There is something wonderfully reassuring about ‘Les Hautes Fagnes’: a landscape that looks, at first glance, as though it has misplaced both its trees and its enthusiasm. It is a broad, brooding sweep of moorland in eastern Belgium, famous for its austere beauty, its ankle-testing bogs, and a talent for summoning dense fog at the faintest hint of optimism. On a good day it feels heroic. On a gloomy one it feels like the set of a very low-budget Scandinavian crime drama. At the centre of this expansive dampness rises the Signal de Botrange, proudly announcing itself as the highest point in Belgium at a towering 694 metres above sea level. This is not Everest. It is more the sort of height you might accidentally achieve while looking for a decent sandwich. But it is Belgium’s, and that gives it a certain dignified charm.
I wanted to do this route for a while now. I began at the tripoint where Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany meet: a spot that feels faintly diplomatic, as though the countries are politely agreeing to share the weather. From there, I made my way across the moor toward Signal de Botrange, accompanied by the usual soundtrack of wind, squelching footfalls, and the occasional internal negotiation about why I do these things voluntarily. The route was beautiful, but I would recommend doing it in the spring; the last 10km was knee deep mud and paths made of wood were slippery after last night snowfall. But, still, the outing served as both a splendid day in the elements and a timely reminder that in 37 days I will be lining up at the Chianti Ultra Trail by UTMB; an event featuring rather more climbing and rather less bog. It seemed wise to accumulate a little honest suffering in advance.
The effort was entirely unsupported. Everything I needed (food, water, misplaced confidence) was carried on my back from start to finish. I also chose to do it alone, which meant there was no one available to question my life choices in real time. Only afterward did I discover that the women’s unsupported FKT for this route hadn’t yet been registered. And it seemed a shame, really, to go to all that trouble and not make it official.