip. After happening upon a Christmas market while stopping for lunch, I kept pushing on, excited to see what my limits for speed and distance might be. Eventually, I set up camp for the night in a wash with absolutely spent legs, but I was happy with my 70-mile day.

I woke up refreshed and excited to keep riding, but I wasn’t looking forward to the major highway miles up and around the Salton Sea. Luckily, the winds were in my favor, the bike felt fast, and drivers were being courteous. Without much effort, I found myself immersed in the terrain of Box Canyon, a geological hotspot I’d been looking forward to biking through. In a chance meeting with a fellow cyclist, I learned that this area is the very end of the San Andreas fault line.

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A slow climb consumed the rest of the day as I traveled up a consistent grade and out of the canyon. Reaching Joshua Tree National Park by sunset, I stopped at the Cottonwood Visitor Center for some much-needed water and enjoyed a beautiful sunset dinner. That evening, I was treated to crystal-clear skies for viewing the Atlas comet and drifted to sleep to a song from a nearly pack of coyotes.

The climb continued the following morning as I rode into the heart of the park, but the thought of seeing my best friends after several months apart kept my legs pumping. I arrived at Jumbo Rocks Campground before the rest of the group and appreciated a few hours to rest and organize my gear. The afternoon and evening melted into hugs, giggles, reminiscing, and lots of rock scrambling. The end of a welcome solo journey brought a refreshed outlook on the year to come and gratitude for the sprinkles of bike adventures in this beautiful life.

Tune in next week for more Good Night 2025 getaways from our readers around the world!

Further Reading

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