July 16, 2022. I woke up to a cool morning, a refreshing change after the heat of the previous days. It’s been sweltering, with temperatures in the 80s and 90s for much of the trip. My right foot had been numb for a few weeks probably due to Morton’s neuromas. Basically, it’s like having a nerve bundle at the bottom of your feet. Makes walking a challenge.

The water had a slight mineral taste, not unpleasant. I packed up camp and drove further into the mountains, curious about Nico Vald. When I arrived, I found a fountain commemorating famous locals and stumbled upon a monthly event at a reconstructed forest house. They were baking bread in a historic oven from that era, and a man kindly gave me a tour of the house, which was fascinating. I’ve noticed that, in many countries—especially France and Germany—I’m often one of the few people truly interested in the history around me.

I bought a loaf of bread they had just made, which was delicious, and asked them to cut it for me. At five euros, it felt like a steal. Afterward, I wandered around the area, looking at the stone piles of water wheels, millstones, and boundary markers.

Next, I headed back to Hirschhorn to hoping to learn more about its history. I had coffee roasting place. The coffee was good—not great—and I set off on the walking history tour. I learned quite a bit along the way, and especially enjoyed the cloister church, which was impressive with its baroque artwork. It was fun walking up the hill to see the city walls, still intact and quite beautiful.

I spent a couple of hours wandering about the town before continuing along the Neckar River. There was one particularly picturesque spot where the canyon was deep, and the forest surrounding it was beautiful. I walked along the river for a while, seeing some fishermen and a man playing soccer with a young girl. He was very encouraging toward her, and I appreciated that. I couldn’t help but think about his condition—he was severely obese—and wonder whether he experienced prejudice or judgment. I felt empathy for him and, more generally, for people who’ve been marginalized or sidelined. It’s become a theme on this trip.

As I walked along the river, I felt content. The weather was lovely, the water sparkled, and I had seen people paddling on surfboards the day before. I thought about getting into the river myself, but today, just walking by it felt like enough.

From there, I went to Swingburn and walked up to the castle. Afterward, I hiked up Wolf Canyon, above the castle. It was a beautiful forest, not quite as wild as I’d hoped, but still stunning. There was a music concert that evening, and I heard rehearsals—blending progressive rock with African singing, which I really enjoyed. When I came back down, I saw many people dressed for the concert, waiting to enter the castle. Apparently, it’s a famous festival held every year.

I walked back to my car and drove across the river, following signs for “Naturfreunde,” a group I had joined in the Netherlands. I thought I might be able to camp there for a reasonable price. Roel had helped me sign up. When I arrived, I asked a man about camping, and he said they were camping for free. They were local fathers with kids, but it quickly became clear that they were more interested in loud music and drinking than anything else.

I befriended two Afghan siblings, and the sister, who lives in Mosbaek, told me a little about their situation. After chatting with them, I thought about camping near the crops under an apple tree. However, the house music was incredibly loud, and I didn’t want to risk being found, so I decided to drive further into the forest.

I drove higher and higher, past a few other cars, feeling increasingly anxious about being discovered. But I continued deeper into the forest, hoping to find a quiet spot. The forest felt eerily silent, almost as though it had been logged to the point of destroying its biodiversity. I had one visitor—a persistent insect that wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to gently coax it to the forest floor without hurting it. Later, a firefly appeared, likely a female, that seemed to respond to movement. Every time I shifted my blanket, it would glow. I hoped it survived the night.

As I lay there, I remembered the time I spent in Hungary, where the fireflies were so numerous that it felt as though I was walking through a glen of light.

July 17. I slept in until about 10 AM, only to surprise—and be surprised by—a couple of hikers. I had just jumped out of my tent to pee, totally naked, and they caught a glimpse of me climbing back in. Not my proudest moment. I packed up and drove back down to Zwingenberg and then over to the castle again. I briefly considered hiking the Wolf Trail one more time, but I decided to press on. I was heading to Schwäbisch Hall to meet Ursula, a Couchsurfer who generously agreed to host me, even though she’s in the middle of moving her massage practice and clearly feeling overwhelmed.

On the way, I stopped in Mosbach, which I’d missed properly visiting the day before. It took me a while to find the old town, but eventually I stumbled upon a walking path with 12 stations (plus two bonus ones) that told the story of the city’s development and urban planning—including thoughtful insight into its Jewish history. They had a small but very old museum collection, only open Sunday afternoons and Wednesdays. Since it was Sunday, I decided to wait it out and went for a forest walk to cool down—it was 92°F. I returned for the museum’s opening and stayed until 5:30, deeply immersed in the exhibits.

There were powerful displays about the Jewish community, the Sudeten Germans in Budapest who were forcibly removed, and how they longed to return to Germany. It moved me deeply. It reminded me of my father’s longing for Poland, his homeland, and made me think that perhaps part of my yearning for Europe is rooted in his. There was also a charming little house—the smallest house in all of Germany, apparently—decorated with traditional tools and implements. I loved the quaint, whimsical painted cupboards from Bavaria, now considered collectors’ items.

I eventually got back on the road toward Schwäbisch Hall to meet Ursula at a Greek restaurant at 8 PM. But, of course, I couldn’t resist stopping to photograph yet another castle, capturing it from both above and below, along with the sweeping vineyards cascading down to the Neckar River. I realized I was low on gas, and the first station I found was completely out, so I had to find another. Once there, I couldn’t get the gas tank open until a kind man offered help—though I managed to figure it out myself just in time. I left the cover open after that, just in case.

I didn’t have time to wash the car, but I made a quick stroll through the old town before heading to the restaurant. Ursula and I chatted about her life in Schwäbisch Hall, the many travelers she’s hosted, and the unexpected friendships that have formed through Couchsurfing. We talked until 10 PM. The waiter, unfortunately, was incredibly rude. I wanted to treat her, but was shocked when the bill came—€65 for just two lamb dishes. I paid it, but it left a bitter taste.

Back at her place, Ursula offered me the choice to sleep outside since I’d mentioned I enjoy it. I set up my mat and did just that—until about 3 or 4 AM when the traffic noise got too loud. Then I moved inside. Before bed, she told me about Langenburg and a nearby place where some friends of hers are opening what she believes will become a Michelin-starred restaurant. She suggested I visit, though it’s only open on weekends. I asked if I could stay another day since a heatwave was coming—temps in the mid-90s—and she kindly agreed. She’s clearly stressed with her big move on Wednesday, so I offered to help her on Tuesday, either packing or organizing the last of her massage studio things.

The amount of woodcutting is shocking—feels like they’re cutting all the forests down. I keep hearing about how Egyptian geese have taken over and may have to be culled because they poop too much and ruin the landscape. Every time I camp or walk through a forest, I feel more and more sorrow for all the creatures being driven out or killed. It feels like humans are dominating the planet to a devastating degree—even forests seem culled and hollow. I keep finding smashed birds, seeing very few insects, and hearing almost no nighttime forest sounds. It’s deeply alarming. Back in Holland, the forests were full of life, but here… silence.