Puente de San Chaime – Refugio de Conangles, via Refugio Cap de l’Lauset

07 alarm after a solid night of SNRI-fuelled bad dreams. The usual. Shake it off and head to breakfast buffet. How many versions of empty carbs could you possibly fit on one table? Annie stood over me while I munched down my tomato toast and apple cake.

-        “I am the German train of your nightmares. I will leave at exactly 07.30.”

It occurred to me that hiking with Annie might be an educational insight into what it was like for other people to hang out with me. I’d never been on the receiving side of that kind of intensity. I was the intensity. I thought about Max and Jake – they wouldn’t have lasted a day. We said a long goodbye to Christine and set forth side by side up the gravel road.

Only on thru-hikes am I a morning person. Making the most of the pre-sun hours was a given on any trail, particularly this one. Annie plugged in her music and stopped for a pee-break while I raced ahead. Knowing that she would be on my heels spurred me to hike the fastest I could. I blazed up the first 10 km at over 6 km/h. The winding gravel road was the ideal turf for racing, it climbed ever so gently through the woods back into the mountains where I belonged. I think that’s the fastest 10 km I’ve ever hiked. I plopped down on a bench by the car park where the gravel road ended with a kiwi and some more scavenged carbs from the breakfast table. Annie was indeed not far behind, and we assessed the terrain ahead as we had some mammoth mountains to traverse.

The landscape was stunning, and somehow familiar. This was the closest I’d seen akin to the Sierra Nevada since I hiked the John Muir Trail in 2017. Silver granite peaks shot up around us, lush bushes grew alongside the pale track which crossed little mountain streams between huge boulders. Were those blueberry bushes? It was beautiful and perfect and having someone to share it with made it all the better. We charged by all the dayhikers without packs and climbed towards a small plateau with two lakes. Annie refused to dip a toe in, but I mustered all my Viking genes and threw myself in with a shriek that echoed between the mountaintops.

It was stabbingly cold and spectacular and wild all at once. Annie laughed and filmed me as I paddled and panted like a dog back to the shore. The sapphire lake was one of several below a steep and stony col. Annie stormed up on her nitro legs while I plodded behind to the increasingly insistent growls from my stomach. A valley equally spectacular to the one we’d just left opened up, with Refugio de Cap de L’lauset plopped in the middle. I scuttled down among huge boulders towards lunch.

I had originally wanted to stay at Cap de L’lauset to enjoy the modern facilities and spectacular location. But the German train of my nightmares literally stood pacing on the deck as I chomped down a gross, cold tortilla pincho which must have consisted of 90% onion. Annie was terrified of storms, and the hut warden could not guarantee that this afternoon would spare us. We still had another huge col and descent ahead, despite having walked a day stretch already.

On the tiny col, we were greeted by a spectacular vista. Mountains as far as the eye could see beneath a cotton cloud sky. A steep moonscape leading down to a cluster of bright blue lakes like scattered water droplets in the valley. Beyond there, an open plateau with a tiny emergency bothy. We were cruising, Annie much nimbler on the downhills than me.

The decent down to the river flat was never-ending. Pineta II. The skies held their breath but never released as I limped down from the high mountains down into familiar pine and beech forest. Round the last bend, I nearly stumbled over Annie who sat soaking a rolled ankle in the river.

“That was hideous, I’m sorry”, she said meekly, meaning the eternal decent which had nearly been the bane of her ankle. Couldn’t argue with that! We trudged along at half speed down the flat stretch by the road to Refugio de Conangles. A rustic old structure in the middle of the woods, it housed another decrepit specimen of angry-old-monolingual-male-hut warden. By the name of Ashir, as Annie thought to ask. Camping allowed near here? – No. Annie tried her absolute best American flattery. “Ashir, hablas inglés?” – flat no. “Que hay para cenar?” – grunt. “Do you have a bocadillo?” – affirmative grunt. I rolled my eyes at him and went outside to boil my noodles and rice. Carbs on carbs again. I wanted nothing more to do with these nasty hut wardens, especially now that I’d already sponsored his sour demeanour with €27 for a rickety bed in the upstairs dorm. Annie sat at a picnic table next to me munching on her tortilla bocadillo and tried one last time to earn us some good graces. “Hey Ashir!”, she whooped at him as he wiped clean the other tables. “Great bocadillo! Very tasty!” – grunt. I snorted with laughter and nearly inhaled my noodles. We spotted three young men headed to our dormitory in that loud way that only young men move. I knew they were going to be snorers, Annie insisted on giving them the benefit of the doubt. Guess who won that.

Burying into my sleeping bag as darkness fell, I tried to avoid touching the mattress at all costs. This was the kind of place you’d bring bed bugs home from. What a day it had been. Tomorrow’s forecast was ominous, and on top of that I’d gotten my period. We were double-staging tomorrow as well and had set a grisly early alarm. For so long I had been the fastest thing on these trails. But in Annie I had met my match. Not only was she the only beast out here who could outhike me, she was a force of nature.

 Refugio de Conangles – Refugio de Colomers, via Refugio de Restanca

I was right. Those three young bucks were indeed snorers. As well as go-to-bed-laters and make-a-ruckus-while-doing so’ers. Annie spent the entire night hissing at them in fury every time they so much as grunted. I got such a kick out of her rage at snorers. Finally here was another woman who deliberately took up space and bent the world to her will. I had found a kindred spirit. We had set our alarms to 05.30 and tiptoed outside with our headlamps on, deliberately ignoring Ashir’s stony stare. I scooped up the last of Christine’s cashew butter with my dry baguette. We were off into the darkness. Now, I’d never actually night-hiked before (what’s the point of thru-hiking if you can’t see anything?). The forest was pitch black and dead quiet until a we heard a sudden crack and rustle of leaves – way too noisy to be a small animal. I froze in instinctive fear while Annie let out a huge “BOO!” which would save scared the living daylights out of a wild boar/bear/rapist.

The faintest of grey light illuminated the outlines of the valley floor we crossed before heading into the woods where the trail would take us back into the mountains. I still had to squint to make out the rocks littering the path. We crossed a first river, a second. A pale dawn rose as we climbed up, up. But no sunlight. It was hidden behind a huge purple veil hovering over the mountains we had crossed yesterday. Annie took off like a torpedo. I fought to speed up, but by legs felt leaden and sluggish. Was it my period? The early start? I dragged myself up never-ending switchbacks as faint swirls of mist slipped around me. I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t see Annie anywhere above me, and every time I glanced back, the wall of cloud moved closer. That was a storm if I ever saw one. The entire stretch that day was above treeline, there was no shelter except Refugio de la Restanca halfway. I heaved myself upwards at seemingly half my usual pace onto the col leading into the high mountains.

I felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t seem to get enough air, black specks dotted my vision, my pulse roared in my ears. Behind me, the great purple wall of clouds loomed closer. Jagged mountain peaks pierced the clouds ahead like canine teeth. A steel blue lake appeared among the rocks, but there was no movement anywhere as I frantically scanned the landscape ahead. I screamed at the top of my lungs into the void.

 “ANNIIIIIIEEEEEE!”

Nothing. My scream was instantly engulfed by the fog. The lake was eerie and beautiful, but all I could think of was racing away from the storm. I nearly ran alongside the lakeshore on the rocky path. Suddenly, as if a switch had been flicked, the heavy cloud curtain lifted and sunlight pierced through. I nearly sank to my knees. The weather up here could clearly kill you both literally and figuratively. I stumbled onwards with my gaze downwards as I crossed soaked grass down into the next shallow valley. The vistas were breath-taking as usual, but my only goal was the refuge where I could only assume Annie would be waiting. Hours trailed by. I mechanically climbed through thickets of wild raspberries and over boulders.

Finally, coming over a last little height, I could see a mountain bowl, with the refuge nestled into the hillside almost indistinguishable from the surrounding rock. A long concrete dam led me to the stony walls of Refucio de la Restanca, where a yellow supply helicopter was just taking off. Annie was sitting on a bench and immediately jumped up when she saw me. The lack of storm and my haggard expression probably alerted her to the need for some TLC asap. I needed oreos and an actual breakfast right this instant, and sank down in a heap on the helipad.

Annie fluttered around me, promising that we would walk together to the next refuge as the weather was looking much better. A rugged trail runner sat down beside us on the helipad. Completely oblivious to the fact that we clearly didn’t speak a word of Spanish, he chatted away happily about his morning while we stared blankly. This is what the wild will do to you. I chomped through what felt like my 200th bocadillo and stroked the lazy black dog which had followed my sandwich out of the refugio. As for hut warden score, they didn’t let me into the toilets despite me clearly communicating that I needed to change my pad. Was it our proximity to France that made hospitality staff so formidably inhospitable? I had to crouch down behind what I can only describe as an insufficient rock, praying the chatty trail runner wasn’t about to round the corner.

Time for stretch 2/2. We climbed up from Restanca on a bright path, enjoying wildflowers, and views of the glimmering dam and Lac de Mar. This was the glory stretch of the day. We climbed up the first of two cols, I felt a million times better and drank in the stunning views of bright green grass and silver stone. The area between the cols was heavenly flat and dotted by two little greenstone lakes.

We climbed the second col, relishing the highpoint of the day. When suddenly, a sound like an arrow being shot from a bow whooshed above us. I heard Annie gasp and looked up to see the black outline of an extremely rare lammengreier, the enormous Catalonian culture whose wingspan can reach 2.5 metres. Several of them had flocked around the Coret de Oelhacrestada where we’d just come from. What a treat! We floated onwards down into another gorgeous mountain valley to our final destination – still above treeline.

Refugio de Colomers was absolutely packed. Hikers spilled out of the hut in every direction, gathering in a clump on the front porch where tried squeezing into a corner to make an afternoon coffee. I took what I thought was a sporty-looking selfie, only to see that I had enormous circles under my eyes. Dear lord. The sun disappeared behind clouds, and it instantly grew cold. Changing out of my shorts and into my long johns, my stomach lurched as a saw a huge gash right in the butt of my precious hiking shorts. My mind instantly relayed the loud tearing sound I’d heard when the three of us had lunch two days before. “ANNIE!” I gasped. “My shorts have a massive hole in the ass! Why didn’t you tell me?” Annie stared blankly back and stammered “I… thought you knew and didn’t mind…”. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I just stretched in front of that family over there!” In the end, we both went with laughter. What next?! All the rain that was promised eventually came down in the space of 10 minutes accompanied by some half-hearted thunderclaps. I meticulously repaired my shorts with dental floss, my uneven stitches forming a huge white L. #hikertrashvogue

Camping was illegal, and the skies still looked dodgy. The price of our peace of mind came in at a whopping €58, an unacceptable price for the hideously designed dorm rooms, which consisted of seven half-sized mattresses jammed next to each other over two bunks. That left us and 12 possible snorers. We sank down on the bed in hysterics at the absurdity of our situation. We’d just paid a small fortune for significantly worse conditions than our tents would have provided. On top of that, dinner was an unbearable four hours away. We lay on our backs looking up at the underside of the top bunk, discussing our imminent deaths from starvation, shrieking every time any part of our bodies accidentally touched the mattresses. “Two empty husks”, Annie exclaimed dramatically. “Dying on the vine.”

 Refugio de Colomers – Espot

A morning with Annie was a morning getting up long before sunrise. We extracted ourselves from the overfilled bunk room, tiptoed down the stairs and shook ourselves awake in the hallway with a basket of empty carbs left by the refuge staff (who in fairness had left a cute note wishing us a happy hike). A cold wind was blowing outside the refugio. I stuffed a whole muffin in my mouth, let Annie take a hideous picture of me with chipmunk cheeks, and we were off. As usual, we were the only two people braving the wild at this hour. The blue predawn light wasn’t enough to go without headlamps, and we picked our way on the fresh morning trail carefully. I nearly stepped on a salamander who had made use of the scant traffic on the trails to shortcut down to the lake. Wind whipped our hair around wildly as we made our way across yet another dam. A last look back at Colomers, perched unusually high on the lakeshore as the water was over 3m lower than in usual years.

The morning was quiet as pale grey light seeped onto the world. We walked together, passing occasional groups of cows which we gave a wide berth. We came around a bend and saw a massive pair of them occupying the whole trail. Fine, there was room for us to circumnavigate them up a hillside to our right. We inched our way up the hill while keeping a stern eye on the cows throughout. They stared intently back. A milk chocolate brown one seemed especially intrigued and took two steps towards us.

-        “Shit! Gogogogogo!” (ever seen that scene in Thelma and Louise when they’ve robbed the gas station? “DRIIIIIVE LOUIIIISE!!”)

We heaved ourselves back down the path and sped off. Looking over our shoulder, the cow was striding confidently fast after us and started mooing manically. We were both freaking out and sped up until we were almost running to try and shake it off, to no avail. It followed and followed, keeping almost exactly the same pace as us so we couldn’t really outrun it, all the while mooing like crazy. It definitely wasn’t our sweet scent that attracted it, so we could only assume it had a case of genuine Mad Cow’s Disease. As the day dawned with scattered clouds, pretty green lakes, and lush mountainside, all we could focus on was keeping up the pace and not get eaten. The pathetic race continued for several kilometres as we inched ahead of our pursuer. Only when the trail climbed steeply up the day’s enormous col did we finally shake it off. The cow stood at the bottom of the incline, still mooing for all it was worth. What in the bejeezes was wrong with the herbivores around here?

Coming up on the col revealed the most spectacular vista ahead, even wilder than what we left behind. A grassy flat gave way to an incredible row of rugged peaks and a brilliant blue morning. A faint whinny from a free-roaming horse echoed between the mountaintops. This was a photo spot for the history books. We ran back and forth between the little cairn and my tripod until we got the perfect shot. Powerful silhouettes and hair blowing in the wind, we truly did look like the I’m-a-goddamn-Amazonian-queen wilderness machines we felt like. I have no need to hide one of my core motivations for thru-hiking. What you are doing is objectively awesome, and you feel awesome while doing it. No one can deny your extraordinariness in these moments. Maybe that’s narcissism. Look how much we care.  

The long descent from the col was stunning but cold enough for us to don our puffies. Crystal clear pools of water with sandy bottoms on the Sierra-like mountainsides. Eternal views of yet more mountains. A glittering lake with a small rock in the middle, too cold for a real swim but surely I could wade out for a photo? Peeling off my socks, I immediately sank down to my calves in muddy sludge. Yuck! I whined and screeched as I wobbled out to the rock while Annie stood crippled with laughter.

-        “Do you know how to rescue someone from quicksand?!”

-        “No, but I bet all the dead earth material is good for your skin!”

-        “AAARGH that’s really deep muck! The adventures of a husk!”

Two twin peaks, enormous and magnificent in their stature and uniformity, appeared out of the clouds across the valley. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting gentle cruise into town than the 10 km ahead. Annie taught me to lift my legs by my hamstrings, to bounce so lightly that I looked like I was doing a little run down the endless gravel slopes. It worked! Instead of throwing out my legs and bracing with my poles to offload my knees, I was now tip-toeing and felt light with each step. Here was finally a technique which would save me a knee-replacement surgery before the age of 35. Annie ran road marathons back in the US, if anyone could give me advice it was her. I’d never really paid attention to my hiking technique because I was built muscly rather than skinny. I knew I had flat feet and was slightly bow-legged after a decade of horse riding, I rarely stretched and had always figured I wasn’t naturally athletic. This trip was slowly changing that perception.

Mountain slopes gave away to trees. We cruised through the thick pine forest, talking about children and motherhood. Anyone who has been in a room with me for 20 minutes know that I am violently opposed to the idea. There’s just something about the idea of a 4th degree tear that doesn’t have my name written all over it. For a solid ten years I’d stood firm in my decision, facing down countless arguments with family, various sets of in-laws, and every stranger who seemed entitled to an opinion. I had experienced a pregnancy at 24 for a few brief weeks, an abysmal experience which swept away the merest hint of doubt that may have survived my ideological purge. At this point I was completely at peace with my childfree future and rarely thought about it anymore. I enjoyed interacting with older kids in moderation but would never voluntarily hold a baby. Annie on the other hand, seemed up for the challenge. I was fascinated by her thoughts on parenthood as a journey of challenge and exploration, of course with the starting point of her having a trusted and supportive partner who would do his share of the caring work. I have yet to see a man assume a full 50% of the emotional labour of parenthood, but one can hope.

As the pines turned to dry bushes on a sand track on the last two km into Espot, I suddenly felt bone tired. 20 days out here in the Spanish wild. My 64 days on the Te Araroa now suddenly seemed beyond belief. How had I sustained that gusto for so long? Every day out here was stunning, there were never any boring “transport” stretches, and still it got monotonous at times. Although, I suspect my 22 year old head in some key respects was a nicer place to hang out than my 27 year old head. Truthfully, I often felt quite tired of myself. I was tired of having the same thoughts rummage around constantly without reaching new conclusions. Tired of thinking about him. Tired of thinking about my dwindling enthusiasm for my job. Of actively avoiding thinking about lockdown days or my mom’s illness lest I crumple to the ground in a useless heap.

We reached Espot together. A perfect rest day town brimming with visitors and vibrant shop fronts, little market stalls, and a café serving real coffee. We dived into burgers, tapas, salad, and crêpes. Utter heaven. 4G, digital catch-ups with the outside world. We’d booked separate hostels and knew that when lunch ended, so would our joint hike. It started to rain gently as we dragged our feet out of town towards horizontal rest.

We stood wrapped around each other in a fierce hug for a long time. We had only known each other for four days, but it felt like forever. I tried my best to tell Annie how incredible it had been to share the trail for this short while, how infinitely enriched my hike had been by her presence, how happy I was to have found someone who ran at the world in the same way I did. She and Christine had brought the GR11 into focus, everything felt 10x more real with her there.

“You’re one of a kind, Kris. You’re so intuitive, you’re always right about people”, Annie said thickly. I was too full of exercise-induced endorphins to cry, but we were both beaming with emotion as we looked at one another and hugged again. Two husks colliding in the wild. Sometimes when I feel alone, both in my regular London life and in the wild, I imagine the world dotted with little lights belonging to people who know me and care about me. As I walked up the road to my hidden-away guest house accommodation, I added a little light for Chicago.

 Espot – La Guineta d’Agneu

I stepped out of the shower and looked myself in the mirror. I was decidedly leaner than I’d been in years, sporting a solid outline of my abs. My hiking shorts and pack hip belt were both way too big and had to be cinched as tight as they could. For such a profoundly grimy undertaking, it felt good to see that thru-hiking could deliver on vanity too. I wanted another rest day, but there were no places to stay. Thus, today would be a half day walking only 12 km into La Guineta d’Agneu through dry, forested foothills.

I made my way into town and plonked down at yesterday’s café. Ignoring the staff’s pointed stares, I sat there for four hours. It felt so good to have some space to not deal with immediate fixes. Water refills, applying sunscreen, checking the map, cleaning clothes, drying my tent, making food. To get some space to not only think about the next stretch of trail, but life after that. New habits to implement, sports to try out, journeys to take, projects, goals, and ambitions to stake out. Absurdly, not many things I wasn’t already doing came to mind. The luxury of having to get creative about your dreams. And, in the context of the last two years, to finally be able to look beyond the immediate term and dream of bigger things again.

In the afternoon I finally packed up my things and made my way out of town, into pine forests, undulating quite gently through the seared landscape of the valley. Without Annie, I was once again alone in my head - and for the first time on the trip, I allowed myself to dwell on the past 2,5 years since Covid erupted and ended my life just as it was peaking. To the steady thuds of my boots hitting the dirt track, I allowed waves of sadness, disappointment, but also the dull ache of resignation flow through me.

The pandemic had broken and splintered me until I felt like a shard of glass. I was in perpetual, searingly sharp pain which coated every experience I had of the world. All I could see and feel of my being was my wild grief, and I became terrified that eventually it would be all that anyone else could see too. The pain of living was such that on many many days, all I could do was sit catatonically for hours in my chair, with a black leaden hole where my chest should be. 2020 became 2021. 2021 became 2022.

But through the steady passing of time and forceful exposure to every joyful glimmer of life, like debris on a beach, the shard of glass that was me eventually blunted. The sharpest edges of my personality were polished over by dear, loyal friends and the shining life I had chosen for myself in London. Their love, and the love for the place where I belonged, had moulded me into the person I had wanted to be. In the words of a cherished ex: “You’ve created your dream life. All you have to do now is show up for it.”

This is not one of those “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” anecdotes. I would have given anything for the pandemic not to have happened, for the last two years to shine with unbridled brightness instead of forming a hideous scar in the narrative of my life. My cognitive skills were a fraction of what they’d been, and I was the embodiment of anxious attachment that Instagram psychologists love to talk about. I was a version of okay now despite of, not because of, what happened. In that regard, this thru-hike was not about healing. If you’ve ever been through trauma, you’ll no doubt be familiar with the fact that healing isn’t a linear process of improvement with some grand moment of redemption at the end. It is turbulent, ambivalent, you emerge from it changed – and now always for the better. Maybe this thru-hike was about perspective, of ridding myself of my learned helplessness and appreciating that I was genuinely back in the driver’s seat of my own life. I felt younger now than I had at 25. My late 20s body had blown me away with its stamina and strength. I’d seen spectacular sights and was so enriched by my meeting with Annie and Christine. Like the countless sapphire and emerald lakes I’d looked down on from mountaintops, the lights of my achievements and loves also lay glittering below me if I looked at them from above.

On this slightly more uplifting note, I entered into a small hamlet. Suddenly, a petite blonde woman I instantly saw was a thru-hiker came towards me looking very worried.

-        “Excuse me, I’m so sorry” she started, “There are two big dogs loose who are barking and growling at me, they won’t let me pass. Do you have experience with dogs?

I did not have any mentionable experience with aggressive and territorial Spanish farm dogs, no. But I had experience with horses, sexist pigs in the city, and now also mad cows. I was also too mentally spent to feel particularly terrified in that moment. That would just have to do.  

We came around the corner, and true enough, two angry mutts growled ferociously at us, blocking the road.

-        “SUCH A GOOD BOY!” I chirped, approaching the closest dog slowly and with my eyes averted, angling my body completely sideways. The dog seemed slightly perplexed at this change of tactics. He kept growling but seemed uncertain as I inched my way towards him, humming a steady stream of sweet talk. He wasn’t more than 3 metres away as we slipped by and sped out of the hamlet. Phew!

The blonde woman’s name on the blog shall be Eva, as her government job warrants some privacy. She had a fascinating international background and a very gentle, even reserved, demeanour. She was hiking her second stage of the GR11, having started in Candanchu. It was her one yearly solo holiday sans husband and two kids. She was nimble and lightweight, and we walked along the roads together for a good few km into Guineta. The enormous campsite housed about 100 vans and our little tents. We ate dinner at the campsite restaurant, Eva carefully steering away from anything that was fried or not fresh. However, her hidden powers came out as we were about to go to bed and an extremely boisterous group of men were playing football nearby. The kindly asked them in English to tone it down, to which they shouted something rude back in a Slavic-sounding language. Her blue eyes aflame, Eva shouted a whole soliloquy back at them in flawless Russian (turns out they were from Ukraine) that she was hosting refugees in her house and what cowards they were to run away from defending their country! Instant silence. I was deadly impressed and snuggled into a peaceful night in my sleeping bag.

 La Guineta d’Agneu – Tavascan, via Estaon

A pale morning dawned on the deep valley. Today’s mission was two day stretches in one, the first of which involved a monstrous climb and descent that would take half a day at least. Guineta lay deep in a valley and I scrambled out of camp while the sun was still behind the mountains. I had one week left to hike before meeting my mom in Barcelona for some snazzy R&R on the beach. The high alpine crossing into Andorra lay ahead. I was determined to enjoy everything the trail had left to offer.

My knees and lower legs were increasingly hurting. I was keeping it in check with Ibuprofen, a common hiker tactic, but that can only take you so far when what you need is good old-fashioned rest. I hadn’t had a rest day in 10 days while smashing out double stretches almost every single one of those days. When you thru-hike there is normal pain and worrisome pain, the latter encompassing anything that’s either new or escalating. Parts of my body were definitely starting to ache earlier and earlier in the day. I’d always had a deep fear of anything achilles-related and my leg pain worried me – not least in light of the upcoming three days of more double stretches and the standard severe altitude profiles of the Pyrenees (fuelled by junk snacks).

The morning climb took forever. There was no trail and I scrambled upwards guided by my map app through endless burnt-to-crisp fields and past a tiny hamlet. Field turned to pine forest, merciful cover from the blazing sun. But still the trail climbed until I felt I had done Kilimanjaro twice over. The top col was nothing more than a forest-clad patch before the trail swooped down again on the other side onto more toasted yellow grass.  

Entering the old stone village of Estaon, I tried following the striped markers through the narrow streets until I came to a small courtyard. Two dogs leaped through a set of thick drapes covering a doorway and growled at me.

-        “Oi there! Shut up you beasts!” A plump woman with an Aussie twanged accent stuck her head out through the drapes. “Heya! You a hiker? Wanna come in for a beer? Don’t put you pack down or the dogs will piss on it.”

And thus I sank into my first blissful trail magic experience on the GR11. The resident couple’s names were Clive and Carmen. Carmen was born in the village, Clive was a ski bum from Australia. In addition to their two dogs, they had nine kitties and countless recommendations for things to do in Barcelona. I sat there for nearly an hour while they fed me crisps (that I tried to not vacuum up like the savage I was) and beer. Theirs felt like a true Aussie home. I would have loved to have someone like them as adoptive aunts and uncles back home. They sent me on my way into a blistering afternoon for my second stretch of the day, another climb/col/descent.

Accompanying me on my walk through the sun-dappled forest was thousands upon thousands of butterflies. Mahogany with red wing rims, pearly blue and white like those of Western Aragon, amber and yellow. It was a wonder to walk among them through the trees alongside the river. At one point the air was so thick with them I had to breathe through my nose lest I swallow some. Natural trail magic to follow on from Anthropocene trail magic.

I climbed the giant hill outside Estaon in the blazing afternoon sunshine. No wonder the stretches were divided as they did, doing full doubles inevitably had you hiking during the worst part of the day. Tall golden grass and rubbery green plants swiped at my sore legs as I dragged myself past blackened hut ruins as the forest disappeared below.

The first sight to greet me atop the lush green col was a pair of very pink boobs. Two sunburned Dutch women sat side by side in naught but their shorts. I decided in a split second that ignoring them would have been more awkward than making enthusiastic conversation, and so I stood there trying to pointedly stare at their faces and nothing else. They told me that they too had recently been victims of a bout of gastro. I felt like I belonged to an increasingly exclusive minority that hadn’t gotten sick yet. Long live the water filter.

While I was (don’t pardon my French) dead as shit and royally fried, the undisputed highlight of the day was the escarpment track of the final few km. A 60 cm wide rock trail hugged the vertical mountain wall over 200m above the valley floor. The village of Tavascan lay nestled like an oasis at the bottom, crowned by a tall church spire at the head of a glittering lake. As I veered down onto the narrow stone street, I was done. Dead and done. I nearly fell into the Casa Rural as camping was illegal as usual and I needed to be horizontal now. Fucking Brian. Him being wrong about the availability of camping spots was getting very, very old. I missed my tent after having spent so many nights in refuges. The room was miniscule and barely fit a single bed, a small sink, and my backpack. I lowered my dirty corpse onto the bed and rubbed the salt crusts off my eyelids. The heat rash in my armpits was getting severe. My nasal walls bled perpetually in the dry mountain climate, and the inside of my nose was covered in disgusting scabs. I had officially entered that stage of hikertrash-ness where no amount of showering leaves you feeling any less gross.

Down in the only village hotel restaurant, I persuaded the chef to feed me even though I wasn’t booked in. I spent my lomo-and-fries dinner making stuttering conversation with a very lovely Catalan hotel employee while we eavesdropped on the conversation of three British guys at the table next to us who were hiking the Haute Route Pyrenees. “I just can’t stand it when girls get clingy, I’m independent and wanna do my own thing”. Shudder. Literally every emotionally intelligent woman’s worst nightmare man. When they eventually turned their attention to us, they turned out to possess a treasure chest of hiker banter. They’d met lots more people than I had and had given them all trail names. I cracked up at the story of the obsessive ultralight man, who despite his every effort to save weight was wearing pants instead of not shorts – they had named him El Pantalón (The Pants).

 Tavascan - Areu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow: Andorra.

 Areu – Refugi de Baiau

Today was the day I would walk into another country that thankfully wasn’t France. The day dawned with a warm and dewy morning. A daddy long legs had curled up outside my tent mesh near my trekking pole, and probably had the rudest awakening of its life as I flicked it away. First creepy crawly of the trip, shudder. The beauty of a campsite night was that I didn’t have to make my own coffee. Although the designated campsite barista looked at me like I’d spoken Greek when I ordered a cappuccino (“Do you want hot milk?” “Uhm yeah, that’s what a cappuccino is…”), the result was agreeable enough that I was in high spirits as I stepped onto the forest trail. A broad gravel road made for easy walking towards the birch and pine forest. Finally we would leave the foothills behind and re-enter dramatic mountain landscapes. I was overjoyed to have a trail family again and lurched ahead into the day.

Ploughing through the dense forest, I was beginning to feel that gnawing stomach ache from eating too little too often that always sets in after around three weeks on every thru-hike I’ve ever done. All my cup noodles and Haribos were taking their toll on my courageous but ultimately mortal gut microbiome. Today’s destination was the iconic Refugi de Baiau, a tiny metal bunker sitting on a huge mountain ledge below Andorra’s highest mountain. While it was no doubt a bed bug haven, staying there would be an iconic GR11 experience.

I strode through the woods on powergear determined to get a place in the Baiau refuge. But once roots and rocks were replaced by mountain meadows, I couldn’t help but saunter. This wilderness was beautiful. A heard of free-roaming horses grazed peacefully next to the train. I stared longingly at the adorable coal-black and palomino foals that lay snoozing next to their mommas. One can never stroke too many velvety muzzles in this life.

My peaceful strolling was rudely interrupted by a heart-stopping encounter. In the exact same fashion as on the John Muir Trail, my breath caught in my throat, and I hollered “HOI!” as I twisted myself in midair away from the snake I was about to step on. The snake was equally freaked out and leapt off the ground in a panic to slither away through the grass. It didn’t look like a poisonous specimen, so I ran after it to document the exotic moment. I could practically hear it shout “FUCK OFF WOMAN!” as it out-slithered me at running pace.

I was standing at the bottom of an enormous mountain basin. Black peaks crowned the outcrop rising in the middle, where I caught sight of Refugi de Baiau as a small white speck at the top, nestled at 2500m. The temperature seemed to drop every other minute as I climbed. The trail got soggier and crossed a little lake beneath the refuge. I was the first person to reach it for the day. A white, bread-shaped metal bunker, extremely tiny but in spectacular surroundings. Nine narrow bunk beds lined the walls in three levels, leaving only a strip of old floorboards and a tiny table at the inner end. I seized a middle bunk to avoid the iron roof and dirty floor. I tried my best to not think about bed bugs as I spread my sleeping bag over the thin mattress. It was cold enough despite the dim sunlight that I had to wear all my clothes and snuggle up in my sleeping bag to stay comfy.

One by one, my trail family and verious others trickled in. The refuge filled up all nine bunks long before dinnertime. The tiny space was bursting with merry hiker conversations as I cooked up two noodle packets for dinner (I swore these would be my last ones). However, Marc and I eyed one another nerviously as an additional young couple came in. Then an older man. Then a group of three. We were now 14 people in a tin of sardines barely designed to fit nine. There wasn’t any space for more than half of us to sit at the table or stand on the floor at any given time, so anyone with a bunk had to lie in it or go outside in the cold.

I lay lazily in bed with my book when someone opened the door and shouted “Guys, come and look!”. We spilled out and gasped in astonishment. The entire valley lay bathed in the most splendid sunset any of us had ever seen. Everything was covered in molten gold, the refuge glowed like a diamond against the apricot evening sky. Everyone reached for their phones in a frenzy to immortalise the wonder. No angle or setting could possibly capture the feeling of being there in the dazzling light. We ooh’ed and aah’ed until the sun finally sank below the mountains.

Witnessing that miraculous sunset only served to hammer in the point I always make about thru-hiking – but also life in general: always opt for the choice that will bring you the most memories. Say yes, lean in, go out, do the little extra. If you don’t, you will inevitably miss out on life. Fomo is helpful as it drives action.

Back in the refuge, everyone was laughing at the pure chaos. No inch of floor was free from hiker or gear. I peered down at Mark who lay below me, and we winked at one another in a silent treaty of snorer-eviction. It was an absurd situation but decidedly a memorable one. Today was wild and tomorrow would be wilder still.