There are places you return to with no plans — simply because you know they’ll be beautiful.
The abandoned quarries not far from my home are one of those places. In autumn, they’re especially magical: pines reflect in the crisp air, birches lean toward the water, and the silence grows thicker — almost tangible.
The path there runs through straight rows of pines — a neat, almost geometric forest where light breaks into stripes, and the fatbike tires whisper softly over a carpet of needles. In those moments, you feel the rhythm most vividly — your breathing, the pedals, your pulse, the scent of pine, and a hint of frost.
Along the shores stand old wooden bridges made of birch logs. Now it’s a quiet corner of peace, where the still water mirrors the sky, and everything seems frozen, waiting for winter.
But if you look closer, life is quietly buzzing: a glossy mushroom peeks out beneath the spruce, the shadow of a bird flickers across a branch, and water in the thermos begins to boil for coffee.
A simple joy — pour something hot, sit on a stump, and watch the steam drift into the cold air.
Each ride like this feels like a reboot. No rush, no fuss — just you, the bike, and the forest: the same as always, yet different every time.
by ilyagarbuzov