Horsebiking: Adventures on Two Wheels and Four Legs

Part I: May 2024 – Durmitor National Park

I left Poland a week earlier by bus. It took me from my hometown, Katowice, to Knin in Croatia. From there, I cycled to the start line of the first edition of the Accursed Race by Lost Dot. Due to its no-fly policy, you need to get to and return from the race without taking a plane. I chose a mountainous, partly off-road route to get to Shkodër, Albania, where the race was taking place. My bike was fully loaded. The idea was to continue travelling after the race. I had a few months but no destination. I like to figure things out along the way.

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On the 3rd of May, followed by a few days of rough off-road with little resupply, I felt tired, my legs were empty, and I wanted to set up my camp early. I ran out of food and batteries. Before my phone died, I managed to check the map and find the closes place that might serve food. It was dark by the time I got there. 

The place was open, and it turned out to be a restaurant with a guesthouse and horseback riding tours. There was a loud party going on inside. I took the quietest seat I could find, plugged all my devices, and ordered cevapi (grilled minced meat) with fries. I was done and dreaming of filling my belly and lying down in my tent.

Then, a cowboy-looking man sat in front of me and asked the typical questions: where I’m from, where I’m going, etc. Then, without asking, he ordered two beers and placed one in front of me. I didn’t have the energy for socialising, but this man’s warm, positive energy struck me. He was looking after the horses there. That’s how I met Peja. We had a good laugh, and after my meal, he said I could put my tent next to some wooden huts outside and use the hot shower and electricity. I slept like a baby.

The next day, it was raining and cloudy. I was at the gate of Durmitor National Park, which I really wanted to see. I knew if I kept going, I would be cycling in the mist the whole day. There was nothing between the guesthouse and the town after exiting Durmitor. I wasn’t in a rush, so I decided to stay at the farm.

I had a coffee with Peja in the morning, and we talked a lot that day. About him being in the war, how horses saved his mind after he came back from it, about Serbia, where he’s from, how he was planning to ride a horse all the way to China just before COVID, about dreams, freedom, and then about life happening and about losing things you love.

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The following day, it kept raining, and I decided to stay a little longer. Peja gave me a tour around the stables. He showed me his old riding boots, Portuguese saddle, and denim jacket. I tried on the cowboy clothes and sat on the horse just to go around. I felt like I was time travelling. I’ve never ridden a horse before. It’s simple, said Peja, pull left to turn left, pull right to go right, pull both to stop. I asked if we could do a longer tour, but Peja couldn’t leave the farm as he had other duties there. We shared an evening meal and had a good laugh.

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The weather started to clear out the next day. I packed and was ready to leave around midday. Peja and I made a connection over the past few days, and I was sad to keep going. Just as I was ready to leave, Peja ran over to me waving his hands. “Some tourists booked a horse tour. If you want, you can come with us,” he said. Without putting much thought into it, I grabbed my camera and went for it.

It all happened very quickly, and I didn’t realize we were going to ride in the mountains for two hours! Peja helped me to get in the saddle and reminded me, “Left, right, both to stop. You will be fine!”

He led the group in his cowboy hat, smoking rolled-up cigarettes. Behind him were the two people who booked a tour, then me. My horse was mainly calm but sometimes started to run, and I was using my gut feeling to avoid falling off. I was convinced I wouldn’t make it out of that ride without an injury—what a great thing to do just before an ultra race!

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It all ended okay, and I stayed one last night at the farm since it was evening by the time we got back. The next morning, Peja gifted me handmade woolen socks and a massive chocolate bar for my way. And a big hug. “I will be back,” I told him.

Part II: June 2024 – Montenegro

I reached Shkodër in Albania, raced the Accursed (which I highly recommend to everyone), and recovered at the nearby campsite for a week. I then cycled back to Montenegro to meet Tomek. 

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We were going to pedal to the border with Iran in the following months together, which we didn’t know at the time, as we had no plan. I wanted him to meet Peja, and it worked well with the idea to cycle through Durmitor on another trail that was still covered with snow the first time I was there. 

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We had a beautiful sunset overlooking the Bosnian ridgeline before descending to the farm. Peja wasn’t expecting me, and when he saw me, his joy was pure—expressed by lifting me up in a big hug and dancing. We hung out together for the evening and the next morning. Tomek gave Peja one of his shirts, which fit him perfectly, and Peja called him a “brother” and kept telling them to look after me. We were wished good luck and invited to come to Serbia. We keep in touch until this day.

Part III: August 2024 – Tusheti, Georgia

I cycled with Tomek through the Balkans to Istanbul, where we split for a week as I went to work, and he stayed in Turkey to explore Cappadocia (where he caught terrible food poisoning). Before we split, we booked a flight from Istanbul to Tbilisi, Georgia. We couldn’t really handle the August heat in Turkey. The flight was leaving the day after we reunited, and we decided to take it, thinking he would recover in the next few days. We tried to find accommodation in Tbilisi for him to get some rest, but we both found the city overwhelming after being in nature for so long, so we kept cycling, making our days shorter.

We reached the bottom of Abano Pass, sometimes referred to as a gate between Europe and Asia, at 2,826 metres above sea level. From there, we had a 35-kilometre off-road doubletrack with 2,000 metres of elevation gain to the top of the pass, followed by 45 off-road kilometres into Tusheti National Park. There’s no asphalt to access Tusheti, only this doubletrack. From there, there are only a few sparse small villages and a hike out through Atsunta Pass at 3,520 metres until you emerge on the other side and into the Khevsureti region. That hike is common for bikepackers who come to Tusheti (check out The Caucasus Crossing). It takes around two or three days of hike-a-bike from the last village to the next one on the other side, with only idyllic mountains in between. Stunning mountains and a river that, at the time, after a big rainfall, was mid-thigh-deep.

We made it to Tusheti, but the food poisoning wasn’t getting better, and Tomek was getting drained after weeks of eating mostly rice. The food in Tusheti was mainly local meat or strong cheese, which wasn’t helpful considering our situation. With a lot of hesitation, we decided to split. Tomek would go back to Poland to recover. You might think that’s a complicated solution, but in fact, it was more comforting and budget-friendly than looking for accommodation and medical help in Georgia for an unknown amount of time. We were concerned it was something more serious since it wasn’t passing, even after many weeks. Since we initially didn’t plan to take the trip together anyway, I decided to continue riding solo around Georgia until he felt better and came back, which took another three weeks.

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I was in Tusheti and not feeling confident about attempting the Atsunta crossing alone. A couple we met along the way completed it at the time and told me it wasn’t safe to cross the river alone because of the high level after the rainfall. The other option was cycling back out through Abano Pass and then some 300 kilometres around the mountains on quite busy roads to get to the same place. It was a “no.” Instead, I decided to cycle to the last village and wait a couple of days to see if I might meet someone else wanting to do it and join them. In the meantime, Tomek made it back to civilization. On his way, he met another cyclist, Stefano, who told him about crossing Atsunta on the horse years ago. That planted the seed of an idea.

The next day, I went around the village, which had about 10 houses, and asked who had horses. “You are lucky,” said a boy who spoke pretty good English. “Gocha, a local man, has a horse tour starting on the other side of the pass in a couple of days, and he needs to bring six horses there. He will take you and your bike. You need to get to the basecamp, and he will take you tomorrow.” The so-called “basecamp” was supposed to be 12 kilometres away on a hiking trail from where I was. I was told I could mostly ride it. In reality, that wasn’t really the case, and it took me four hours to reach it, just before it got dark, mostly pushing my bike and sometimes carrying it over large rocks.

The “basecamp” had two tents, two shepherd dogs, a few horses, and a couple of Georgian men. Some of them were working on building the mountain hut there to be opened in the next few years, sponsored by the Swiss government. I asked if Gocha was there. He wasn’t. “When will he come?” I asked, to which they replied, “When he arrives.” Great, thanks. I asked if I could place my tent there for the night. Despite the less-than-warm welcome, I was invited to join for dinner in the tent. Everyone was very respectful and friendly, which was a relief, considering I was in the mountains with no phone coverage.

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I woke up the next morning, but Gocha still wasn’t there, and I had just enough food to cross the pass. The shepherd puppy wanted to play with me, catching my wrist with his sharp, small teeth, leaving scars on it for another few weeks. One of the Georgian men came two the rescue, lifting the 20-kilogram puppy and carrying it over to another tent. Around midday, Gocha came out of one of the tents. Wait, what?! It seems he arrived the night before and had a good sleep.

We disassembled my bike, padded the saddle with soft layers and my sleeping bag, and attached it to a horse in the most comfortable way we could find. We loaded my other gear on another horse, and I got to sit on a third one. In total, our team was made up of me, Gocha, six horses, and an old shepherd dog. We set off at a leisurely pace, stopping twice to give salt cubes to the grazing cows. Gocha would smoke a mix of cigarettes and a commonly known soothing herb found wild growing in Tusheti.

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In total, it took us about six hours to make the crossing by horse. It was a real adventure for me, and I couldn’t get enough of absorbing the incredible views, smells, silence, and the feel of the horse, which was very gentle. From the top of the pass, we stepped off the horses to unload them and walked down to the border checkpoint (you need a special permit when crossing Atsunta). I was exhausted from both the physicality and the mental exertion, and over the next days, I felt the ride in every muscle in my legs, including many I didn’t even know existed.

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And that’s how, in the span of just four months, I unexpectedly rode a horse for the first and second times in my life by being open to unexpected experiences and kind souls who opened their doors to an unknown bikepacker.

Further Reading

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