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.