Last week, I returned to the far northeastern reaches of Czechia—Silesia, the smallest of the country’s three historical regions (Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia). Tucked in the borderlands where Czechia meets Slovakia and Poland, the Beskydy Mountains (or simply the Beskids) offered more than just a demanding ride—they stirred something old and half-forgotten in me.
Over three days and roughly 130 km of winding roads and forest tracks, with nearly 1500 meters of elevation gain, I retraced paths that once marked the border of childhood holidays. My route started in Frýdek-Místek, climbing into the Krásná Valley along the Mohelnice River, cresting near Vysalaje before crossing the watershed into Morávka Valley, and circling back through Pražmo. From there, I skirted the mythic flanks of Lysá hora, passing Frýdlant nad Ostravicí, up the river to Ostravice, and climbing up toward Radhošť Mountain before returning to where it all began.
Much has changed since those summers long ago—villages have grown, trailheads are now bustling with hikers, and the remote silence I remember has been softened by development. And yet, the wild still breathes beneath the surface. Fast-flowing rivers and deep spruce forests, where brown bears, wolves, and Eurasian lynx roam, cradle the same quiet majesty. The slopes are steep and shadowed; the streams still run cold and clear. The terrain whispers of an older world.
There were moments in the saddle when it felt like I had slipped through a crack in time, into some Jerzy Kosiński’s-like vision of half-reality—dense, dreamlike, uncanny. The winding roads were less a route than a gateway into a personal wilderness, where every climb wasn’t just physical but also existential, an excavation of the layers of self that had been buried under years of distance and routine.
This was not just a cycling trip, but also a trip into my memories, a chance encounter with the long-gone past of my life and origins. The landscape didn’t just carry me forward; it brought me back. Back to a place where my sense of wonder first took root. Back to the hills that framed the earliest shape of my imagination.