Parzán – Forcallo Camping

I awoke with a familiar heavy feeling in my chest. That one which sucks laughter out of you and makes all your movements slow and your mind blank. I mechanically packed my gear, braided my hair, and looked myself in the mirror. The coral merino t-shirt I had unpacked from my resupply box in Arthur’s Pass over five years before. Blue shorts I’d gotten on sale in Frankfurt, a bit too short, but they reminded me of Cheryl Strayed. A trail of dirt-stained towels because two weeks was all you needed for dust to seep into every pore. And that sad, blank face. The trail life appeals to many of us in moments where we feel we lack direction – out here the only way is forward. And so I set forth.

The climb out of Parzán up the tarmac road was only the beginning of a 10 km steep gravel road which would take me back into the mountains. Sure, I was a sucker for a real bed, but the eternal yo-yo’ing into valleys daily felt like a trial. Just at the trail junction, a girl who looked around my age walked towards me. She was wearing sun-protective gear, a hat, and carried a Gossamer Gear Mariposa. I could spot a thru-hiker from a mile away. Her name was Christine. She lived in Colorado. I almost turned around and walked down back into town with her and her blonde, extremely fit-looking hiking partner, Annie. Christine assured me they were just stopping for resupply and that I’d see them in camp, and with that, I stood alone in the quiet morning once more.

Climbing up through the sun-dappled forest, into the discomfort of heat and toil, I tried to hike so hard that I wouldn’t question anything beyond my breath. But it was too late. Too late, too late. The heaviness seeped out from my chest until I couldn’t hold myself upright anymore. I leant over my trekking poles and howled. At the impossible emptiness of being out here in the sunlight surrounded by sweet-smelling pines, when all I wanted was to be with him. To be found and not lost the way I once had been. To fall asleep next to the sound of another beating heart. The negative space beside me felt like a perpetual hollowness where his presence should be. The mountains echoed with my anguished cries. The force of my sobs seemed strong enough to splinter me, and yet the trees stood unmoving. I wept even harder, until there was only air and no sound coming out.

Love will tear us apart.

The 2020s had taught me that you never truly run out of tears, there will always be an indefinite reserve. But I was running out of cool morning time. A frog hopped across the road and I staggered onwards in a slimy mess of sweat, tears, and sunscreen. The trees gradually thinned out as I made my way past the GR11’s umpteenth dam, this one housing a deep jade pool. So tired. Up the Barranco Montarruegos towards today’s pass, Collado de Urdiceto (2314m). Milky clouds rolled over the mountain tops, and it was very quiet. An afternoon storm was probably brewing somewhere. A stony bothy stood by the side of the trail in the middle of the empty mountainscape. Up here the ground was so barren it was almost yellow, a world away from the lush green valley I had just climbed. There wasn’t a human in sight. I didn’t want to walk or to stop. I wanted to be held. Fuck it. I felt pretty hobo-esque sitting by the bothy with my family pack of crisps. I might as well be powered by junk for a day. Get rid of that Haribo weight on my back by transferring it to my hips instead.

The trail was beautiful. But I was in pain. Everywhere was mountains and rock and yellow grass and green pines and more rock. My feet were heavy. Once again all the altitude was lost as I walked the sometimes rocky, sometimes mushy path down for hours without trying to think of anything until I reached the forest. By now it was truly overcast, and I spent an extra 15 minutes walking in an enormous circle around a herd of cows. Not taking any chances with you psychos again. The forest grew thick around Swiss chocolate commercial meadows. The first drop. Another. Shit.

I bounded down the gravel road with thunder clapping above. God how I hated this eternal chase. Once down on the valley flat I still had two km to go until the campsite. Rain poured. I donned my pack cover and my screaming pink FroggToggs jacket. If I was struck by lightning now, then so be it. I would make a flashy roast in this gear. I was slick with rain when I arrived at the campsite and plopped into the bar with my hair dripping. A huge pack of male trail runners all stopped eating to stare unashamedly until I glared back. An extremely tall Dutch couple (obviously) brought some great chat, but alas, they were hiking the other way. Then Christine and the blonde woman she hiked with, Annie, came in.

And just like that. There they were, the two badass female thru-hikers I had never found on any trip. They were doing an ambitious ten day stretch all the way to Espot from Sallent de Gallego. I simply stared as they recounted their insane days. They’d gone all the way from Goriz to Plan Fonda. The more they talked, I felt myself wanting nothing more than to join forces with them. They were the hiking companions of my dreams – empathic, experienced, efficient, collaborative. We set up camp in between drizzles in the designated spots under a tall birch tree. How long it had been since I had seen a Big Agnes tent! Their thru-hiking world was my thru-hiking world, their trail stories from America rang so familiar in my ears. Within a couple of hours, I found myself telling them about London, the pandemic, and trying to figure out how to move on with life. They listened intently and absolutely without judgement. “What a great story”, Christine said. I was almost taken aback. My great story had always been the Te Araroa on the back of my miserable undergrad years. I considered everything since 2020 to be the shitty parts of the story that hadn’t really come to any uplifting or neat conclusion. Maybe there was none.

I had noodles and gross packaged quinoa with cherry tomatoes for dinner, still chattering with Annie and Christine. We decided to get up early (like, darkness early) tomorrow, the two of them really were legging it. The forecast seemed undecided. No day until the foothills of Andorra would be under the treeline for more than a few km. We would just have to try and see – together.