4 days bikepacking the wild west of Denmark

Some say the best camera is the camera you have with you. I might argue that it's more about the lens, especially if we are talking video. And not the least if we are talking about filming bikepacking movies, handheld, on the go. The lens doesn't have to be expensive, but it does have to have image stabilisation. Just like mine, the cheapest zoom lens you can lay your grubby hands on in Fujifilm's line-up. It's certainly not the optically best lens ever made. But it's light, it's ultra-wide and it's got pretty good image stabilisation. What's not to like? Did I mention it was dirt cheap? But all of this doesn't mean much if you haven't brought the lens with you. Which was exactly what I was about to find out as my wife Becky and I were at the Larvik ferry port in Norway. Waiting to get on board the ferry and realised I had the wrong lens on my camera. A nice lens, one of my favourites for photography. But without image stabilisation there would be no bikepacking movie from this trip. I tried not to let that overshadow the joy of going bikepacking, but I sure was bummed. But hold on, I did have a camera with image stabilisation. My phone, an old-ish iPhone XR. But what about the colours? Or the cinematic look of my Fujifilm set-up, I thought. Wouldn't it just be a waste of time? Well, I was soon to find out. Worst thing that could happen was that the footage was too crappy to get anything useful out of. I couldn't help feeling giddy as we rode into the fat belly of the ferry. I don't know how many times I've cycled across Denmark to Copenhagen. This time we were only going to goof around along the northwest coast to the northernmost tip of Denmark, skating. And then backtracking before turning east, crossing over to Frederikshavn on the east coast and the ferry to Oslo. The view from the window turned grey on grey. After navigating our way back to the bikes through the maze of cars and trucks on the car deck, the ferry spat us out into pitch black darkness when we arrived at Hirtshals on the northwest coast of Jutland. It's always a strange feeling riding into the dark autumn nights in Denmark. While people all around you are getting ready for bed, you are messing around in the dark, trying to reach a legal camp spot somewhere in a dark forest. I had my eyes on a couple of lean-to's I had camped at a couple of times before. But already from a distance, it was clear that they weren't vacant as we spotted the flickering light of a campfire right where they were supposed to be in the dark forest. We continued on and found another designated camp spot where we were allowed to put up our tent for the night. I love the feeling of waking up in a new place that you've only seen revealed in glimpses from the small circle of light provided by your headlamp the night before. It turned out our camp spot was in a remnant of heathland next to Ugerby river. We could hear the sea as a quiet rumble to the northwest. The more I looked at the footage coming from the little iPhone, the more I realised that the colours actually weren't too far off from what I would have gotten out of the Fujifilm. It didn't look overcooked with garish, overly saturated colours. Even the green colour of vegetation, that can often be difficult to get right, looked pretty good. I still had to contend with not being able to control the shutter speed. A cinematic look wasn't going to happen, but it sure was better than nothing. Truth to be told, it wasn't bad at all. This could actually work, I thought to myself. Since we were in no rush, even with the short days when October was about to turn into November, we took a detour down to the beach. How I'd missed the sea. I could have stood there listening to the waves all day. We rolled back and forth along the beach, taking turns photographing each other. Sometimes I wish I was a photographer, specialising in surf photography, not outdoor life in forested areas, like where we were living back in Norway. Who doesn't like the view of a surfboard on a sandy beach? And you'll never have to contend with the messy, chaotic backgrounds you get in the forest. We took a short break, having a snack on the beach, just watching the waves roll gently onto the shore, when a guy with a big off-road car decided to speed back and forth on the beach, right in front of our feet. Cars and trucks dominate the roads. Why on earth does the Danish authorities allow cars to rampage on the beaches? It was his legal right to zoom back and forth right in front of us, but it was also my legal right to tell him what I thought of it. Then it was time to leave the beach and get moving, meandering our way through the heathland. It felt like going from one tasty meal to another, and we drank in the landscape eagerly with all our senses as we passed through it. A landscape so radically different than what we were used to back home in Norway. We crossed yet another river, flowing lazily towards the sea. Then the open heathland and the meadows gave way to forest, as tall beech trees greeted us in a nearby forest. Our wheels rolled over a dense layer of wilted leaves, but high up in the tree crowns, golden leaves were still clinging stubbornly to the branches as summer finally said goodbye in one last explosion of colours. It was hard not to ride with a smug grin on our faces as we steered our wheels along the undulating path between the trees. Then our tiny trail, twisting and turning through the forest, came to an end, and we found ourselves onto Tarn. Soon the landscape changed again, flattening, the wilted grasses draping the landscape in a golden cloak. It felt like we had been teleported to the American prairie in the Midwest. I was half expecting a bunch of cowboys on horseback, riding through the grassland herding cattle, while a pack of coyotes were watching from a distance. While the chance of cowboys riding past was rather slim, the coyote bit was actually more plausible. Well, not coyotes, but grey wolves. In 2012, the German wolf population had grown and expanded so close to the Danish border that the inevitably happened. A wolf walked all the way from the border and up into northern Jutland. In 2021, at the time we were cycling in Denmark, there were nine wolves in Denmark, and one of them had its territory in the heathland on plantations just ahead of us. We found a nice lean-to in a plantation right next to Denmark's largest migrating sand dune, Håpjärnmilen. With a weather forecast that predicted rain, we decided to set up our tent inside the lean-to. I know it looked rather ridiculous, and in some odd way it somehow almost felt like cheating, but the arrangement kept us and the tent out of the rain, while the tent would keep the air ever so slightly warmer than the air outside when we slept at night. Few things are more cozy than sitting dry and toast under a roof or a tarp while the autumn rain falls from the sky. The next day, we allowed ourselves time to visit the nearby migrating sand dune, even if the short day meant we would probably end up riding in the dark at the end of the day. You'd be hard-pressed to find true wilderness areas in Denmark, but the area around Denmark's largest migrating sand dune sure is a viable candidate. The sand dune itself covers around 2 square kilometers and climbs to a height of around about 40 meters. Each year, the dune moves northeast, sometimes as much as 18 meters a year. The landscape it leaves behind towards Skagerak, where the sand dune was born some 300 years ago, consists of a flat, moist stretch of sand. The landscape is protected today and stands as a living monument of a bygone era, and is as wild as it gets in Denmark. We took our time there, Becky doing a bit of yoga on what felt like the roof of Denmark, before we potted back to the bikes and headed north. Our route took us through plantations planted to keep the migrating sand dunes in check, but now and then, the occasional patch of heathland reminded us how the landscape once had looked. I'll admit the plantations weren't the most exciting forests I've seen, but with no cars around, I was more than happy to ride there in the golden light of the afternoon. We reached the town of Skagen as our shadows had grown into long, slender figures, eager to top out our food supply with a hot drink and Danish pastry. It was sad to see one of the enormous modern fish trawlers looming behind one of the traditional blue fishing boats, almost as a sea monster, ready to devour not just the fish, but the fishery these small fishing towns were dependent on. Almost 800 years of fishing history seemed to be coming to an end in the name of efficiency and greed. We enjoyed our hot drink and Danish pastry, took a spin around town to see the picturesque houses in Skagen, before passing the old lighthouse on our way to the northernmost tip of Denmark. To reach the tip of the peninsula, we had to leave the road. That suited us just fine. Then, we were there, at the top of Denmark. Three harbour seals had decided that the most heavily visited place on the beach by tourists was also the best place to have a rest, probably with good reason. At Grenen, the northernmost tip, the two seas Skagerak and Kettergat meet up, producing a boiling mess of currents that probably make for great fishing for hungry seals, but a rather dangerous place to swim for humans. There was no getting around that we were running out of daylight. It didn't take a genius to realise that would happen when we rode out of Skagen town and headed for the peninsula. And now we were about to backtrack, riding back to a camp spot we had passed early in the morning. A rather uncommon way of bikepacking for the two of us, but it was totally worth it, and exactly the way we wanted it. A small rock of rump porphyry lay as a reminder of the ice age, most likely originating from Oslo, where we were going to end the trip a couple days later. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. The coast is Denmark's wild side, and it sure felt good to be back. The sand, the salt and the sea. The roaring ocean, chewing on the beach, gobbling up centimetre after centimetre, year by year, but also giving some back. The wind, one moment hitting you hard in the face, the next moment giving you a careful push in the back, other times blowing straight through your head, taking with it the debris of bad thoughts, leaving you clear headed and happy as to be pushed the pedals with a big fat grin on your face. It was like riding in another world, a thin sliver of the landscape, not the ocean, but not quite land either. It could have been a metaphor for my life, living happily more or less on the fringe of society, not really fitting in, now and then getting knocked over by the next storm tide. Still, I somehow always seemed to end up back in the same spot, there on the fringe, riding my bike. Our luck with the weather seemed to continue as the forecasted rain swept by during the dark hours when we were snug in our tent. The little spot in the plantation where we were allowed to camp had provided protection from the wind. The sandy soil was dominated by oaks and crooked pine trees. We enjoyed the autumn colours for a while, but in the distance, to the west, the gentle roar of the nearby sea was calling us. We packed down our camp and headed to the sea for a last glimpse of the wild west. It turned out to be one of the wildest, most desolate places of the whole trip. Knowing that no car would interfere with our experience there made the feeling of willingness even stronger. We made sure to take the whole landscape in with all our senses, Becky doing a bit of yoga, me letting the wind blow any dark thoughts I might have had out of my head. It felt like a cleansing, like taking your car to the car wash, except I don't own a car and guess I don't really know that feeling. I've always loved the look of the marram grass. From a distance, it looks soft and cuddly, growing on the sand dunes and freezing them in time like gargantuan waves gently rolling through the landscape. But if you get up close and personal, the marram grass will literally stick it to you with their needle-like pointed leaves. Our trip wasn't over just yet, but I'll admit it was with a feeling of sadness that we left the place and rode east, heading for the ferry. It had been such a wonderful break from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Bikepacking outside the season made the experience even stronger, riding with a feeling we had the whole place all to ourselves. We decided to take a detour to the sand-covered church, once devoured by a huge migrating sand dune, a monument over how the sand and the sea once ruled the place. The next stretch saw us riding through the Skagen plantation, planned to stop the sand dunes from migrating from the west coast and into the interior. Then we were given a last visit to the wild west as we yet again rode through heathland at Hulsey Heath. Though, to be correct, we were in reality riding on the east coast at that very moment. The trip felt like being handed a gift. A few warm days in late October and early November enabling us to go bikepacking without freezing our butts off. The closer we came to the city of Fleishaum, the more the traffic dominated the soundscape. The gentle roar of the sea was substituted with the not-so-gentle roar from cars and trucks. The spell was gradually broken. The magic was gone. At least we were still riding on a bicycle lane as the last slivers of sunlight followed us towards the city centre. As we got closer to the ferry, it was all too obvious. We were the outcasts again, literally in the way of all the cars and trucks as we were all herded like cattle towards the ferry. But as we got ready to ride on to the ferry, there was another thing that was obvious. We weren't just packing with us all our trip gear and leftover food, but a whole load of memories to look back on in years to come and the realisation that the best camera is the one you have with you.