Pradera de Ordesa  – Refugio de Goriz

People shuffled down a 50m line towards the bus in the grey hue of dawn. The 08.15 departure from Torla into Ordesa Canyon Natioal Park already saw hundreds of eager tourists, quickly illustrating the need for the 2000 visitor cap instated by park authorities. The Pradera de Ordesa entry point was overflowing with early risers, two tourist shops with cafes already buzzing with activity. I could not wait to get away from the crowds and have the trail all to myself again. Taking the bus from Torla meant I had missed the section around Puente de los Navarros – but by the measure of rain the past two days, that trail section would still be flooded. I wrung off my t-shirt. I didn’t like being stared at, but hiking in my sports bra was game-changing. I was also hell bent on keeping my bidet-washed t-shirt in a digestible condition for at least a day.

I plugged in music while I still had 4G and sped off on my most aggressive ultragear. Time to burn up some track and get away from the masses. I almost felt like I was overdoing it as people scattered left and right to avoid being stabbed by my poles. The wide gravel path snaked through dense birch forest in the faint daybreak light. Huge sections had also been washed away here, the ground cracked open in great sores of rocks and mud. It climbed steadily for several kilometres onto a stone staircase which took me past a waterfall viewpoint and into the sunrise. Another beautiful day on the menu. I slowed down a bit and looked down at my feet to tackle the ascent.

“Hey!”

I jumped so hard at the familiar voice that my ears popped. It was the Czech girls again! They were coming back down from Refugio de Goriz and were continuing further west past the long days ahead. This would be the last time our paths crossed. They had already read parts of the blog (“You write so nicely!”) and I was so grateful to have shared this wild trail with them, however briefly. I had envied them the fellowship they had as a group, but seeing them limp down in knee braces while I flew on solo also made me reappreciate my independence out here.

Ordesa canyon truly was everything the hype made it out to be. Having left the masses of tourists behind, I walked almost alone on the wide path in the middle of the canyon floor. Grassy plains, a crystalline blue river, lush bushes, scatterings of rock, enormous canyon walls shooting up to the north and south. And at the far end of the valley, the massif of the Circo de Soaso and the spectacular Arripas waterfall. Imagine the Grand Canyon as green rather than hues of gold, and you have Ordesa. Wildflowers grew everywhere. People lay tanning in the grass by the waterfall as I crossed the bridge to begin today’s climb. The dilemma of whether to stay and enjoy this spot or continue on up to Goriz scratched my pre-frontal cortex. The everlasting thru-hiking question. To walk or not to walk at all times.

Beyond the waterfall, several paths shot off up the mountain massif across the rocks. I was so wrapped up in finding a trail that I was less concerned with it being the trail. I knew I had to climb the walls to where the GR11 would continue along the rim of the canyon. However, turns out the trail had veered off to a section of graded switchbacks to the west, whereas I had begun climbing the canyon walls to the north. Water trickled out between crack of limestone, making it extremely slippery. My trekking poles dangled from my wrists as I held on to the thick metal chain which was bolted into the rockface. The trail became footholds. Fucking hell. No white and red markers here. I could only inch myself forwards, testing if each step would hold me. I found out later that I had taken the Cola de Caballo trail instead of the GR11, “only to be used by used by mountaineers who do not suffer too easily from a fear of heights.”. Ops.

Once on the canyon rim, the path flowed upwards through golden grass. I had never seen landscape like this before. Spotting Refugio de Goriz nestled on the mountainside was almost disappointing. I had taken just over 3 hours to get here, and asked the hut wardens about the possibility of double-staging to Refugio de Pineta. Both immediately warned me against doing it. The next stage was graded to 8 hrs, with two high cols and a massive exposed decent – the toughest one on the trail supposedly – into Pineta. A storm was forecast loosely for “after 3 pm”. Sigh. Goriz it was then, including its juicy €15 camping fee. Tents up after 8 pm only! I browsed around the various stone circles on the hillside and sneakily placed my trekking poles in a cross on the ground to mark my chosen territory. The location was epic, but it felt weird after recharging for two days to call it quits at noon. However, I also wanted to live, which is decidedly incompatible with standing on a 2800 pass in a lightning storm. I longed to see how far I could go with this newfound strength when I wasn’t limited by the weather.

I sat at the picnic table outside Goriz in three layers of SPF 50, staring out at the enormous canyon. Trails runners came and went in their screaming neon-coloured gear and snazzy hydration packs. A few fools lay toasting on the rocks where they would undoubtedly burn to crisps within the hour. I chewed my way through yet another foot-long serving of pan y jamon. Darn it, I couldn’t sit around here all day. I dumped my pack outside the refuge, grabbed a water bottle and set off for some local exploration. The trail was glorious and graded, a pale band of soft earth between lush mountain grass and sharp stacks of jagged limestone slate. The rock made for excellent scrambling as it was extremely grippy, the kind of surface which would tear through soft trainers in a matter of hours. A fat marmot screeched only a few metres away from me, nearly giving me a heart attack.

The landscape was taken right out of Jurassic Park. There was something distinctly dinosaur spine-like about how the enormous piles of layered limestone curved along the mountainscape, culminating in white peaks glimmering high above. The scale of it was so unfathomable that I could only stare and decide which scenes to capture on camera. Puffy white cloud spilled over Monte Perdido. Goriz was truly the ideal base for day hikes. It was so quiet still, with only the faint whisper of a wind whooshing through the rock formations. I stood still and breathed in the dry air for several minutes. This place was the epitome of the solitude vs loneliness crux. There wasn’t another human in sight, but I felt completely centred, my being-in-the-world as the true centre of gravity.

It was mid afternoon when I came back to Goriz. It was now a hub of activity, with a dozen or so cheeky hikers violating the 8 PM tent pitch rule on the peak view spots on the hillside. The sky had acquired an odd pea soup-green colour. Dinner time was announced, drawing most of the hikers back inside.

The storm came at 17.

A curtain of rain swept over Goriz with a roar which blew out all conversation like a candle flame. White lightening flashed across the green sky accompanied by deafening booms of thunder. Wind gusts strong enough to blow you off your feet barrelled down from Monte Perdido, we could no longer see the canyon through the wall of water. I stood at the forefront of a crowd of people who had gathered at the entrance to the refuge, staring wide-eyed at the tents receiving the pounding f their lives.

We all gasped in unison as a great gust of wind lifted a tent off the ground – and pummelled it down the hillside. Holy fucking shit. Whatever ounce of smugness I might have felt evaporated. This was beyond any doubt escalating into a genuinely dangerous situation. Another windy howl swept down the mountains, tearing tents to shreds left and right. The hikers inside were screaming and running towards the refuge, carrying as much of the tattered remains of their belongings as their arms would hold. People formed a line escorting the howling hikers inside to hang up whatever could be salvaged. The ultra-efficient and calm hut wardens handed out 20-ish free-standing Decathlon tents to anyone who had lost theirs.

The storm died down and picked up again. I had pitched my tent between round two and three, thinking that the end had finally come. Three full rounds of thunder, lightning, hail, and rain washed over Goriz, the lone bastion of human presence in this savage wilderness. Having been chased back inside, I sat quietly on the floor as darkness fell over the mountains. The mood was that of a disaster struck community centre after an apocalypse. People talked in hushed voices, helping each other pitch the new tents, most of the guys wearing nothing but shorts as any clothing would be soaked anyway. As midnight approached and the thunder finally abated, I stook up shakily and went outside.

My stomach had sunk into a pit of icy dread as I walked towards my tent in flip flops over the soaked hail-covered ground. Was the Duplex still standing? I knew it was sturdy despite being flimsy-looking, but it had never endured a storm like this, and for all I knew the bathtub floor could have shifted to let the rain form a lake inside. If my sleeping bag and electronics were soaked, I was royally fucked. Beyond the immediate, I was just so tired of dealing with these horrific storms and all the damage and fear they caused. Being in the mountains in these conditions wasn’t safe, and the worry could ruin an otherwise bright and happy day. Holding my breath, I lifted up my vestibules and almost cried with relief. My Duplex had stood firm, and all my gear was dry as can be. Wriggling into my sleeping bag in the dim light of my headlamp, I sat for a long time as faint thunder rolled over the next valley. Hail pelted the tent walls like gunshots. Cuben fiber has to be the noisiest fabric in the world. Every part of the tent that wasn’t pinned down by my bodyweight flapped violently. All I could do was pop in my earplugs and pray there would still be a world to wake up to tomorrow.

 Refugio de Goriz – Llanos de La Larri, via Refugio de Pineta

Deary me, as my Scottish friend Gemma would say. I was absolutely smashed by the time I had snoozed the alarm once and crawled out of my tent into the grey pre-dawn light. Goriz was already swarming with activity, but I felt stiff and fogged up after a night of ferocious wind and more rain. It was bitterly cold and the grass was still soaking wet. Making my morning cup of noodles was a precarious balancing act in sheltering my stove’s flame from wind while perching myself and my gear on the thin wooden bench near the showers. My feet were frozen in my flip flops, and I stared slit-eyed as two large groups made their way up the steep path towards the Monte Perdido summit. Just as I was about to slurp down my stringy carbs, a bird came flying right up to my hand! Except, it wasn’t a bird, it was a black and white moth the size of a fucking sparrow. I screamed and flung out half of my noodles over the bench. Everyone stopped and stared (the moth had instantly disappeared). They probably thought I was still shell-shocked from last night.

Everyone else was headed towards the summit or back down into the canyon. I set out alone on the trail to the northeast, climbing up past wet meadows and baby waterfalls. The trail still lay in shadow for the first 45 minutes. Looking back towards Goriz and Ordesa was an incredible sight, the rock formations seemingly spread out like ripples on water where someone has thrown a rock.

The sunrise was absolutely stunning. I felt a burst of energy as the golden light shot over the mountains and swept across all the land I had already walked. Giant slate formations formed a rock corridor up towards Collado de Arrablo (2343 m). A lone signpost indicated the way of the old GR11, now considered too dangerous for the average hiker. The new variant followed a long and tiring route into the Arrablo ravine and the river valley of Fuenblanca. The trail passed over the stony round col and downwards into the ravine. The ground was soaked and squished beneath my feet as I picked my way down, trying to keep track of the marker stripes in the blinding sun exposure.

Unearthly mountain formations popped up on the crest to my left as I inched down the climbing grade steep path. Chains were bolted into the rock, and every step over wet ground sent my stomach lurching. The GR11 was a natural highlight reel day in and day out, but it also was absolutely not a trail for newbie hikers. The trail dived down from the alpine mountain terrain and into the Fuenblanca valley, where fern bushes and sheep replaced the wild alpine scenery. This day was particularly arduous as I had lost all altitude from the first col, and now has a second one to traverse before the trail plummeted down even further into the Pineta valley. The amount of altitude gained and lost today would reach an absolutely stupid tally by nightfall.

The trail up towards Collado de Añisclo (2,453m) was an ascent of nearly 1000m. I was panting like a dog as I leapt up the steep hillside among the countless waterfalls of Rio Bellos. I had wanted a test of my trail legs, and I got it. Vertical white mountain walls loomed on both sides of the valley slopes as I dug in with all my might. The climb took me almost two hours of obliterating effort, and the sun was baking by the time I reached the rocky col. The mountain dropped off into a sheer precipice of loose scree over 1200m into Pineta. Directly across from me on the other side of the valley lay a pretty green mountain meadow. An older hiker from Austria sat panting next to the col cairn, a chatterbox who immediately delved into his encounters with giardia. Only in the thru-hiking world do you talk about diarrhoea within five minutes of meeting somebody.

I was just about to sit down on the col for lunch when I felt a familiar buzzing in my hip belt pocket. The 11.30 alarm that goes off every day. Antidepressants are a bit like birth control pills it seems, you should take them at the same time each day for optimal brain chemistry. Or whatever it is, no one really knows. They just work. The pandemic absolutely crushed me, but medication was a significant part of my coming back to life. I’ll take on anyone who thinks severe clinical depression can be cured by a meditation app or home yoga. The meds had saved me from drowning and they were as much a part of my life as my daily walks. I held the small white pill up against the mountain view. Natural and synthetic happiness in one frame. How meta.

The guidebook helpfully read “Ahead of you awaits what is probably the toughest descent of the whole GR11 (1,200 metres in 2.5 kilometres).” Thanks Brian. Every inconvenience was officially Brian’s fault now. Sue me.

The descent was undoubtedly the most heinous downhill ordeal I have ever endured on any hike. In my early 20s, it would take almost two weeks of thru-hiking for my knees to start hurting. On the GR11 it took two days. I braced and braced against the loose sand and rock until my ligaments screamed and my quads were on fire. The trail was barely more than a slippery rockface. I double and triple checked the locking mechanisms on my trekking poles to make sure they wouldn’t collapse and catapult me to my death when I leaned all my weight on them. The scree became rock, which became larger rocks as the trail dipped back below treeline. I was in so much pain I could barely stagger over them, my knees wobbled like cooked noodles by the time I finally limped out onto the riverbed flat.

The river at Las Inglatas was a gorgeous pale blue and could not have been more inviting. I left the trail to find a secluded spot on the rocky banks. After a moments hesitation, I wrung off all my drenched clothes down to my briefs. The river was so shallow that I could only lie in it on my back, but oh lawd that was heavenly. It was only me, the rushing water, the green forest, and the grand mountains. I sat down on a rock to dry in the sun, confident that my spot was completely private. When suddenly, out of nowhere, a bespectacled youth (male, 21 ish) burst onto the riverbank, and stood directly facing my bare chest. We both froze for an eternal second before he bounded through the river – boots and all – and literally ran into the forest on the other side. The situation was too absurd not to laugh at. He could have looked a little happier all things considered!

Now that my cover was blown, I slicked my wet hair back and headed over to Pineta. Big honey-coloured butterflies flew before me, leading the way through the forest towards the refuge. It lay bathed in sunlight on the edge of the forest next to a road. The bespectacled youth sat at one of the picnic tables deep in concentration over his maps. I desperately wanted to avoid another fee and asked the hut warden if there was any place to camp nearby. He didn’t even look at me. “YOU CAN’T!” he barked and turned away, leaving me hanging with my pan y jamon sandwich. I looked around. I was beat, having just completed one of the longest trail days. It was roasting hot. I suddenly hated the hut warden’s guts. How dare you be such a shitty and unhelpful parody of a grumpy old man when you made the tourism industry your living. Blast it, he wasn’t getting a cent of my money. I’d surely wild camped more times than this guy had gotten laid. I threw my backpack on and strode off down the road deeper into the Pineta valley.

There were tourists everywhere, car parks were overflowing with urban-looking families and youth groups trying their hand at nature. The “tourism office” was about the size and shape of an ice cream shack, and the woman behind the till was another despairingly monolingual mis-hire. She sent me the wrong way before I managed to wrangle together google maps and Brian’s sparce advice. Right. Just beyond the old church, Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Pineta, lay the rocky forest path which would take me up to La Larri, the big green meadow I had seen across the valley from Añisclo col earlier in the day.

I flipped back and forth between gasping for air and muttering angrily on my massive climb up through the sun-dappled forest. I was going way too fast for the amount of water I had, but all I could think of was getting away from this stupid system of clueless people who couldn’t so much as speak a basic sentence in a second language. Stupid hut warden. Stupid camping restrictions. Finally the forest thinned out, and I stood on the edge of the meadow plateau. Horses and cows grazed deeper into the valley towards Llanos de La Larri, the waterfall at the innermost base. Day hikers trickled out as the shadows grew long. I sat on a rock in the wide river and waited and waited for people to clear out so that I could find a spot to pitch my tent. Another French GR11 hiker going the opposite way came over for a chat and to filter water, recounting his recent story of explosive diarrhoea, hand gestures and all. God almighty.

A tall, strawberry blonde guy around my age walked over and asked, in an unmistakable German accent, if he could borrow my water filter. His name was Ferdinand, and I ended up filtering 3,5L for him (seriously, how are people this unprepared for the outdoors). He was in truth the best company I’d had in a while. When I was sure the rangers wouldn’t come looking, I pitched my tent behind an old stone barn on a flat spot overlooking the Pineta valley. I could see the trail I’d descended earlier today, a grotesque slab of loose rock from the valley floor to nearly 2500m. Let’s never do that again.

The evening was beautiful. Twilight sunk over the spectacular valley, the stone barn, and us. A family with an adorable dog came by, and I couldn’t stop myself from kissing its silky ears and head. First physical contact in 15 days.

“Aren’t you worried about the cows?” Ferdinand called before we went to sleep. He lay in his bivvy bag a couple of metres away.

“Nah!” I called back. Of all my trail worries, cows were not one of them. I’d slept next to livestock a hundred times with no issue. Plus, the cows were almost a km away into the valley. I felt snug as a bug and clever for having dodged the camping prohibition.

“Well… at least I have a tall, blonde girl to protect me”. Nice one.

If only justice were as kind.

 Llanos de La Larri – Parzán

Beautiful pale blue morning. Perfect temperature. Tired after yesterday’s big day. Made frothy cappuccino on my stove. Sat tucked in sleeping bag enjoying the view and getting ready to pack up my things. A blonde cow had ambled closer and closer. She wasn’t grazing and stared straight at me the whole time. Oh no missus, not anywhere nearer my $650 tent. I put down my coffee in the vestibule and lunged towards her, flapping my arms and yelling “SHOO”. I expected her to swerve on her hind legs and bolt away from me the way any other herbivore would. She didn’t. She lowered her enormous head clad with 20 cm long horns and charged.

I screamed and threw myself out of the way, catapulting Ferdinand out of his bivvy bag. The cow tripped over my taut guy lines, kicked over my coffee cup, and almost fell on her face before she regained her balance and came at us again. Now, you might not think that Kristin (171 cm & 62 kg) was any match for Bessie (145 cm & 600 kg). But nobody, and I mean nobody, gets between a thru-hiker and their tent.

-        “FERDINAND!” I roared. “SAVE MY TENT!”

Ferdinand looked completely stunned as he grappled with what was happening, but he grabbed his bivvy bag and flung it at the cow like a matador. She charged at him with full force, this time he dodged her horns by barely a metre.

-        “KEEP GOING!” I wailed, yanking my tent plugs out of the ground. I flung open the metal door to the old stone barn, gathered my tent containing all my belongings and threw it and myself inside on the cold stone floor. Ferdinand dashed around the mad cow, flinging himself in and smashing the door shut behind him with a deafening bang.

Good fucking god. I looked sheepishly at Ferdinand, recounting his question about cow safety last night. Well shit. If I had been alone I would have been done in, or at the very least be without accommodation for the foreseeable future. I stared at the tangled mess of gear on the floor in exasperation. And my damn coffee was gone too! Ferdinand politely looked away while I changed and stuffed everything in my pack. All of a sudden I just wanted to be gone, far away from livestock and other people. We checked that the coast was clear before exiting the barn, the cow was nowhere in sight.

-        “Well, goodbye then, strong solo woman.” Ferdinand smiled kindly. “A goodbye hug?” He looked so sweet and friendly, standing there with arms outstretched, tousled hair, sleeping bag draped over his shoulders. But I couldn’t. I made an excuse about my t-shirt being stinky and awkwardly darted off towards the trail junction. I don’t really know why I refused his embrace. I regretted it on the woodland climb up from the valley.

My mood was sour as I plowed my way through about 60 spider webs on my way up through the dimply lit pines of Cuesta de la Rivareta. Not only was my caffeine addiction truly real, I had also just been within an inch of seeing £2000 worth of hiking gear trampled to dust. A truly horrific wake up.

The sun smashed into my face as I came over the ridge onto the Plana Es Corders plains. The first half of my day would trace this flat mountain shelf which ran parallel to the crest I had traversed yesterday. Three fat marmots ran ahead of me on the trail as I wearily eyed another pack of cows grazing on the hillside. Darn it, I just wanted to hit replay and do the morning all over again. I sat down on the grassy edge of the mountain plain in the company of too many flies and made another coffee. So there, Bessie.

I walked. Mountains on my right. A green corridor of lush grass and wildflowers, pines. Filled water in a cow trough. I felt like I was stopping every five minutes to apply sunscreen, get a snack out, drink. I felt nauseous. I was two weeks in, and already energy bars had lost their appeal. A quick climb led me up to Collado de las Coronetas (2,159m), the only col of the day. Below lay a hanging valley strewn with large boulders, purple flowers, and at the bottom, shiny reflections of cars in Plan Fonda car park. It was so hot. My head was spinning with snippets of conversations from the last year - voices of people I knew and had known so loud I almost couldn’t hear my laboured breathing and frantic steps racing down the hill.

“…you’ll always be the girl with mended glasses…”

“…I’ve never told anyone that I loved them…”

“…come here little pixie…”

“…feel like we’re capped at 80 per cent…”

“…would you rather know the what if even if it disappoints you…?”

“…for us because we made it here despite everything…”

“…we were meant to meet and write this together…”

“…who am I if I’m not your daughter anymore…?”

“…so girly…”

I almost didn’t see the river Real before I nearly waded into it. I heaved a single dry sob, peeled off my clothes and lay down in the liquid crystals. The shock of the cold water knocked my breath out, taking all consequential thoughts with it. A thru-hiking commandment: always swim. These moments are the whole point. I lay in the river until I couldn’t bear it anymore and wrung my clothes back on. My head felt like cotton. I was out of food and used my last phone battery to listen to the Tough Girl podcast along the 12 km of dirt road into the village of Parzán. I walked fast and mechanically with only the thought of lunch and rest in mind. The road descended gently until I has lost all the altitude of the mountains and once again entered forested valleys.

I look back on my time in Parzán as an ode to hiker trash vogue. I walked into the big, air-conditioned grocery store with my panties hanging off my pack to dry. Beyond the Haribo aisle, I walked around aimlessly and stared at items impossibly far removed from my current circumstances. Condoms. Hair masks. “Por cabello seco”. I felt pretty damn seco all around in the 30 degree heat. As if that wasn’t enough… My top pack pocket was open and my bag of almonds had emptied inside it – meaning that as I bent down to place my shopping cart items on the scanning belt, a shower of almonds cascaded down my neck and all over the floor. The groomed-looking family standing behind me in the queue stared with their mouths hanging open in disbelief. The cashier probably thought I had stolen them and asked to look inside my pack, wrinkling her nose at the dirty mess of that morning’s mad cow packing. I ate a giant peach in the car park and walked over to a lunch-looking bar by the gas station. Hello protein, come to Kris. The two men at the table next to me had stared wide-eyed as I ate my way through lamb chops, sides, and the entire breadbasket. When my job was done, the oldest slowly extended his arm to offer me what was left of theirs. I’m not easily embarrassed, but what an absolute parody of a hiker trash moment.

I snagged a strictly unnecessary hotel room at the only hotel in town. I needed to charge my phone and was just too overcome with heat and fatigue to climb two hours to find a suitable camp spot. Lying on my stomach on the bed, I called G. He’d wanted to join me for my final two days but had gotten the dates mixed up. I was indeed alone. “It’s Friday here in the city you know”, he chuckled. I imagined buzzing London in late summer, the Southbank walkway along the Thames brimming with people enjoying golden sunsets together. Hanging up, I felt truly lonely, like I was the one missing out despite being here on this great adventure. And the thought which had plagued me on and off for the past 2,5 years… why can’t we seem to love the people who are good for us?

 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.

 Forcallo Camping – Puente de San Chaime, via refugio estos

Oh lawd. I was not ready for that alarm to ring at 06. It was still pitch black outside, the moon hung high in the night sky, and every car camper was still sound asleep. It had rained on and off in the night, and my breath made little steam puffs in the cold morning air. I heard Annie and Christine rummage around in their tents as I slurped down my coffee in the dark while still huddled in my puffy and sleeping bag. Ready or not, the day was here.

The three of us greeted one another with scrunched-up morning faces and energy bars in hand. Quick emergency French braid in the bathroom, and we were off. Through the forest a short bounce away from the campground lay miles of rolling hills with tiny white farmhouses. We passed the pastoral-looking Refugio de Viadós where a group of French hikers sat tying their shoelaces outside. Christine called “BonJOUWRRRR” in a drawl reminiscent of Inglorious Basterds, and I burst out laughing at the horrified French faces. They indignantly shouted back “non, bonjooooour!” and Christine kept drawing out her reply as grotesquely as only Americans can butcher a foreign language. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and already my day was made.

Annie strode off on her enormous quads while Christine and I chatted merrily as we ambled through tall grasses on the wet trail. Everything was lush and soaked from the rains, the path undulated up and down the hillside as a glorious amber sunrise rose in the East directly ahead.

I told Christine about my mom’s heart failure. A sneaky disease, it was terminal, but no one new how long you had. The news had shattered my already broken world in the summer of 2021, and I could never tell the story without tearing up. Christine stopped, turned around and looked deeply into my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Kris. I’m truly so sorry.” It was such a simple moment, but I could tell she meant it with every fibre of her being, and I felt an instant flood of warmth for her. What a gem of a human. It takes so little to make others feel like you truly see them, and Christine clearly knew that. More people like this in the world please.

The path climbed up the valley alongside the river Zinqueta de Añes Cruces towards today’s pass. Annie and Christine clearly had very different hiking styles – I hadn’t seen the former since Viadós that morning - but they still managed travel as a pair through compromise and “hike your own hike” principles. The climb up into the sunrise passed effortlessly behind Christine’s steady and sustainable strides. The pass itself, Puerto de Chistau (2592), bared itself with intense gusts of wind. Not ideal for a lunch spot. We continued down on the other side, Christine hopping between the rocks like a mountain goat while I staggered after her on achy knees down the scree slope. An enormous mountain vista opened ahead of us, an endless valley of sunshine and our glorious trail. Annie and her supply of Pro bars sat perched on a big flat rock. We discussed abortion politics in the US and munched through pan y jamon. I thought I felt a tug in my shorts as I got up from the rock but didn’t think anymore of it. We shall return to this detail in a later post.

As we passed down into the valley, the landscape did seem to transform into Christine’s current Colorado home. But the poor gal was feeling increasingly weak as we passed Refugio de Estos, where yet another sourly, monolingual old man sold us expensive diet Cokes. The squattie toilets there reminded me of the GR20. I though back with a smile at Michael, my British fellow hiker and germophobe who was so afraid of being splashed by the flush that he would pull the string with a hand on the door and sprint out before it flushed. Good times.

Christine fell behind as Annie charged ahead again. I cruised in the middle. We walked through gorgeous sunny pine landscape against a trickle of day hikers (including a barefoot man!). A wooden bridge took us over a sparkling blue river, through green meadows beneath granite peaks. In a wild flip from yesterday, I felt so centred and happy alongside my two new friends on this beautiful trail. I eventually caught up with Annie who stood puzzled at a junction, and despite her industrious pace we got talking. The more we talked, the more she tuned in. She seemed taken aback at how much we could relate to each other, she was clearly used to others not connecting with her worldview, as her literal and figurative pace would always send her out alone and leave mellower people behind. We both thru-hiked because we relished the euphoria and extraordinariness of peak experiences. It had never occurred to us to not do something because we were afraid. Neither of us identified with the woman-oriented narrative of lacking the confidence to grab what we wanted from life. She said she felt like a gender traitor. We both lit up more and more as we spoke, we were nearly running now. I’d never met anyone so fiercely unapologetic as her except myself.

The afternoon had reached peak roasting point by the time the two of us made it to the humongous campground at Puente de San Chaime. We had just paid for camp spots when Christine called Annie to tell her she had booked a dorm room at a hotel back up the road. I felt incredibly guilty at the though of freeriding, but I was burning money by the day. Christine generously cashed out for all three of us at the picturesque hotel sitting on top of a lonely hill overlooking the valley. We instantly transformed the six-bed dorm into a nest of sports bras, energy bars, and grime. Every surface housed a clothing item drying after a sink wash. The hotel was also home to a sedate golden Labrador who would walk over to wherever the pizza was and refuse to engage with anyone who didn’t feed her. It was the epitome of chill.

But we weren’t all as lucky. Christine’s nausea got worse and worse as the afternoon went on, and eventually she decided to forgo the remaining days to Espot and take the bus directly to Barcelona. The invincible Annie suddenly looked insecurely at me and asked me what my plans were. I said of course we would go together. Wanting company is not a sign of weakness. Both of us were more than capable of doing this solo, but no way we would pass up the thrill of our new acquaintance.

I sat on the terrace as twilight fell and thought about my new hiking companions and how I would have loved to continue with the both of them. Christine was gentle, someone who didn’t force things but rather let them come to her. In many ways I’d strived to be more like her in recent years. Annie was the person I was born as – intense and hot-blooded, a go-getter who saw what she wanted and grabbed it. She had big miles to make in order to get to Espot on time for her return flight, and now I was in for that deal too. We would be doing five day stretches in three days. I was in for a wild ride.