Carros de Foc

There are people crawling through those mountains. For 25 years now, every summer, they've been following worn routes, little dots trudging their way from one hub to the next. Trudging would most certainly be accurate - there are those among them that move faster than others, but by-and-large they follow a slow rhythm, frequently pausing to catch their breath, rehydrate, refuel. They start early in the day, and leave in stages. Couples, families, friends, solo. Their different paces and different start times mean that they quickly feel alone as they make their way along these well trodden paths. They carry on their backs unnatural weight, and if you watched one along the way, it may not be obvious to you that these people are there of their own volition. They will sweat, they will strain, gravity extracting it's brutal toll on their ankles, knees, backs, shoulders. At the end of the day, these people will ache. And at the start of the next, they will wonder why they bother to repeat, to begin to move again. Their days will start with a climb. They will have to reach a mountain pass in order to continue. There they will stop. They will look back at what they've done and feel pride. They will look at the decline to come and feel relief. These people, for so many hours previously isolated, will frequently find that at the tops of these mountain passes there are others stopped - eating, drinking, resting. These people will feel a shared connection, attempt a shared language, relish in their shared experience. These people come from nearby and faraway. They come from Sabadell, Sant Joan Despi, Valencia, Barcelona. Many use the local language. Others come from further - from Marseilles, from Flanders, from North Carolina. Their goals are all the same, simply to crawl through those mountains.

Now I'm only truly equipped to tell you a couple of those peoples' stories. Recounting them all, even if I knew them all, would be too tall a task. Fortunately, I do happen to be quite familiar with the stories of a couple of those people that chose to crawl through the mountains. These people actually typically traversed these mountains in a pair, occasionally joined by others. They had come to these mountains from Barcelona, met in Germany, and built a relationship across the Atlantic. They were there to take a few days away from work, away from the big city. They had spent time in those mountains before, but never like this, never 4 days in a row. They had learned of these people that moved through these mountains the summer before, and had obsessively anticipated their chance to do the same for months in advance. And when their chance came, they took it as so many others around them did - with a simple 4 day goal of putting one foot in front of the other. They started down a path they knew well, crowded with visitors flocking to the most famous lake in that part of the mountains. But as they turned away, past the first refugio, winding up through green pastures, they quickly found that the people faded away and their ascent took them through fields unknown. They were nervous - the weight on their backs feeling too heavy, the percentage of that weight that was water too small, with a long way to go before they could rest. They had in mind that that first day would be the ugliest. They were cutting across the loop, through the middle of the park, and staying at the refugio with the worst reputation. Their fears were overblown, and though their feet were hurting as the descended into the refugio to spend that first night, they felt a growing optimism. If this was to be the worst of it, they were in store for a nice few days. The local took the lead in the refugio, using the local tongue to let them know their plans to spend the night there. A sense of pride washed over them as they noticed the tone of the staff shift upon realization that the pair were doing the loop - a tone of respect, a t-shirt and a bracelet celebrating 25 years of people doing what the couple had come to do. They bid their time in the hours they had until dinner, reading and juggling, and though the dinner was awkward, it was delicious. A full 4 courses - soup, salad, meat, desert, and a parcheese game with an Andalusian and a Catalan to wrap up the night. They slept poorly that first night, not yet accustomed to the proximity, heat, and noise produced by the dozens of others sharing their room. And when they hit the road the next morning, anxious to make it to the next refugio before an afternoon thunderstorm, the packs felt heavy and uncomfortable on their backs.

But the weight settled in and the weather held off and they found that before they knew it, all they had in front of them was a magnificent valley and a path weaving through a series of lakes. As was to be the nature of most of their days, a steep and sudden ascent was put behind them with surprising speed. They found that while they might have been considerably less prepared than many around them based on their gear, their ascending speed was second to few - the pair would start later in the day and still beat people to the summit, but then often slow down considerably from there, with the assurance that the most physically demanding section was behind them. At the top of this mountain pass as so many others did, they stopped and rested. The two had been playing a game since their first hours in the park, a points-based competition to see who could spot the most - and the rarest - wildlife. The foreigner was at long odds to even stand a chance, as the local was known to have an incredible eye for fauna. She was, as expected, leading the competition comfortably when they paused at the top of the mountain pass. But the foreigner, as luck would have it, spotted three Izards moving their way across the rocks beneath them. If these mountains had a mascot, the Izard may be the most fitting choice - it's a species particular to these mountains, somewhere in between a goat and an antelope.

Photo: Instinct Animal

Three of these, deemed 3 points a head, boosted the foreigner into a surprise lead in the wildlife competition. The couple then descended towards their second refugio in spurts and stops, alternating between speed when gray clouds loomed and tranquility when they gave way to blue. As they approached their destination, the local grew animated, recognizing a part of the trail she had done years earlier - an old mining path, with rusted rails left behind weaving alongside a lake. Punctuated by pops of color from the abundant wildflowers, and buoyed by the knowledge that they weren't going to have to hike in a storm, they took time to pause, celebrate, refuel and relax. The second refugio was basic, perhaps even moreso than the first, but when the pair looked back on the trip, it was likely the stop they enjoyed the most. They spent much of the afternoon skipping rocks in the adjacent lake and conversing with the Catalan from the previous day, who was set to follow the same path as them for their entire stretch in the mountains. As was typical, they showered, then read and played cards until dinner. The dinner had the same courses as the night before, but with better company. The couple was seated across another couple that hailed from Belgium, and the foreigner, always curious, always inquiring, interrogated the Belgians as a means to socialize. The couple slept well that night, exhausted from many kilometers with little sleep, and arose early, excited to have had several solid hours of rest. They were among the first to rise, and thus were able to take in the sunrise together, enjoy their morning coffee with their books as the rest of the refugio relaxedly roused. As they set off on their third day, the goal was the same.

They ascended quickly, as usual, but today they did not end their ascent at the mountain pass. It was a shorter day than others, fewer kilometers to do, and thus they figured it made sense to ascend a nearby peak. It was to be their highest point in the trip, just north of 2900 meters. The two halves of the pair were at odds with their comfort levels when it came to ascending peaks. The local was not a fan - something about the consequences of a misplaced step, the scrambling over treacherous rocks - it scared her in a way it did not impact him. So they went to a peak, perhaps a dozen meters below the true peak, and called it a day. The views were astounding. They could see both valleys - where they had come from and where they were going, even making out the roofs of the respective refugios as dots in the distance. As they made their way down, the descent felt different. They descended slowly, and as a threesome, with their Catalan friend from the first night in tow. After the initial drop down a rocky decline, the landscape differed from the previous day. Bodies of water were a constant throughout these mountains, but this day they were surrounded by less rugged rock and more green pine. The descent, as it frequently seemed to, lasted for longer than expected - the foreigner rolled an already compromised ankle at some point on the way down and tried to move cautiously from there, leading with the left. It was to be their last night in those mountains. 

They found their last refugio somewhat wanting. It wasn't the location, in fact the location was perhaps the most beautiful of all three, on a wooded peninsula surrounded by an alpine blue lake. I think it was that the last refugio felt the most commercial of the three. It was the most expensive and the most crowded. The dinner was rushed as they had to fit in two turns, the space (especially with the afternoon rains forcing the people inside) too small to comfortably relax. The couple had their best night of sleep and took off the next day alone. Near the top of what was to be their highest point of the day, they encountered their Catalan friend. He was destroyed, dehyradated, and slightly delirious. He had vomited all he had consumed that morning and the night before. And though his original plan had been to continue on, 3 more nights, he was pessimistic. He had a long way to go, skipping one refugio and continuing upwards towards another. The couple offered him all their food and water, but he refused, accepting only the idea of their company as they descended towards the next refugio. Awaiting was a boulder field, and the group's confidence waned. They had seen other groups taking this route, but it seemed to be off the main path - there were no markers or cairns to guide them. Going straight down precipitous rocks on tired legs with no obvious trail in sight wore heavy on the groups psyche, and the foreigner, feeling more confident, branched off at several points to scout out alternative routes or reconnections with the intended path. The group eventually made their way back to the main path, but it was clear their excursion had cost them valuable time and energy. The couple had a time set to catch their ride back to the city, and the Catalan friend, if he were to continue, had many kilometers ahead of him. On a friendlier, flatter path, they strode on not in jubilation, but in a sort of rushed panic, with a collective sense that if a rapid pace is not held, thoughts could turn too quickly to the aching feet. They crossed through mystical fields with crystal clear, shallow water running over pebbles. But their pace did not slow until the reached their destination. Their friend had elected to opt out of his remaining days, and accompanied the couple as they trudged triumphantly, stinkily, back into civilization. 

Thanks for reading!