Good Night 2023 Roundup: Friends and Editors

Beyond spreading the stoke and encouraging our readers to get out and squeeze in one more overnighter through our annual Good Night Campout, we make a point of participating ourselves. Away from the frenetic pace of modern life, pedaling off for a final night under the stars offers a welcome opportunity to reflect back on the past 12 months and savor some restorative time while looking ahead toward the fresh year to come. Several BIKEPACKING.com team members and a handful of our friends and regular contributors were our celebrating Good Night 2023, and we rounded up some of our favorite outings from a wide-ranging mix of countries and environments. Find them all below.

Logan Watts

location Oaxaca, Mexico

Just a couple of days after our arrival in the city, we decided to set off on our first Oaxacan overnighter for Good Night 2023. It was a mellow re-introduction to Oaxacan bikepacking with a route through the Central Valley that didn’t involve too much climbing. We had ridden this stitchwork of roads from the city before, as it’s the beginning of the Pueblos de Mancomunados route we pedaled on my birthday last year. It starts out following a series of pavement and mellow dirt roads from Oaxaca de Juarez through the Tlocolula Valley, taking in a few small towns where there are plenty of good spots to grab a memela or two to fuel up. The ultimate destination is a rocky plateau above the archeological site of Yagul.

Five of us pedaled out that morning around 10:30 a.m. from our favorite coffee shop in Barrio Centro, El Volador, which roughly translates to the flying, making it an apt spot for meetups and departures. Still, no matter how wired I was from a stiff espresso cortado, our pace was slow as we were rolling with none other than Huesos. Dogpacking requires a bit of patience and a different mindset. Less distance, more conversation, and additional snacking. Huesos was in and out of the trailer, depending on if we were going up or downhill and whether or not there was pavement or dogs to befriend. And there were plenty of water breaks, as well two delicious memela stops, one for lunch and one to grab a takeaway meal for camp.

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Once we climbed up and settled into our campsite, a beautiful sandy mirador overlooking Yagul’s wetlands, we all sat on a patch of volcanic cliffside rock next to a giant abuelito Organ cacti. We enjoyed a celebratory mezcal and watched the sunlight fade on the Sierra Norte backdrop as the warm afternoon gave way to a cool evening. It’s a special place perched above the caves where archeologists discovered the preserved remnants of some of the first corn cultivated some 9,000 years ago.

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The next morning, we rolled out and into the foothills of the Sierra on the hunt for food. We picked up a seventh addition to our pack when a small black and white farm dog decided that he and Huesos should be best buds. As luck would have it, a restaurant just five miles away was serving up Oaxaca-style barbacoa, slow-roasted goat steeped in delicious red sauce served with fresh tortillas and salsa picante. Refueled, we made our way back to Oaxaca de Juarez along the northeast side of the valley. After a long day, we all stopped for a quick photo under a massive Banyan tree in the city and bid our goodbyes. It was our third Good Night campout in Mexico and second in Oaxaca, a tradition that’s becoming engrained and one that I already look forward to continuing next year.

Joffrey Maluski

location Northern Europe instagram @joffreymaluski

I’ve been embarking on winter bikepacking adventures for three years now. This winter, the idea was to cycle from the westernmost to the easternmost point of Norway above the Arctic Circle during the polar night, passing through Sweden and Finland en route. So, on December 16th, I took the first pedal strokes at the end of the Lofoten Islands and headed to Vardø, where I arrived on January 7th. I was fully loaded with a 65-kilogram bike and all the equipment to be self-sufficient for 25 days and 1,436 kilometrs, including food, a tent, a -30°C sleeping bag, and 12 kilograms of camera, drone, and batteries to document the trip. I spent every night except two in my tent.

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My evening routine at camp started by compressing the snow to create a flat area around 80 centimetres deep for the tent. Then, I’d pitch the tent, bring all the baggage inside, set up my sleeping mat, and arrange everything before melting snow (three litres per day), which takes a considerable amount of time. Following that, I prepared my soup and freeze-dried meal, ate while inside my sleeping bag, then edited some images to share on social media and wrote about the day before falling asleep.

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In winter, I sleep in a VBL (vapor barrier liner) bag. It’s like a plastic bag that prevents moisture from reaching the sleeping bag due to body sweat. However, you end up sleeping in your sweat, which isn’t incredibly comfortable. In addition to that, you have to consider your breath’s vapor freezing in the hood of the sleeping bag and dripping onto your head when you move. But the most challenging part comes when you have to get out of the sleeping bag, even more so when it’s -28°C outside. After that, I have to get dressed, melt some snow, have breakfast (muesli + hot chocolate), and pack everything. On the coldest days, it takes me about two hours from the moment I emerge from the sleeping bag to the first pedal stroke.

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All that said, I love camping in winter, and doing so was a beautiful way to roll into 2024. The unique challenges and frigid conditions add a layer of adventure and resilience to the experience. There’s a certain tranquility that comes with the pristine, snow-covered landscapes and the crisp air too.

Joe Cruz

location Tucson, Arizona

When I moved from New England to Tucson in the early 1990s, I’d only ever pedaled under oaks, birches, and maples, twisting around skiddy roots and granite, in stream beds, traversing opaque old woods roads. The desert was a new home that I know changed me, though that’s sometimes hard to see from within. Dry with fewer obstructions to hide the true unsmoothness of the hills. The furnace sky. A staircase rodeo of a rudely cut track. Grit and shattered rock. I loved it all. Most of all the saguaro cactuses, to me old handsome horizon sentinels, arms aloft waving at nature’s living hereafter and treating me not as an interloper but a fellow traveler through beauty.

Therefore, on the second-to-last evening of 2023, I set forth by myself in waning light into a landscape that I’ve known for decades, even if I’m just a visitor these days. I went to sit with the giants, they’re notably patient with me. On that rock slab on the edge of the wash, aiming not to think any thoughts, including of that very project itself. That takes time. The insistence of objects and repeating patterns of causality and boundaries between self and the allegation of background stasis are all useful hallucinations that don’t ungrip easily.

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Winter arid satisfying chill. Coyotes sang, shooting stars shot. Spent a span away without having a sense of how long, came back to unwrap a sandwich, inevitable chocolate. Unroll a mat, unstuff a quilt. Then tuck in to stare into someplace later with a diffuse moon above. There’s an earthy smell that drifts from edges until it enfolds me. I resist the lure of snapping on the headlamp. Why fracture presence? Maybe I can hear its footfalls near me, but, then again, that can be the breeze. I picture all the Sonoran animals big enough to announce such a companionable muskiness and smile at each ghost in turn. I feel sheepish at normally being so invested in the difference between waking and dreaming, so I let them smear together.

Pink, orange, cerise, and I rise before the sun does. That’s very unusual for me. Savor an apple and get back on the singletrack and do a loop out here, back in time to meet M for a proper breakfast. I explain: I cycled to the edge of a city to sleep in space and to be decentered in a void filled with vitality.

Miles Arbour

location British Columbia, Canada

Emily and I tossed around some ideas for longer, slightly more adventurous overnighters for our Good Night 2023 Campout but eventually landed on something short and sweet. I think we were both secretly relieved to settle on a quick gravel ride out to a beautiful tent pad on the ocean. As luck would have it, we were blessed with mild winter temperatures and dry conditions on New Year’s Eve, two things that rarely come hand-in-hand during a Pacific Northwest winter.

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Our friend Katie and her pup Murphy joined us for the casual ride out to Sarah Point, where we set up our tent overlooking the Straight of Georgia and Cortes Island. Sarah Point is home to the northernmost hut on the infamous Sunshine Coast Trail, and it’s accessible by bike. It’s perched on the side of Manzanita Bluffs, surrounded by arbutus trees, old-growth Douglas fir trees, and loads of vibrant moss. Ideal conditions meant we didn’t need to use the hut for shelter or to warm up in, but it was comforting knowing it was there.

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After Katie and Murphy left for home, we spent the evening chatting by a fire with two new friends visiting from Vancouver Island. This was their first time at Sarah Point, and they’d planned to leave earlier but they saw a pod of whales the previous day and decided to stick around just in case. Leftover pizza from our local woodfire pizza joint was the cherry on top to a fantastic campout and the perfect way to ring in the New Year.

Jacob Martin

location Wales instagram @mid_nowhere

That wonder of “Where will I sleep tonight?” is for me one of the most exciting parts of bikepacking. Over the many adventures I have done, there have been many spectacular spots, beautiful lake side pitches, quiet beaches all to ourselves, and remote huts deep in the mountains. These have been mixed in, of course, with a good few far less wonderful spots found when all other options have run out. That sinking feeling as it gets dark while you search for a place to sleep is quite unnerving. Some trips, you have your camps planned, and on others, it’s fun to see where you end up.

One place I had never camped was in a cave, the original place our most distant ancestors would have made their homes, so I was quite excited when my mate Myrddyn suggested we spend this campout in a cave. It sounded like an ideal spot out of the wet and stormy weather that was lashing Wales seemingly endlessly for the last quarter of 2023. We left Myrdd’s house one afternoon, loaded with a good pile of food for the night and a heartily sized breakfast to eat in the morning. We weren’t going far, and we weren’t going fast, but we were loving being on our bikes with the excitement of the cave whirring in our heads.

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There was a short scramble down the cliff to our perch for the night. Inside, we discovered an ideal-sized dwelling for the two of us. The rest of the evening was spent lowering our bags down on a rope, collecting firewood, cooking, and chatting about the many adventure ideas we had for the year ahead.

In the morning, after a quite pleasant night’s sleep, we scrambled back up the cliff to realise just how amazingly sheltered it was down in our cave. We struggled to cycle in anything close to a straight line on the way back with the wind and rain smashing heavily into us, but it never washed the huge smiles off our faces. A camp in a cave is one we’ll remember for a good while.

Sam Rice and Bec Norman

location Thailand instagram @adventuresbycycle instagram @becbycycle

This year, our Good Night campout fell on our yearly bikepacking bootcamp with close friends and fellow creators Dan and Izzy. As a group of full-time photographers, videographers, and writers, the four of us seem to be constantly making something. So, to break away from the dopamine-drunk mornings of the digital world, we armed everyone with a point and shoot camera and one roll of 35mm film.

It’s 7 a.m. and the streets of Chiang Mai are already wide awake. Woks roar as makeshift market stalls and tiny eateries pop up around us. We’re right in the thick of it. Dodging tuk tuks, zig-zagging around songthaews, and wincing as we squeeze our wide handlebars through the early morning traffic. School kids ride side-saddle on scooters, monks walk the streets bathed in orange robes, and the distant sun begins to break through the lingering mountain mist and hits us with its warmth.

Highways morph into back streets. The pavement bleeds and turns to red dirt: we’ve made it to Sri Lanna National Park. A mix of fast-rolling doubletrack and tight gravel paths leads us deep into the forest. Past a cave filled with sleepy fruit bats, a waterfall you can climb, and a village New Year party teaming with life. Coconut ice cream’s are demolished as the afternoon draws in and we hit the road. “I’ve already used 10 shots,” Izzy shouts as the unmistakable sound of ’90s autofocus hunts behind me. “Eight Dogs and both breakfasts!” Now you know Izzy as well as we do.

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Karst mountains erupt around us as we wade through the village and leave the festivities behind. A thin ribbon of road leads us down the mountain and into Chiang Dao. Doi Luang looms in the distance, watching us as we pedal past sunset roadies and bike-bound fruit sellers hawking for business. We arrive at dusk, just in time to see the sunset behind the mountain. We’re the only people here for the night, so we pitch our tents and head to the restaurant, craving some more delicious Thai food. “Sorry! My wife is at the New Year party, so the restaurant is closed,” Sombat tells us apologetically. We stop, take a deep breath, and hatch a new plan before the bonk goblins set in. “Have these avocado smoothies while you wait,” Sombat says as he hands them over and saunters off, chatting on the phone.

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Ten minutes pass and Dan is about ready to hotwire a scooter and head into town. But out of nowhere, a truck appears spluttering up the hill, its driver smiling from ear to ear. “Your food is here!” Sombat says as he passes out the giant bags of fried rice, banana spring rolls, and noodles. We engulf the feast he’s brought us and fall about with happiness as the final minutes of light shimmer through the valley.

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