Last Day of the Adventure

I've been backpacking around Spain and other parts of Europe for 2.5 months, but even long adventures must come to an end.

On my last full day in Spain, I left Valencia on an early train and arrived two hours later in Tarragona, a major Roman outpost in ancient times and an important fortress from the time of Carthage to Napoleon. The city is home to some of the best-preserved Roman ruins in Spain, including various fora, city walls and aqueducts. I found it impossible to walk even a few blocks in any direction in the city without running into stone ruins of some sort, most of which were probably of Roman origin, although there were a few structures that could easily have been the remains of wrecked 20th century buildings. I wandered along the the lengthy stone wall and learned a lot of useful information about the proper design of defensive fortifications (at least in pre-artillery times) from the many writings and drawings on display.

Tarragona struck me as a rather pleasant town, but I managed to walk through most of the central sections in a few hours, and so decided to continue on to Barcelona early in the afternoon. It was strange to arrive in a city that was even slightly familiar, after over two months of seeing only new towns almost every single day. Here, I didn´t need to follow my usual routine of walking to the tourist office for a map because I already had some idea about where I wanted to stay, where I would eat, and where I would use the internet. With all these basic needs met relatively easily, I enjoyed walking around the crowded city streets.

The day re-confirmed Barcelona as my favorite city in Spain, and, so far, in Europe (sorry Tonie). However, I no longer had the desire to walk every single street in the city, which is a sure symptom of travel fatigue for me. Although I can´t say I´ve had enough of travelling, I´ve probably had enough of bumming around Spain by myself, and the idea of going home does sound nice right now. With that thought, I´m signing off my last blog entry from Europe.

Paella Valenciana

From Almería I rode a slow bus half way up Spain´s Mediterranean coast to Valencia. With my vacation winding down, I didn´t have much planning or reading to do, so the ride was a bit on the boring side. The movie on the bus was "The Killing Fields" about US and Khmer Rouge atrocities in Cambodia. The movie was dubbed in Spanish and had Spanish subtitles, but the two translations were very different, and I enjoyed noting the multiple ways to say the same thing in Spanish (a feature of the language that sometimes causes difficulties for foreigners).

The bus passed through Benidorm, a coastal resort town filled with high-rise hotels and apartments. I have successfully avoided mmost of the Mediterranean coastline in my travels, a part of Spain that many Spaniards don´t consider to be Spanish at all. Valencia, while also on the coast, did not have the feel of a resort town. Its beach was far from the heart of the city, and I saw very few tourists in the two days I was there.

Valencia is the birthplace of paella, and many Spaniards told me to try it there, because some of the ingredients (including the water for boiling the rice) are unique to the region. This mission proved more difficult than I first anticipated. I arrived in the town in the late afternoon, and arranged to have dinner with the French girls I met in Madrid a couple of weeks before. However, when we met, it turned out they were not in the mood for paella, and most restaurants required a minimum of 2 persons to prepare it. I had to settle for tapas, which were admittedly good, since we went to a less touristy area of town. The girls were mostly from Paris, and were studying in Valencia as part of a semester-abroad program, so they had a couple of months to scope out the nicer and cheaper restaurants. Incidentally, it seemed to me that Valencia was full of students, even more so than Salamanca, and it also seemed that the vast majority of the students were female (a statistical fact confirmed to me by several Spaniards).

The next day, I ventured out in search of paella on my own, and ended up trying it at a rather touristy spot, where it wasn´t particularly good. However, by that point, I had worked up quite an appetite wandering around the large central marketplace, and the food quality no longer mattered that much. To digest the oily paella (Spain produces half of the world´s olive oil, and, from the appearance of most dishes, olive oil also accounts for half of the calories in a Spanish diet) I wandered along Valencia´s enormous dry riverbed, which has been turned into a beautiful park, winding its way through the entire city. The river, I was told, has been diverted to a new course a long time ago, so there was no chance of it suddenly flooding back over its original course.

In my second evening in Valencia I finally tried an authentic Valencian paella, thanks to one of the French girls who joined me for dinner that night and took me to a much better restaurant than I could have found on my own. In addition, I got to try "Agua de Valencia," a local cocktail made from fresh orange juice, champagne and vodka. Satisfied that I had gotten the best of the city, I packed my bags for Tarragona, my last stop on the way back to Barcelona.

Cabo de Gata Day 3: The Squatters of San Pedro

The last and shortest day of my walk took me through several more beaches, coves and seaside villages. By far the most interesting of the latter was the remote San Pedro, long abandoned by its original residents, and now taken over by hippie squatters, living in tents, primitive straw huts, and ruins of old buildings.

There are no roads to San Pedro, and the only way there by land is via a couple of mountain paths that cross into the valley from the north and the south. My guess is that the marijuana and other essential supplies arrive there by boat. From above, San Pedro was a marvelous sight, with ruins of an old castle presiding over a green valley, a long sandy beach, and a clear blue lagoon. As I descended, I was greeted by a sign inviting me to "Disrobe and Enter the Paradise of San Pedro." On the other side, the writing was more prosaic: "This is not a toilet: bury your shit."

I walked past several makeshift shelters and tents down to the beach, and did as the first sign suggested. There were several natives on the beach around me, sitting in small groups or playing the universal game of hippies everywhere: hacky-sack. I observed that this seemingly primitive culture had evolved some basic social institutions, as a sign with the word "BAR" beside one of the sturdier beachfront huts suggested. There were even some essential social services, such as a WC, maintained by some public-minded souls on a monetary donation basis. With all my ethnographic curiousity, however, I didn´t dare explore the sanitation system personally.

It also appeared as though these people had developed art, in the form of simple rock carvings and statuettes along the beach. But, judging by the condition of a nearby rocky cove, a large portion of the inhabitants´time was spent putting rounded stones on top of one another, constructing elaborate cairns or pyramids. It struck me as a rather healthy pastime, and certainly more socially valuable than many a memo I have written.

After a couple of hours in this pleasant spot, I decided to continue on my way, although, with more time, I might have been tempted to pitch my tent on one of the many available spots and spend a coule of days in this primitively communistic environment. Instead, I returned to the world of highways and automobiles, and was lucky enough to catch the region´s last bus back to Almería for the next couple of days.

Cabo de Gata Day 2: Desert by the Sea

The campground was full of cars and screaming kids, and its best feature were the unexpectedly hot showers -- a luxury I have come to appreciate in my travels. I packed up my tent and continued the walk up the coast, with the sun shining for the second day in a row. This day I walked off the trail more than on it, sometimes preferring to make my way along the rocky shoreline, and other times climbing up the hills to enjoy the coastal panoramas. As soon as I ventured inland, I knew I was in a real desert, with nothing but parched soil and short hardy plants underfoot.

In the desert, the color green stands out spectacularly whenever it occurs, particularly in the form of oases. I encountered several patches of palm trees along my path, and lingered in their shadow to escape the midday sun. I found another isolated beach and sunbathed once again after a swim in the chilly waters. Leisurely, I made my way to the next campsite, and pitched my tent by daylight this time.

In the evening, I ventured to a nearby village and waited for the restaurants to open for dinner. I ordered a glass of wine at the bar in the meantime, but the waiter kept refilling it and bringing free appetizers until I wasn´t sure I wanted any dinner at all. Thankful that I didn´t have to drive home, I made my way back to the tent by starlight, since my flashlight decided to give out. It was Halloween, but I didn´t even have a Jack-O-Lantern!

Cabo de Gata Day 1: All the Sun to Myself

I left Almeria while it was still dark and arrived at the Cabo de Gata village a few minutes after sunrise. A few clouds on the horizon kept the weather shady and pleasantly cool as I strolled down a long empty beach towards the hills of the Natural Park. Separated from the sea by a thin stretch of dunes were the salt marshes, a stopover point for a large variety of migratory birds, including flamingoes. To get a better look at the birds, I tried to navigate the narrow paths on the marshes´edge, but found them so muddy and slippery that I decided not to risk falling into the water with my camera.

I walked further, passing a large salt extraction plant with mountains of salt shining like glaciers in my path. Then I had to follow a quiet highway as it wound its way above some spectacular coastal cliffs. It was Saturday, so I encountered some day hikers on my path, but very few considering the beautiful surroundings. Finally, I reached a set of isolated coves and swent for a long-anticipated swim in the clear greenish Mediterranean.

I spent a couple of hours soaking up the sun on the beach and then continued along the trail, across a beach crawling with billions of flying ants. Even though it was supposed to be a day for relaxation, I ended up walking for 9 hours because I couldn´t find a suitable campsite on the uneven rocky terrain. My last resort was a public campground a little away from the beach, but by the time I approached it, the sun was already well below the horizon. I followed a dirt road inland with the aid of my flashlight, but soon felt completely lost in the network of intersecting paths. I decided to walk towards the brightest set of lights in the distance, and after almost despairing of finding it, suddenly stumbled right through the campground´s main gate.

Almería, Alcazaba, and Almedina

The next morning, the forecast predicted rain, and I could see the sagging clouds already settling on the ridges I crossed the day before. I was quite tired of rain by this point, and decided to catch a bus to Almería, calling an early end to my Alpujarra hike. My next destination, the Cabo de Gata peninsula, was on the opposite geographical and climatic extreme of Spain from Galicia, with 30 times less annual precipitation and 3000 sunny hours per year. It is officially the driest spot in Europe, and I thought that if the rain followed me there, then I would finally give up trying to outrun it.

The bus to Almería was in actuality 3 separate buses, and I didn´t arrive at my destination until the mid-afternoon, too late to catch a transfer to Cabo de Gata. Dropping my pack off at a hostal near the bus station, I set off to explore the Alcazaba fortress, commanding the heights above this port city, and affording sweeping views of the Mediterranean coastline all the way east to the hilly Cabo de Gata. The weather still kept threatening to turn rainy, and I dove into an Arabic cafe called Almedina for a shelter and a pot of sweet herbal tea.

La Alpujarra Day 2: A Gastronomical Experience

To my great relief, the weather on the following morning was sunny and cool, perfect for hiking. Almost magically, the landscape before me started to appear dry and desert-like, with cactuses and prickly plants of all types grabbing my clothing as I passed by.

I made my way along footpaths from one village to another. I managed to lose my way in the windy streets of almost every one of them, but inevitably I would hear an old woman´s voice from a hidden terrace above my head telling me I was off-track and pointing me in the right direction. The first couple of times this happend the voice would startle me, but eventually I got used to the idea of being watched by many pairs of eyes hidden behind the thick foliage of small gardens and patios. Needless to say, I was wary of plucking any fruits from the many fenced areas I passed within sight of the villages.

Still, there were plenty of opportunities to feast on various delicacies as I walked along. Figs and walnuts were nothing new, but I was delighted to find ripe pomegranates hanging down over th path like bright Christmas decorations. Equally colorful were the persimmons trees, but the fruit, though initially sweet, often had an unpleasant dry aftertaste, so I decided to forego that particular species.

Almond trees were plentiful as well, but at first I passed them by, finding the nuts too tough to crack using my jaws. Then, like the prehistoric man and the chimpanzee, I discovered the use of tools, i.e. a pair of rocks with which to tap open the almonds. The almonds from some trees were bitter, but it was possible to collect pounds of nuts from a single tree, so this was not a big problem. I washed my food down with water from a naturally carbonated spring called "La Gaseosa," which tasted bitter like tonic water, but went well with the sweet fruits.

As a result of my frequent stops to feast on local crops, I fell behind schedule and barely made it into a town with lodging by nightfall. I ended up staying at a brand new hotel, with many rooms still unfinished, receiving an entire apartment to myself for 15 EUR. My suite had a kitchen, so once again I cooked my own dinner, with leftovers serving as breakfast.

La Alpujarra Day 1: Flashbacks of Galicia

After exploring the city of Granada in the morning, I got on a bus for the town of Pampaneira, on the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada range, where I planned to do some more walking. Somewhat reluctantly, I said goodbye to the Oasis hostel, probably the best I´ve seen in my travels. It had a very friendly and helpful staff, great facilities (kitchen, free internet, a bar, TV lounge, and even a ping pong table), a very social atmosphere, and clean quiet rooms. All this for 15 EUR per night, breakfast included!

The area to which I was headed next was a very isolated (though recently somewhat touristed) region in the Sierra Nevada known as La Alpujarra. It was the last refuge of Muslims in Spain after the fall of Granada, and, posssibly more than any area in Spain, still retains the character of those times. The white villages scattered through the hills and narrow gorges are a maze-like jumble of houses and streets, surrounded by orchards of various useful trees. Most streets are too narrow for cars, and villages can still be seen transporting their loads by mule. Ruins of Muslim mills and other ancient structures dot the countryside, and the hillsides, tiered with olive groves, have beein shaped into their current form many centuries ago.

None of the original Muslim inhabitants remain there, however, due to the forced removal and resettlement of the area with families from Asturias and Galicia. Just as I arrived, it started to rain, and I couldn´t help noticing that, in some ways, the area was quite similar to the current inhabitants´native Spanish northwest. The rain alone was enough to bring back memories of Galicia, but the hilly terrain and the narrow cobbled paths connecting different villages added to the feeling. Moreover, the streams and fountains in most villages gushed with water, creating the impression that this relatively dry region was as wet as Green Spain (another title of Galicia).

Since I had little desire to trek about in the rain, I stopped at a refugio after just 2.5 hours of walking surrounded by cold wet clouds. The refugio was a hut with a wood-burning stove in the middle, 3-tiered bunks in a side room, and a kitchen. The German woman owner explained to me the basic survival points: the timed lights illuminating the path to the out-house, the rope "gate" strung across the path to indicate the facility was occupied (there was no door), and various other arcane yet indispensable details. Then, the other guests (1 from the UK and two from Australia) and I were sent out to chop some firewood. It was actually quite fun, as we chpped and sawed our way through a fallen chestnut tree using a variety of instruments, including an odd one-way Japanese saw.

After the wood started burning, it heated up the space quite nicely, and I decided to prepare dinner at the refugio. I walked to a nearby village and bought some spaghetti, olives, peppers and tomato sauce. The mix amounted to a large pot of steaming pasta, and I had to beg my companions to help me finish it.

From Sevilla to Granada

The next day I saw two of Seville´s most impressive sights: the Plaza de España with its enormous semi-circular palace, and the Reales Alcázares, a truly massive complex of buildings and gardens spanning several large city blocks. I didn´t have much time to see all of the latter before my bus to Granada, especially since I spent a big chunk of it trying to find the entrance.

Once inside, my jaw dropped to the floor with amazement and stayed there for the entire 30 minutes I was on the premises. The palace courtyards were full of exotic tropical vegetation, which complemented perfectly the arched airy architecture of the surrounding buildings. The palaces inside, one Muslim, one Christian Gothic, were beautiful and formed a seamless whole with the surrounding areas through a network of doorways, gates and passageways. The gardens, some small and cute, others so vast I could not see their end, were designed and sculpted to perfection, while, at the same time, maintaining a wild tropical feel. Pools of water, fountains trickling over marble mosaic, narrow elevated walkways amid palm forests -- it all seemed almost magical. As soona as I walked out I wanted to go back in and enjoy the experience a second time, but decided it was time to move on to Granada, of which I had heard an equal number of praises.

I was not disappointed. As the bus approached Granada, the snowy Sierra Nevada peaks came into view, and I relished the thought of spending the next several days walking in their shadow. I checked into a fantastic backpacker hostel with a friendly social atmosphere, helpful staff, clean rooms, and free internet access. I then promptly left to walk around as much of the town as possible before it got dark. I wandered through the narrow streets upward to the walled city of Alhambra, the last holdout of Muslims in Spain. Córdoba and Sevilla, the previous two capitals of Muslim Spain fell to the Christian Reconquista centuries before, but Granada, high in the mountains, held out until 1492.

For two hours I wandered the gardens and palaces within the old city walls, enjoying views of the city below and the Sierra Nevada in the distance. I was also able to watch the famous sunset over the Alhambra, which is deservedly well-known, because it was one of the brightest and most colorful I have ever seen. I then descended down into the city and got to see the illuminated fortress from below.

I returned to the hostel only to leave once again, this time to join an organized tapas tour. Unlike in most of Spain, tapas in Granada come free with your drink, and the drink is usually quite cheap (around $1.80), so that after you´ve had 3-4 you are quite full (as well as inebriated). The group was quite small, friendly and mostly English-speaking, even though English was not most people´s first language. Most people appeared to be in Granada for much longer than I, and I could see why they might have made the smarter decision.

Seeing the Barber in Seville

It was extremely nice to stay in a home (particularly with such a welcoming hostess) for the first time in six weeks, but the next morning, after breakfast and a long Internet session, I left Córdoba by bus to Seville. It rained most of the way, but Seville was mercifully dry, though cloudy. Even in this weather, however, the city impressed with its vibrance of color and lush tropical vegetation. Palms and orange trees were everywhere, although the orange I tried was so sour and bitter it kept me spitting for a good two minutes.

Compared to Córdoba, everthing seemed larger and somewhat less cozy. The river Guadalquivir, which made this inland town one of the greatest ports in Europe during the post-Columbus era, was probably the least impressive of the city´s attractions. The endless variety of contrasting façades reminded me a bit of the German towns I had seen, but here the tone was decidedly more tropical.

It was time for me to get a haircut, and I stopped at a local barber shop, receiving my usual "zero" treatment. This time, the barber was engaged in an animated conversation with a friend about the dictator Franco as he handled the straight razor, which made me fear for my head as though I, myself, were one of Franco´s victims. Then, after a light dinner of gazpacho (a great cold tomato-based soup with hard-boiled egg and raw vegetables) and fish, I called it a night, returning to a hostel I found earlier in the day. The hostess was Russian and didn´t charge me extra for a double room (20 EUR).

Cosy in Córdoba

I arrived in Córdoba from Madrid by high-speed train, so the journey took under 2 hours as opposed to 5 by bus. The moment I stepped out of the station I knew I was finally in the south. White buildings and palm trees surrounded wide promenades, and it was very warm despite the late hour. Toledo could easily have passed for a town in northern Spain, but it was worlds apart from Córdoba, only 200 km away. I suddenly felt very relaxed and comfortable, even though I had no map and no idea where I was going to sleep that night.

I wandered the bustling evening streets in the pedestrian center of town until I found a hostal with an available room. Because there were no free single rooms, I accepted a triple for slightly more (25 EUR), and selected one of 3 beds, leaving the other two for my imaginary companions. I then wandered the evening streets some more, discovering more and more interesting areas as I went along.

In the morning I continued my toor, exploring various Roman ruins and the Mezquite, a gigantic square building of Muslim construction, containing a tropical garden and endless halls with colorful arches and columns. The Christians had superimposed a cathedral into the structure, but even it looked lost and out of place in the vastness of the internal passages. Another fascinating area was the shallow river, overgrown with tropical forest, and containing various ancient ruins and an enormous number of deafeningly loud birds.

In the afternoon, I was finally able to call through to the mother of my Spanish friend Celi and she invited me to spend another night in Córdoba at their place. Celi´s father was working in the Canary Islands, her sister was in London, and Celi herself was studying in Tucson, Arizona, so her mother was the only one in the house. However, Celi, by phone, suggested I meet one of her friends who lived in the same building.

Rosa, Celi´s friend, was willing to show me around, and even invited me out with her friends for their usual evening bar outing. It was a nice large group, although Rosa said there were fewer people than normal because it was Sunday. It surprised me that it was possible to have so many people meet almost every night, while I consider myself lucky if I see most of my friends in DC once every 1 or 2 weeks. It surprised me even more when I found out that almost half the group were lawyers.

To Toledo and Back

After saying goodbye to my hostel friends at the free breakfast consisting of baguette, honey, and steamed milk, I made my way by bus to Toledo. It is a sizeable town, so I expected to find connections to Córdoba and other locations to the south. To my surprise, however, Toledo turned out to be a complete dead end, with transportation to Madrid and nowhere else.

It was sunny and warm for the first time in weeks, and climbing up to the city walls from the bus station made me appreciate the great defensive location of the city, surrounded on two sides by steep cliffs of the Tajo river, and on the other two by multiple stone walls. None of the defenses worked to keep out the tourists, however, as they poured through various city gates and scattered into the labyrinth of narrow streets inside the walls.

Even though I have already seen many walled cities on this trip, Toledo was probably the grandest and most impressive of them all. I wandered around the narrow passageways and past hundreds of shops selling swords, knives, and other souvenirs of Toledo´s ancient might. I didn´t stay long, however, and returned to Madrid the same afternoon.

Modern Madrid

After spending a day and a half in madrid I find myself with relatively little to say about it. Although it has its share of interesting buildings and nice parks, it is first and foremost a modern city, and, at least visually, not as distinctive as most of the smaller cities and towns I have seen until now. Of course, had I known someone in Madrid to show me around, I probably would have gotten a much different sense of the city, but I mostly walked alone and therefore missed most of the city´s hidden treasures.

I found myself enjoying Madrid´s busy night-time streets more than its daytime charms. I stayed at a centrally located backpacker hostel with a friendly social atmosphere, so finding a group for evening outings was easy. My second night in Madrid was a Friday night, so it was the natural time to venture into the streets. Our group kept growing in size as we made our way out of the hostel, and we snaked our way slowly through the busy evening streets doing our best not to lose anyone, which made for very slow progress.

Eventually, two French girls, a Canadian guy and I separated from the main group in search of some food. After a snack, we made our way to one of the pub/club hotspots and spent a couple of hours chatting at a bar. Unfortunately, my companions were too tired to go dancing, so we ended up getting back to the hostel around 2 am, a time when the local discos were still empty because it was too early by Spanish standards.

Segovia Segue

Although my ultimate destination for the day was Madrid, I decide to make a stop in Segovia to see its ancient Roman aqueduct and other attractions. The bus ride took me through small stone villages along the northern edge of the Central Massif mountain range that that separates the Castilla y Leon province from Madrid.

The aqueduct arches of Segovia date from the first century AD, and rise to a height of 75m without relying on any adhesive substances between the perfectly balanced stones. Another famous structure in Segovia is the 12th century Alcázar fortress, originally built by Segovia´s Muslim rulers and later modified by the Spanish monarchs. From the vantage point of the castle´s main tower I could see much of the wall-enclosed town and the surrounding fields. I could also hear the rumblings of an approaching thunderstorm and decided it was time to make my escape. The rain hit before I reached the bus station, however, making for the 8th consecutive rainy day, and prorbably the 12th day of rain in 2 weeks.

Cold in Ávila

From Salamanca, I hopped on a midday train to Ávila, proceeding eastward, just ahead of a massive new rain front that enveloped Salamanca right as I entered the train station. Spanish trains are not known for speed, but the ride did buy me a couple of hours in Ávila before it started to pour there too.

Ávila´s cathedral hada large free exhibition of religious art, and, as soon as the rain started, all the tourists in the street (including myself), were suddenly overcome with a desire to see it. The crowd huddled under a tarp next to the entrance and bristled with umbrellas on all sides, resembling the shields of a Roman turtle formation. Still, the horizontal rain was merciless, and I was wet and freezing cold by the time I entered the cathedral.

Thankfully, the squall passed by the time I finished wandering through the 2.5 km of exhibiits, and I had a couple of hours to walk around the town´s medieval stone wall before it started getting dark. I found a hostal in the old quarter to spend the night, and shivered miserably under 4 blankets from an acute fever I managed to pick up there. People had warned me of Ávila´s harsh climate, and, perhaps, I was a little careless after completing several long mountain hikes without getting sick. In the morning, the fever was mostly gone, but I felt very weak, and did not manage to leave the room until noon. Still, by 2pm I was already in the next town on my list, Segovia.

Salamanca, the Golden City

After a cup of coffee with Carlos in Santiago I boarded a bus for Salamanca, arriving at around 5pm. During the long but relaxing bus ride I tried to sketch out the remainder of my trip. Due to lack of time, Portugal and Morocco were now out of the question. In the next 7 days I planned a circuit of 7 cities: Ávila, Segovia, Madrid, Toledo, Córdoba, Sevilla and Granada. From Granada, I intend to reach the southern slopes of Sierra Nevada and walk through some ancient villages for 3-4 days. Then, I will go to a Natural Park on the southeastern tip of Spain and walk along remote beaches and semi-desert coastal trails for another 3 days. After that, it will be time to go to Málaga and hop on a flight to Barcelona, and, from there, back to the States on November 5.

Meanwhile, I arrived in Salamanca, where the weather remained cool and rainy. Still, after dropping my pack at a youth hostel, I went to explore the city. Salamanca is home to one of the world´s oldest universities, and teh city´s 30,000 students still make up a quarter of its population. Most of the older buildings in town (including various churches and university buildings) are built of yellow sandstone, which shines like gold in the sunlight (and under nighttime illumination), giving the city its popular nickname.

The next morning the weather turned sunny and did more justice to the city´s features. I admired the majestic Plaza Mayor, supposedly the grandest in Spain, and toured the city´s conjoined cathedrals, built during medieval times and the Renaissance, respectively. The smaller old cathedral was overshadowed by the immense newer structure, but its narrow internal passageways were more interesting to traverse than the vast open spaces of the other.

Camino Day 6: Santiago at Last

To reach Santiago by the noontime mass, the whole group of us left the albergue around 6:30 am, but soon split up into smaller groups by individual pace. I walked with a Spanish guy, and we navigated through the dark forest by the weak light of my flashlight. It was an eerie experience to walk in such darkness along an unknown path, always afraid to miss a yellow arrow and get completely lost. The woods seemed filled with the ghosts of other pilgrims who brashly started out in the darkness and lost their way, doomed never to see Santiago.

Finally, we reached the city limits and walked 4 more kilometers through city streets to reach the cathedral square and the pilgrims´ office, where we received our Compostelas, signed Latin certificates of completing the pilgrimage. The names of our native countries were taken down, to be mentioned at the Pilgrim´s mass.

We had just enough time to walk across to the cathedral, where the mass was about to start. The massive cathedral was filled with people (most of whom arrived by tour bus), and we found only standing room piling our packs next to one of the columns.

The mass was an impressive ceremony, with beautiful singing and a dozen priests in red-and-white robes standing at the altar. Several speeches and songs commemorated the pilgrims, or at least those those completing the voyage to Santiago for religious purposes. However, the climax of the ceremony was the swinging of a gigantic incense burner like a pendilum across the entire length of the cathedral. The smoking and rattling contraption was lowered from the celing and passed the lowest point of its arc trajectory near the altar´s floor, so I was grateful not to be standing too close to comfort to this siege weapon.

After the mass and after performing an odd ritual involving making a wet hand imprint on a column and hugging the nearby statue of Santiago, we went out in search of a hearty meal. Later, the Spaniards departed, while Carlos and I made our way to the city albergue. It was raining yet again, so I put off sightseeing to catch up on my journal and plan my escape to sunnier and warmer parts of Spain.

In the evening, I ventured out for a brief walk around the city and tried out some Galician-style octopus, a famous local dish. The octopus slices were quite tender, and served on a platter with oil salt and spices. The delicacy provided a welcome break from the head of blue cheese I had been carrying around from the Picos de Europa. The "queso de Cabrales" is a famous blue cheese from that region, made out of cow and goat milk and aged in limestone caves at a specific temperature. During my trip, the cheese continued through the aging and moulding process, so that it became what I call "queso del Camino," which admittedly needs some work before I could market it commercially.

Camino Day 5: Walking Companions

My last full day on the Camino was also the most social. Right after my first coffee break, I ran into some young Italians and we paused for a while in a small unattended hut that was open as a rest stop for pilgrims. The Italians were in no hurry as they uncorked a bottle of wine and explained that they weren´t planning to reach Santiago for two more days. Recalling that I, on the other hand, planned on walking for at least 20 more kilometers before sundown, I politely declined their offer of wine and continued on my way.

Along the road I came across several people I knew, and walked in their company for a time. The weather was quite nice and I arrived at the albergue earlier than usual. There I met Carlos, the Brazilian, and about 7 young Spaniards, most of whom I knew from before, and we all went out for a snack at the local bar/pastry shop. We had a great time talking and taking photos to remember the experience.

At the bar, at the Spaniards´ insistence, I tried some orujo, a very stiff Spanish liquor that comes in clear and yellowish-green varieties. The liquor is supposed to help with digestion, which is questionable, but the belief certainly faciliates the siesta tradition.

Camino Day 4: Cold Start, Warmer Finish

I´ve started to fall into a routine that I will briefly describe. I am usually one of the very last to leave the albergue, even though it is still dark. After a brief period of disorientation while trying to rejoin the trail in the darkness, I start off at a brisk pace that slackens considerably by day´s end. After 2-3 hours I stop at a bar for coffee with milk and a slice of empanada (I also have some bread and cheese before leaving the albergue). Some more walking, usually with periods of rain, brings me to a town where I have a late lunch. I also tend to get a stamp for my Credential at the local albergue as a souvenir. I then continue walking and arrive at the albergue around 6pm, shower, make a simple dinner, and socialize with other walkers in the dining area.

Day 4 on the Camino generally followed the pattern. I had my usual coffee in a bar with a sign that read: "We open when we get here, we close when we leave, and if you come and we´re not here, well, that just means we missed each other."

The rain stopped for a few hours in the afternoon, but the morning was very cold, windy, and rainy. An overnight storm apparently dumped snow in Cebreiro, a town I passed on Day 2, and killed 9 residents in Finisterre, a coastal town where many walkers continue after reaching Santiago (in medieval times many thought it to be the western edge of the world). As I shivered of cold in my still-dry boots and pant, I passed a pilgrim walking in shorts and sandals, apparently immune to hypothermia that affects lesser mortals.

The lunch I had in a restaurant recommended by the LP guide was indeed excellent, with portions so large I was unable to clean my plate for probably the first time during the entire trip. As my mood and the weather brightened after lunch, I was able to remove my hood and observe various gritty scenes of rural life around me. In one village, a farmer was beheading chickens with a bloody axe, their bodies jerking long after the head was severed. In anothre village near a small Romanesque chapel, I encountered a crowd headed to a funeral (presumably not for the chickens).

Melide, a sizeable town with an albergue and several octopus-serving establishments (a Galician specialty) was my stop for the night. My Brazilian and Austrian acquaintances were already there, along with many other familiar and unfamiliar folk. I sat around the dining table with several walkers my own age: one woman from Germany, another from Japan, a guy from Israel, and a few Spaniards. They were a good crowd, and we enjoyed sharing stories and each other´s food. Santiago was within reach, only 55 km away, and everyone talked excitedly about what they would do after they got there.

Camino Day 3: The Submerged Village

On the third day the landscape became even more rustic, as the path made its way from hamlet to hamlet by way of ancient footpaths along deep forest trenches and narrow stone-walled corridors. The arrow markings were sparse, barely sufficient to reassure that you were on the right track. The rain stopped around 11 am, resuming only after I reached the albergue at 6pm. That counted as a good-weather day in Galicia.

I walked alone, as usual, but ran into an elderly Austrian gentleman I recalled from my first night´s albergue (not the snorer). This surprised me since I never saw him on the two prior days and was confident I had outpaced most of the walkers I saw early on. However, it appeared that this man started very early and walked until late, thereby making quite a bit of progress. I am therefore left wondering how many others like him have left me in the dust, just as I imagined myself to be well ahead of them. Of course the Camino is not a race, but I still can´t help the thought.

After passing 30 tiny villages and one town in 42km of walking, I apprached my albergue in Portomarín, overlooking a wide river with numerous stone structures in the riverbed. It turned out that they were the remains of the old city of Portomarín, abandoned for higher ground when a dam was built on the river. The town church was moved to its new location stone by stone.

As I walked towards the town, an elderly lady who lived in a village on the outskirts caught up with me and started a friendly conversation as we both walked towards the town center. She seemed to know every local we met along the way, and exchanged words with each one of them in Gallego, the local language, which is similar to, but quite distinct from, Spanish. She also picked up some chestnuts and offered them to me, saying they make a good meal when boiled. I politely declined, explaining that I didn´t have any cookware. In the end, I got to try boiled chestnuts anyway that night, since a guy at the albergue offered some to me. They were quite good, a bit like potatoes but more like plaintains.

Camino Day 2: Wading into Galicia

We pass through the numerous towns and villages like ghosts, with most of the locals so used to the sight of rag-tag walkers they don´t even acknowledge our presence. Even the dogs don´t consider us worthy of a growl or bark. Only the signs talk to us. "Breakfast, sandwiches, dinner, 100m" says one in four languages. "Free water for all" says another. "Lodging, pilgrims welcome!" says a third.

As no caretaker ever arrived to collect the lodging fee, I self-stamped my Credential and departed the albergue for another 40km day. I met few walkers early on, but started passing small groups on the ascent to Cebreiro, at the border of Galicia. Just before the border, I stopped for an herbal tea at a strangely out-of-place hippie hut, with a bonfire burning in the middle of the room, a full-size teepee outside, and young English-speaking hosts selling a variety of gypsy-styled trinkets.

The terrain was quite hilly and the roads were slippery and muddy from the rain, which continued with varying intensity the entire day. Galician mud replaced Leonese mud under my feet, and Galician rain began its assault on my not-entirely-waterproof clothing. A chilly October wind completed my first impression of this Spanish region, which is most often compared to Ireland.

The meal I consumed at a restaurant on the Camino´s highest point (1310 m) could also have been Irish (or Russian for that matter): cabbage soup follwed by boiled potatoes and overcooked meat. It wasn´t fancy, but it provided some much-needed warmth and energy for the latter part of the day, which only grew colder and wetter as I progressed westward.

Towards the end of the day I ran into Carlos, a Brazilian walker who was a cheerful and talkative companion up through the albergue, where the two of us shared the same dorm room. I ran off to the store and bought some vegetables for a massive salad, since I was feeling rather vitamin-deprived after too many bread-and-cheese meals. The albergue was small and not very crowded, with a decent kitchen and a dining room, which I shared with a couple of French women from Toulouse. We chatted for a bit and then I went off to sleep, hoping my clothes and boots would be reasonably dry in the morning.

Camino Day 1: ¡Buen Camino!

On the Camino, you hear these words from alberge wardens, fellow walkers, and passers-by. It is these ritualistic elements taht make the walking experience different from any other. Everyone walks at their own pace and for their own reasons, but everyone is going to the same place. Everyone gets water at public fountains, sleeps in albergues, and, of course, follows the yellow arrows.

There are many much more scenic walks in Spain than this one. For part of my first day the road followed a highway and the rest of the time it wound through minor villages, fields and orchards along a dirt track. Some of the villages had old churches or statues, but were otherwise quite unexceptional.

I started walking while it was still dark, but found myself passing many people who started out even earlier. A cold foggy morning gave way to a gloomy and rainy day, but the orchards and vineyards provided apples and grapes to cheer me up. A "café con leche", or, rather, a glass of steamed milk with a double shot of expresso, also went a long way to keep me alert.

I ate a big lunch at one of the larger towns and immediately got so sick it was impossible to keep walking with my waist strap buckled. I sat for over an hour under a large chestnut tree and watched the rain intensify. Finally, I forced myself to get up and walk the last 11km to the next albergue.

When I arrived, an hour before sunset, I found only one other lodger and no caretaker. I picked one of the many empty dorm rooms to drop my pack and changed into some dry clothes. There was a computer with internet access in the lobby, but, after a few futile attempts at guessing the access password, I gave up and decided to go to sleep.

León Solo

The next morning I drove to León, where I was able to obtain the Credential I needed for my walk to Santiago. En route, I passed a lot of Castilla y León province signs with the Castilla part spray-painted over, and the word SOLO added (i.e., "only León"). This made Asturia the only province where I didn´t see any separatist slogans. I´ve seen "Aragon Libre" signs and even a "Pirineos Libres" sign, not to mention all the graffiti in the Basque and Catalan regions. I wondered whether I would see any "Castilla Libre" signs when I reached Madrid.

As my luck would have it, that Tuesday was yet another one of the numerous Spanish holidays and so all the stores in Castilla y León (as well as in León Solo) were closed. In fact, it was a constant through all the various regions I visited in Spain that stores were closed almost any time you wanted them to be open. Most didn´t open until at least 10am, and all closed from 2 to 4:30 for siesta, reopening for an irregular amount of time in the early evening. Especially in small towns, stores could be closed either in the morning or in the evening, depending on when you most needed them to be open. All the stores were closed on either Sunday, Monday or both days. At other times, barring various holidays and personal vacations, stores would be open, unless closed entirely for the season.

The car rental agency in Ponferrada, where I was to begin my walk, was naturally closed, but this may have worked to my advantage, since I was able to return the car keys in a drop box without recording the fact that I was returning the car several hours late. Once again, I loaded all my belongings into my pack and stomped off in search of the nearest alberge. I picked up the yellow arrows near the imposing Knights Templar castle, and tried to follow them in reverse to the alberge, which was surprisingly difficult because the markings were so geared towards going in a single direction.

Finally, I found the crowded alberge, received the obligatory stamp in my Credential, paid the optional lodging fee, and claimed one of the last remaining bunk beds in the single-sex dorms. I should note that most women at the alberge were well over fifty, so I didn´t mind the single-sex aspect of the accomodations.

It was not the most restful night. The miniature old man on the bunk below mine turned out to snore like a dragon, seeming to shake the entire room with the deep rumblings in his throat. My roommates tried everything to make him stop, but only succeeded in changing the snore to a higher pitch, this time with a cheery whistle refrain. My earplugs, which have served me well on other nights, were almost completely useless and all I could do was hope the old man´s walking pace was slower than mine so that this would be our last night in the same room.

The Shepherds of Caín

The following day the weather was gloomy but not very windy, which was a marked improvement. I decided to do a climb of about 1600 meters up from the village to a crater-like depression that was representative of the lunar-type landscape of the upper reaches of the Picos. I checked my planned itinerary with the inkeeper and was satistfied to find out that he was unfamiliar with the trail, which made me hope it would not be full of tourists.

Indeed, I met no one during the entire 8-hour hike, and the only real annoyance came from about a dozen village dogs of varying sizes that barked and followed me until I left the houses behind. The hike was quite fun and I managed to stay mostly dry and warm despite the chilly rain and fog that followed me for much longer than the local canines. Around lunchtime I passed a hut that a shepherd I met at the refugio two nights before mentioned to me as one of his main haunts. He wasn´t home, but I took our conversation as an invitation to visit, even in his absence. Cautiously I opened the latch door of the primitive shelter and ate my smoked sausage sandwich sitting inside, away from the rain.

I returned to the village along the same steep path, and drove out of the park in the direction of León on one of the scary one-lane gravel roads I described earlier. No sooner did I breathe a sigh of relief that the worst bit of driving was behind me, than I recalled that I left my passport at the inn in Caín and had to go back for it. At the end of the day, however, my reward was a bunk bed and a nice hot shower at a 6 EUR alberge on the fringes of the park. Included in the price of my lodging was a well-stocked self-service kitchen, and a guided tour of the premises by the elderly owner, who wasn´t satisfied until he demonstrated to me the operation of every single light switch and faucet in the building.

For dinner I had only bread and cheese left over, buta couple of girls cooking for a big party took pity on me, and made me sample every dish they were preparing until I was stuffed to the gills. One of the girls was from Santiago and the other from Madrid, but wehn I mentioned I was going to both cities neither volunteered her phone number. I guess there is a limit even to Spanish hospitality.

Where no Citroën Has Gone Before

The next morning, as a dim sunrise arrived 30 minutes behind schedule and the wind continued to drive shreds of cloud madly past the hut´s windows, I decided to do what any intelligent hero would: retreat and try another approach. My 3-day hike could be done as 3 day-trips, provided I was willing to drive around to various access points by car.

Even this plan was easier said than done. Returning to the car was quick enough with the wind at my back (at times, even quicker than I would have liked). Driving in a 45 km circle along mountain roads to the next trailhead was more of a challenge. It happened to be Sunday, and the mountains were under assaukt by all manner of vehicled and pedestrian tourists, all choking through the same narrow windy roads. There was no room for error, since there was usually no guard rail between you and a hundred meters of vertical drop.

Bicyclists, walkers, cars, tour buses, and the occasional herd of cows all squeezed past each other at varying speeds, and you never knew what surprises awaited you around the next bend. Add extremely windy and wet weather to the mix, along with the added headache of driving a stick shift car, and you´ll start to get a feel for the experience.

Some moments of frustration had a communal aspect, such as when everyone joined together trying to get a tour bus unstuck from a narrow tunnel, or when drivers pondered how to make cows understand the benefits of the left-side traffic pattern. Most of the time, however, it was everyone for themselves. Parking seemed acceptable anywhere that would still allow a single car to get through, so that many roads were passable only if there was nobody headed the other way. If there was, one of the sides (often a whole chain of cars) had to back out as far as necessary to let the other side through.

Keep in mind that I am only talking about larger highways. Some of the trailheads were accessible only via gravel roads that had barely enough space for a car to pass a pedestrian plastered against the abutting cliff (or balancing precariously on the edge of a ravine). Turning a corner on these roads was a true act of faith in one´s lucky stars, and was ironically easier at night, when you could see the headlights of oncoming traffic and couldn´t see just how far you would fall if you made a mistake.

Somehow, I managed to arrive at the next trailhead, the spectacular and popular Cares Gorge walk. The walk was along a head-spinning path carved out of rock mid-way up a narrow gorge, so that you walked along a 3-meter ledge for the 8km length of the gorge. Since the path was not car-accessible, it was a lot safer than the nearby highways, even with the gusty wind blowing in unpredictable directions. After all, there were many small children on the path and I was certain one of them would be more likely to be blown off the cliff than I, even though I have lost a few pounds during the Pyrenees hike.

After the walk, I returned to the car and had a late lunch (around 5pm) in a nearby restaurant serving hearty Asturian soups and pleasant, lightly alcoholic Asturian cider. I next had to make my way to the other side of the mountain range, which involved another detour of 120km to get to a point only 10km away. However, my topo map showed a more direct gravel path to my destination, and I decided to try it out.

The road was uncrowded, which should have been a first hint that something was amiss. After about the 25th kilometer, the road started to climb and the rocks making up the track became larger and more uneven. I began cheerfully in second gear, but soon my Citroen economy 2-door rental began to bounce like a tin can on a hill, and I had to slow down almost to a halt. Finally, after arriving in a village which has probably never seen any vehicle smaller than a 4x4 Jeep, I knew I had to turn around if I wanted to show up at the car rental return with more than just the steering column in hand.

In the end, I made it to my destination, the village of Caín on the souther side of the mountains at about 10pm and fell asleep at the roadside inn, hoping for a less stressful and less crowded following day.

Picos de Europa: Not a Walk in the Park

The next morning I was off towards my next mountain destination, the Picos de Europa in the northwest of Spain. These mountains spring forth only a few miles off the northern coast of Spain and rise up to 2600 meters. The National Park comprising the tallest ranges straddles the borders of 3 provinces: Cantabria, Asturia, and Castilla y León.

It was a sunny morning and the highway westward was one of the prettiest I have seen yet, sandwiched as it was between the Atlantic and the green mountains called the Cordillera Cantabrica. Just before veering off to the white limestone of the Picos, I stopped for another dip in the ocean, my last for at least 10 days.

After passing a couple of touristy towns in the foothills, I parked the car at a visitors center a good distance up the slopes. My plan was to do a rather ambitions 3-day loop, catching some of the highlight sections of the park. However, the weather took a dramatic turn for the worse just a I arrived. It started to rain, and the wind began to blow so hard I was seriously afraid it would topple my parked car down the incline.

Undeterred, I donned my rain gear and started walking uphill, just as everyone else was making a dash for their vehicles. After half an hour I was completely alone, aside from the various farm animals grazing along the way. The rain was not much of an issue, but the wind only intensified as I climbed the thankfully gentle gradient. Caught in the bare valleys of the Picos (there are hardly any forests there to slow it down, even at low elevations), the wind gusted up to 90 km per hour, as I later found out.

I didn´t need any statistics to tell me that the weather conditions were rather serious. At times, I found it impossible to take a single step forward, clinging on to the nearest rock and waiting for the wind to let up. Some ascents were two steps forward and one step back, taking extreme care to anticipate the next gust by leaning into the wind at exactly the right angle. My pack rain cover wasn´t helping, since it wsa too big and acted as a sail no matter how much I tightened it.

Ascending to any peaks that day was out of the question, and, at times, I even wondered whether I would be able to reach my refugio for the night, a mere 2.5 hours away under normal conditions. I had my tent with me just in case, but didn´t relish the idea of setting it up on such a day. Finally, I reached the alpine hut, and listend from inside to the wind and rain beating down on the structure, whose windows looked ready to pop inward any second.

The refugio warden, a rough-looking chap who had taken to talking to himself out of solitude, warned that the next day promised to be even worse. I fell asleep, huddled in my sleeping bag because it was getting freezing cold even inside, wondering what to do next.

Bilbao and Bizkaia

The next morning I got a late start, and found myself in Bilbao, capital of the Basque country, only in the afternoon. I wandered by the bizarre ship-like Guggenheim modern art museum, enjoying the free attractions outside: two huge light-refracting cubes, interactive motion-triggered fountains and stage smoke, and a puppy-shaped flower bed several stories high.

Then, I turned to the more practical issue of finding wireless access to update my blog and photo album. I found what I was looking for at the offices of Euskaltel, the main Basque telephone company. There, I managed to locate an employee who knew about the advertised free wireless access and provided me with an access code valid for a day. I happily connected right there on the main stairway, and spent the next couple of hours clicking away, getting odd glances from passers-by and especially from the security guards. When I discovered that the "Euskaltelium" also had a free internet cafe, I decided that I didn´t really need to leave Bilbao until next morning.

As usual, I found a reasonably-priced pension in the old quarter (although the owner decided to stiff me for an extra 5 EUR on account of my late arrival). It was Friday night, and the evening streets of Bilbao were crowded with people, from toddlers to the very elderly. This vibrancy of Spanish towns never ceased to amaze me. Here, even in small villages and even on weekdays everything stays open late, and the nighttime streets don´t belong exclusively to young and middle-aged party-goers.

As I sat in the Plaza Nueva, watching a dozen soccer balls being bounced around chaotically by kids often not much taller than the soccer ball itself, I couldn´t help wondering why in the US one hardly ever sees kids (or the elderly) outdoors, except in what are called "bad" neighborhoods. Are those neighborhoods the only ones in which a sense of community still survives?

The Pleasures of San Sebastian

Although probably a lot less touristy than southern Spain, San Sebastian´s wide palm-lined boulevards and multi-lingual inhabitants seemed part of a completely different world than the one I had gotten used to in the Pyrenees. It was a nice change, but only for a short while. After a couple of hours on the promenades, I went off to explore some of the surprisingly uninhabited coastline north of the town. During my entire day of walking along the cliffs and past ruins of old aqueducts and fortifications, I met no other walkers except near the very start and end of the trip. My main companions on the journey were gigantic black slugs, slithering along the wet overgrown path, maintained by a local farmer for everyone to enjoy.

After taking in some spectacular coastal views and a few ripe figs along the way, I arrived at a narrow inlet, with small towns hanging above the water on either side. I crossed the inlet by water taxi and walked through Pasai Donibane, once residence of Victor Hugo, to take a return bus to San Sebastian.

Back in town, I went bar-hopping to sample some pinxtos, the delicious local version of tapas, usually consisting of bread topped with various elaborate concoctions of meat, vegetables and fish. I also managed to get laundry done in a real washing machine (a first in weeks) and get my usual "zero" haircut, which featured one of those frightful straight razors I had only seen before in movies.

Crossroads of Pamplona

In front of the city hall in Pamplona´s old city, two very famous, but completely different, paths intersect. One path is the run of the bulls towards the bull ring during the annual festival made famous by Hemingway (after whom the bull ring is now named). The other is the Camino de Santiago pilgrim route, which enters Spain just north of Pamplona near Roncesvalles and stretches westward to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. The pilgrim path is marked by small yellow arrows on the pavement and buildings of each city. Occasionally, a merchant will paint a yellow arrow pointing at his door, perhaps as a joke, perhaps expecting the waylay the unwary pilgrim.

Starting in the 9th century AD, after the alleged discovery of the remains of St James the Apostle in the remote northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula, streams of pilgrims seeking redemption for their sins walked the path (actually many paths) towards the cathedral in Santiago. However they didn´t get to see the remains of St. James at the end of their journey -- the coffin remains forever sealed, although it is paraded around the streets once a year. In special Holy years, however, pilgrims who complete the trip are promised a plenary indulgence -- full forgiveness of their lifetime sins.

I decided that, for an atheist like myself, a complete indulgence would be a nice insurance policy, and, lucky for me, the Pope has declared 2004 to be one of the Holy years. To use the Camino´s well-organized system of alberges (cheap, often free, hostels) it is necessary to first obtain the Pilgrim´s Credential, which is stamped at the alberges along the way. Pilgrims who complete the last 100 km of the Camino on foot receive the Compostela certificat at the cathedral in Santiago. I decided to walk about 200km of the Camino, starting in the town of Ponferrada, just west of León in Castilla y León province.

In the morning, I waited patiently for the Pamplona cathedral to open in order to get my Credential (a week in advance), but was refused because I did not intend to begin my pilgrimage in Pamplona. Technically this was true, but, like a lot of people, I intended to visit many of the cities along the Camino, which was the primary connection between Spain and the rest of Europe for hundreds of years, by car.

From Pamplona I drove north to Roncesvalles, a key crossing point in the Basque Pyrenees and the site of the legendary events of the Song of Roland. From there, I crossed into France again (my fourth and shortest yet detour into France on this trip). The leaves were turning, and the rolling fog gave the forested hills around me a mystical feeling. The same red-and-white villages were scattered on both sides of the border, which wasn´t surprising since both regions were predominantly Basque.

I spent almost 4 days in Navarre and Bizkaia, two of the Basque regions, and heard the unusual-sounding Basque language (unrelated to any other European language) spoken quite a bit, but not nearly as often as Catalan in Catalunya. Curiously, many Basque cities have two names, one in Spanish and another in Basque, which don´t sound anything alike. For instance, Pamplona is Irún, and San Sebastian is Donostia.

I arrived in San Sebastian, a large resort town on the Atlantic ocean near the French border, and went swimming at the first beach I found. It had warm greenish-blue water and perfectly shaped waves that appeared out of a completely flat surface several meters offshore. Then, I went off to find a small pension in the historic quarter, where I was going to stay for a couple of nights to recuperate from my mountain adventures.

The Muslim and Christian Roots of Aragon

The next morning, Mark and I walked around downtown Zaragoza, following a suggested itinerary on our tourist map. Besides some ancient Roman ruins, the oldest and most interesting buildings here dated from the period of Muslim rule. Zaragoza, it turned out, despite its relatively northern location, was a Muslim stronghold well into the 15th century. The architects of later Christian churches often incorporated existing Muslim towers into the design, creating some rather unique ensembles.

For the following week, I decided to mix it up a bit and rent a car. The first rental agency I tried refused to accept my US drivers license (technically an international license is required), but I had no problem at National, the second agency I came across.

For the first day, my goal was to reach Pamplona (in Navarre) and see a couple of sights in Aragon along the way. The first stop was Castillo de Loarre in the Pyrenean foothills northwest of Huesca. As we approached (Mark was still with me that day until I dropped him off at the Huesca bus station), we saw hundreds of gigantic birds, probably vultures, circling near the castle. The castle itself was built around a stony outcrop, and looked as though it were itself part of the rocky landscape. When we got to the castle, the warden told us that the castle gate was about to close for lunch, but also pointed out that the castle wall had a very large breach through which one could enter, should one be so inclined.

Next stop for me was the monastery of San Juan de la Peña, where the first kings of Aragon are buried. The monastery, a small building huddled under a rock in a remote mountainous area, used to wield great economic power in the Middle Ages due to so man people leaving their property to it in their wills.

It was getting quite dark by the time I reached Pamplona and I drove around the city in circles many times trying to find my way without a map of any kind. Unable to find parking near any realistic lodging options, I curled up rather awkwardly in my car and went to sleep, leaving a walking tour of the city for the next morning.

A Gradual Return to Civilization

On this day I visited 4 new towns, each one about 4 times larger than the previous one, and employed 4 progressively faster means of transportation between them, from walking to minibus, to coach bus to train. It was a smooth way to ease back into the mechanized world, at least for the time being.

The first transport out of Torla was not until 3:30 pm, so I decided to spend the morning by walking down to the nearest sizeable town, Broto, which boasted an internet cafe. The route lay along a valley with ripe blackberries, hazelnuts, apples and even walnuts aplenty, so that by early afternoon I had given myself quite an uncomfortable stomach ache from the hundreds of hazelnuts I ate. I got quite adept at cracking the shells without crushing the nut inside, but calculated that, at best, I could peel a dollar's worth of nuts per hour, which was not an easy way to make a living.

When I reached the small town, Broto, it turned out that everything there, including my internet cafe, was closed for Broto's annual holiday of some sort. When I asked someone in the street how the townspeople celebrated the day (hoping, at least, to see some ancient Aragonese rituals to pass the time), the man replied that they celebrated by doing absolutely nothing.

Disappointed, I returned to Torla, where Mark and I hopped on a shuttle bus to SabiNanigo. From there we took a coach bus to Huesca, and then a train to Zaragoza, Aragon's capital and home to half of its population. We arrived in the city quite late, and were lucky to find an open pension. Zaragoza, it turned out, was just starting its own week-long festivities honoring the Virgin of Pilar.

Pyrenees Day 12: Ordesa, Spain's Grand Canyon

After spending the night in the town of Torla Mark and I decided to return to the national park the next day to explore the Ordesa canyon, which we bypassed the day before by taking the Breach of Roland detour. After hiking for so many days, we opted for the leisurely route this time, leaving most of our belongings in Torla and taking a shuttle bus to the valley's bottom. From there we did a 7-hour loop along the walls of the canyon. This was probably the most crowded area in all of the Pyrenees, but there was still enough solitude for us to enjoy the hike. Ironically, parts of our path had dramatic signs warning of serious but unspecified dangers, yet there were never any such signs during our entire GR11 trek, which was incomparably more challenging.

The high reddish-white walls of Ordesa were definitely one of the most spectacular sights, especially when viewed from half-way up one side of the canyon. Although not quite on the scale of the Grand Canyon, the valley looked more like Utah or Arizona than the Pyrenees we were familiar with.

Down at the valley floor there was lush green vegetation and a stream with small waterfalls and pools of clear blue water. Unfortunately the weather was mostly cloudy, and we waited in vain for the sun to come out so we could take some nice photos of the waterfalls.

We returned to Torla for a second night, celebrating the end of our mountain trek with a family-size pizza...each. The waitress's eyes became almost as big and round as the pizzas she served us when she took our orders, and then observed as we nonchalantly downed the last slices as though they were a light appetizer.

Pyrenees Day 11: Into the Breach of Roland

Roland's Breach may not be as well known as Roland's horn, but it is attributed to the same historical/mythical character, a leutenant in Charlemagne's army, whose forces were ambushed by a group of Basques as they were retreating across the Pyrenees after being defeated earlier by the Moors, or Saracens, as the Song of Roland calls them. According to one story, Roland himself gouged out the breach in the ridge separating Spain from France with his sword. Putting aside the technical difficulties with this theory, there is no evidence Roland ever entered Aragon, and the events of the Song of Roland explicitly take place in Navarre, hundreds of kilometers to the west.

Nevertheless, the moment we saw the breach we immediately understood why the story had such appeal. The clean vertical walls of the breach looked so artificial and different from the surrounding landscape that it was natural to assume it was the creation of some intelligent force. It was of a scale much smaller than the glacier-cleft valleys and was probably a hundred meters tall by thirty meters wide.

Another odd rock formation, in the shape of a carved chess piece, stood nearby and was simply and generically called "the finger," but of course it was natural for us to think of it as Roland's last message to the impetuous Saracens and treacherous Basques.

We made our way to the breach over a couple of boulder fields and past a large cave, which could have easily accomodated all of Charlemagne's army. At the breach, we were met by a more contemporary, though no less numerous, army of French hikers, most of whom hiked up from a parking lot several hours away on the French side.

Our descent into France crossed a small glacier, but the path through was level and well-trodden, so we didn't encounter any difficulties traversing it. Then followed a steep descent over loose gravel to a French refugio, where we parked our packs for an hour and went over to check out a nearby waterfall, the highest in all of Europe, according to the Spanish guy who recommended it. It was certainly a long fall, but not particularly impressive due to the water shortage.

Our detour into France only lasted a few hours, and we soon found ourselves at the border once again. There used to be a parking lot here, but several rockslides had blocked the road leading up to it, so the French day-hikers had to walk a couple of kilometers on foot to reach it. The descent into Spain from here was far less popular, and involved a bone-jarring descent down a steep path used by cattle. Having only two legs on such a path was a clear disadvantage, and keeping both of them intact was a challenge.

We reached the hamlet of Bujaruelo at around 5pm, and I cooled my tired feet in the ice-cold water of the nearby Ara river, just downstream from a small arched stone bridge, which featured on several postcards I later saw in Torla. From here, we followed the GR11 in reverse to loop back around to Torla, our final destination. It was a scenic walk, but it was getting late so we gladly accepted a lift about half-way down the path from a couple driving a van along a road that intersected with our trail.

Pyrenees Day 10: Straight Up

Looking at the sheer cliffs dropping down to the Pineta valley is quite a puzzling experience when you know that somehow your trail ends up on the other side. Mark and I spent much of the prior day wondering exactly where the trail would ascend, agreeing that none of the possibilities looked very promising. Still, the next morning we delivered ourselves to the mercy of the red-and-white trail blazes. Unsurprizingly, the blazes led us up, up, and then up some more. What followed was a four-limbed clamber lasting over 3 hours and gaining about 1200 meters elevation in about 2km, which made for an average grade of 60%. Fortunately, it was early enough to be cool and shady most of the way, and therefore not nearly as difficult as we had feared.

As we stopped to snack and rest at the top of the pass, just within the border of the Ordesa and Monte Perdido National Park, we were faced with a choice between the high road and the low road. The original GR11 continued up, hugging the bald rocks of the Las Olas peak above the Anisclo valley. However, complaints about the dangers of this route in wet and snowy conditions (i.e. most of the year) led the trail committee to change teh official route to descend into the valley and climb up on the other side. The weather conditions that day were near-perfect, however, and we didn´t like the idea of losing our hard-earned altitude this quickly, so we opted for the high road after some deliberation.

As it turned out, the Las Olas passage wasn´t nearly as tough as we expected. It had been a very dry September, and there were no wet rocks or snow fields in our path. We used the chain climbing aids attached to the rocks, but in these conditions they were not at all necessary. A couple of times the path skirted along a ledge, with vertical cliffs above and below, but it was never objectively dangerous, and we kept our subjective fear of heights reasonably under control.

We then had the pleasant experience of actually having to descend to reach the next ¨pass¨ into the Ordesa valley. We reached a refugio around 5 pm, but our plan was to go slightly further. The night before I met a Spanish guy who recommended we take a detour into France via the so-called ¨Breach of Roland¨ to see some of the more spectacular scenery in the National Park. This detour would bring us into Torla the next day from a north-westerly direction, a significantly longer route that required us to get as far as possible on the previous day. Although we were both quite tired, we decided to walk a couple more kilometers and find a place to camp.

We filled all our water bottles at the refugio´s painfully slow trickle of a water supply because we were warned that there was no water in the mountains above due to the dry weather and the limestone foundation of the valley, which quickly drained all water to the bottom. The refugio´s water supply drew from the same groundwater and was on its last leg as well. Our path from the refugio deviated from the GR11 trail, but was very well-marked with cairns, since it was used by thousands of French hikers who come into the park via this route. After walking a reasonable distance away from the refugio, we pitched our tent in a flat area among the surrounding white rocks. Mark fixed some pasta with mushroom soup concentrate that looked and tasted like cement, but I added some ham to my portion, which made it somewhat more palatable.

Pyrenees Day 9: The Pineta Valley

We left Parzan along a 4WD track snaking its way up a valley to some abandoned lead mines. Although we did not pass the mine themselves, we still decided not to replenish our water supply from the local streams. As we crested over the next ridge we saw ahead of us the dramatic wall of the Monte Perdido massif, the next day´s challenge.

Meanwhile we descended into the scenic Pineta valley below, passing through an improbably flat stretch of meadow a dozen soccer fields long, surrounded by white cliffs. Walking along this gigantic golfing fairway carved out among bare rock I almost expected to encounter a group of retired attorneys teeing off in our direction. However, we did not encounter anyone at all that day until we descended to the tourist road at the valley´s bottom.

We continued along an expansive flat riverbed of dry rocks to arrive at our next refugio after a not-too-difficult day. There, we encountered a French man who arrived by car to resupply his friends, who were hiking the entire GR11 from ocean to sea. He apparently resupplied them many times along the route (which involved mult-hour detours by car, since there are no east-west roads in the Pyrenees), allowing them to travel light.

Dinner at the refugio was a family-style affair, with 7 of us passing each dish around a single table. I was initially concerned that hunger would prevail over politeness andprovoke a knife-and-fork scuffle over the food, but was relieved to see that there was enough of each course to keep the jousting to a minimum.

Pyrenees Day 8: Path to Parzan

The following morning we set forth westward from Viados, aiming to reach the village of Parzan by late afternoon. It was a relatively easy day, much of it along pastures and forest roads. Once more, the sun followed us all day and heat was our only natural enemy. Happily, the last portion of our route lay in the shade. Even more happily, blackberries and hazelnuts grew around us in abundance, slowing our way down quite a bit.

Parzan was a town completely destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, so its white stucco houses looked different from the older and more typical grey stone of other Aragonese villages. Its only hotel, it seemed, was just recovering from more recent devastation, as masons were busily patching up some gaping holes in one of its sides. As a result, we stayed at a tiny pension with a pink bathroom and pastoral paintings everywhere. Even with all the frills, the room was a bargain at 10 EUR per person.

For dinner we ventured down to the above-mentioned hotel, whose restaurant was open despite the construction work. However, we arrived well before the local crowd, which did not start to trickle in until 9:30pm, so the owner, Fernando, entertained us with various interesting tidbits of Spanish history, trying to postpone the time his wife had to begin cooking. We talked at length about the ancient Romans and their gold mining methods, the Camino de Santiago pilgrim route, and the scientific achievements of the Moors. At several points Fernando appeared on the verge of taking our food order, but before his pen could reach the pad he was holding he would always get sidetracked into telling some admittedly fascinating story, myth, or historical episode (we often weren´t sure which it was). When the food arrived, however, it was quite good, and we left feeling satiated, as well as educated.

Pyrenees Day 7: Ascent of Posets

While some beings prefer to rest on the seventh day, such was not our fate. Still, Mark and I felt like doing something different, so we decided...to climb a mountain. Of course climbing (and descending) was pretty much our main pastime for the last week, but this was the first time we set out to conquer a peak for its own sake.

I left most of my belongings at the refugio (where we were going to return for a second night) and took only some food, water, extra clothing and a map. Posets, the second tallest peak in the Pyrenees (3370 meters) was about 5 hours up from the refugio, so, assuming a return trip, we knew it was going to be a long day. However, we also knew the climb was easier than the other top peaks in the area because it did not cross any glaciers and therefore did not require an ice axe and crampons.

The path upward wound its way through forest at first, then a grassy mountainside, and for the last half of the ascent, primarily through bare rock. The map -- and the owners of the refugio -- assured us we would find a spring near one of the glaciers that our route skirted, so we did not fill our water bottles completely. Unfortunately, the promised spring was nowhere to be found, so we had to be quite careful with our water for much of the hike. We considered breaking off some glacier ice to melt in our water bottles, but decided not to risk unfreezing some million-year-old bacteria that was going to decimate the human race.

Finally, we reached the peak along the top of a narrow ridge no more than a few feet wide, with an abyss on either side. Fortunately the hikers must have already broken off all the loose rocks because the path was actually quite solid. The few from the top was spectacular: snow-splattered peaks along our east-west route, greener mountains to the south, and relatively flat areas north of the border in France.

The way down, even without our packs, was quite slow, taking a full five hours to return to the refugio. Along the way we picked a few wild mushrooms and mark added them to the pasta dinner he prepared in a tiny dungeon-like structure that the refugio designated for the purpose. I, instead, opted for the four-course meal offered by the refugio in the relative comfort of its wooden dining room. The dishes were simple but filling, and I passed the time chatting with two other guests, who turned out to be an Oxford physics professor and his wife, doing a week-long hike with very small backpacks (because of the refugio network it is actually quite possible to hike with such mini-packs along certain routes).

Pyrenees Day 6: Via Viados

We left Benasque a little after 8am, just late enough to snag a fresh baguette from the bakery and secure it like an antenna to the side of Mark´s pack. We followed the LP guide westward along a forest track, which probably was not the shortest route because we passed the same old man 3 times along the way. After navigating our way through a large cow herd, which made me a bit hungry (don´t know about Mark, he´s vegetarian), we broke for lunch next to a large hiker hut.

The lady at the hut informed us that the pass we were about to cross had sustained winds of 80 km per hour on the prior two days, forcing hikers to turn back (fortunately the wind had died down almost completely by the day we got there). The lady was also kind enough to sell Mark a 2 EUR soft drink, but steadfastly refused to accept any of our trash (including the empty can).

From the hut, our path climbed steeply to the pass and descended gently along the right side of a stream towards the next hut (the Viadós refugio) about 5 hours away. During the entire day the Posets massif, the second tallest in the Pyrenees after Aneto, loomed impressively to our left.

As we approached our destination for the day, we had to race a large flock of sheep headed in the same direction. The sheep were on the slope above us and would occasionally let loose some rocks, which hurtled down uncomfortably close by. Finally, we managed to gain on the animals, which glared at us as menacingly as sheep possibly can.

We entered the hamlet of Viados only to discover that it was only a collection of barns, and that its human population consisted of the husband and wife running our refuge and a shepherd, who appeared to be unemployed since the sheep knew their home from the pastures.

At first we took the scattered barns for boarded-up houses and wandered from one to another in search of our refugio. When we finally came upon the right building we found our elderly hostess sitting on the porch with a set of binoculars. She had apparently been following our approach for some time, and now returned to scanning hte horizon for anything else of interest. We paused for a few minutes to take in the spectacular mountain views and then proceeded to claim our beds upstairs, which was not difficult since there were only two other guests at the refugio.

Pyrenees Day 5: Basking in Benasque

We packed our tent (legally erected well above the altitude minimum of 1,800 meters) early and continued down a relaxing gravel path for the next several hours to reach the town of Benasque, turning down several offers to hitch a ride from day-hikers who passed us in their cars. The weather was windy, cold and sunny like before, and the smooth descent provided a nice contrast to the boulder-hopping and climbing of the last days.

We arrived in Benasque at 1:30 pm, only to learn that all the stores closed at 2, and would not open in the afternoon because it was Sunday. Hurriedly, we rushed into the first grocery store and grabbed whatever looked suitable as hiking food. Had we arrived 20 minutes later, it would have been a real problem, since we, especially Mark, were depending on this stop to replenish our food supplies.

We rented a hotel room, dropped our packs there, and went to explore this ancient town, now full of chic shops and newly-constructed condos to accomodate the skiing crowd. The laundromat was closed, so we had to do a minimum of emergency laundry in the sink. However, I found an open internet cafe, where I am typing these words. However, it is already past 11, I am the only person at the cafe, and the owner wants to close. So, I have to say goodbye, probably for a whole week, since I don´t believe I will be able to find another internet access point along my route.

Pyrenees Day 4: Around the Hidden Mountain

On the morning of the fourth day, we decided to take the easier of two possible routes through the Maladeta massif, which contains the Pyrenees highest peak, Aneto (at 3404 meters). Although both of us wanted to take the more difficult route north of the peak, we knew that the prior day´s rain would have made the ascent rather treacherous. Moreover, we did not know whether the rain would continue, and attempting a high pass at 2,972 meters, surrounded by glaciers, did not seem like the prudent choice under those conditions.

So, yes, we chose the wimpy way out, a slog of 10 hours around the southern edge of the massif, climbing to a "mere" 2,740 meters from the valley floor at about 1,550. Ultimately, the climb up to the pass and the descent to find a suitable camping spot took us until 8pm, after the sun had already disappeared behind the jagged horizon.

A strong cold northern wind followed us all day, but the sky stayed clear, the sharp peaks to our north slicing the clouds like a plough and sending only blue sky in our direction. Strangely enough, during the entire day we did not see Aneto, the king of the hills (so to speak), because our view, even at the high pass, was blocked by smaller, closer mountains, which stood guard around its master. Still, we were quite thankful to our invisible protector and its coterie for the absence of rain. Only at the very end of the day were we allowed a short glimpse of Aneto, reddened by the last rays of the setting sun.

We camped on a flat grassy meadow between a couple of streams. I pitched my tent, which fit both of us comfortably, while Mark boiled some water using his camp stove. The cold day meanwhile became an even colder night, and so we went to sleep as soon as we possibly could.

Pyrenees Day 3: Clouds are Wet

My first two days of hiking were under an impeccably blue sky, and it was only on the morning of the third day that the first wispy clouds appeared on the horizon. Rather quickly, however, they grew in size and took on a decidedly gray color. Mark had intended on climbing a nearby mountain as a side trip, recommended by the LP guide, but I counseled him against it on account of the weather. I, however, was not wise enough to listen to my own advice, and undertook a detour to some high-altitude lakes, agreeing with Mark I would see him at our designated end-point for the day, which I expected to reach at about 6pm after 8 hours of hiking.
I climbed a steep path up to a plateau and was rewarded by a sight of the most scenic lake yet, surrounded by sheer cloud-covered cliffs, and featuring a green island protruding from its middle. However, I was only able to snap a few photos before it began to rain and the clouds descended down on me. The rain was rather light but steady, like Chinese water torture, and followed me for the rest of the day. I immediately put on my blue rain-jacket and blue backpack rain cover, turning into a blue turtle-like creature, clambering my way through the mist.
At the far end of the lake, the trail markings suddenly headed south, up a moderate incline, rather than west, as my map indicated. However, the cliffs to the west looked virtually impassable, so I ignored my calculations and the compass, and chose the easy alternative. Only after 40 minutes of ascent and encountering an unexpected lake I realized that I was on the wrong track. I retraced my steps and was able to find one small rock pile, then another, following the correct direction. Apparently my map had failed to indicate the other trail, and both trails were marked with identical cairns, so my mistake was completely natural.
Ascent westward from the lake was difficult, and turned into an upper-body workout near the end, as I had to pull myself up from rock to rock. The rocks were wet, but my boots kept a good grip, and I climbed very cautiously, testing each stone before using it for support. Descent from the pass was less steep than the climb, and after another 90 minutes I rejoined the main trail.
My boots, which faithfully kept the rain and wet grass from getting to my feet for the first couple of hours finally gave out, and the rest of my trip was accompanied by an unpleasant slurping sound from inside my shoes. Luckily, due to the high-tech fabric in the boots, my feet stayed very warm, even after they were completely soaked. The rest of my body was warm, so long as I kept moving, so kept my stops to a bare minimum. Finally, after a 2-hour continuous descent towards the valley where the next shelter was located, and only 30 minutes behind schedule, I arrived at the destination, where I found Mark already enjoying a hot shower.
The destination was called the Hospital of Viehla, a hospital in its ancient sense of a place that provides hospitality. Built in 1192, 300 years before Columbus, and supported by various charitable and religious organizations such as the Knights Templar, this refuge now catered to hikers, and other passers-by, since it now stood at one end of a highway tunnel connecting the Aran Valley with the rest of Spain. Hospitality was certainly what we received there, along with accomodations far exceeding those of the night before. I was able to recharge my batteries, both literally and figuratively, and dry my clothes using old newspapers to suck out the moisture quickly.

Pyrenees Day 2: An unlikely encounter

On the second day, I packed up my tent early so as to avoid being chased off by park rangers (if there were any around). The ridge I crossed early in the morning provided some shelter against the winds, and soon the sun started to shine, allowing me to peel off my clothing layers down to pants and a T-shirt. Lakes, ponds, and tarns of varying shapes and sizes littered the descent. No two were exactly alike, and some had a very distinct personality. One large one stood firmly in my path, shining with a confident shade of blue and forcing me to skirt its boulder-strewn shore. Another was shallow and friendly, completely transparent right to its sandy bottom. Still another was brown and murky, with frogs croaking along the muddy shoreline.

A few of the lakes, even comparatively tiny ones were held in by stone dams, part of a comprehensive effort to use hydroelectric power for the benefit of local towns. The dams and occasional power lines certainly detracted from the mountains´natural purity, but many fit so neatly into the landscape that they almost complemented it.

My LP guide suggested a 2-day detour from the GR-11 trail about mid-way through the second day, and I decided to follow its advice. Shortly afterwards, on a poorly-marked trail on which I hardly expected to see many people, I came across another trekker, walking in the same direction. His backpack was almost as big as he was, and I knew he was no day hiker. Since the trail at this point was confusing, I tried to communicate with him, first in Spanish, and, meeting no signs of recognition, in French. He replied in French that his first language was English, and I asked where he was from. He said Washington, D.C.

His name was Mark Allen, he was a lawyer working at the Federal Elections Commission, here on a month-long holiday hiking across the Pyrenees on his own, with the same British guidebook as I. At this point, I was forced to completely renounce the prideful illusion that I was doing anything remotely unique with my life.

After a brief moment´s hesitation, we temporarily renounced our self-imposed solitude, and began walking together, discovering one thing in common after another. We even had a couple of acquaintances in common in DC. The time passed quickly, and around 6:30 we reached an alpine hut that was our goal for the day.

The hut, high on a slope overlooking a dark lake, was described in our guidebook as a popular rest stop. Indeed, there were around 25 people who had made their way there for the night. The accomodations, however, were far from the nicest. The barely-flowing ice-cold shower persuaded most people that hygiene was a luxury to be dispensed with up here. The sleeping room consisted of two levels of mattresses, with tiny pillows as the only indication of each "bed" boundary.

I was quite hungry for a hot meal, so I consumed the substantial dinner without much hesitation, pretending that the soup full of chunks resembling soaked brown croutons was indeed full of soaked brown croutons, as opposed to some spongy animal tissue, which was the more realistic view. Falling asleep on a full stomach was no problem at all around here, and it was lights out time at 10 (literally in the dining area, and figuratively in the sleeping area, since lights there never worked in the first place).

Pyrenees Day 1: Mountain Marathon

I spent the night before my trek in Espot, on the eastern side of Aigüestortes y Estany Saint Maurici National Park (the park itself isn´t quite as big as its name). I arrived there the day before on the same bus as a friendly young Scottish couple, who were going on a 5-day hike in the same area. We got to talking and ended up sharing a 4WD taxi into the village (from the crossroads where the bus dropped us off), a large dinner, and the same pension (a cheap family-owned hotel). We talked about our respective plans, discussed routes and places to stay overnight during the hike. The park service operates several alpine huts, which cater to hikers and provide simple sleeping accomodations along with dinner and breakfast.

After my last set of bedsheets and hot showers with soap for the next 5 days, I was on the road at 8:15. My Lonely Planet guidebook (hereinafter LP guide) recommended a 7-hour itinerary for that day, but I decided to add a detour via some scenic lakes. It turned out that I had miscalculated just a little, and the detour took an additional 7 hours, even though I went rather fast, eager to test my strength against the mountains. Nevertheless, I completed all but the last two hours of the planned route, walking for almost 12 hours straight.

It was without a doubt the most physically challenging day in my life. In total, I gained over 2000 meters in altitude and went down about 800. Every minute was either up or down, with varying steepness. Sometimes the trail ran followed a gravel road, and at other times it was a barely distinguishable path, winding its way up to a high pass, or a descent over a giant boulder field, with small rock piles indicating the way. On some portions of the trail I would see quite a few people, but at times I knew there was no one around for miles.

As I ascended, the scenery went from pretty to spectacular to awe-inspiring. Initially I climbed along a forest stream, along which various mushrooms grew in abundance. After 3 hours or so, I reached a plateau with clear blue lakes, and one of the alpine huts nestled between them in a truly picturesque way (photos to come once I fully return to the connected world). Then, there was more climbing to do, going over a pass just below one of the tallest peaks in the park (and, incidentally, one of its official symbols). At about 3pm, after taking in the views from the valleys below, and my 4th snack of the day, I proceeded to descent to rejoin the main trail described in the LP guide.

At the Estany Saint Maurici (Estany means "pond" in Catalan), I met quite a few day-hikers with small packs, a clear sign of a nearby parking lot. From there, I started climbing up to another pass, which marked the boundary of the National Park. My plan was to camp somewhere beyond the boundary, since pitching a tent within the park is technically prohibited. However, it was getting late, and my energy was sustained only by periodic swigs of honey from a jar I had with me.

Finally, I decided to camp on a flat spot at about 2500 meters of altitude, just below the pass. It was very windy, and pitching my tent without losing parts of it to the abyss below took a lot of effort and concentration. The tent flapped madly like a loose sail until I finally managed to stake it down, remembering the lessons from windsurfing about making friends with the wind rather than fighting it. Fortunately my tent was rock-solid once it was in place, and it kept me warm and protected through the night.

Preparing to hike the Pyrenees

I could have easily spent a few days relaxing in Girona, but the mountains were calling my name, and I had to hurry if I wanted to make it before the first snowfall. Crossing the Pyrenees east to west are 2 or 3 separate paths, with variants, connections and overlaps. The GR-10 follows the French side, and the GR-11 is on the Spanish side. The whole trek from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic takes 6-8 weeks and is rather challenging, since the valleys mostly run North-South and so trails inevitably go up or down most of the time. I hope to manage one or two weeks along a trail my guidebook (Walking in Spain) describes, which crosses some of the most spectacular scenery roughly in the middle section of the range, from the Agües Torres National park west through Ordesa National Park.

Although I knew I would have an opportunity to buy food in Lleida or at the park entrance in Espot, I ended up buying most of what I needed in a cheap supermarket in Girona. My provisions mainly consist of nuts, mixed dried fruit, hard smoked sausage, cheese, honey and lembas bread (er...dried high-fiber bread that is actually very light and filling). I will also eat fresh fruit and vegetables along the route wherever I can get them.

I also found some detailed topo maps covering the first 8-9 days of my hike, which follows the GR-11 with a few exceptions. Finally, I scoured the town for my last wireless connection for a while, in order to upload my latest photos and update my journal. I ended up finding a hotel on the outskirts of town. To my dismay, the wireless connection, though free, popped up with a username and password screen. Luckily, however, I was able to convince the friendly receptionist girl to provide me with the needed information (and I don´t mean her phone number).

The next morning at 7am I went to take the bus to Lleida with my backpack, which has started to become quite heavy with a week´s supply of food. I discarded every inessential item I had, even ripping out unneeded pages out of my hiking guidebook. Still, my fully loaded pack with 2.5 liters of water will probably approach 40 lbs.

I made the bus with 30 seconds to spare, and enjoyed the fantastic scenery along the 3.5 hour ride, which once again took me by the area of Montserrat. I am writing these lines from an internet cafe in Lleida as I wait for my connection to Espot (actually to the crossroads leading to Espot, from where I´ll need to walk several kilometers to the nearest campground or hiker hostel). This will probably be my last post for several days until I get to Benasque, a 5-day journey from Espot. Wish me luck in the mountains!