How I searched for snow but discovered impressive waterfalls instead.
When we got the first snow of the season, my thoughts wandered to the mountains and wintry cycling. I started yearning for something similar, so I put winter tires on my bike and waited for the weekend. I planned a route through Belgium's highest region, the High Fens, but with the snow tending to be short-lived even up there, I looked at the map to add an extra waypoint in case of a meltdown. That's how I found the Bayehon Waterfall. Let's go!
The snow was indeed gone, but the weather was enjoyable, the woodlands charming, and I looked forward to the waterfall. I went at a leisurely pace, yet the long shadow in front of me prompted me to check the time. It was about two hours before sunset, but I still had roughly 20 kilometers to the falls and another 30 to go afterward. An average Flemish cycling enthusiast would probably think it's well-easy in two hours, but I am not one of them, so I accepted that I would finish at night. I did raise the speed a bit, though, desiring to catch the waterfall in the sunlight.
When I got there, the scene was mainly in the shade but properly beautiful nonetheless:
The lower section of the Bayehon Waterfall. The full view is the featured image atop this post.
As one of the country's natural highlights, it was far from empty, yet there was enough room for everyone to enjoy the scene. One guy approached me and started a conversation; he was impressed that I came on a rigid bike with no paved road around. When I tried to explain that I tend to be happier in this terrain than on a smooth tarmac, he and his pals did not look convinced. I asked them if maintaining 30km/h on a road bike is normal, and they said yes; of course, they were from Flanders. So, before we moved on to a nice talk about planetariums and other stuff that moves the universe, we agreed that we have a different definition of road cycling. Speaking of which, the road got only better from here:
That's road cycling, as I like it!
A half-frozen forest road eventually changed to a muddy singletrack, where the winter tires came to their own, and I got through with a big smile. Later, I returned to asphalt, but it was without any traffic and still magnificent. When the sun had already touched the horizon, I sat down on the road to chill and eat some snacks. I also put a few more PSI into the tires because I feared I could miss some rock or pothole in the darkness, and I did not want to do a cold-night sequel to the recent puncture festival.
Picnic time.
After that, I went back to the saddle. However, instead of feeling energized by the snacks, I felt like I was heavier and heavier. "I am getting old," I thought, but at the end of the climb, I looked behind my shoulder at a road sign—and it warned about a 15% gradient. Okay, that made me feel less rusty. On the subject of rust, look at the sunset that followed:
High Fens I.
I hadn't seen anyone else for about an hour now; it was so quiet and peaceful! While nature demands respect, it generously gives it back in moments like these and lets me exist on my terms. Having joy from simply existing is why I keep returning to places like these. They make me feel at home.
An easy cruise down the hills concluded the positive experience of the trip, which had me look up other waterfalls around. Soon, I had another route prepared to celebrate the winter solstice with the most famous and the tallest waterfalls in Belgium.
Coo and Reinhardstein waterfalls
The next trip began at Coo waterfalls, conveniently accessible only 500 meters from the nearest train station.
Coo waterfalls, as seen through a fence.
Over the last fifty years, tourism here has exploded; a big amusement park is now next to the falls. Undoubtedly, it has a positive economic impact on the village, but the waterfalls... Well, it felt a bit like seeing once powerful animal tamed behind bars of a circus: From one side, the waterfalls were closed by an industrial fence, and from the other, they installed a substantial truss holding colorful lights that hindered the view from an otherwise neat viewing platform. As if the waterfall wasn't cool enough, they made it shine in purple. Each to their own; I left towards the next municipality, Malmedy. It started raining, but crossing the atmospheric city kept me in good spirits.
Malmedy.
From Malmedy, I joined a road parallel to the Warche River. Soon after the asphalt turned to dirt, one of Warche's tributaries formed a ford over the road, just the right depth to comfortably bike through. Crossing it was like entering a different world; what followed was a scenic valley filled with fresh air, walled in by steep forests. Together with the earthy color scheme and the rain coming down hard, it reminded me of Scotland, which – if anything – is a high praise for any place.
Warche valley.
The valley kept giving; there were multiple unnamed waterfalls along the way.
Besides the white streams making lines down the steep slopes, I also saw fab lines inviting mountain bike action. Some even looked like they must have been carved for that purpose. I might be biased, but not too far from here is a bike park of Nico Vink. If you know, you know. Finally, Reinhardstein came in sight: both the falls and the castle that sits above them. Yes, there's that.
This was spectacular; Reinhardstein Falls are around 60 meters tall, dazzling in a flat-ish country like Belgium!
Reinhardstein Falls.
Nobody was around, and I took time to soak in the ambiance before starting a hike-a-bike out of the valley towards the castle. I didn't have any expectations since many Belgian castles are private with no public access, but this one turned out to be in the hands of a non-profit organization that offers tours and other activities for visitors.
Reinhardstein Castle.
At the time, they had a modest but pretty Christmas market. Still, the local restaurant with a large wood-burning stove sharply contrasting the rain outside was of greater interest to me. Soup? Sold!
When I left the cozy indoors, the sun was already behind the horizon, and the rain further beefed up. I started climbing towards the high plateau, and to my surprise, there were patches of snow. Their reflection prolonged the visibility and made for splendid outlooks.
High Fens II.
Going down wasn't as smooth as the last time, though. The downpour made for more water crossings than I could count, and when the already rugged trail changed to a narrow singletrack, I thought that if I had taken someone with me, this would be either the best bonding experience or they would never go on a trip with me ever again. Pitch black, bumpy, wet, middle of nowhere, adventurous it was! Still, the torches shone, the clothes kept me warm, and the bike worked flawlessly despite the constant sandblasting by the soaked soil and rocks from the tires. So, there is more...
This time, I started with Haldeboeuf waterfalls just east of Spa and, traditionally, finished by crossing the High Fens. It was the coldest day by far, but the sun was shining, and the hill right out of the city made me well warm.
A bird of prey flying above the road was the icing on the cake.
After a couple of intro hills to get the legs spinning, I went along the Eau Rouge River towards the Haldeboeuf Falls, which are on one of its tributaries.
Eau Rouge.
As I neared the falls, it was apparent that there used to be a hiking trail, but it had been without maintenance for some time, and the bridge to the falls was long gone. Waterproof shoes came in handy, and I got there. Like Reinhardstein Falls, Haldeboeuf has multiple steps, and the old trail still allowed me to take a closer look at each. I did, and it was joyful!
From here, I continued to Domaine de Bérinzenne, featuring an observation tower and pleasant walking trails.
Domaine de Bérinzenne.
It was a nice break, but after a while, I happily returned on a bike to cover more ground. When passing Hockai, the surroundings changed from moist to frozen, and snow followed.
High Fens III.
This also transformed the road. Ah, hearing the snow crunch under the wheels felt so good, and paying attention to the traction was extra fun! The high plateau is relatively flat, so I had enough grip, even if the road turned icy in some places. It felt like the circle came to a close: from an idea of snow through fantastic waterfalls to real snow, this looked like a better ending than I imagined.
However, as I approached the Baraque Michel, a location with a mountain hut for over 200 years, where I planned to have a snack, the more crowded the trail got, and nobody seemed to understand the same greeting that generated a reply or a nod with a smile a few minutes ago. The Baraque Michel's large parking lot was wholly jammed with cars, and the highway around was the same story: people honked, revved engines, and parked anywhere they found a flat spot. The welcoming atmosphere of the region changed to something where I did not belong. Thus, I kept going far enough to find a place that suited me better. It meant descending from the white landscapes, but the spot I stumbled upon was worth it.
Another picnic time.
Just as I finished eating, a couple walked by. "Bonjour!" ~ "Hallo," they replied, and I was at home again. A few kind words later, I started descending with my mind in the right place.
The light was lovely, and I saw more waterfalls and frozen goodness. Moreover, just before Eupen, I found a sanctioned trail spiced with a perfect mixture of stones and roots for a drop-bar bike like mine. Dreams!
That's it for this article. However, while these are the biggest falls in Belgium, more are to be seen. I might do another post on the topic later. In the meantime, if you've enjoyed this article, you can browse Blog Archives for different waterfalls, castles, talk about cycling in snow, or something else. Thanks for reading!
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