Zuriza – Aguas Tuertas, via la mina

Day five dawned to the wettest tent of all time, luckily offset by one of the best views of all time. The morning was icy cold, but right outside my vestibule rose the majestic row of the Sierra de Alano. I hadn’t seen the mountain massif last night in the dark, but now they shot up like glowing white marble along the road towards the east. I had never seen anything like these peaks, a thought that would recur often over the next weeks. As I was packing up to leave, a police car drove by, slowing almost to a stop. “You’re not allowed to camp in the national park!” said the police ranger sternly. I didn’t really have a better response than a flat stare considering that the deed was obviously done, and I was two tent stakes away from leaving. Parts of Europe have the most ridiculous rules against camping, which when done responsibly is one of the least impactful ways humans can travel. I threw on my backpack with my baguette flagpole and strode into the frosty sunrise. The road ended where the valley floor did. Now it was time to climb. Just as I had filled up my water bottles and washed my face in the sky-blue stream, I saw a familiar figure just up ahead. Jake, the Aussie from yesterday! I was hungry for company and threw myself upwards in stride beside him.

We clambered up the Petraficha ravine towards the first pass. The glare of the rising sun overexposed everything to the point where I could only really look at my feet even with sunglasses on. Sharp wedges of dark stone stuck up like burnt toast, tearing at the soles of my boots. Scraggly baby pines grew alongside the trail as it snaked upwards, a band of the funky rock and brown sand climbing into the blue. Jake and I went through the motions of getting to know one another, both of us knowing we were likely to keep each other’s company for a good while. He was from Melbourne but not a city guy, one of three siblings and now an uncle, and stuck to a pattern of working odd jobs in-between travels. Best of all, he was going to hike the Te Araroa this winter! I felt a pang of longing and wishes he would ask me everything about the hike just so I could talk about it for hours and hours with someone who would understand. Hikers love nothing more than to talk about hiking. The merits of inflatable pillows, the textile chemistry of liner socks, the best trail burgers, which navigation apps to use.

At the top of the col we were treated to our first stunning mountaintop view of the trail. The Sierra de Alano blazed out behind us, and ahead lay a vast golden valley with the La Mina carpark at the bottom. A fat marmot bounced out of our way and sought shelter underground. We whooped at our victorious ascent and sat baking in the sunshine.

The way down was grassy but steep, and my knees protested their continued abuse. The ground was dotted in large, dried out yellow flowers which looked oddly like plates of salad against the green leaves. Once at the bottom of La Mina, the official end to Stage 9, we looked around for a shady spot along the sparkly river. And behold, our first swimming hole! I lost my vocabulary and could only shout Jakes name over and over as I stone-hopped upstream to find a rock pool complete with a waterfall. The deep water shone silvery green in that inviting way only wild pools can. We tore our clothes off and dived right in. It was cold but heavenly and I couldn’t stop laughing. I hadn’t felt truly lucky in a long time, but now I did.

Remembering a similar pool on day 5 of the GR20 trail in Corsica, I stood beneath the gushing masses of the waterfall which instantly detangled my hair (and nearly crushed me under its weight).

We sat with – you guessed it – our lunch of bread & ham on the hot white rocks and observed something I’d never seen before. A giant swarm of moths had landed on my gear. There were hundreds of them on my pack and my clothes, all mother-of-pearl blue. They were beautiful. So small, they happily sat on my fingers but wouldn’t touch Jake or his gear. Sexism! What a strange and lovely surprised in this strange and lovely place.

I eventually had to shoo them off to get dressed and lace up my boots on blissfully cool feet, and we embarked on Stage 10 which would take us through the valley and into the high Pyrenees. We followed the river along the valley floor for hours. The sun blazed above so hotly that even the mountain river water was warm. The riverbed was a deep rusty red from the iron-rich soil, and my filter was trickling slower by the day. It was so hot, we felt like we were walking on a grill. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the cooling lunch bath now seemed like a distant dream. Hours went by as I drifted ahead and stopped to wait by a large round bush. Jake came around a bend, saw me, and sprinted towards the bush. He circled it twice before exclaiming “Bullshit! Not a single ripe one on the whole fucking bush! Just a ladybug, can’t eat that.” Turns out there should be blackberries growing on that thing.

The heat was agonizing. My brain hadn’t made the connection between my exposed head and the oncoming heat stroke, and my trucker hat hung uselessly against the side of my pack. The path climbed steeply upwards among countless dead blackberry bushes, fried grass, and rocks. A heard of horses lay spread-eagle next to the trail, too hot to care as we passed. We were looking for a last bridge which would take us away from the stream and into the mountains. “Where is the briiiiidge!” I whined. What was it with this Brian guy and his inability to describe things accurately? At that point I was expecting no less than the Golden Gate in the middle of the mountains. “Do you reckon the bridge will be like those flowery decorated wedding photo bridges?” I asked Jake. He pondered for a few seconds before answering “Nah. I reckon this bridge will make those bridges look like shit”. Well. I can report that the bridge was marvellously unexciting, a stone structure about three metres long over a small waterfall. What a downer. We split the remains of my red fruit liquorice bag and kept climbing.

My feet boiled, there was nothing I could do to cool them anymore. My head felt full of cotton, I was nauseous and dizzy. White noise rang in my ears. Sure, the mountains were beautiful, but I needed this day to be over. I needed free access to water. I needed slow carbs. I needed to sit down. Now. Jake, normally the jokester, turned into motivational coach. He coaxed and encouraged gently until we finally stood at the top of the entrance to the high Pyrenees, a small gap between the amber world behind us and the green one ahead.

The valley of Aguas Tuertas was the stuff of dreams. Completely golden in the setting sun with a serpentine river snaking through, it stretched endlessly ahead between the mountain crests. Blonde cows grazed peacefully with their neck bells tolling. We finally found a water source, ice cold water bubbling up from the mountainside next to the trail. The ground was just flat enough to pitch our tents. The cows seemed disinterested in us, and I dried my tent in the last rays of the day before the sun dipped below the mountains. The shadows instantly turned the temperature down several degrees, and I pulled on my puffy for my quinoa and noodle dinner. We heard heavy footsteps around the corner and turned to see Max plodding towards us! He was knackered by the heat and steep terrain, and was only too happy to join us as the third pack member. Max had gone full-on with his supplies, packing spice mixes and chia seeds which he cold soaked with oats overnight. I found his commitment to the thru-hiking lifestyle endearing. Long gone were the days of freeze-dried berries and hummus powder on the John Muir Trail, it was only bread & ham for me now. I had a bag of almonds and one cup of noodles left. Damned Brian. If the refugio tomorrow didn’t have supplies I was frito.

The mountains were ablaze in pinks and reds in the twilight. We brushed out teeth and retreated to our tents, giddy for another night under the stars. This was the highest I had slept so far, and I zipped up my sleeping bag in preparation for a cold night. The sound of the cow bells all over the valley was deafening, and I was incredibly thankful to have my earplugs with me. Those things were indestructible, I’d used them on every trip and in my central London flat for over three years at that point. I would pop them in later, but lay still for a while just to drink in the glory of being here in this place of dreams at last. The mountains turned from red to purple to blue as darkness fell. Just as I was about to plug into sleep mode, I heard Jake clear his throat drily.  

“So… at what time do they turn off the cows?”

 Aguas Tuertas – Refugio de Lizara

Brrrr! I questioned all my life choices when the alarm pierced through the muffle of my earplugs. Damn what a cold night! I was completely wrapped in my mummy bag and puffy, fleece headband, long johns (which weren’t the fashionable item they used to be after a Harvey Weinstein moth had eaten the entire crotch area). I tentatively reached out an arm to feel the insides of the tent. Not a drop of condensation! Victory! I heard the guys shuffle around in their tents, and we all slowly emerged into the pink dawn. Time for a leisurely brekkie and most important of all: covfefe. That was an adulthood milestone if there ever was one: before my MA I’d been one of those sassy beans who derived moral superiority from only needing one coffee per week. On the Te Araroa I had a total of two coffees, both after the 900 km mark. That was utterly out of the question now. I poured two packets of frothy cappuccino powder into my red mug to enjoy with my last instant noodles. Two curious cows strayed a tad too close to my $650 tent, but after years of working with horses I chased them away without a second thought.

We were treated to a dreamy grass trail right off the bat. The entire valley floor was ours, the vast expanse of it stretching several kilometres ahead, culminating in a giant mountain crest in a rainbow of green and silver. A herd of free-roaming horses and foals grazed eagerly in the bright morning air. The sun was rising, bringing with it instant heat. How I loved starting the day on a long flat. It’s the best way to warm up your legs and head – starting on a climb always made my calves too tight. Today’s elevation profile looked like a staircase leading up in three stages before plummeting down to the refugio at the end of the day. We had two cols to traverse and there was little water. In fact, we made a most unwelcome discovery at the first water source: a dead cow which of course had chosen the previously pristine river as its final resting place. Asshole move. No filling up there then.

We climbed up through the blissful shade to Escalé pass. At 1635 m we were starting to gain some real altitude. White granite peaks shot up around us like teeth and the lush green valley stretched out below us. The path curled around the rocky ground, up up up. I dug my poles in and heaved myself at the incline. After two years of mostly sitting on my ass in front of a screen, I was more than a little smug in realising I was considerably faster than both Max and Jake. I let myself increase the gap between us, which made me the first to spot three Ibexes – mountain deer – that sprinted up the almost vertical mountain ahead, seemingly unbound by gravity.

We neared the entrance to a glacial valley, and each step got heavier as hunger bit. I only had half a bag of salted almonds left, and precious little water before the next source. On the final set of switchbacks, we met a couple with two identical border collies on short leashes. While I am fundamentally against bringing dogs out here in the heat of the day, they were incredibly cute. Thankful for an excuse to stop, I petted them tiredly, one velvety collie chin in each hand. The heat was frying our brains at this point, and we had to sit down and take precious sips of our limited water. I sank down to lie on top of my pack for a couple of minutes before making the final push to see…

A sight like no other. The valley of the Sarrios was one of the most stunning views I’ve ever beheld in my six years of thru-hiking. A perfectly carved round bowl with a completely flat grass bed circled by looming mountain walls. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. That something so pristine could exist at this altitude was almost beyond comprehension. Most other landscapes at 2000 m were completely arid, but Sarrios was as taken straight out of a dream. I skipped around like a puppy, yelping “look at it! Guys, look at it!” while Max and Jake laughed and craned their necks back to take in the full vista. Camping up here would have been absolutely freezing, but I couldn’t help wanting to stay there all day – some spots are simply too perfect to leave behind and must be drunk in for an eternity. But eternities required food, which I was painfully aware that I no longer had. Even in my regular life I am a bottomless pit, an unhinged dessert hunter. Out here, hunger wasn’t just irritating, I felt like I might actually die after running on empty for half a day.

A small climb out of the regal valley bowl took us over Toronez d'as Cabretas col (1.910m), and we sat down for a last snack before the long descent to Refugio de Lizara. There go the last almonds. Death was surely near. As I licked the salty inside of the empty almond bag, it dawned on me that you actually needed a hella lot more than determination and grit to complete a thru-hike and have it be meaningful. Physical fitness just isn’t enough. You need an innate drive and an enthusiasm for absurdity which would see you through the ridiculous situations you will inevitably find yourself in. Such as being stuck in the middle of a mountain range with no food and hotspot-covered feet in 30-degree heat. I dragged myself back onto the path and stumbled after Max, trying not to think of my favourite ramen place in Piccadilly Circus.

I interrogated Max on his political leanings all the way down the seemingly endless descent from the col. Hundreds of altitude metres we had gained so valiantly fell away, the temperature seemingly rising with every five minutes. As long as someone kept talking I could just about block out the hollow feeling of my stomach eating itself. The boys too were grumpy in the heat. They had enough food but had heavier packs, and they did not enjoy the downhills. Max mooed ferociously at the cows on the path, sending them scattering down the hillside. We found water at last. And way down there in the dusty valley lay a large stone hut – the refugio! We abandoned all conversation as we sped down to what MUST be salvation. I almost drooled thinking of ice cream. Please, dear universe, let there be food! We slipped and slid down the last steep stretch of trail before we were in the courtyard and dumped our packs on the scorched ground.

I stumbled up the steps and into the dimly lit dining room. Oh glory! Those were Kit Kats behind the bar counter! Biscuits! Energy bars! And oh my god, a full menu of delicious REAL food. I almost melted into a pool of teary relief reading it. Eggs, pork loin, mixed salad, chocolate pudding. Salvation in the form of a laminated sheet of paper. We went to town on that menu, iced tea for me and beer for the boys, two courses each. We almost tore apart the breadbasket waiting for the steamy mains. What a gold mine this place was. This was also extremely encouraging for the road ahead – if all the refugios were like this, we would want for nothing. I walked over to the notice board to read the night’s weather forecast. Thunderstorms. Oh boy. The guidebook had mentioned that they could be “terrific”, but none of us were particularly inclined to trust Brian anymore. Tomorrow was all exposed peaks, and the lure of more food was too good to pass up. €38 later we were set up with dorm beds, a three-course dinner, and breakfast. The merry receptionist who checked us in held up my passport and exclaimed “Muy bonita!”. She was trying to be nice, but you know you look like shit when someone compliments your passport photo.

I undid my braid, looked in the mirror and shuddered, before hopping into a glorious shower. Max was back up the hill hunting for phone signal to call his girlfriend, while Jake and I marinated in the evening sun on the benches outside. Lizara was an oasis. But I could still feel it. That nagging discomfort when there was nothing left to do but sit with the stillness. There had been too much stillness, I needed noise. I looked up at the massive peaks towering above us. It was clear that I still had a way to go, metaphorically and otherwise.

 Refugio de Lizara – Plano de La Rinconada, via Candanchú

Our day dawned with a colossal climb back up the mountain crest above Lizara. The path was so steep that we were at least provided with blissful shade as we trudged upwards like panting pearls on a string. The climb passed through numerous tiny grassy outcrops, divine little camp spots which we cursed Brian for not mentioning. That man…! Almost up to Bozo Col (1.995m) we heaved ourselves onto a shelf with chains bolted into the rock and were splashed by the sunrise of dreams. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to describe awe on this blog which is now longer than two average social science PhDs. Words mostly seem feeble, characters on a blank background cannot convey the feeling of being perched above everything, of being coated in gold from a rising or setting sun, like the sky begins at your feet, like you are stronger than anything. We were so high up. Beyond the trees, beyond the clouds, beyond reach.

The landscape was just so lovely. Dirt track, acid green grass, white rock. The limestone crags of Sierra de Bernera on rose up on one side and the Llena del Bozo on the other. On top of the col, I ran around like a paparazzi trying to capture ever flower and squealed over how great the boys looked against the mountaintops at 2200 m.

The trail swooped down stomach-churningly, requiring max armpower to brace against our poles. It was so steep it was almost an overhang, with a massive half-cave stone arc above us as we picked our way through the earth and over lush grass. Max and I picked this time to discuss Scandinavian immigration policies, and I found myself listening intently as he described his admiration for the mothers he’d met through his work as a kindergarten teacher, who stood up again repressive customs to create better futures for themselves and their children. My mom would have liked him. Practitioner insight is so needed in this debate littered with dying-on-the-hill attitudes.

The climb towards the second (and higher) col was in truth, exhausting, but when views reach a certain level of beauty, you create energy out of thin air (rather literally). We practically ran up to the abandoned ski lift along the rocky outcrop of Tuca Blanca Pass (2.228m). Climbing two cols in a day means 2x the celebration when you reach the second one!

The view was beyond spectacular. The rugged peaks of the Pyrenees surrounded us 360, the majestic Midi d’Ossau towering above them all. We jumped up on the lowest chair lift, searing our thighs on the hot leather. We were masters of the universe. A breeze blew our sweat dry as we unwrapped our sun-warmed bocadillos. Nothing was above us except the soaring eagles. And this was only the beginning. All the mountains ahead we would pass over and between. Our hike would take us far beyond any horizon visible even from our supreme vantage point. We were sitting right in the middle of the best, and more best was yet to come.

Now bring on about 1000m elevation loss along the rocky, dry ski slopes, which now in the hight of summer were pleasant roads. Flat-topped mountain walls rose everywhere around us reminiscent of Glacier National Park in Montana. It was so deliciously easy to drift downwards with gravity’s pull. No need for cautious foot-placement or map-checking. Miles floated by in a breeze of laughter and banter, gaping at the views, and licking up the sun while keeping our legs spinning. Seeing Candanchú from so high above only made the urge to get there stronger. The fact that food was much more available on this trek did not diminish the primal need for ice cream one bit. We strained our eyes trying to assess which building might be the supermarket. We basically ran across the car park at the bottom of the ski slopes into town, twirling our trekking poles like batons above our heads.

Enter supermarket. Sassy shopowner momentarily charmed by my oohs and aahs over the Haribo selection. Scramble for boring resupply (bread, ham, noodles, energy bars, nuts, quinoa) and fun resupply (Haribo, ice cream, chocolate, peach, more Haribo). Sink down on red plastic chaires under parasol as skies cloud over. Peel off socks and place limbs as far away from each other as possible. Sink teeth into ice cream. Bliss. Thus we sat and sat and sat until gentle rain started pattering down, which was really only an excuse to sit some more. Candanchú was pricy with no campgrounds, and we wanted to make some more miles before dark. An afternoon thundercloud rolled deeply ahead, sending another round of rain scattering down. I chewed through half a bag of Haribo gummies. With both boys on the phone to their respective girlfriends, I as the single woman was left to call my mother.

“Mammmmma” I cooed into the phone. Mom and I had always been basically the same organism. After she was diagnosed with heart failure one year ago, I had seemingly regressed back to being six years old around her. I would check in obsessively, and whenever I was in Norway I would sleep in her bed, sit on her lap although I towered 15 cm above her, hold her hand in the streets (which she secretly loved but still protested against, hissing “people will think we are together!”), and generally make sure a part of us was touching at all times. As with most mother/daughter relationships, I found almost everything she did excruciatingly annoying, but I loved her with enough force to make gravity itself pale into insignificance. I was on constant alert around her, ready to bulldoze anything or anyone who touched a dyed black hair on her head. Mamma was mine. I wanted to reach through her chest to pump her failing heart for her so she would always stay with me. She would never hike mountains like these ever again, and I wanted her to have as much of them as she could through my eyes.

Leaving Candanchú and embarking on the 2-3 stretch to a valley we could camp in didn’t see me at the peak of my energy. It felt late. The sun was sinking lower, it was hot and stagnant, we climbed through pine forests along roads and back into the mountains. Back into golden valleys of cows grazing and trickling streams. It was almost six o’clock and thunder was forecast. We came to a deep pool in the river and pitched our tents in the valley bowl which had been scorched by a long summer. I felt uneasy. We were above treeline. A massive thunder front had gathered above the valley walls, and the first drops of rain came down. Our tents were clustered together, but I couldn’t help but think of my carbon fiber trekking poles standing vertically into the ground. Thunder rumbled ahead, and I could see the first flashes of lightening. After being caught in a horrible thunderstorm on the GR20 which ended that thru-hike, I have been absolutely traumatised by storms. I’d sat in seminars at King’s College in central London and flinched when loud afternoon booms echoed through the building. Now I felt myself grow nauseous with fear as the cracks rumbled closer and lightening flashed faster and faster. Incredibly, I had signal and texted my powerless parents in an utterly irrational attempt to feel safe. Darkness fell. I sat frozen in my sleeping bag despite the humid heat and didn’t move a muscle. I fervently tried to count the seconds from seeing a flash to hearing the thunderclaps roll through the sky. Even as I sit writing this in a cosy café in Angel, north London, I’m angst-sweating as I recall what true mortal fear feels like.

Inch by inch, the storm drew away into the next valley. We called out to each other in weak voices. “Are you okay???” Jake texted me. Turns out they hadn’t felt too splendid either. Suddenly we heard a loud grunt just a couple of metres away. “Was that a horse?” Jake called out. I stiffened. That sure as hell was no horse. “Wasn’t that you?!” I unzipped the vestibule and exclaimed “Oh my god! Oh my god!” as I saw the black rump of a wild boar race up the valley and away from us. Max stumbled out of his tent wearing just his long johns. “What the fuck!” Between meteorological nature and zoological nature, the grand finale of my first week on the GR11 was one hell of a drama ride.

 Plano de La Rinconada – Refugio de Respomuso, via Sallent de Gallego

The night passed with faraway flashes but no thunder to accompany them, meaning (according to Dr Google) that it was too far away. No condensation thanks to the breeze. I groggily made coffee in the vestibule while equally slit-eyed Max and Jake chewed their brekkies mechanically. We had clearly come too late to enjoy the July dry spell. The August storms were on. From now on we’d have to be much more careful about camps, staying below the treeline or sleeping at refugios when we couldn’t. We packed up the thunder camp and set off deeper into the green valley through dew-wet grass.

The arms of the river split and sprouted inwards through the valley floor until we hit a corry so steep between a mountain crest and a peak it looked like a dead end. Our path twisted upwards in steep switchbacks with small rivulets of water trickling down everywhere after last night’s rains. Wildflowers of all kinds sprouted alongside the path, and I relished the frisky morning as we climbed up into the sunrise. Was still (smugly) faster than the boys. The incline eased out to reveal a dune-y mountain plateau of soft grass. And…

A vast meadow of grazing horses and cows encircled by mountains beneath a cloudless sky. Between the green and the blue lay the glittering Anayet Lake (2.225m), faint ripples of a morning breeze caressing its surface. The peak of Midi d’Ossau sprung up to our left and the loveliest view stretched out ahead. We gasped in unison and threw down our packs. “Second breakfast time!” WHO could ever see such a place and not want to stay forever?

I could have stayed up there forever to watch the mares with their foals saunter around. On the way down from the plateau towards infrastructure-land, we passed countless day hikers, including an entire school. They were delighted to use their English words to wish us a good morning (hold on to that language enthusiasm, kids… your country needs you). I was high on the beauty of the lush scenery and bounded down the soft grassy slopes along the river. Just as I reached the flat and could no longer see the boys behind me, I caught up with a couple too pale and leggy to be Spanish. Robin and Jasper were Dutch. They had great chat, lots of enthusiasm, juicy knowledge of gear, and had heard of the Te Araroa. Tarmac road miles flew by in the spirit of fresh acquaintance. They were also weary of storms after a near-miss in the Alps. But they were fun and intelligent, and I lamented their leisurely pace as I knew it disqualified them from being my long-term tramily. Outside the village of Formigal I let them drift ahead while I sat on a roadblock to allow Max and Jake to catch up. After nearly 30 minutes of chomping down my umpteenth bocadillo in the searing lunch heat they finally trudged into the car park.

The dry dirt path down into the town of Sallent de Gallego was a race against the oncoming siesta. The town was brimming with vibrant hustle and tourists gathering for a music festival, colourful flags slapped in the breeze as we searched for a free table along the riverside cafes. I ached to think how much elevation we had lost and would have to regain having made it all the way to the bottom of the valley alongside the glistening turquoise lake. Sallent was easily the best town so far. I ordered two iced teas at the café counter and the waitress gave me two glasses – clearly she didn’t clock that both were for me. We raided the supermarket and sat marinating in the 4G signal until the skies clouded over with that afternoon’s storm. Our destination was still over three hours away. Refugio de Respomuso was the definition of stunning, nestled into the mountainside overlooking a beautiful lake. It’s the first photo that comes up when you google the GR11. The storm made me uneasy about camping above treeline again, but hopefully it would all pass on our way back into the mountains.

On the endless gravel roads through the forests and back into wilderness I was absolutely dying for good conversation and grilled Max on his family and relationships. Jake had seemingly clocked out despite my efforts to include him, and it was starting to grind at me. Talking to Max was interesting – he was the same age as I had been when I hiked the West Highland Way. He was in such a good place for being 21, although he probably couldn’t appreciate it from his current viewpoint. It’s like Wendy says to Peter Pan:

“There is so much more…” – What?! What else is there?! – “…I don’t know. I suppose you find out when you grow up.”

And you do. Mostly that things are very complicated and nothing is linear and sometimes you will be happy and sometimes sad and there’s no “in the end” and you will never have it all figured out.

Thunder and gentle rain rolled ahead as we climbed the rocky path along the deep canyon wall, up, up. The skies went from angry to optimistic. By the time we reached La Sarra reservoir and Arriel Lake, the boys had decided to camp along the northern shore while I headed to the refuge. Being on my own again felt quite right. Seeing the refuge in the splendid afternoon light made every toil worth it.

Respomuso was full. Seeing the amount of rowdy families in there I didn’t hesitate to stride back out. Despite the massive “NO ACAMPAR” sign, the warden told me that camping was in fact possible, and sure enough, I looked out to see many a tent perched high on the cliff shores of Arriel Lake. A group of young men sitting by the porch smiled at me. Alas, no social interaction for the wicked. I picked my way steeply down towards the countless beautiful outcrops among the trees. And there it was: a perfect spot of soft grass encircled by stones, right by a fir grove crowned by an ethereal, real-sized bonsai tree.

The mountain massif lay spread in its incredible beauty in front of me. It was meant to be. I was struck by a burst of energy and ran through the grove, bounded up to the bonsai and was splashed by the liquid gold sunset. It was so pretty I squealed and laughed out loud. I ran back to grab my cooking gear and set the quinoa to boil under the bonsai while I took in the 360 view of absolute splendour.

This was the thru-hiking life I had missed and dreamt of. The magic of a sunset camp, feeling so light despite the insanely long day, being a part of everything. I recognised this place – I had been here before, so to speak. Somewhere down the heartline lay memories like these, and future ones yet to be made.

In the camp spot next to me, three girls were setting up two tents and brushing their teeth in the twilight glow of their headlamps. They looked just slightly older than me (but who could really tell at this point), and I felt a small pang of envy. I loved adventuring by myself, but I also didn’t have any female friends of the required calibre who would enjoy this type of trip. If I was to bring someone they would need to be equally capable and not a liability. I set up camp in the alpenglow as the four of us went to our separate beds. I didn’t know it then, but our paths would cross again more than once, not least when I really needed them.

 Refugio de Respomuso – Brazato dam, via Collado de Tebarray (2,771m) and Balneario de Panticosa

I practically launched out of my skin when the shrill alarm pierced the dark at 05.50. It was pitch black outside, and I rolled my torso into the vestibule to make coffee while not sacrificing a moment of sleeping bag warmth. It was properly cold, the grass damp from night rain. Headlamp lights flickered to my left as the three girls started packing up too. I’d agreed to meet Jake and Max at a trail junction ahead at 07. Today was an absolute whopper, and getting caught in a storm anywhere would be a disaster. Described in the guidebook as “the toughest day on the GR11”, we were in for a merciless climb up to Collado de Tebarray at nearly 3000m, and an equally hideous descent. The day totalled nearly 4000 altitude metres gained and lost, my knees crunched merely at the thought.

Knowing I was against the clock, I threw my camp together and marched vaguely northeast in the direction of the junction. I had my guidebook map but wasn’t entirely sure where I’d camped in relation to it after leaving Respomuso. Crossing the flat I filled water from the river, which smelled faintly of rotting carcass. Well well, Katadyn filter, now was the chance for you to earn your keep. Trekking poles and some strategically placed rocks ensured a dry crossing. Making my way across the riverbed with less than ten minutes to spare, I looked up and could see the familiar pyramid of Max’ tent sticking up on the hillside above me. True enough, when I made it to their camp it was obvious that they were nowhere near ready to leave. Now, in Norway and Scandinavia at large, being late is the utmost rudeness. Ideally you show up 10 minutes early to demonstrate your respect for other people’s time. Jake and Max did not acknowledge that they would have been over half an hour late to our agreed meeting point, and I felt a pang of anger at their casual indifference.

Oh well. We began the climb towards the Picos de Infierno (3082 m). Hell, so steep. For the first time since the Basque country, I actually had to stop to pant. I still outpaced the boys, but the incline was getting ridiculous. And it was about to get worse.

The first lake. Enormous. Beautiful. Reflective like glass. A couple of trail runners were packing down their tent on the shore, and I shuddered to think of the cold and damp night they must have had. And now we were about to cross into the real deal. The ground underfoot turned from grassy trail to black, volcanic-looking rock. All vegetation disappeared except clumps of minty green and purple thistles that stubbornly clawed themselves out of the sheer rock. Sand and scree mixed with larger rocks until every step was a fight to not slide back down. Jake overtook the lead. Max and I panted like dogs. The pink sunrise crept up behind us. Good lawd. It just did not end.

I felt like we’d walked into the sky from sea level. At last, just as the camping trail runners caught up with us (how??!), the sun burst over the mountain crest, and we reached the final climb. There was no longer any path, from now on we had to climb. A thick metal chain was bolted into the mountain on our left, but it was barely any use with our heavy packs. Good god. If I wasn’t a climber I would seriously have struggled. It was the most technical scrambling I’d done since the GR20, but I was well used to the physics of counterweight – and I had strong fingers. I inched myself around to look back down. Holy shit. Hiking the GR11 westbound would be suicide for this 50m alone.

And then… the top. The tiniest gap in the mountain, a tiny outcrop of a pass just big enough for the three of us to sit. The trail plummeted down to an ultramarine lake on the other side. Max dug out his jar of cold-soaked oats, which by now had turned into a sticky clump consisting mostly of chia seeds and oat cement. He looked as crestfallen as only a thru-hiker can when faced with lost calories.

“You know you don’t have to eat it right?”, Jake probed, his eyebrows disappearing into his beanie.

“I’m fucking hungry, aren’t I” Max mumbled, half laughing in despair as he stirred through the grey clump. “But the last addition of chia seeds was a mistake”.

The piercing wind chased us off the pass after the disastrous oatmeal incident. It was incredibly cold despite the sunshine, and we scooted down on our butts down the stomach-churning trail towards the blue lake. The girls from my Respomuso camp made it up just as we left, and we exchanged a brief introduction and some photos. They were Czech and incredibly nice. Valuable future relations noted. We skirted around the liquid sapphire, popped over a second col before beginning the long way down. I needed to pee. An impossible feat to carry out discreetly as every man and his dog were making their way up the trail. My pink t-shirt blazed against the moonscape of white rocks. No chance. I’d have to hold it until I could throw myself in one of the pretty lakes down in the stone valley below. Argh. Pelvic floor vs. 600m descent.

Finally the path evened out into a lush plateau of rivers and grassy meadows crowned by the majestic granite crest above. Los Ibones Azules – the blue lakes – lived up to their name several thousandfold. They were as turquoise as Lake Pukaki in New Zealand. SWIM TIME! I parked the boys on some rocks, Jake fired up the coffee stove, tents were laid out to dry, and I threw myself into the liquid gemstone. Oh joy! The mineral sediments made the water so densely coloured that I could wriggle out of all my clothes without anyone seeing any unmentionables. Not that the 50+ dude whose wife called out impatiently didn’t treat himself to the longest stare of his life. He didn’t turn away until I waved sarcastically at him, standing up until just my lower body was covered for good measure. Perv.

Awkward wriggle back into underwear. Dry in the sun. Lunchies (if I had pan y jamon it is erased from my memory). Wander on into the most magnificent Jurassic rock valley I’ve ever seen. Day hikers everywhere, but who could blame them? The fact that you could reach this remote-looking place a day out from civilisation was testament to the wonder of the Pyrenees. So wild, yet so accessible to everyone. Heat rose from the almost reflective white rock. A semi-queue formed on the trail, far too slow for thru-hiking speed. Ibón Baxo de Bachimaña lay glittering like a sapphire down on our left, if I hadn’t still been wet from my last swim I would have gone in again. A 30-something man in flip flops hobbled over the boulders towards us.

“Do you guys know if there’s like a beach or something here?” We stared. “You mean like a sand beach?”. It was hard to tell whether his affliction was a blush or a sunburn. “Yeah, like a beach where you can swim.” Jake snorted. “This is the mountains mate!”

Weaving in and out of oncoming hiker traffic, we scampered across the rock trail, past Refugio de Bachimaña perched on the last outcrop before the mountains plummeted away back into the Panticosa valley. Now began the downhill, all 1000-something metres of it. Streams of day hikers flowed in both direction, each one of them less adequately dressed than the last. Black synthetic, butt-sculpting compression tights. Flat-soled city shoes. People drank unfiltered water straight from the river to combat the heat exhaustion. A pair of climbers carrying an enormous rack of cams and nuts passed us, and I wanted to ask them if climbing in this heat was even possible. Once your hands get the least bit sweaty, you’re out.

Once again I let myself flow away from the boys and let gravity drag me ever faster down the white slopes. Endless waterfalls tumbled down on my left and formed more glorious swimming holes among the pines. My knees croaked. Today was a stunner, but we were getting into the unbearable part of the early afternoon when water and shelter is everything. At long last, when I genuinely thought I’d need an amputation, I was at Balneario de Panticosa, a fancy resort which also housed a mountain refugio. The line was enormous, cokes and beers and bocadillos exchanged hands at the speed of light as orders for tortillas and lomo were shouted back into the kitchen. I parked myself spread-eagle at a table, peeled off my socks, and dove into a tortilla baguette the size of a dachshund. Salvation!

Leaving Panticosa was one of the hardest things I’d done on the GR11 thus far. Every cell in my body protested as we started at the bottom of an enormous climb, we had to regain all the altitude we’d lost earlier in the day. But the magic tortilla had unleashed the beast within me. I flung myself at the bit, ignoring the gallons of precious moisture leaving my body within minutes. For once there were switchbacks, and the pines grew thinner as I raced back up the mountain, walking faster than the sparse hikers coming downhill. I honestly couldn’t fathom how I was this fit, unless my daily powerwalks in Hampstead Heath had been sorcery. Finding this kind of strength felt nothing short of miraculous, as fitness had been my primary concern coming into this hike from my 9-18 (yes you read that correctly) office job.

An outcrop dotted with trees and a supreme view became our home for the night, and we each nestled our tents into cosy flat spots as a gentle sprinkle of rain mixed with afternoon sunshine floated across the skies. I heard thunder, but far away. Our only water source was a miserable two inches of a stagnant hole in the ground, formerly a little pond prior to the heatwave. We collapsed into bed while it was still light. Day 9 in the bag.

 Brazato dam – Refugio de Bujaruelo

Another thunderstorm, this time closer, had passed over us at midnight, jerking me out of my earplug-aided sleep. No matter how often they rolled over, I could not get used to them and lay stiff until they passed. Coming out of my tent, I was treated to a beautiful sunrise. The mountains lay bathed in bright pink light. We had a long but promising day ahead: we were over halfway up to the day’s pass, after which the trail descended over 2000 metres down through wild mountain valleys and into the long canyon neighbouring Ordesa National Park. I was finally due for a rest day tomorrow (I didn’t know it then, but the concept of “due” would change radically over the next three weeks) in Torla, a tourist town outside the national park with all the goodies hikers need. I was also increasingly ready for different company. Meeting Jake and Max had been a treat, but I had long exhausted my ability to listen to football banter. They seemed to get along with each other much better than with me, which I just had to accept. The fact that Max on this particular morning took a year and a day to get ready while I stood tapping my foot did not improve the situation. He chewed absentmindedly through his oatmeal for two hours, meaning it was 9 o’clock before we finally got moving.

By this time I was really exasperated. We ran into the three Chezch girls, and I threw myself into conversation with them to let off some social steam. They were perfectly lovely, but oh so slow. I was distinctly more tired after 10 days of poor sleep and intense hiking, but walking slowly has always been harder for me than letting myself flow forward. I’ve been labelled an anti-social walker by many a friend and first dates, but I just find slow movement agonising. After half an hour I couldn’t hold back anymore and sped ahead to the gorgeous lake of Brazato dam. My throat was parched enough to refill my bottles in the stagnant lake. Ideal for swimming, less so for drinking. The path became a giant boulderfield, and I picked my way through the rocks as my knees screamed their usual protest.

The useless thoughts that constantly simmered around in my head just would not disappear. My legs felt heavier with each step as I picked my way out of the boulderfield and up the Cuello Alto de Brazato pass (2,566m). Why was I so stuck? …why couldn’t I …just let him go? So heavy. He was a thousand miles away, yet still right here. I dragged myself to the cairn on top of the pass. “Get out of my head”, I groaned into my hands and sank down on my knees in the dirt. I’d spent hundreds of hours trying to walk him off through London. Now I was crossing another country on foot, someplace neither of us had ever been, there was absolutely nothing here to remind me of him. And yet, here he was, seemingly walking a few steps behind me all the time like a shadow I couldn’t shake. I felt like crying, but it was too hot and bothersome. Sharp rocks cut into my knees. My thighs cramped. Rising up against my heavy heart and pack was the hardest thing I’d done that day, but I didn’t want the boys seeing me kneel in the dirt. Max and Jake’s banter grew louder as they came up the pass towards me. “If I took a shit in that lake, how long do you think the shit would float for before sinking?” Could those women walk faster please, for the love of God.

We snacked and walked to the shores of a stunningly turquoise little lake. Sunlight sparkled on the matte surface of snowmelt water, colouring the stones beneath a brilliant green. I insisted we swim because we couldn’t not. Max threw himself in while Jake sat in silence. The lake was too cold. Sinking myself into it was like being stabbed a thousand times, my bones immediately ached, and my skin went painfully numb. I wanted something to salvage this day, I wanted the acid-blue water to rinse off my pain and allow me to emerge soft and new on the other side. I felt so utterly drained of energy to the point where I was unable to really take in the beauty of the landscape. The thought of another year of office work if I wasn’t able to be fully present on this trip filled me with dread.

We picked our way down in silence through another boulderfield. Our late start was now manifesting in searing heat, and I sent some stabbing thoughts backwards. One episode of the Savage Lovecast was all I had on my stupid new phone, and the silence enveloped me until I could barely take in where I was. The trail ran parallel to the river Ara for miles, before opening up into a huge valley with enormous wild mountains on each side. I walked faster and faster until I almost ran.

Max and Jake shrank into barely discernible dots behind me as I stormed ahead inside my insulated bubble devoid of impression. Down, through, beyond. The vastness of the mountainscape dwarfed me. Thoughts of my career and professional dreams raced through my head. Did I want to be an intellectual powerhouse or a practitioner creating change with my own hands? Was my future in the field of my education, or in what kept me up at night? I knew I was a better advocate than researcher. But years of covid and uncertainty had also given me job application PTSD – merely reading the words “to whom it may concern” sent my stomach lurching. I was so done with being caught up in major life upheavals that I had quite enjoyed cruising along 2022 without pondering the future too deeply.

At the same time, the Simone de Beauvoir-disciple in me couldn’t escape the feeling that this was a deeply inauthentic way to live. I didn’t belong on the surface of things, with me it was always all or nothing. I was either blooming or wilting. On bad days I would crash, but when I was happy, I was happier than everybody else. Now I was more allergic to uncertainty than ever before. It was extremely tiring, and despite 2022 having been an enormous improvement from its two predecessors, I often drifted through days where my head felt like cotton. My only hope was that resting my brain while pushing my body to its utmost would reignite some of that daring cerebral spark I’d always had.

Clouds gathered around the mountaintops. It was deadly quiet. I knew with absolute certainty that a major storm was coming, you could smell it in the pressure of the air. Trees were just beginning to pop out as I lashed my legs out to reach the bottom of the valley where a woodland path would take me to Refugio de Bujaruelo. The valley of Ordiso opened out to the right as the trail became a gravel road. As pitter patter turned into a full-on downpour, I rounded a bend and reached the Refugio, iconically nested across an arched stone bridge across a glass-clear blue stream. Less picturesque was the huge carpark swarming with trail runners fleeing for shelter from the rain.

The staff scampered everywhere trying to salvage the food in the outdoor seating area and asked everyone to take shelter inside as the roof tarpaulins threatened to tear under the weight of the rain water. I hugged my pack to my chest as I sat on the wooden staircase inside the hallway, squeezed among surely 100 soggy people. Max and Jake arrived after almost an hour, and we started down the GR11 to reach another campsite a couple of miles further on the trail. Not 15 minutes along, we were faced with an impassable obstacle: where a trickling stream had once flowed across the trail there was now a roaring waterfall. The whole section of trail was completely washed out as milky brown masses were swept away around us. Fuck! We scrambled across the slick roots inside the wet forest and fled back to Bujaruelo.

What to do. We could always try the dirt road the cars took. The rain continued. I was in my screaming pink FroggToggs rain jacket as we started down. The thick dark forest loomed on each side of the road. A gigantic crack pierced the sky as lightning struck the woods to our right. No no no no no. Max started humming artificially as we continued. With each leaden step I waited for a bolt to fry me. Deafening cracks of thunder split the skies right above us. Lightening flashed everywhere. I thought I was going to puke. This was the dumbest, most dangerous thing I had ever done on any hike. At the sound of tyres on gravel I spun around to see a car coming towards us. Beautiful rubber tyres to protect against lightning. I flung out my thumb and could not believe my luck when the driver slowed down to let me in. I stared at the boys for a desperate second, they shrugged and I stammered “solo mio, para Torla”. The Spanish couple barely spoke English, but I would have ridden with the Taliban at that point. Five minutes of bliss later a man waved us to a stop. A landslide ahead. Road impassable. You couldn’t make this shit up. Nothing to do but turn back to the refuge, picking up Max and Jake who looked somewhat less perky.

So there we sat, 100+ people at a refuge barely designed for half that number, stranded in the woods. Dogs whined. Families tried to entertain their squirming kids. An exhausted-looking mother attempted to cover up to breastfeed in the dining hall. The mood was lukewarm to say the least. I stared into space while the boys fidgeted in the corner of my eye. I was so tired and fed up, no longer bothering to keep any chat going. We’d had some lovely times together, but their combined ages of 21 and 30 somehow made them both 18, and we had profoundly different perceptions of risk (in addition to the fotball). Max downed two glasses of red wine. The hut warden looped through the dining room to ask who would like to spend the night in the dorm. I seized the moment, I was mentally spent after the day’s drama and the thought of the marshy campground was unbearable. Evening fell, and Max and Jake disappeared outside. I never saw them again.

 Refugio de Bujaruelo - Torla

Oh my god. I felt like I’d been woken from the dead when the alarm rang. Pale light seeped through the curtains, I almost didn’t dare look outside in case the storm was still ravaging the valley. Every bone in my body ached as I slid down from the top bunk and eeled into my putrefied clothes. I’d had a shower the night before, but what I needed was a washing machine and rest. And presumably a real coffee made by a certified barista. I’d used the spotty signal to book an obscenely-priced hotel in Torla. Because you deserve it, gal. Now all I had to do was get there.

I dragged my pack and poles out into the seating area. A sunny morn, miraculously. The Czech girls were there, coffees and croissants in hand. The oldest of the three (what was her name? Veronica?) looked utterly defeated. “I want to go on, but how can I deal with these storms? It’s exhausting and I don’t know if I am able to do this…” She seemed so forlorn, an oddly young look on her tired face. I summoned my absolute best pep talk of “Most people can do most things! Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean you can’t do it! Etc etc!” She looked at me with a mixture of hope and wry scepticism. “You’re… a very positive person”. I snorted before I could stop myself. Oh, sis. If 3000 something km of thru-hiking had taught me anything, it was that you could only hope for the best and accept that disaster will happen. You can prepare as much as you can and make decisions with the information you have, but at the end of the day, thru-hiking is an exercise in letting go of rules. True freedom entails a level of renouncing control – a painful exercise for people like me, Type A’s who prefer nailing next year’s New Years Eve plans on the 2nd of January. I certainly wasn’t able to apply these lessons to my real life with any measurable success. But on the trail I was different. I was another level of resourceful out here, smelly but competent. I knew how this worked.

We ended up getting a minibus taxi into town. 40 euros seemed a decent price to pay for peace of mind. Torla was a tiny but packed hiker town full of gear stores, little tapas restaurants, two small supermarkets, and gift shops. The hotel, Villa Torla, was sublime. I spent a good 20 minutes washing out brown grime from all my clothes in the bidet, sacrificing all three bottles of hotel shampoo. My armpits itched with heat-induced eczema. I decided to employ the complimentary toothbrush as a hairbrush (the only care my 70+ cm lengths would receive for the entire trip), after which it looked utterly demolished. On every hike I seem to uncover another layer of feral hiker-trashiness. Not a month ago I’d given a guest lecture in a pencil skirt at University College London. Now I was burning up the track. The city layers had peeled away, leaving only rocket power. It dawned on me that as purebred thru-hikers were in short supply here among the day hikers and families, I was unlikely to find someone in the next stretch who could keep up with me. So much for my quarter life crisis.

I looked at my tan and already leaner body in the mirror. Being here all alone while at my physical peak seemed borderline wasteful. For the first time I empathised with Cheryl Strayed as she sat in her motel room prior to embarking on the PCT. The world was full of company, all you had to do was go out and find it. This year, once again single, I had fallen back into old ways of hunting for answers in someone else’s arms. But it was different than before. At 23 I had been completely free-range, knowing that a life in London lay ahead, too young to have even thought about my age. Now, at 27, dating was another ball game altogether. You needn’t tell an early 30s guy you were looking for commitment – they could smell it on you.

I’d spent the summer longing for a partner with an almost visceral craving only comparable to how I’d heard people describe the biological desire for children. Like women who struggle with fertility and become acutely aware of other pregnant women or parents, I too couldn’t see the streets of London for the happy couples walking hand in hand. I’d spent countless days reading alone under the trees of Green Park, trying to focus on the page and not the laughing women nearby, sitting with their boyfriends’ heads in their laps. Being single at 23 was completely unproblematic. Being single at 27 when you didn’t want to be was absolutely shit. The negative space beside me in my bed on Sunday mornings was physically painful. My London life was so rich in friends and experiences, but nothing could alleviate my desire to build a future with someone who would stay. At the end of the day, it was about more than age. I had been to all the corners of my mind, I’d done more soul-searching than most people would in a lifetime. I knew who I was and what I was about. And one thing was for sure: I sucked at not being loved.

I flopped down on the bed and sent off some texts to my most recent attempt. G was a somewhat dysfunctional life experimentalist living on a houseboat with his adorable cat. We found one another both physically and intellectually attractive, but we were both also actively nursing heartbreaks over other people. The main thing that drew me towards him was the fact that I didn’t go to sleep next to him crying silently into my hair and wishing he was someone else – which I’d done on multiple other occasions the past few months. Having said this, G was also hands down the shittiest texter I had ever met. No counting on that for emotional sustainment during a month in the wilderness.

My wonderful women friends I had made at Kings were as always my saving grace, and I was bubbling with excitement over the wonderous Pyrenees during our call. Not only were the mountains pretty, I also wasn’t dying from the hard walking! I spontaneously booked another night in the hotel after checking tomorrow’s grim forecast. True enough, day 12 was an indoor deal, watching the pool flood over and hail battering the window like shotgun fire. Go to Spain in summer they said. It would be fun, they said.