Today, I observed a pigeon drinking water from in between two grime stained tiles in a small plaza, the grout of life for any winged survivor. Then, a few minutes later, walking within a long corridor, I found a lone purse on a bench, the item seemingly forgotten and not stolen. I transferred through the long alleyway and found myself in a large bustling square. I sat down on a marbled bench cool to the touch of my rear end. I fell into a fixed state, my eyes zigzagging, a spectator watching a pick-up soccer game between 8-10 year old's, the goal ends in between a stages where the clowns spilled out of and an outside cafe filled with afternoon coffee drinkers. A hum of chatter filled the air, a soothing harmony echoing within the aged square. Next to the patio and coffee drinkers, a clown amused the younger tikes in strollers next to the makeshift concrete soccer field, the parents holding the strollers gazed at the soccer play rather than the clowns. On the far end of the plaza, a brass band clamored from out of a corner; the trumpets and bass-laden sounds reverberating the background beat of the chattering throng. Vendors of all sorts pawned and sold shoddy goods. I declined a few trinkets from the passing vendors with a head shake. Other people politely shook their heads, as well, and the vendor sauntered on as a lazy stream and onto the next bend. The patrons of the alley cafes sipped coffee and puffed quick spits of cigarettes. A few of them noshed on sweet pastries. Suddenly, a crazy person yells and breaks the humdrum of the throbbing mass. I look up and everything is alive. As if nothing in life should be interrupted, an older couple holding hands walks through the soccer game of the young children, the crazy person still yelling. I observed the hair of the moppets bounce. The direct contradiction of sport and love on display. A couple of the boys tripped while avoiding the older couple and quickly picked themselves up. Furrowed and determined brows complimented the playful grit on their faces. The amorous couple chatted idly away, probably talking about what will be for dinner or how to replant the cactus in their garden. They moved through the chaos like smoke, wafting, with the depth of languid love. Everyone is dressed up superbly casually; appropriately relaxed. In the center of the square, an unspectacular fountain pours and pours, constantly, never ending. Is there an off switch? So unspectacular this fountain is that I omitted my gaze from the lackluster sight as I strode through and submerged into the swarm. Everyone knows each other it seems. A hum of chatter and laughs permeate the alley ways amid a coastal glow of the southern reaches of the Iberian peninsula. The sun is setting. The rooftops are aglow and basked in a soft tangerine orange. I’m ensconced in a hallway of culture, of a people who truly socialize. The birds pecking and slurping from the ground chatter not quite nearly as much. And, at this latitude the bird life is teeming at the gills. I follow their trills with enthusiasm as if I speak their language. As if I understand their chortles as the perplexing confidence I have in understanding Andalusian Spanish. I like the avian language better than the human language yet at this moment I am fascinated by the human glow. What an odd place I find myself in. Yet it feels right to be perfectly oddly placed. What an unseemly dip is needed to shake the system right.
I was in Huelva, Spain. That day I had taken a ferry on a wide river from Portugal and crossed into Spain. I finally felt comfortable enough, inspired really, to jot down my observations. I started in Lisbon about a week ago. I flew in, unboxed and pieced my bike back together, and rode out of the airport and into the busy streets of Lisbon. That night on a concrete harbor I soaked in the last rays of the day. A beer in hand, I envisioned a trip across the southern Iberian Peninsula. Using the southern coast of Portugal as reference, I followed dirt roads and trails and quiet paved roads south. Along the Fisherman's Trail the high cliffs brought me close to the deep blue Atlantic Ocean. I had a lot to ponder from the past Winter of work, of what little planning and training I usually try to do. I had even more to ponder about from the previous year's adventures. Little did I know then while looking over the white and brown cliffs how little I had tried to understand the extent and meaning of those adventures. Shoot, I was just trying to find the rhythm at that moment. Admittedly, I was a bit lost as to why I had chosen and embarked on this trip. I knew when I left Europe last September, I wanted to explore southern Spain and the Andalusian landscape. I wanted to bikepack the mountains and deserts in that large area. I also knew I wanted to hike the Grande Traversatta di Alpi (GTA) in the Italian Piedmont, a route I could not get last summer due to time constraints and an unforeseen funeral I had to attend. So, I basically knew what I wanted to do, yet I did not really know how I wanted to do it. I just had a feeling that I needed to be here. Over the cliffs and gazing out into the Atlantic Ocean, I was now asking myself why.
Here I am in Huelva and my inner eye has begun the observation of the outside world. I mean I had seen the interesting lives of the Portuguese people in the Algarve, as I rode my bike through. The landscape was pretty and much different than what I would normally choose to see. In a way, I used the ride south of Lisbon and down the coast to the Cabo de Sao Vicente, the most southwestern bit of land on mainland Europe, as a warm up. I turned eastward and traced the Algarve coastline, busy and teeming with tourists. At that point, I admit, I wanted out of Portugal. I wanted something wilder in an area. I wanted a living history and not tourism. I left Huelva the next morning and embarked on what I felt would be a more desolate route towards Cadiz. I wanted to use the TransAndalus to the Altravegur, two bikepacking routes, and utilize both of the routes until I turned northward from the Sierra Nevada near Granada and connected with the European Divide Bikepacking Route. I felt eager and curious. I was curious about the landscape and the history of the area. I was curious about the people of the area. The relative isolation of Southern Spain and Andalusia from the rest of mainland Europe and its proximity to the desert climates of the Mediterranean and northern Africa really intrigued me. So much so, I stopped for lunch at a bus stop as migrant workers from India and Africa exited a large bus for the rows of strawberry fields. I felt the urge to observe how people lived and worked in an area seemingly so far from everywhere. The hazy and dry air was redolent with wild and fragrant fennel, wild roses, shrubs of jasmine, and pepper trees that lined dusty roads, the aromas sifting through the hazy air and right up and into my perking nose.
I hit a long ribbon of beach in Donana National Park, the hotels and cabanas blurring in a mirage as I furthered slowly down the beach, a mirage that gave me respite from people. I had most of the hot beaches to myself. Donana Beach extended for about 30 kilometers before turning in at Punto del Bajo at the outlet of the Rio Guadalquivir. From that point I would need to catch a ferry across the inlet to Sanlucar de Barrameda. Although my timing hit Donana Beach at high tide, I was not discouraged from pushing my rig through deep sand on a very hot day. I soaked up the beautiful desolation of a long and lonesome trudge. The constant lapping and crashing of waves soothed my head and garnered me an intense focus on the rhythm of hiking and pushing my bike. A stiff breeze kept me cool enough. The real issue came from the brightness of the sun beaming off the nearly white sands, the albedo nearly blinding. I made a makeshift head cloak to shield my eyes and kept my focus longingly on the horizon ahead. I found an abandoned boat on an empty beach, the pastel colors soft on the eyes yet brilliantly sticking out against the stark bare beaches. I tried to pose for pictures but couldn't quite grab the angle. At the peak of the day, the sun was just too bright. I was also too sticky with salt and sweat to position and click any real artistic photog effort. With the tide rushing in persistently, I only rode about 4 kilometers of the 30. I trudged nearly 25 beleaguered kilometers through deep sand. At the inlet, the tide began to recede. Despite the open lanes of moist sand, my tires still sank too much to ride efficiently. I spied the ferry in the middle of the inlet as it navigated crowded and choppy waters to the pick-up point. I hurriedly shoved the bike along, though slowly. I furiously waved at the ferry in hopes of having the captain spot me. If I missed this ferry I would have to wait until the next mid-morning. I pushed and waved, and pushed and waved. A lone person walked onto the ferry from a parked truck further inland. I saw the captain walk towards him and once they met they gathered at the stem of the ship and waved back to me. They motioned me forward and I dug in. I rolled the bike onto the lip of the ferry. I made it. I was exhausted. A low blanket of silvery clouds spread across the sky. Venturing low and inland, the stratus layer kept sunlight from perforating through. All that was visible was a silvery glint of sun outlining the tiled layer. The lip pulled up as the ferry pulled out of the sandy wetland. The engines churned and churned as my heartbeat slowed down. I calmed down a bit with the rhythmic churn of the motors and gazed back out across the inlet. I could see the curve of the cape from where I slogged from. I felt spent but calm, relieved and strong. I needed this, this extra effort to dig deep. At the other side, I hopped on my bike as the row of restaurants buzzed with dinner goers. Evening was coming on fast. The sun sank lower than the stratus and the first colors of sunset began. I grabbed a bag of chips and a couple cans of Coca Cola and took a quick break. I knew I had some riding left to try and find a camp. I had my gaze set on the pine forests in the distance. I saddled up and rode into the chilled air, a dampness that settled in, as the crepuscular rays of the sunrise smeared and a lilac glow across the sky, that silvery glint underlining the clouds fading out.
I left reluctantly the next morning. I wanted to lay around all day but I wanted to be in a different town. Frankly, I was tired of the coast. I wanted some hills and some deserts. At the road's end before some rugged bluffs, I yanked a left and started to wedge between some hills. In a few miles, I started to pass a cascading brook. I rolled along heaving dirt roads that weaved under an oak canopy. A new wild feeling encompassed me and I felt really good having left the coastline, the swarming tourists. Now, I was in seemingly spaced out and empty land. Towering wind turbines smack dab stood center in wheat and sunflower fields, the old farm roads lined with tall purple flowers, and the mood turned to old-timey. Old ruins hulked under colorful wild brush, the a-frames still framing the old rustic life. I stopped for tapas at a roadside inn across the street from a local football match. The thumping of drums pulsated from the arena. Even from such a small arena the small crowd showed their muscle and passion. Roars came from the field, as I had a couple montaditos and cervezas. After I observed the slow life of Andulusian soccer fans, I pushed my way into the beaming light baking the Andalusian southern hillsides. As I rose in elevation, the rock of Gibraltar, materializing under a thick blanket of smog in the distance, took shape in my periphery. I was engaged with the terrain. This was what I was after. Soon, I ascended steeply a winding tarmac that crested atop a limestone point. On the apex, a 13th century castle fortified the village. One could see the defensible space from the upper flanks. I am getting older, I feel. I am pulled between stopping and absorbing, the slowing of the heart, and the push of the drive, the will of the brain. I feel my programming shifting. I pedaled and pushed through the solitary stone hamlet. I couldn’t believe how old the castle was and at the same time I couldn’t believe how steep the cobbled roads were. My hankering to push was assuaged by the castle turned hotel. Looking back, that feeling feels so surreal. That melding of body and time and the ancient land around me. I gazed at the ramparts of the castle. Curtains hung up in the stone framed windows paned with warped glass. This was all I needed to push on from such a spectacularly old yet modernized place. I careened downhill on a shoddy tumbled rocky road, cobbly and bumpy. The dusky light leaned in with such angularity that I rode into a golden sphere. I entered the sphere and felt the hugging warmth, the yellow rays melting into the land and my vision. I was immersed in the setting rays. Huge trees quaking in a light breeze highlighted the ambered rays against the jostling green leaves. What a magical moment basking in the golden rays and feeling the temperature sink just ever so slightly. I found camp in a rural farm area adjacent to a railroad, an actual boundary between farms, under a massive oak. An incredible amount of bird chatter ensued and even continued throughout most of the night. A read over notes and a tiny tick crawled over the illuminated phone screen. I would have to employ sharp eyes when stationary. But, for now, after I flicked the tick out of my tarp, I laid back and hummed along to the avian language clamoring in the canopy.
The morning air sunk with humidity. I sweated and chilled at the same time. I wasn’t cold, however, just sticky. I packed up and headed down the two-track overgrown with springtime flowers and shrubs, tall and lanky in lushness and hanging over my way. My brakes squealed like gutted pigs from the dew and pierced the silent morning. Guaranteed I was up before anyone else out in this slower-pace-of-life scene. Then, I crossed a small river and began pushing upwards my rig, my shoes clopping and sloshing along cobbled streets. Another charming village stood ahead in the beaming morning sunshine. It seems that the yellow golden glow of the sun at this latitude ceases to stop. It's like the soul of the land exhibiting the calming aura of the land with the persistent glow. An 800m climb ensued over the next 10km or so, but none the easier with the gradient while on a weighed down bike and my body ladened with weary legs. I was tired and feeling some soreness and stiffness in my quads. The route had become increasingly hilly and steep since the coast. I was feeling gassed, too. Not quite lethargic or anything like that, but I knew I probably needed some rest. At some points throughout the day, I just pushed my bike up the steep hills. I conserved energy this way while utilizing different muscles. Luckily for me, under the cork oak canopy and windy ridge line, I kept cool enough to tumble along quickly to maintain my pace. I could feel my body telling me some rest was needed. The historic town of Ronda felt both unreachable and hopeful. I veered off the Altravesur for the paralleling and more straightforward route to Ronda via the TransAndalus. My quads were smoking but I gunned it in the heat of the day towards Ronda.
It is hard to discern the character of Ronda on a map. It was almost like I had never seen any other town or city like it. And, I probably have not, even since then. Above massive cliffs and atop a mesa, Ronda edged right up unto the precipice. I pushed my bike up the angled ridge curving to the main part of town. I was in awe of seeing Ronda for the first time. So, I slowly made my way into town. I couldn't take my gaze off the unique promontory of the buildings clinging to the precipice. I navigated through busy streets and alleyways until I found my hotel. I parked my bike in the garage and showered off the stickiness of the day. As soon as I scrubbed myself clean of the salty crust, despite being exhausted, I ventured out into the streets of Ronda and beelined it towards the cliffs. I just had to see the vista. Huge domed limestone knobs poked up in the distance. Narrow valleys lined between the knobs. One massive crest resembled the serrated crown of a rooster. Soon, I found myself in a long plaza of sorts lined with sycamores, one of my favorite trees. I sat under the sycamore grove and let the omnipresent warm yellow glow perforate the lime green leaves. I felt the coolness of the air settle in. I heard the humdrum and hubbub of the crowds about 40 yards away on the walkway and streets. I had found a tranquil spot in a bustling town. I sat there until evening and watched the curtains call the end of day. I sidled back to my hotel and slid into my bed and crashed. I was looking forward to a rest day the next day.
I spent a rest day in Ronda and a co-worker/buddy traveling around southern Spain met me. Before he arrived I indulged in a huge English breakfast before spending some time cleaning and washing the bike. Around noon, I met my buddy at the train station and spent the afternoon eating some tapas, slugging some beers at tiny outside bars, and touring the city, the highlight of the day the Puente Nuevo. The newest and third bridge of the Puente Nuevo is over 225 years old and spans over a chasm nearly 400ft deep. The chasm divides the city of Ronda and the bridge connects the two parts of the city. We hiked around the various viewpoints. Whether from the top or down below, the bridge was absolutely stunning. With vim and vigor, we explored the old bridge. I enjoyed this side-trip and rest day. Really, I couldn't believe that a bridge stood the way it did. The architecture was just incredible.
I left early the next morning after another big breakfast. A long gradual climb out of Ronda with limestone domes rang over the valley. Flowers bloomed, birds chirped and a tinge of coolness pierced the air. I felt reinvigorated. I pedaled with gusto, something I had not been filled with in the first week of this trip. Maybe I was still trying to figure out the why, but the area I was now venturing into really excited me. I had wanted something easier this year. Less logistics, easier planning, and a slower pace. I wanted to explore a somewhat remote area and culture. I think hitting this type of trip the way that I essentially planned, I was struggling with the normal way I usually did things. So far, I was not opposed to find a very cheap place to stay and indulge in the food. I was content in observing the people move about the day. But, I struggled with not pushing as hard as I could or finding places to camp. Ronda seemed to show me that I may be wanting something different. I don't know, all I do know is I was very happy to out and getting after it no matter the pace. I still had the same mechanisms that propelled my curious and exploratory nature. So, the route got a little bit more challenging suddenly, and I liked it. The descent and hike-a-bike on hardscrabble singletrack, sometimes overgrown, sometimes loose with slippery limestone cobble, kept me very engaged. I wasn't completely in the middle of nowhere but I still was 'out there.' With the route getting rigorous I pushed onward and found I had developed a rhythm. I continued down smooth descents and careened around wavy bends. Long and steep gradual climbs keep me sweating. From the crests, the landscape reached out every time. Views filled my eyes. Rows upon rows of rolling ridges as far as the eye could see. I zoomed past olive groves on the descents, fields of flowers bloomed in the narrow valleys. Things were cranking. Further ranges extended east and I could see the Sierra Nevada rounded and snow capped mountains a few days of riding ahead. I hit El Chorro, a huge and tall chasm in which a river flowed through and into a lake. The limestone cliffs jutted towards the sky and I could see a narrow and slender catwalk high up and attached to the sheer walls. The shadows lowered in as I rode alongside the lake. The late afternoon brought a coolness to the valley. Stopped at roadside cafe where the tourists would be dropped off by a bus. I fueled up on a bocadito and a couple Cokes. I could still see the El Chorro from the cafe and I gawked at the massive slit as I gulped down the food. I pushed on up nearly a 1000m ascent along a rubbly dirt road that switchbacked under some more limestone bluffs. Pine trees reached towards the sky as I weaved under their shadows. The rugged route continued contouring under craggy ridgelines. A couple huge ascents and descents went smoothly enough and I realized I would hit the small historic town of Antequera.
I checked into an old monastery turned hotel. Next to the monastery, an old church sat and I spent a good 5 minutes gawking at the largest door I have ever seen. Wooden, adorned with carvings and etchings, and metal clasps I stood my bike in front of the door for scale. My bike looked like a BMX bike rather than a large bikepacking rig. I then sat in a small courtyard outside the monastery. An ancient castle fortified a forested hill off to my left. Oh, the stone of this pueblo, these hillsides, simply made of wonderfully old stone. A bronze statue centered the square. Church towers hung with large campanas and poked out above the surrounding buildings. A mosque turret on another corner, tiled angled roofs showed the Arab influence, and displayed the mix of cultures. What a romantic hamlet, simply enchanting.
The landscape was consistently made of limestone. I could see craggy crests of limestone to the south. Those crests rose up from the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Hulking benches under limestone cliffs where the furthest reaches of the olive groves pushed, was where the chunky dirt roads undulated, the rubble so loose and slippery my wheels would spin or glitch my rims. Thing then got ridiculously steep. On the descent my brakes pulsated and squealed. I slammed on my brakes in an olive grove on a steep and narrow piste as a farmer jumped out of a tractor with his hand up. He staved off his sheep dogs and grabbed a switch of brush. He whipped the snarling beasts which made them cower meekly, their temperament completely opposite of the snaggletooth grin they had given me at first. The farmer smiled at me and waved me through. I thanked him and carried on. Despite the olive groves, I couldn't help but think the surrounding areas began to resemble a bleak spaghetti western. The rolling desert hills were backdropped by another set of craggy limestone mountains. Rough roads pierced through the chossy hills. The wind whipped up and a haze of dust really made for a Sergio Leone movie scene. From farms and workers tilling the land getting ready for the season, to dry hillsides, to lush canyons and ravines, I got a little inward at the contemplation of travel, going from one scene to another, a vessel in this earth powered by my instincts, my own power, and my own dreams. Water surged through the barrancas shrouded in cottonwoods clung with ivy overlapping the humdum of philosophy. The rushing water broke my contemplation and I pushed onward through occasional small villages that traversed the tunnel of time.
Everything was quiet. In and out long valleys, a calming silence enveloped the quiet roads. Cultivators worked the fields, the only noise I could hear was the occasional whistle from a worker. Late afternoon hit and I could tell the workers worked late to beat the heat of the day. Siestas made perfect sense to me now. Consumed by the quietness of the narrow streets of small villages and the farm tracks I pedaled into a soothing rhythm. I ran up into a thick pine forest surrounding a small reservoir. Dusk settled in and I found a bridge crossing a sycamore lined river. A tranquil campsite appeared on the other side. I ate and laid around for a bit. I had set up kind of late in the evening, around 815, so as to avoid anything illegal. I was trying to oblige the bivouac rule of camp at dusk and pack up at sunrise. I slowly began to doze off as I reread a popular book on the Utah red desert, the rush of the river quieting my mind. An hour later, I heard a vehicle and I rolled over. It stopped near me. I wasn’t worried. I figured as late as I was, as out of sight as I was and as far from any town as I was that I would be ok. Sure enough it was a ranger. I heard a soft 'hola?' I put on some shorts and climbed out. He told me I was camped illegally. He didn't speak any English so I tried as best as I could to persuade him that I would leave in the morning as early as possible. Darkness fell in the small cottonwood grove. He reluctantly agreed and I thanked him earnestly.
At times, I need a reminder that I am simply a visitor and that I am passing through. I have tried my best to be respectful of the land and people, and I felt I had been respectful in that grove by the river. Maybe I would just have to wait longer into the night to camp. I woke up the next morning very early. It was cold out and a nip nipped at my nose and fingertips. I was grateful for the long climb out of the drainage. I warmed up quicker than I thought and after a while I ran into a highway atop a low pass. A taverna a hundred yards or so tucked under tall pines. Burning oak wafted from the chimney and drew me towards the bar. I ordered a couple coffees along with a couple sandwiches. The taverna was quiet, a passing roadhouse along a quiet road, even quieter on a chilly morning. I hung in the taverna near the fireplace, the heat emanating a warm glow within such a brown interior resembling a hunting lodge. Stuffed boar and deer heads hung over the bar and drying pig legs hung from the banner of the bar. I found it hard to leave. I was comfortable and my nose no longer nipped. I was warm on the inside and outside, defrosted from the cozy taverna. The route suddenly became really good. The sun poked through the tops of the trees and I rolled along a road just under the divide. Traversing a pine topped ridge that spilled down into a weaving canyon with wide washes, I moved as quickly as I had the whole trip. I was in the midst of a roller coaster, so my momentum was kept up for about an hour. I grooved along and was able to pedal fast and admire the views that opened up to the Sierra Nevada to the east. Then after a quick pit stop after a massive descent where I topped consistently above 30mph, I traversed the villages along a narrow piste splitting olive and orange terraces above a deep barranca. I was having fun, the kind of fun of the bike where pure oy takes over. Then, my bottom bracket began a crunchy and annoying grind. From experience, I knew this was not a good thing, especially with the rugged Sierra Nevada directly ahead.
I didn't think things would go perfectly. Really, up to this point, I had been a softer version of myself. I found very cheap rooms, occasional remote campsites, indulged in the wonderful food of the region, and did not push miles and hours as I normally would. This version felt right. I wasn't sure why it felt right, but it just did. I liked the routine of just getting up and going without questioning anything. I felt patient and felt to be taking my time. Again, a different version. Without the usual pressure of the push I give myself, it made complete sense for me to divert off the TransAndalus/Altravegur routes and head into Granada where a few bike shops were spread around the city. The bike needed a pit stop to fix the mechanical issue of the creaky bottom bracket. If I went further and into the Sierra Nevada, I could have no guarantee of any help. So, I took the pit stop as a break for myself too. After calling a bike shop to schedule an appointment the next day, I rolled into the busy Granada after a 50km detour. I pondered the notion how one moment life can be so crazy, curious and interestingly unknown…'how did I end up here?' I didn't harp on the question and didn’t speculate too much either. Too much is a matter of fact. Too slow and the way can be taken for granted. Maybe that should be reversed, or at least it can be reversed. I just sat with what is is just is. There are huge challenges of crossing a continent, on any long distance endeavor, for anybody. Despite my slower version which made me feel relaxed yet unaffirmed, almost uncertain, I never wavered from the mission, from the act of pursuing the adventure. I stopped the chatter in my mind, my blasé temperament and mood, and sat on a very busy street at an outdoor cafe and drank mugs of beers and ate tapas. I felt a greater need to observe the lives of any other person than to analyze myself. This version of myself was not going to self-indulge. I am here to travel and observe, I thought. And, I did just that.
Oh, how walking fills me with gratitude and positive introspection. Instantly I felt this, almost immediately. Each step has me taking nothing for granted. I am so thankful for being here, for arriving to this point. I am a different version. And, I am here. Living, breathing. Stopping and gazing out over the far reaching mountainous land soothes me. The gusty wind siphoning through my ribs, my guts, makes me feel like I have the heart again to toil away. Suddenly, I have a yearning for meditation, the mindfulness of stride, a transfixing from observation, the thrumping of simply gazing amidst my stride, the syncopation of movement and thought. Simply put I was moved by the moment. I had my perfect pace, familiar as breathing or eating.
The air being sucked out and sifted within the giant amphitheater, the wind roiling through the tufts of bunches of sharp grass, the echoing and moving sound of rushing water; all this sound perforated the silence of the up-push of rock—silence and uproar at the same time. The cold felt dextrous as if someone was touching me. I burrowed in my quilt and drowned out my turgid thoughts with simply absorbing the nothingness. This is what I needed, this pace. My body is feeling like it needs to catch up to my brain. I think my brain is exhausted, spent, weary from travel and adventure and even a hard winter of work. There’s some disconnect that I can’t sort out. Yet, however, I found a familiar connection with my feet touching the ground. This is my career, my occupation. This is what you know me as, what I believe I am——a walker, a traveler. I stopped in Capileira for the night to play it safe on a tender foot, an ongoing and recurring injury. I had to play it safe. I had to relieve the pressure of torture of trying to recover vigor through force and an obsessive determination. I had to hike leisurely. I walked the streets of the Alpujarra towns, the strikingly white Arab villages on the south side of the Sierra Nevada. I marveled at a village frozen in time yet vibrant with light. I cooed at the local cats, ubiquitously friendly. I thought of a future tiny home where I had a mangy cat living in a barn. I petted them. I got more out of it than them. I then sat down in an old tavern and ordered Iberica secreto, my common meal of the evenings, my dinner of beautiful aged pork meat salty enough to satiate my weird salty craving.
I kept going by foot. I kept eyeing the next village where the pork legs hung from windups, where I kept looking upwards towards the peaks, where I melded the urge of both——I was hungry for artisan pork and an isolated range. A burly climb in the morning, steep, and the sweat created chilled me to the bone from a pounding wind, but I craved Serrano ham. I yearned for mountains and pork. I kept at it to keep warm that separated my emotions from the atmosphere. I am in the section nearest or below the highest peaks, so the canyons are massive with long ridges extending out towards the valleys many thousand feet below. The hiking yawned wide on easy track in and out of the huge drainages. I got further than I thought I could with my feet because my stomach wanted the delicacies of the area. I tried not to think about what had ailed me this winter. A Morton’s Burton’s debilitating my training, I saw the way, yet I did not see the actual way. A different version, I’ve said before. And, now my lower paws held up nicely and progressively got better as the day went on. I got confident. I felt strong yet at the same time continually curious. I mulled over the apparent contradiction within my heart—the urge to push or leisure. I felt a rhythm, a simpatico with the ticker and the swooning sun and a range that I felt romanticized with. The day was pleasant. Everything was pleasant. I found a pitch on a knoll in one of those long ridge lines tucked behind some pines that faced the eastern aspect, the night white plastic sheen of the agricultural areas on the Mediterranean coast. Not only did I hope for a windbreak but a sunrise awakening. I had a view above everyone on that lofty knoll. I felt some solitude and I relished it. The moon nearly full kept me entertained, kept me thinking about love. She, Luna, is there for that, the main emotional eddy and purpose of me. The distant roar of the waters way down below soothed my head. My feet throbbed, my heart calmed down and slowly pumped, and I muttered soft phrases of being alone. I missed my people. Not just people, but my people, the ones that fit in both hands. A distant cow bell or too rang below and gave me a giggle now and then. I chuckled and thought about how I am such a clown, a really fuckin complicated clown.
I roved early enough to wipe the cold out of my eye. I was higher than most things and everyone. I snacked on very sweet and non-nutritious things that I knew would make children happy. I spent a couple moments throughout the day touching trees, taking a praying moment. I slowed down to give myself more time later. I could go as fast as I needed too. I know that. It is not a concern anymore. Maybe I am too gray, but I could still mash, still feel, still philosophize. Still be the version I know. But, I’ll refrain. I am the version now that is taking things slow.
I had lunch in Tevelez, the famous Alpujarra village of Serrano ham. I admired the windows of hanging ham drying out. My mouth watered and my eyes bulged. Please, give me that, the melting of dried thin fat and lean meat. Can I eat this forever? But, I settled for pizza. And, to my surprise the tender Serrano ham was delivered as an appetizer, free, to share the culture. I slowly sucked on the ham until the pizza came. I am a gluttonous idiot traveling antisocially yet communicating through my enormous appetite. That’s my gift, a way to make people love me. My appetite is my superpower. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a compulsion of an overwhelming feeling of what I want: to sit under the trees and listen to the wind shudder through. I didn’t want to eat anymore. I wanted to sit. I wanted a lazy shiver from under a canopy of shade on a warm and sunny afternoon. As a sensualist, I strove for it.
A question popped up this morning…can I choose to stop trying to endure the goals I’ve set for myself and actually take care of myself? How do I relent from my expectations and the results I subconsciously crave? How do I hustle love? Like rather than train in the cold with a t-shirt on I’ll just put a jacket on. Life is constantly now, yet I feel like life is constantly in training. I will be prepared by being present right now. Am I too determined or too obsessive? This rigidity in my idea of endurance may have put extra strain on my mental state, let alone the physical state, when matter of factly I have aged. Maybe I have left a mental state where I once swooned over the suffering of growth. Maybe now I merely want to grow with softness.
Tino moved to Larjoles 10 years ago and opened up the camping park. He seemed to be shocked by my presence. We spoke and I talked him off my out-of-place look. He used to travel until he had a severe back injury. It just so happened it had happened at the age I am at now, 47. I understood him, the want of ease and peace. Yet, I think it has been 14 years since I broke my neck and I’m still going. I literally forget how old I am. My problem, I realized in speaking with Tino, is that I’m super competitive without being competitive. I am way too hard on myself, and that’s who I compete with. Tino is great to relate with, but doesn’t hold up to my ridiculous ego. I am a different version than him. So I tell him I’ll meet him for dinner with his wife. I won’t push on. I heard his story. He had sustained severe injuries in a rock climbing incident. He told me that lying in the hospital for 3 months gave him ‘perspectivo.’ He was 46 then. It wasn’t my neck that related to him; it was my events that pushed my health over the past two years. How I keep doing harder things as I get older. How I do things in reverse. But, my being in the newer version breathed slowly. I felt his need to live life right since then. I just can’t live life with nervousness. I think I could get used to my version going slower. I just can’t understand being afraid no matter what.
Tino and his wife made a great burger. I left the distant sight of the Mediterranean Sea the next morning and pushed upwards towards a high pass which would turn me back towards the Granada area. For a very long while now I had space to myself. I thought about Tino giving me his phone number, the thought of a chance of utilizing earnestness and a gesture of friendship. When will I be a part of everything? Fuck, I shook it off and I moved more straightforwardly north, normal like a roving hermit. A band of pigs, each one resembling a stout black bear scurried off into a pine forest. I loved the aspect of being on guard, of feeling like I needed to be aware of my surroundings. The hillsides of yellow flowers, a soft blanket, the raging creeks…god I can’t describe it. Is this starting my motor? Evening drooped over the crest. I began looking for a camp. I crossed a large creek that went up to my knees. I had a jolt of adrenaline but sat down afterwards and breathed it out. Then, out of nowhere I saw a dog-like animal with a very long tail, taupe and red-darkish brown, sauntering and slinking in a meadow. Like a coyote-wolf, it wasn’t a house dog or a wild dog, but it was wild. Bigger than a coyote, I wanted eye contact. The canine didn’t see me. So I watched. The tail was incredibly long and bushy, hovering yet balancing the canine’s movement. The head was small, the body just slightly larger than a large coyote. Zorro…a fox, the entomology lasers in like a conversation. I lost it in the brush, the wild ibexes I saw at the end of the meadow sprinting away. The fox disappeared. I understood its presence. The fox was hungry. Seen but not hanging around, in a line towards a purpose, fleeting with instincts; a hunger pang. Fuck, what’s the difference between the hunted and the prey. The ibexes jolted away with huge racks, zorro a camouflaging bushy tail and a surreptitious guile. I observed the scene as if I would attack both. I so wanted to have an interaction with zorro. I wanted a snark, I wanted an aerial sniff, I wanted a sprint. I moseyed on and didn’t sprint to slow down my presence. I wanted both ibex and zorro to understand I was the supreme observer. Up the trail further, I startled a huge ibex with furled horns. I was dying for a wrestle. Ascending up a forested hillside that grew over the trail, shrouded ancient terraces and rock walls from the Middle Ages preoccupied my tired mind. I left my primordial ways behind and found a camp on a terrace littered with hard cow pies. I yearned for the yelp of the fox. I almost let a yip out. I wanted the coyote connection. I wasn’t alone, even though I remained silent.
I spent my early years dreaming, longing to travel, yearning to wander. I used to sit in Los Angeles city parks watching soccer matches among the Mexicans. I drank tall cans of beer under swaying eucalyptus trees pondering if there is anything left for me if I never acted upon my dreams. I believed the wind would carry me away, then. Not whimsically, but in a downtrodden whiff. What would I be but a hollow soul—a life of illusion. And, here I am in southern Spain traveling and wandering. I found beauty in following my dreams then. I wasn’t lost. I have been on my way. Just this stuff has been normalized doing it for so long now. I wasn’t in anguish. I was living. I’ve always been a ramblin' man. I eyed a low pass up ahead and forged on with some content of pursuit. I fought through some low lying brush. The way wasn’t tough but I took caution, for the petrified cow patties resembled the roots of the brush. I giggled to myself thinking how funny it would be to snap an ankle on old cow shit. A few yards went on. I’m not sure how it happened after such a cautious thought, but—wham! There it went. My ankle rolled out. I heard a loud pop and I keeled over into the thick brush, my arms floundering in the thicket. I managed to prop myself up quickly and moved forward to fight off the stiffness. I cursed aloud and hiked a few yards ahead. I stopped to gather my breath to calm down. I reached for my phone to gather my direction. No phone. Shit, it’s in the thicket. I pursed out some deep breaths and tried to regain my composure. I needed that phone. I rifled through my memory to moments before when I giggled to myself about how funny it would be to roll my ankle on stony cow shit. I saw it in my head. It took a few minutes but I found a discernible clomped down path. I saw the root that flashed in my vision before I rolled the ankle. I scurried through the brush with my hands and found the phone under the leafy layers. Now to get out of the brush, I gritted my teeth and got to the pass. There I assessed my ankle which was already swollen. Frustrated, I bore in for the remaining 22 miles back to the start of my loop, my bike, and the hotel.
I slugged it out. I tried to refrain from advancing my frustration. I had felt good and my foot had performed well. The twisted ankle happened to be on the recovering foot. I wasn’t happy, but I had to focus to get back to the beginning. And, I did. I limped into the hotel and checked in. I asked for a bag of ice and went to my room to ice the ankle. Thankfully, I did not have to hike anytime soon. I just hoped pedaling the bike wouldn’t exacerbate the injury. The next morning, after a shitty night of sleep, I lazed about with my ankle elevated before pushing off. I tried to get as much rest as possible but I needed to avoid the oncoming heat wave by starting early. After the super steep descent and then pursuant ascent, the smoggy day and the sweltering heat took over. The heat was so stifling I couldn’t even eat and my mind went from battling ankle pain to battling nausea. I laid down under a tree in a tiny village to escape the blaring sun. I ended up 50 miles that day without anything to eat on the ride. My nausea bloomed to the point I fought off vomiting. I barely noticed the terrain I passed. I rolled into the tiny hotel almost weaving and staggering. I needed rest. Plus, the massive effort of hiking 22 miles on a rolled ankle didn’t make things any easier. I was beaten by the heat, again. This seems to be my most common foe the past couple years. This trip has been about how I exhibit adaptability with my wants and needs. Frankly, I have not known what I have wanted, however, I have been doing things based on what I feel I have needed. With not a hard line to follow I have been relying on my gut and the mechanics of the bike. At the tiny hotel, I met the owner Lola. She instantly saw how depleted and worn I looked. She got me a 7-UP and a cold towel wrapped around ice. I put the towel on my neck, as I sat at the bar away from the cleaner folks. Salt lined my shirt and stained the creases in my skin. The air conditioning cooled me off and the 7-UP slowly made my stomach feel better. Lola showed me to my room with a couple more 7-UPs in hand. I told her to book this room for me tomorrow and I would see her for dinner. I needed to regain my strength.
More from hiking the Sierra Nevada:
More from bikepacking Southern Spain:
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