The path of least control.

From the Grand Ballon to the silence of the Fallen.

The air at the foot of the Vosges Mountains is heavy with the scent of summer: damp earth and ripening hay. However, as we began to climb toward the Route des Crêtes, the atmosphere began to thin and sharpen. It turned into a living thing: cool and biting, even in the heart of July.

Originally carved out by the French High Command during the First World War, the “Road of the Ridges” was designed to be a hidden artery, concealed from view in the valley below. Riding along it takes you through a former frontier — a testament to human determination etched into the granite spine of France.

As we ascended, I could feel my wife’s hands on my waist, providing a steady presence. For a rider, this is the ‘dream state’. The machine beneath us was intended to be a vessel for willpower, but on this journey, it became a source of profound stress. The electronic systems began to malfunction — a nightmare of glitching sensors and digital uncertainty that threatened to disrupt the rhythm of the ride. Yet beneath the failing code, the engine remained, a raw mechanical heartbeat demanding that I stop trusting the screen and start trusting the machine.

The duel in the side case!

At our first stop, overlooking a valley, I opened the side case. There they were, side by side: the Leica M10 and my brand new Leica M-A.

I felt a tug at my heartstrings. For years, I had trained myself to look for ‘The Proof’ — the instant digital confirmation on the M10’s screen. I reached for the M-A, loaded with Kodak Portra 400 film, but my hand hesitated. The ‘professional’ in me was terrified of failing at that moment. For the first half of the ridge, I performed a frantic ritual: I would frame a shot with the M-A, take the photo and then immediately switch to the M10 to ‘double-check’ the light. I was like a man trying to walk two paths at once. I was there, but not yet present.

The mirror of Lac Blanc.

As we approached Lac Blanc, the landscape changed from open ridges to jagged granite walls. This glacial lake, nestled in its rocky amphitheatre, seemed to be a secret kept by the mountains.

The water was a deep, still blue, mirroring the white rocks that gave the lake its name. Here, the struggle reached a tipping point. The light reflecting off the water was intricate, oscillating between the deep shadows of the pines and the dazzling glare of the sun on the stone. I realised that a digital sensor would flatten this mystery. Only the silver of film could capture the depth of those shadows.

The summit of will: Le Grand Ballon.

The climb reached its climax at Le Grand Ballon. At 1,424 metres above sea level, the trees vanished, replaced by an alpine expanse stretching to the jagged white peaks of the Swiss Alps on the horizon. This is the highest point in the Vosges, a place where the clarity of the air strips away all illusions.

Standing by the white radar dome, the July sun shone brightly, hitting the peaks with a silver brilliance. Between the failing bike electronics and the ‘safety net’ of the digital camera, I finally reached my limit. I made a choice. I turned to the raw, mechanical honesty of the M-A. I tucked the M10 deep into the side case and clicked the latch shut.

I lost my control side. I stopped relying on a sensor and simply trusted the film.

The silence of the Fallen.

Eventually, the road led us down from the heights to our final destination: Hartmannswillerkopf. Also known as the ‘Man-Eater Mountain’, this peak was once the scene of unimaginable violence. Now, it is home to the Nécropole Nationale du Silberloch, where rows of white crosses stand in eternal formation.

Standing among those crosses in the long, elegant shadows cast by the July sun, the ‘Will’ of the mountain gave way to the ‘Peace’ of the earth. Beneath the terrace lies a crypt containing the remains of 12,000 unknown soldiers — men who have become part of the mountain itself. As a shaman, I sensed the land’s energy: a place where the echoes of history have finally yielded to an intense, sacred stillness. In this silence, Morse code was the only language that made sense. No screens, no batteries — just the mechanical honesty of silver. I did not need a screen to tell me that the exposure was correct; I could sense it in the presence of the fallen soldiers.

The revelation of the image.

Unlike my later work, I did not develop these initial films myself. There was a unique, agonising beauty in that wait — sending the rolls away and trusting someone else’s hands to reveal what the M-A had captured.

When the negatives finally returned to my laboratory in Kempen, the scent of the road felt as fresh as the day we travelled on it. Seeing those first images was a revelation; they were the ‘silver’ version of my heart. The film had a depth and human truth that digital photography simply could not match. The ‘fear’ I felt at the start of this journey was merely the price of admission for this new adventure.

The pilgrimage is complete. Control is gone. The light remains.

Thank you

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Some data

• Distance: Approximately 75 km (Cernay to Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines).
• Highest point: 1,424 m (Le Grand Ballon).
• Technical stops: Lac Blanc, Le Hohneck and Hartmannswillerkopf.
• Film stock: Kodak Portra 400 (35 mm).
• [Download the GPX track for the Route des Crêtes here.]