Welcome to silent hiking Madeira, a comprehensive day-by-day narrative of my 5 days journey across Madeira. Here, you’ll find an abundance of photos, insights, and valuable tips, ensuring fellow travelers are well-equipped for their own Madeira adventure. First of all you can start in Porto Moniz or in Santa Cruz, up to you.
Before you start
Camping activities on Madeira
In public forest areas, camping is allowed but only if you follow certain rules and get a license from the Institute of Forests and Nature Conservation, IP-RAM. Visit this page: SIMplifica and click on the Request button on the bottom
Check your flight hour
When you arrive in Madeira, make sure to check your flight schedule. There’s a possibility that you might need to spend a night before your first trip, especially if your arrival is late. Your initial trek is quite demanding, covering 1300 vertical meters and 17 kilometers, which might take about 8 hours to complete. Arriving too late could mean you end up walking in the dark, so plan accordingly to avoid any inconvenience. I recommend to plan the first day as arrival and stay one night in a hotel. So you can start the next day fresh your trip.
Get a gas canister
Many people may not know this, but it’s important to know that you can’t bring camping gas canisters on airplane. To avoid this, you must buy a new one when you get to Madeira. Remember this so that you can plan ahead and avoid any problems on your trip.
You can buy a gas canister in Funchal, which is the main city of Madeira and is in the south of the island. Getting there can be done by either taking a bus or a cab. I recommend visiting the Outdoor Shop O Bordão Montanha e Aventura. It’s a good idea to call the store before your trip to ensure they have gas canisters in stock.
Arrival
4:45 AM? Bleary-eyed and bushy-tailed, that’s how I found myself when the alarm blared. But hey, the thrill of the unknown was enough to get me moving. Now, this backpack… picture a sack of potatoes, but bigger, and strap that onto your back. Yeah, not exactly a featherweight situation. The usual stroll to the train station? More like a turtle marathon. Every step felt like hauling a fridge up Mount Everest – and that was just ten minutes! If this was a preview of my upcoming adventure, folks, buckle up, because it’s gonna be a wild ride.
Rolling into Starnberg station, I was met with a delightful surprise: “S-Bahn to Main Station Only.” Ah, the joys of spontaneous construction work. But hey, no sweat – there was a handy-dandy bus waiting to whisk me straight to the airport. The bus driver? A real hoot. Picture a mix between a stand-up comedian and a juggler, but instead of balls, he was managing a chaotic symphony of suitcases and passengers. It was a bit of a circus act, but we all made it in one piece and, most importantly, on time.
Munich Terminal 2 at the airport was sporting a fancy new self-check-in system. Scan the boarding pass, get a cryptic luggage printout, slap it on the bag, and off it goes on the conveyor belt. Easy peasy, right? Well, that’s when I saw it: the backpack weighed in at a whopping nineteen kilos! Holy moly, what did I pack, a brick factory? Too late to backtrack, so I scanned, tagged, and heaved the beast onto the belt. Thud. It didn’t budge. My bag, the diva, had caused a luggage traffic jam. Just then, a lovely lady materialized and gently informed me that my overachieving backpack required a special check-in at the oversized luggage counter.
Flashback to Tenerife: lost luggage, delayed vacation. Not the most promising start, so naturally, a wave of panic washed over me. “Please, oh please, let my backpack make it to the destination this time,” I silently prayed. Security was a whole other adventure. Shoes off, socks off (classy, I know). Then came the grand finale: my backpack was thoroughly inspected due to the suspicious presence of… gasp… food. Apparently, my trail mix and granola bars resembled contraband on the X-ray machine. Ah, the glamour of travel! And of course, the sniffer dogs were out in full force, just in case anyone had any funny ideas.
The boarding process was a real knee-slapper. Business class and groups one and two got the royal treatment, boarding a fancy bus first and feeling all smug. But little did they know, the joke was on them! Turns out, the last group to board (that’s us, group five) were the first ones OFF the bus, practically skipping to the plane. Unintentional comedy gold. I snagged an aisle seat – gotta have that legroom, you know? My seatmate, a fellow who looked like he might be from China, basically transformed into a human blanket for the entire flight. Lucky for me, Netflix was there to keep me entertained. Four hours flew by faster than you can say “in-flight entertainment.”
Landing is always a nail-biter for me. It’s like a rollercoaster, but with the added thrill of not knowing if you’ll end up upside down or in one piece. The shaking, the rattling – my nerves go into overdrive. But hey, touchdown in Funchal! Step one: stuff my trusty tracksuit and T-shirt into my carry-on. That little guy is coming with me on the next leg of the journey. Next up: Decathlon. Now, I’m not talking about a sporty ten-event competition, but an actual store where I need to grab a gas bottle (flying with one? Yeah, not a good idea). Then it’s off to Porto Moniz, either by bus or taxi. Let the real adventure begin!
First stop: airport bathroom for a quick wardrobe change. Fingers crossed the suitcase shows up – otherwise, this could get awkward. Clothes swapped, ready to rock. There’s my trusty backpack, waiting to be stuffed with all the essentials. Everything else gets crammed into the smaller backpack, destined for the apartment. I’m pretty sure my main pack now weighs more than twenty kilos, but hey, who’s counting? Outside, I snag a taxi. The driver, a fresh-faced youngster, isn’t interested in my haggling skills. “Standard taxi fare,” he says with a shrug. Oh well, guess I’m not getting a discount today.
One hundred twenty to one hundred fifty euros?!” he chirped. My jaw dropped. Seriously?! But then he mentioned the bus option: a measly ten euros, but a four-hour snail crawl. Decisions, decisions… First things first: Decathlon for that gas canister. When we arrived, the meter was already flashing a cool fifty euros. Ouch. And the gas canister itself? A measly six euros. The irony was not lost on me. Back in the taxi, the thought of a four-hour bus ride with my monster backpack was less than appealing. So, I caved. “Fine,” I sighed, “Let’s go to Porto Moniz. But if this meter hits 150 euros, we’re having a serious chat.”
The drive to Porto Moniz was a scenic treat, and the final damage to my wallet? 130 euros. Not ideal, but hey, you can’t put a price on a breathtaking journey… right? Now, the hunt for the key. It was supposed to be hiding in a mysterious key box. After a bit of detective work, I cracked the case (literally) and let myself into the room. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it did the trick for a one-night pit stop. Turns out I’d be sharing a bathroom – communal living, here I come! With my backpack unpacked and my stuff strewn about (organized chaos, they call it), I headed down to Porto Moniz. Camera in hand, I started filming right away. Gotta test that bad boy out and capture some epic opening shots! And of course, the most crucial task: finding the starting line for tomorrow’s big adventure.
After all that excitement, my stomach was rumbling for a feast. Seafood was on the menu, but the prices in this town were eye-watering! I ended up settling for a bowl of rice overflowing with ocean critters at the “budget-friendly” price of seventeen euros. Hey, sometimes you gotta treat yourself. Back at the room, I dove headfirst into a TikTok and Instagram Reels marathon. Time vanished until I heard some commotion – new roommates arriving, maybe? The noise eventually died down by 10 PM, and I drifted off to sleep. Good night, world. Adventure awaits tomorrow!
Day 1 | Proto Moniz to Fanal
AllTrails Track: Porto Moniz to Fanal
Video starts here: 1:00
Ding ding ding! It’s my birthday, and I was wide awake at the crack of dawn (6 a.m., to be exact). Nature called before I could even reach for my morning coffee. And let’s just say the results were less than ideal – a soupy mess, courtesy of last night’s seafood feast. But wait! Then I remembered, I had taken magnesium the night before. That explains it! It always turns my poop into a slightly more liquid situation. Crisis averted.
Muesli and coffee – my breakfast of champions. (After taking care of business in the bathroom, of course.) Then it was time for the backpack tango: packing, unpacking, rearranging, double-checking. Seriously, where did I even put all this stuff? And to top it all off, I added a whopping 2.5 liters of water to the mix (gotta stay hydrated on the trail). Quick math: 19 kilos (my already-stuffed backpack) plus 2.5 kilos of water equals a back-breaking 21.5 kilos. With a groan and a heave, I shouldered the beast and stepped out into a glorious sunrise. Game on!
Heading to the trailhead, I paused to soak in the Atlantic sunrise. The sky was a canvas of fiery orange and pink, the perfect backdrop to kick off my adventure. The path wound along an old coastal road, offering postcard-worthy views of the sparkling ocean. With the sun on my face and a spring in my step, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for this incredible moment. A fleeting worry about rockfalls crossed my mind, but I quickly shook it off. Positive vibes only!
The coastal path led me to a massive rock jutting out of the water. Drone time! I unpacked it with glee, but the aerial shots weren’t as impressive as I’d hoped. Plan B: a ground-level video at the base of the rock. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.
The path took a turn for the vertical. Now, normally, I’m not one to huff and puff on inclines, but hauling 22.5 kilos on my back? Game changer. My usual trail-running pace, meant for conquering 700 meters of elevation per hour, was clearly not gonna fly. I had to downshift to a more leisurely 350 meters per hour. It took some adjusting, but eventually, I found my groove. Slow and steady wins the race, right?
Turns out, finding the trailhead wasn’t as straightforward as I thought. I ended up walking along the highway, getting some enthusiastic hand signals from passing drivers. I’m pretty sure they weren’t cheering me on, but hey, maybe they were just impressed with my mad road-running skills? Thankfully, my trusty app saved the day, redirecting me to the actual hiking path. Crisis averted.
The trails were a hiker’s dream – well-maintained, lush, and wonderfully shaded. It was like walking through a tunnel of trees, a welcome respite from the sun. But those steps! Forget the StairMaster at the gym; this was a whole new level of leg-burning intensity. I’ve never encountered so many steps in my life! I knew the elevation gain was around 1200 meters, but I underestimated the toll those countless steps would take. My legs were screaming for mercy, and I was only a fraction of the way in.
Fanal, finally! I stumbled into this enchanting forest, feeling like I’d aged ten years in the past few hours. But the ancient, gnarled trees were a sight to behold. I quickly staked out a prime tent spot and then set off in search of a secluded water source. Priorities, people.
The forest was teeming with curious cows, munching on grass and generally having a grand old time. They were a chatty bunch, mooing and lowing, but thankfully, they didn’t have those clanging cowbells you find in Bavaria & Austria. Peace and quiet, well, mostly.
After setting up camp and hydrating, I whipped up a quick dinner. It was already getting late, so I stretched out on the soft grass, journaled a bit, and listened to the bovine symphony as darkness fell. Exhaustion washed over me – here’s hoping for a good night’s sleep under the stars!
Day 2 | Fanal – Seixal – Estanquinhos
AllTrails Track: Fanal – Seixal – Estanquinhos
Video starts here: 7:19
Day two kicked off with a bang, or rather, a buzz. At 7 a.m. sharp, I was rudely awakened by the deafening whir of a drone. My neighbor, the early bird with a passion for aerial photography, was already up and buzzing around. Sure, I have a drone too, but 7 a.m. seems a bit excessive, don’t you think? Grumbling, I crawled out of my tent and into a breathtaking sunrise. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Not gonna lie, the sunrise was pretty epic. So, naturally, I grabbed my drone and joined the morning buzz-fest, capturing some stunning footage. But let’s talk about my “sleep,” or lack thereof. It was a night of tossing, turning, and sweating like a cheese sandwich in a sauna. I finally drifted off around 4 a.m., only to be jolted awake by my drone-loving neighbor. Not exactly a recipe for a restful night. I haven’t quite figured out this whole sleeping bag situation yet. Shirt on, shirt off, quilt tucked, quilt loose – I tried it all. This fancy sleeping mat is super comfy but also retains heat like a furnace. I ended up practically naked, wrapped in my silk liner, and STILL felt like a baked potato. Oh well, at least the sunrise made up for it.
Time to hit the trail! I dismantled my makeshift home, packed everything into my trusty backpack, and strapped it on – feeling like a turtle about to tackle an obstacle course. My grand plan for the day: hike down to Seixal, capture some epic drone footage, then climb back up to my next campsite. That’s a 1200-meter descent followed by a 1300-meter ascent. What could possibly go wrong? Oh, right, the steps. The never-ending, soul-crushing steps.
Holy moly, this descent to Seixal is a killer! It’s like yesterday’s hike, but on steroids – steeper, more steps, the whole shebang. Thank goodness I packed my trusty hiking poles! My knees would be singing a whole different tune without them. If you’re a fan of dense foliage and zero visibility, then this hike is a scenic wonderland! Otherwise, let’s just say the descent to Seixal left a lot to be desired. Picture a monotonous slog through endless bushes, straight down. It was pure torture.
Somewhere along the way, I had an epiphany: why continue this descent into madness when I’ll just have to climb back up again? I veered off to a scenic overlook, refueled with some snacks, and launched my drone. Much better!
The drone flight turned into a real battle against the elements. The wind was howling off the Atlantic, forcing me to fly directly into it. With a fresh battery, I sent my drone soaring, further and further out over the ocean. My nerves were on edge – what if it got blown away? Finally, I turned it around to check the shot. Not good enough! It needed to go even farther out. By this point, the battery was already at 60%, and I still had to fight the wind on the way back. I started the return journey, hoping the wind wouldn’t suddenly shift. Just as I was nearing the shore, the drone smacked into a thick layer of fog. No stunning aerial shot, no epic video. It was all for naught. I guess that’s the life of a content creator, right? You win some, you lose some. With a sigh, I packed up my gear, downed a coffee, and braced myself for the grueling 1300-meter climb back up.
Let me tell you, the first steps away from the viewpoint were brutal. It was like climbing a ladder, but made of rocks designed for giants. Who in their right mind builds steps like that?! My heart was pounding, sweat was dripping, and I was already questioning my life choices – and I had only been hiking uphill for five minutes! Then I stumbled upon a sign that cheerfully announced “8 km, 3.5 hours.” I nearly burst out laughing. Yeah, right. I quickly sent a message to my family group chat, updating my estimated arrival time to a more realistic five hours. This was going to be a long day.
1:45 PM. It was go time. With a deep breath (and a silent prayer to my legs), I set off from the 8 km marker. The trail was relentless – steep, sun-baked, and teeming with those infernal steps. Sweat poured off me like a waterfall, fueled by the caffeine coursing through my veins. I took each step slowly, deliberately, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I thought of Nimsdai, the superhuman who climbed 14 of the world’s tallest mountains in a mind-blowing 7 months, hauling his own gear and without supplemental oxygen. He famously said that when you think you’re exhausted, you’ve still got 45% left in the tank. I clung to that thought like a lifeline. This was my own personal 8000-er, and I knew I could conquer it. The journey was the destination, and there was no turning back.
Thank goodness for my baseline fitness – my legs and lungs were up for the challenge. But the mental game was proving to be the real test. With every step, I repeated a mantra: “Higher, higher, closer to the goal.” I found myself obsessively checking my app, desperate to know when this endless staircase from hell would end. Big mistake. Seeing how far I still had to climb was just demoralizing. So I came up with a new plan: ignore the app until I reached a flatter section, then reassess.
Hallelujah! The trail finally flattened out a bit. No more endless staircase, just a steady incline. It felt like coming home – the familiar rhythm of mountain hiking, the kind I’m used to back in Bavaria. That said, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. The slope was still steep, but at least I could set my own pace, adjusting my stride length and frequency to find a comfortable rhythm. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Plot twist! Turns out, it’s actually 1400 meters of elevation gain, not 1300. In my current state of exhaustion, 100 meters might as well be a mountain range. I was at 1100 meters, so close to the finish line, but I needed a break. A juicy apple did the trick. As I tossed the core into the bushes, a silly thought popped into my head: wouldn’t it be hilarious if an apple tree sprouted right there? Future hikers could enjoy a free snack on their way up. Mother Nature, you listening?
Alright, time to crush those last 300 meters! The trail leveled out onto a plateau, but don’t let that fool you – it stretched on for what felt like an eternity, a never-ending uphill slog. My intended campsite was still another 300 meters down, but I got word that there was no water source there. Water is essential, not just for drinking and cooking, but also for a much-needed wash. So, I made a game-time decision and opted for a spot at the top, near a handy water tap. Technically, I didn’t have a permit to camp there, but at that point, I was too exhausted to care.
Reaching my chosen spot, I saw there was only one other person there. Score! I snagged one of the few flat patches of ground and swiftly pitched my tent. Then it was time for some much-needed hygiene: clothes washing, body washing, the works. After scarfing down a quick dinner, I crawled into my tent, ready to collapse. Ah, sleep. The elusive reward after a day of epic exertion. But it’s not so easy to come by when your pulse is still throbbing like a techno beat and your body is buzzing with adrenaline. I lay there, completely spent, yet my heart was still racing like a Formula One car. Around 9:30 p.m., I finally succumbed to exhaustion. No more journaling, no more chatting with friends – just me, my sleeping bag, and the sweet embrace of slumber.
My family wanted morning and evening check-ins, so I gave them the unfiltered truth about my exhaustion. My parents, bless their hearts, were a bit worried about me. But honestly, this level of fatigue is my normal after a tough hike. I’m no stranger to pushing my limits, and I’ve definitely felt worse after a day in the Bavarian mountains. Plus, I’m totally self-sufficient out here – I’ve got food, water, shelter, the whole nine yards. If things get too intense, I can always take a break, pitch my tent, and recharge. I reassured my parents that I was in good hands (my own, to be exact) and not to worry. Adventure on!
Sleep remained elusive as my body stubbornly refused to chill out. My pulse was still thumping away, making it nearly impossible to relax. And this sleeping mat? It was like lying on a postage stamp compared to my king-size bed back home. I kept trying to squeeze my entire body onto the darn thing, but it just wasn’t happening. I guess I’ll have to master the art of sleeping like a sardine on this trek. Around 1 a.m., though, my heart finally stopped its drum solo, and I slipped into a dream-filled slumber. That’s a good sign, right? Fingers crossed for a more restful night ahead.
Day 3 | Estanquinhos (PR 17) to Chao dos louros
AllTrails Track: Estanquinhos (PR 17) to Chao dos louros
Video starts here: 14:18
Day three dawned, and I actually felt somewhat rested. My watch confirmed it – my recovery score had bumped up to a respectable 40 from yesterday’s dismal 35. I lazed around until 8 a.m., savoring the rare luxury of not being jolted awake by a drone. First things first: a cup of magnesium and my trusty ESN vitamin capsules. Fueled by my morning muesli and coffee, I was ready to tackle whatever the trail threw my way.
Okay, turns out the breakfast buffet wasn’t the best idea. The combo of magnesium, coffee, and muesli did a number on my stomach. I ended up back in my sleeping bag until 9:30 a.m., feeling queasy and clutching my abdomen. Note to self: no more magnesium on this trip! It also led to a few extra bathroom breaks (TMI, I know). Later, I even thought I had a fever. A quick temperature check read 37.3 degrees Celsius. Panic mode! But after a frantic Google search, I learned that a slight fever can be normal after extreme exertion. Phew! Day three, and my body is definitely feeling the burn. But hey, knowledge is power, and I’m feeling much better now that I know it’s all part of the process.
Bathroom break done, tent packed away, backpack re-shouldered, and I was back on the trail. I bumped into the three girls from last night and casually asked about the route over the mountain. Not that I didn’t know the way, but hey, gotta make friends, right? Turns out, these ladies were moving at a glacial pace. No way I was tagging along for that. I bid them farewell and forged ahead, up the stinky path (seriously, who let the cows loose here?) and onto the main trail towards my original campsite destination.
I hit the PR17 trail, my sights set on the campsite I’d originally planned for. When I got there, a pang of regret hit me – it was a gorgeous spot, nestled in nature. But alas, no water source in sight. There was a river nearby, but who wants to trek for water in the dead of night? Being alone in that remote spot would’ve been a bit spooky, so in hindsight, my decision to camp near the tap was a good one. Everything happens for a reason, right?
The PR17 hiking trail on Madeira was an absolute gem. It led me through a lush jungle that felt like a portal to another dimension. I couldn’t stop snapping photos and videos – it was like wandering through a fairytale forest, then suddenly finding myself in a dense, tropical jungle. This was exactly the kind of otherworldly scenery I’d come to Madeira for.
The PR17 kept getting better and better. It led me to the levadas – those amazing concrete aqueducts that transport water throughout the island. This was a sight I absolutely had to see. The trail even took me through tunnels carved right into the rock, with the levada water flowing alongside. Walking through those dark tunnels with only my headlamp to guide me was a surreal experience – a dream come true, exactly the kind of Madeiran adventure I was craving.
The PR17 from my campsite to my destination was a breeze compared to yesterday’s torture-fest. It was mostly downhill, with a total elevation gain of 250 meters and a descent of 800 meters. The real star of this section was the incredible diversity of the landscape – lush vegetation, dramatic rock formations, breathtaking valley and mountain views. It’s no wonder this trail is considered one of Madeira’s finest. By the time I reached my campsite, I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself.
I ended up taking my original campsite, the one I had registered for in advance. There was another campsite or spot much higher up on my next day’s path, located at 1200 meters altitude, but the one I had actually booked was at about 800 meters. So I had to descend a bit and then ascend again the next day. In any case, it was worth it because my actual campsite had running water, even sinks with toilets, normal toilets like we know them, and I could wash myself and my clothes again. I could clean everything, and that gave me a lot of energy back. I was very happy to have this wonderful campsite.
Day 4 | PR 1.3 Chao dos Louros (PR 1) to Pico Puivo
AllTrails Track: PR 1.3 Chao dos Louros (PR 1) to Pico Puivo
Video starts here: 20:29
Day four, the grand finale, the beast of all hikes. I woke up at 6:30 a.m., feeling surprisingly refreshed. My trusty watch even gave me a recovery score of 80 – a new personal best! I knew this would be a long, challenging day, so I wanted to get an early start. Gotta conserve that energy, folks.
In a flurry of efficiency, I broke down camp. Sleeping mat, quilt, tent – everything got packed away in record time. I crammed my backpack full, filled my water bladders to the brim, and strapped those bad boys on. Then, a quick breakfast pit stop. My plan was to hit the trail right after my morning constitutional, minimizing the time between breakfast and departure. Why? Gotta make that food last as long as possible!
Time flies when you’re pooping and packing, I guess, because before I knew it, it was already 9 a.m. and I was hitting the trail. According to my Outdooractive app, this section was about 14 kilometers with a whopping 1700 meters of elevation gain. Seriously?! I had my doubts. Outdooractive tends to exaggerate when it comes to altitude. Their distance estimates are usually spot-on, but they seem to have a flair for the dramatic when it comes to elevation. I was crossing my fingers that this wasn’t going to be a 1700-meter sufferfest. Only time would tell.
Okay, turns out it’s actually 19 kilometers – doable, sure, if I wasn’t carrying the equivalent of a small child on my back. Plus, I’m lugging even more water now since this trail is drier than the Sahara. With a deep sigh, I set off. The trail wasted no time getting steep, basically retracing my steps from the previous day. But hey, that campsite had running water and toilets – totally worth the extra effort. It took me a solid hour to grind out those 300 meters of elevation gain, finally reaching the start of the PR1.3 trail.
A sign cheerfully informed me it was 11 kilometers and 5 hours to the summit of Pico Ruivo. My inner athlete scoffed. “Five hours? Psh, I can do this in seven, easy!” With one hour already on the clock, I confidently calculated that I’d be summiting by 2 p.m. As predicted, the trail immediately pitched upwards, a relentless series of steep, rocky steps. My legs groaned, but to my surprise, I felt stronger and more determined than on previous days. Strength was on my side; endurance, we’ll see about that.
The first leg of the climb took me up to 1200 meters, where there was a potential campsite. Potential being the keyword – it was just a windswept meadow on a narrow plateau, no water in sight. Thank goodness I’d opted for a different spot!
The weather was overcast, with only occasional glimpses of sunshine. It turned out to be a blessing, as the shade helped me acclimate to the altitude. The trail itself was well-maintained, a solid T2+ with ropes in tricky spots to prevent any unplanned tumbles. Surprisingly, even at 1200 meters, the landscape still resembled a lush jungle, with unique lava rock formations adding character to the scenery. And best of all, no more torturous steps! My knees rejoiced with every stride.
I am on 1500 meters altitude, 4.5 hours elapsed, and I was starting to hit a wall. My legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort. My mood was sinking faster than the Titanic. “This is going to be a long, grueling day,” I thought, feeling discouraged by the realization that I hadn’t even reached the halfway point.
It was time for a break, a desperate attempt to refuel and recharge. But I knew that every minute spent resting meant another 30 minutes added to my total hiking time. With a heavy heart (and even heavier legs), I unpacked my stove and cooked a meal, every movement an exercise in willpower. The moment I started eating, the sun decided to make a grand appearance, turning the heat up a notch. I was familiar with this feeling of utter depletion, where even eating feels like a chore. But I forced myself to swallow every bite, knowing it was the only way to keep moving.
With each bite of food, I could feel the energy slowly seeping back into my weary body. It was a glorious sensation, a reminder that I wasn’t defeated yet. I packed up my gear, hoisted the backpack onto my back, and pressed on.
Two options danced in my head: camp at the summit (Plan A) or push through to the designated campsite (Plan B). The thought of pitching my tent at the highest point on Madeira was incredibly tempting, but I also knew that I was capable of finishing the full 19 kilometers. It was a constant internal battle, my decision swaying with the terrain. Uphill, I dreamt of the summit; downhill, I felt confident I could reach the campsite.
I kept glancing at my phone, desperately trying to gauge how much farther I had to go. It felt like an endless journey. The idea of just pitching my tent on the trail started to sound pretty appealing, but the path was so narrow, there was no way my two-person tent would fit.
At 3:45 PM, I reached a spot where I could just barely squeeze in my tent, but I resisted the temptation. I could make it to the hut at the summit, I told myself. That was my goal, my mission for the day. My athlete’s heart wouldn’t let me give up. The goal is the path, or was it the other way around? Whatever, I had to keep going.
“Come on, you’ve got this!” I muttered to myself. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Time seemed to stretch out as I trudged along, each step a battle, especially on the seemingly endless uphills and downhills. I obsessively checked my phone, trying to will the hut closer. It was still 1.5 kilometers away as the crow flies, but who knows how much longer on this winding trail.
“You can do this,” I told myself again and again. My legs felt surprisingly strong, but my mind was filled with doubt. What if my energy suddenly crashed? What if my legs gave out? But they didn’t. They kept marching on, fueled by sheer willpower. This hike was turning into a mental marathon, a test of my resilience and determination.
I lost count of how many times I silently prayed the Ave Maria, seeking strength from above. At one point, I even thought I saw a figure standing on a distant peak, maybe even the Virgin Mary herself. Had I completely lost my mind? I blinked, and reality snapped back into focus. It was just another hiker, their drone buzzing overhead.
But then it hit me: that must be the summit! I was almost there! The realization that the end was in sight filled me with a renewed sense of purpose. All doubts vanished, replaced by a fierce determination to reach the top. I would camp at the summit, no matter what. This was my victory, and I was going to savor every moment of it.
The summit! Finally! But instead of a peaceful mountaintop oasis, I was greeted by a chaotic scene of people frantically pitching tents. It was a campsite free-for-all, and I was too late to the party.
“No…no…no!” I could feel my heart sinking. I’d battled through exhaustion and doubt, only to find out there was no space for me at the summit. And to rub salt in the wound, the other campers had just arrived. If only I hadn’t taken that extra break…
Despair washed over me. I was utterly spent, drained of all energy, and now I had to descend even farther to my designated campsite. With a heavy sigh, I formulated a new plan: beg for mercy at the mountain huts.
Suddenly, a new thought hit me – and it showed just how much my body was reacting to this extreme situation. The moment I knew there might be drinks at the hut, I was overwhelmed with a craving for sugar. For four days, I hadn’t had a single sweet treat, and now my body was practically begging for it. I had a new mission: get to that hut, charm the warden into giving me a bed, and score a glorious can of Pepsi or 7 Up. Sugar rush, here I come!
I followed the warden into the hut, hoping for a miracle. “Any chance you have a bed for me?” I pleaded.
“Sorry, mate,” he replied with a sympathetic look, “Fully booked.”
My heart sank even deeper. Was fate really forcing me to hike all the way down to the campsite? I asked about alternative camping spots, and he mentioned a place 500 meters down the trail. He showed me a photo, and it looked promising. I decided to check it out later.
But Plan C was already forming in my mind: hike the 2.5 kilometers down to the parking lot, snag a taxi, and head straight to the campsite. Hiking any further was out of the question.
First, though, I needed that sugar fix. I splurged on one cans of 7 Up and one cans of Pepsi, a grand total of 7 euros. Expensive, but worth every penny. I cracked open a 7 Up and let the sugary goodness wash over me. Ah, sweet relief!
I’m not usually a big sugar consumer, but after four days of pushing my body to the limit, that can of 7 Up hit me like a freight train. It was a sugar rush of epic proportions, an instant surge of energy that coursed through my veins like rocket fuel.
My legs, which had felt like dead weights just moments before, suddenly sprang to life. My entire body buzzed with newfound energy, and my brain went into hyperdrive. I felt like I could run a marathon, climb Mount Everest, and then invent a new language, all in the same day. It was a wild, exhilarating feeling – like being on drugs, but without the illegal substances.
I joined a group of Englishmen basking in the sun outside the hut. They were the lucky blokes who’d reserved the entire place. Sharing my tale of woe, I joked about my snail-like pace – 7.5 hours for 12 kilometers! But hey, the sign at the trailhead had estimated 5 hours, so technically, I was only 1.5 hours off. Not too shabby for a solo hiker with a monster backpack, right?
But the reality of the situation soon set in: I still had a 2.5-kilometer descent ahead of me, followed by the dreaded taxi ride to the campsite. The sugar high was wearing off, and the thought of more hiking made me want to curl up in a ball and cry.
We had a good laugh together, the Englishmen and I. I railed against the evil steps, cursed like a sailor, and generally bounced off the walls in my sugar-fueled frenzy. They found my misery hilarious, practically rolling on the ground with laughter.
Sitting next to me was a woman from Holland with her daughter. She kindly offered to drive me down to the campsite, but in my hyperactive state, I barely registered her words. Who needs a ride when you’re running on pure sugar, right?
I guess Mary was looking out for me after all, because this kind woman was still around when I came down from my sugar high. I’d completely spaced on her offer, but it was too good to pass up. Before leaving, though, I absolutely had to fly my drone and capture some shots from the highest peak of Madeira. After all, I’d climbed for 7.5 hours, sweated buckets, and nearly cried from exhaustion. It might not result in YouTube gold, but it was important for my sanity.
I joined the Dutch family, my 20-kilo backpack feeling light as a feather thanks to the sugar coursing through my veins. I was practically bouncing down the trail, matching their pace with ease. We covered the 2.5 kilometers in a brisk 35 minutes – talk about a sugar-powered speed walk!
The parking lot at the summit, a popular spot for taxis (you’re welcome for the tip!), was the starting point for the 9.5-kilometer trek down to the campsite. Sure, you could take the scenic route on side trails, but after a 7.5-hour slog up Pico Ruivo, my feet were begging for mercy. Even though I could technically grab a taxi right there, I decided to hitch a ride with the Dutch family.
Five minutes later, I was safely at the campsite, overflowing with gratitude. I thanked them profusely, showered them with blessings, and told them they’d saved my bacon. To this day, I’m still incredibly thankful for their kindness. It’s amazing how a small act of generosity can make such a big difference.
By 6:30 p.m., I’d finally reached my campsite. Tent up, quick wash, and then it was game time! Real Madrid vs. FC Bayern was kicking off at 8 p.m., and I wasn’t missing it. I huddled in my tent, phone in hand, cheering on my beloved FC Bayern. Sadly, Real Madrid snagged the win, but hey, even on a solo adventure, you gotta support your team.
Watching a Champions League match from a tent in the middle of nowhere? Definitely a highlight of my trip. With a full belly and a happy heart (despite the loss), I drifted off to sleep.
Day 5 | Pico da Pedras to Faial
AllTrails Track: Pico da Pedras to Faial
Video starts here: 25:16 (i edit day 6 in day 5)
Last night’s sleep was a dream! I slept like a baby, as soundly as I do in my own bed back home. My watch even rewarded me with a recovery score of 88 – heck yeah!
I’ve finally cracked the code to sleeping comfortably on this tiny mat: use the quilt as a loose blanket, no straps attached, and ditch the silk liner. Instead, I use the liner as a makeshift mattress topper, giving me a soft, cozy surface to sprawl out on. Who cares if my arms and legs dangle off the sides? I’m all about that starfish sleeping position, baby.
The final leg of my journey began with a trek through a dense forest, then onto a paved road that eventually morphed into a dirt track. It was here that I had a bizarre encounter with two goats tethered to a stick. We stared at each other in mutual confusion, a goat-human standoff in the middle of nowhere.
I continued on, only to realize that the path had vanished into a sea of tall grass. Oops! I backtracked, past the bewildered goats, and rejoined the paved road. Sometimes, even the best-laid plans go a bit haywire.
At this point, I was done with trailblazing. I just wanted to get to the freaking ocean and finish this hike already. So, I decided to stick to the road, hand signals from confused drivers be damned. All I cared about was reaching my destination.
But this road, man, it was endless. Paved roads are great for cars, not so great for feet. Three and a half hours I walked, willing the ocean to appear around every bend.
It wasn’t the most scenic stretch, but I had a mission to complete: cross the island from west to east. And that’s exactly what I was going to do, even if the final miles were on boring old asphalt.
Reaching Funchal, I was eager to film my grand finale down by the sea. But one look at the steep descent made me reconsider. Did I really want to climb back up just for a few shots? Nope, not today.
So, instead of a dramatic seaside ending, I decided to wrap things up on higher ground. I hailed a taxi and headed towards Santa Cruz/Funchal, my final destination.
The taxi ride was an adventure in itself. The driver, an older gentleman who spoke zero English, zoomed down the winding roads like a bat out of hell. I’d told him “Santa Cruz” and shown him my address, but he just shook his head and mumbled something in Portuguese. I figured he knew what he was doing, so I held on for dear life.
Turns out, he dropped me off at the airport. Sigh. Another taxi ride later, I finally arrived at the workshop to pick up my backpack. The kind owner then drove me to my guesthouse, where I settled in, even though it was too early to officially check in. At that point, I was too exhausted to care.
Arriving at the apartment was pure bliss. I practically kissed the ground as I set down my trusty backpack. A real bed! A shower! A toilet! A balcony with a view! It felt like I’d stumbled into a five-star hotel.
After a quick check-in with my worried family (don’t worry, Mom, I survived!), I hopped into the shower and let the hot water wash away four days’ worth of grime and sweat. Pure heaven.
Next, I treated myself to a balcony dinner, savoring the moment with a contented sigh. A bit of social media scrolling, then it was lights out. I slept like a log, finally able to stretch out and relax after days of sleeping on a glorified yoga mat.
Day 6 | PR-8, PR-9, Pico do Areeiro
I had strategically planned this last day as a buffer, just in case the unexpected happened (and boy, did it!). It was also a chance to finally explore Madeira beyond the trails. And the best way to do that? By car, of course!
I’d arranged for a rental car to be delivered the night before, so it was waiting for me bright and early, ready to hit the road.
Alright folks, last day on this beautiful island! I’ve got a jam-packed schedule planned to make the most of it. First up, PR8, the Vereda da Ponta de São Lourenço trail. This peninsula is like a little arm sticking out from Madeira, and it’s supposed to be stunning. Then, I’m off to PR9, the Levada do Caldeirão Verde. It’s a hike that takes you to a gorgeous waterfall – definitely bucket list material. And lastly, I’m hitting up Pico do Arieiro. Remember, I couldn’t get any good shots there before because of that whole unplanned taxi adventure, so this is my chance for redemption!
I knew I had to get to PR8 early to avoid the tourist rush. This place is like the Disneyland of hiking trails, apparently. Thankfully, I scored a parking spot just in the nick of time and bee-lined for the trailhead. They normally charge a fee, but I channeled my inner ninja and stealthily walked past the payment kiosk.
I figured I’d need about an hour and a half to reach the lighthouse at the highest point, plus another hour and a half for the return trip, including all the filming stops. Let’s get this show on the road!
The trail delivered yet again, with breathtaking rock formations and coastal views. I snapped away with my camera, capturing the wild beauty of it all. It was a bit crowded, but I managed to weave my way through the selfie stick jungle and enjoy the scenery.
The biggest bummer? The wind was so fierce, I couldn’t launch my drone. Talk about a major disappointment! But hey, that’s just part of the content creator’s life, right? You can’t always control the elements.
With a sigh, I headed back to my car and set my sights on PR9.
Driving towards PR9, I prayed for the wind to die down. And wouldn’t you know it, it did! It was replaced by a thick blanket of clouds – typical.
Arriving at the trailhead, I realized the whole area was shrouded in mist. Ugh. The waterfall I was so eager to see was a whopping 8.9 kilometers away, meaning an 18-kilometer round trip. But hey, no pain, no gain, right?
The hike itself was a sensory overload. The PR9 trail was bursting with vibrant plant life and natural wonders that left me in awe. Moss-covered walls dripped with water, creating a magical atmosphere. There were even tunnels to walk through – a hidden world beneath the lush rainforest.
Nature truly outdid herself on this one. This trail was a masterpiece.
At long last, I reached the waterfall. As expected, it was a tourist hotspot. I eagerly unpacked my drone, hoping to capture the scene from above. But alas, it wouldn’t cooperate! No GPS signal meant it could only fly 30 meters high – not nearly high enough to get the shot I wanted. And when I tried filming downwards, it was a sea of waving tourists.
Two hours of hiking, and for what? A few mediocre shots. Frustrated but not defeated, I decided to try my luck with the handheld camera instead. Maybe I could salvage something from this disappointing detour.
I contorted myself into a pretzel, scrambling over rocks to find a camera angle that showcased the waterfall without the hordes of tourists. I thought I’d nailed it, but when I got home, I discovered the exposure was completely off, rendering the footage unusable.
Talk about a letdown! Hours of hiking, for nothing. But hey, at least I got to experience the waterfall firsthand, even if my camera skills failed me. Sometimes, you just have to chalk it up to experience and move on.
Back in the car, I set my sights on Pico do Arieiro, my last chance to capture those breathtaking drone shots of the mountain range. The weather on the drive wasn’t looking promising, though. I kept checking my watch, tracking the altitude. A thousand meters…still clear skies. Then, the clouds rolled in. Twelve hundred, fourteen hundred, sixteen hundred… the higher I climbed, the thicker the fog became.
With Pico do Arieiro’s summit at 1850 meters, my hopes were dwindling. As I approached the parking lot, I was engulfed in a dense cloud, barely able to see the road ahead. But then, like a miracle, the clouds parted as I pulled in. Above me was a brilliant blue sky, the sun shining down on a sea of fluffy white clouds below. It was absolutely stunning.
Reaching the summit, I wasted no time. I unpacked my drone and sent it soaring, ignoring the “No Drone Zone” signs. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures!
As I was filming, a friendly fellow from Norway approached me. He was a trumpet player in a band and asked if I could capture some footage of them up there. Of course, I obliged! I even included a little snippet of our encounter at the end of my video – a fun memento of an unexpected meeting.
The sun was starting to dip as I finally tore myself away from Pico do Arieiro. The drive back to the apartment was a solid hour, so I made a quick pit stop for dinner along the way.
By 8 p.m., I was back at my cozy base camp. After a well-deserved shower, I collapsed into bed by 9 p.m., exhausted but happy. After all, I had an early flight back to Munich the next day.
Madeira, you were a wild ride – a whirlwind of breathtaking scenery, challenging trails, and unexpected encounters. I’ll never forget this adventure!