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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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