Tavascan - Areu

Exhaustion. Every cell in the marrow of my bones screamed for mercy. The old windows were dripping with condensation, the room was strangely cold and my body lay stuck in a giant block of lead. So so so tired. But I had a reservation in Encamp two days ahead. I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to. I cheekily slept on further until 10, naturally an idiotic move as I’d be doing today’s giant climb in the late morning heat. But opening the wet windows, I was hit by the fresh morning air and a sense of motivation I hadn’t felt back in the city for a long time. The trail was calling.

The first stretch of today went through old resistance country, where militias had fought against Franco’s army during the Spanish Civil War. Tiny square openings leading into gunproof mountain bunkers popped out randomly in the rock. Today was yet another massive uphill-col-downhill stretch. Luckily it was marginally less merciless than the previous day, mostly in the forest sheltered from the sun. I started out of town. Golden birch forest lay blanketed with blueberry bushes. The trail was oddly wet even though I hadn’t seen a drop of rain in days. Once the uphill started, it would not end. I kept frantically checking my phone to see how much further it could possibly go on for, and every time I’d seemingly not moved an inch.

I crawled upwards on the dry sandy path until the trees scattered and became shorter. On the western horizon I could faintly make out the twin peaks Annie and I had marvelled at as we left the mountains on our way into Espot. The sun blazed directly overhead as I walked stiffly across the scorched golden col, an unremarkable little clearing which immediately plunged down into more forest on the other side. Eva sat in the shade beneath a tree, but I knew that if I stopped I wouldn’t be able to get up again, so I waved at her and shuffled onwards.

I listened to three episodes of the Tough Girl Challenges podcast. An absolute dream podcast for any adventurer, the host Sarah Williams interviews the most incredible women adventurers from all walks of life. Women who row across the Atlantic, who run ultramarathons, who bike across Iran, who live alone in the woods, who thru-hike. I harboured a secret dream to be a guest on it one day. The episode I listened to featured a woman who had hiked the Appalachian Trail in the USA. Hearing her talk about the so familiar trail culture of the Triple Crown Trails made me ache to be back on American soil (and to enjoy American freeze dried dinners).

I hadn’t thought about GR11 being my replacement trail for the PCT in a long time. As I walked through the thick pine forest on the broad, well-maintained trail, it struck me that this was probably the closest you would get to the PCT in Europe. The rugged mountains, excellent trail maintenance, and now thick forests was exactly what I’d watched countless vloggers document on their journey through Washington. Before covid, I had planned to complete the whole PCT by the time I was 30. That idea was laughable now. At this rate I would have to aim at “by 35” or longer. I had only done the Sierra, where you could only do tiny mileages in the dizzying altitude and terrain. Left to go was Southern and Northern California, Oregon, and Washington. Basically all of it. The guidebooks already stood neatly lined up in my bookshelf. All I had to do was prioritise it at whatever cost, which I was willing to do. But not this year.

I cruised down the pine forest trail. It was unbearably hot and I was bone tired after 11 days of no rest. Tired but capable. I’d started viewing long trail days the way I’d started to view tedious report writing and other obstacles of my everyday life. It wasn’t ideal, but if you waited long enough and kept plodding along, it would eventually pass. The least inspiring motivational speech of all time, but nonetheless true. I also knew that even dreary days like this would seem magical in hindsight, that the sunlight and sweat would call to me from some point in the future when I would sit well-fed and rested in the comfort of my room. The magic of the city fades fast, but the magic of the trail is forever.

Once down in the farmland of Areu, the campground was all the town I needed. A good thing too as the actual little town was completely dead, with a small shop entirely unsuited to hiker needs. The campground was lovely complete with a swimming pool and big shower bloc, an had an air-conditioned restaurant where I spotted other single hikers who by the size of their packs were obviously on the GR11. I called them all over so we could sit at the same table, and I ordered both a pizza and a crêpe. Carbs are fuel. An adorable little grey kitty jumped onto my lap to scavenge some pizza (auntie Kris shall provide) and had to pay with cuddles. Kissing her velvety head, I felt another pang of longing for someone to kiss my head again – but I pushed it away. Just like that, I had a trail family again, the biggest one yet and with a very different demographic makeup than my two former little herds. Mikolaj was tall and athletic, in his 40s from Poland. Eva had the same itinerary as me for the rest of the trip. Mark was a pale blonde Dutchman around 50, who was struggling with long covid but was determined to finish his hike regardless. He brought us all ice creams at the little store, and I was a loyal fan from that moment onwards.

Tomorrow: Andorra.