I left Zagreb around 10 Oct, and took the overnight train to Geneva. A little less sleeping was had than when i went to Zagreb, becuase of all the passport control crossing borders (and this happened in the middle of the night).
Once in Geneve, i met up with Abi, and made myself a nuisance at her family home there. Her family was amazing and welcoming, and they live in this gorgeous location outside Geneva in France. I laid low for a couple of days, having caught a bug in Zagreb and made worse by travelling. So i waited out the chills and the aches, and spent some quality time with satellite cable tv.
I made my way to the south of Germany, taking the train from Basel, Switzerland. I reached Johanneshof (in the black forest - beautiful!) by the evening of the 12th. Once at Johanneshof, i settled again and tried to kick the cold that refused to go away. I spent the next week sitting, cooking and cleaning with some old friends and lots of new friends at the Zen center there for our weeklong traditional retreat. It was wonderful, and intense, and surreal since i was sick. But it was an amazing experience and i hope to return to this special place in the German countryside someday soon.
28 Oct 2006
9 Oct 2006
Le Tour, part 3 - Hvartska
Croatia. This is an incredible place. Mountains, rivers, lakes, ocean. Beautiful. Good food. Good coffee. Mild autumn weather.
Lets start with Zagreb. This is a city of art, food and street cafes. The public transit is in the form of trams, many of them straight out of the 60s, at a time when socialism was at a crescendo. Next to the main square, which is blanketed with modern ad banners for mobile phones, sunglasses and Coca Cola, there is the market. It must be the way that people used to do things, before supermarkets came to be the norm. Rows and rows of fresh fruit and veg crowd table tops. Choosing a table to buy from is difficult. When i finally stop at one, i point to the items i'd like, and the hip young woman, the farmer in overalls, the wizened wrinkled face woman - all equally likely to be the person behind the table - take the items and weigh them on a scale with free weights that look like little milk vessels. My produce is sinfully cheap, and the dirt still clings to it, seemingly picked that day. The experience is overwhelming, not only because i know most of the people are calling out to me trying to get me to buy their goods, but just because of the sheer volume and variety. I see eggplant, tomatoes, white potatoes, baking potatoes, yams, green lettuce, leeks, broad beans, apples, oranges, nectarines, pears, white onions, garlic, red onions, zucchini, large green squash, string beans, carrots, rocket, parsely, more more more....my head swims with the combinations of color and potential dishes to be made. Downstairs, inside the first thing you smell, before you see it are the tubs of sauerkraut. Its there ready to buy in whatever quantity you could imagine. Next there are butchers and bakeries, and then come the cheese counters. The cheese area is set off from the main bit of the inside market (which looks like a little shopping mall with bakeries and meat counters). The cheese area is a series of marble topped counters, some with a small refrigerated case. There is soft cheese, that you buy and mix with yogurt or cream or somesuch, and it becomes a sort of spreadable cottage cheese. There are massive wheels of farmers cheese, smoked cheese, mild, strong, salty, sweet, fresh butter, eggs. These are all tended to by women, who all seem to have been trucked in from a farm somewhere in the 1940s, with scarves and dark sun-kissed skin, with wrinkles and callouses from weather and hard work. They wear practical clothes, bottoned shirts and aprons. They seem patient but not overly joyous about serving me, and we stumble through some communication about "half a cheese wheel and how much might that cost?". I imagine the woman who is probably 60 but is small and has furrows in her cheeks making her appear to be 100, is thinking that there is not much more that life could bring along to her cheese counter that would surprise her.
We speak different languages - so different that it is virtually impossible to reason through the meaning of words written, much less spoken. I can order one coffee with milk (eiden kava i smljekom) and i can greet you with a "hey! how are you! whats new?" kind of a greeting, but thats about it. I can pronounce anything put in front of me, but i dont retain the words for special strudels made with salty cheese and filo dough or the name for the old cheese ladies at the market. I feel slightly guilty for not understanding the language, exacerbated by the guy at the shmenker internet cafe who, when i ask about how to pay, retorts angrily "WE DONT SPEAK ENGLISH HERE!". However, my guilty feeling is mostly my own construct, since most everyone does speak some english, and a good lot of those speak it really well. But its still a matter of enforcing the need for english to me the lingua franca - i feel guilty that mine is the language most expected of other peoples, and it is sort of a priveledged guilt then since i dont speak any other languages fluently. (To do list: bone up on my other languages i've started on).
Then there is the coast. Sparkling waters. Limestone cliffs and rock outcrops. Roman ruins, italian feeling, wine and olives everywhere. Yet its still distinctly ADRIATIC - and it is some elusive difference between here and the Mediterranean. Connected, but different and proud of it. Could it be the remnants of socialism, the monuments to Tito and rulers past? Could it be the crazy names of things that Jenna and i repeat to each other, testing our Croatian pronunciation ("Trsat. TUR-sat. TRY-st? TR-sat!")? Maybe its just the knowledge that we are in Croatia, this is where Sandra is from and her family and her friends and her identity is rooted here, was built here. Because no matter how much i read about the place, and hear about the war or the history, there are still these elusive bits that i think will always be there for an outsider. For now, it is enough to pay attention to what i notice, to try to look at the place with a child's mind: see what i can see, count how many trains pass this spot, see how many coffees i can have in one day, drink with the locals. Zhh (the local "cheers")!
Lets start with Zagreb. This is a city of art, food and street cafes. The public transit is in the form of trams, many of them straight out of the 60s, at a time when socialism was at a crescendo. Next to the main square, which is blanketed with modern ad banners for mobile phones, sunglasses and Coca Cola, there is the market. It must be the way that people used to do things, before supermarkets came to be the norm. Rows and rows of fresh fruit and veg crowd table tops. Choosing a table to buy from is difficult. When i finally stop at one, i point to the items i'd like, and the hip young woman, the farmer in overalls, the wizened wrinkled face woman - all equally likely to be the person behind the table - take the items and weigh them on a scale with free weights that look like little milk vessels. My produce is sinfully cheap, and the dirt still clings to it, seemingly picked that day. The experience is overwhelming, not only because i know most of the people are calling out to me trying to get me to buy their goods, but just because of the sheer volume and variety. I see eggplant, tomatoes, white potatoes, baking potatoes, yams, green lettuce, leeks, broad beans, apples, oranges, nectarines, pears, white onions, garlic, red onions, zucchini, large green squash, string beans, carrots, rocket, parsely, more more more....my head swims with the combinations of color and potential dishes to be made. Downstairs, inside the first thing you smell, before you see it are the tubs of sauerkraut. Its there ready to buy in whatever quantity you could imagine. Next there are butchers and bakeries, and then come the cheese counters. The cheese area is set off from the main bit of the inside market (which looks like a little shopping mall with bakeries and meat counters). The cheese area is a series of marble topped counters, some with a small refrigerated case. There is soft cheese, that you buy and mix with yogurt or cream or somesuch, and it becomes a sort of spreadable cottage cheese. There are massive wheels of farmers cheese, smoked cheese, mild, strong, salty, sweet, fresh butter, eggs. These are all tended to by women, who all seem to have been trucked in from a farm somewhere in the 1940s, with scarves and dark sun-kissed skin, with wrinkles and callouses from weather and hard work. They wear practical clothes, bottoned shirts and aprons. They seem patient but not overly joyous about serving me, and we stumble through some communication about "half a cheese wheel and how much might that cost?". I imagine the woman who is probably 60 but is small and has furrows in her cheeks making her appear to be 100, is thinking that there is not much more that life could bring along to her cheese counter that would surprise her.
We speak different languages - so different that it is virtually impossible to reason through the meaning of words written, much less spoken. I can order one coffee with milk (eiden kava i smljekom) and i can greet you with a "hey! how are you! whats new?" kind of a greeting, but thats about it. I can pronounce anything put in front of me, but i dont retain the words for special strudels made with salty cheese and filo dough or the name for the old cheese ladies at the market. I feel slightly guilty for not understanding the language, exacerbated by the guy at the shmenker internet cafe who, when i ask about how to pay, retorts angrily "WE DONT SPEAK ENGLISH HERE!". However, my guilty feeling is mostly my own construct, since most everyone does speak some english, and a good lot of those speak it really well. But its still a matter of enforcing the need for english to me the lingua franca - i feel guilty that mine is the language most expected of other peoples, and it is sort of a priveledged guilt then since i dont speak any other languages fluently. (To do list: bone up on my other languages i've started on).
Then there is the coast. Sparkling waters. Limestone cliffs and rock outcrops. Roman ruins, italian feeling, wine and olives everywhere. Yet its still distinctly ADRIATIC - and it is some elusive difference between here and the Mediterranean. Connected, but different and proud of it. Could it be the remnants of socialism, the monuments to Tito and rulers past? Could it be the crazy names of things that Jenna and i repeat to each other, testing our Croatian pronunciation ("Trsat. TUR-sat. TRY-st? TR-sat!")? Maybe its just the knowledge that we are in Croatia, this is where Sandra is from and her family and her friends and her identity is rooted here, was built here. Because no matter how much i read about the place, and hear about the war or the history, there are still these elusive bits that i think will always be there for an outsider. For now, it is enough to pay attention to what i notice, to try to look at the place with a child's mind: see what i can see, count how many trains pass this spot, see how many coffees i can have in one day, drink with the locals. Zhh (the local "cheers")!
2 Oct 2006
Le Tour, part 2b - Pyrenees Spain
The story left off at the crazy hut at the pass, just below the looming Breche de Roland.
After a rest-afternoon, our fill of dinner (the food not as excellent as at Oulettes de Gaube, but hot and plenty nonetheless) and a course of hut-debauchery, we slept and woke for an early-ish start at 8. We were not overeager to get started, since when we woke up we peeked outside and discovered the cirque was enshrouded in clouds. We could just see the pass, with clouds hanging in the tops of the ridges. We contemplated waiting an hour or two hoping the coulds might burn off, but we decided to give it a go anyway. This turned out to be the RIGHT decision, since later in the afternoon, after we had crossed and were well away, the snow started to fall on the pass (we learned later).
We embarked on a long trudge up to the pass, which wasnt as terribly awful as it looked from down below. One step at a time, go at your own pace. We weren't in a rush, having learned that clouds dont necessarily mean thunder in the Pyrenees. The glacier crossing was little more than a few steps on gravel covered snow, although the gaping holes forming tunnels and pools in the ice were not in the least bit encouraging for counting on the stability of the ice, or for being reassured that there we wouldnt break through the top into some crevasse below. Fortunately, we made it across and did some scrambling which could have been worse but for the bomber handholds and dry rock. When we got to the top, the toothy gap that marks the border between France and Spain, the clouds swirled around us and while we could see the hut looking back the direction which we had come, the clouds were so thick looking north that we could barely see the trail. The mist would clear off in an ethereal dance, and we caught glimpses of a beautiful valley yawning out below us.
We had been warned about the two possible routes - the 'mountaineering route' and the normal-people route. The three of us agreed we were not insane, did not fancy the idea of climbing down pins put there who-knows-how-long-ago, and wanted to get to our destination that day instead of bivouacing in the backcountry, so we steered right for the normal-peoples route. Now we couldnt see much of anything. We had been told to 'just follow the cairns' which is a much easier thing to do when you can actually SEE the next cairn ahead of you (recall, Martha, hiking in Utah in the dark trying to find the next cairn on slickrock). Anyway, the going was s.l.o.w. because we couldn't see anything. Then the mist cleared for a minute and we made it to a clear trail that was still in the valley we were supposed to be in. We had made it down the talus slope and were walking on real ground, which seemed much better than picking our way through rocks. None of this situation was made better by the fact that the unbelievably beautiful view we had been told of was invisible, hidden in the clouds.
We picked our way downslope, and came to a crossroads. We got out the compass, and chose the most likely, from the compass and map, trail leading to our next destination. Our advisors had told us 'keep the big peak, circles on it, you cant miss it, on your right'. They were wrong - we COULD miss it, and did, since we never even got a glimpse of the landmark. So we did our next best with map and compass, but at that first junction we took the wrong path, had a nice little detour over razor sharp limestone jagged rocks (pretty cool rocks, actually) and spent an extra hour on that side trip. It was also around this point when, as it had just been foggy and humid before, it started to rain proper. We pulled on our waterproofs and wrapped the map in a plastic bag and continued on, now on the right trail, but still slow going since we werent sure and it was necessary to check the map and compass often. I was not encouraged at all by the warning our book had given about the maps made by Editorial Alpina, "these maps, while generally very good, do have some errors, and in some cases have had serious errors". We had tried for the other (better) maps, but these were the only ones the map store in Barcelona had that covered our entire route, and that had the refuges marked on them. In the end, the maps turned out to be really good and reliable, but it wasn't a feel-good situation in the wet-fog-losing-your-way entry into Spain.
Eventually we found the correct path, reaffirmed by the presence of other people coming from the other direction. One feature of this part of the day was climbing up a limestone arm flank of the mountain we were traversing, to meet the trail. As we climbed and hauled, the dropoffs on each side of the flank deepened, and my heart somehow found its way into my throat, stomach turning. My fear of heights prevented what was otherwise a supposedly fun bit, and i focused on keeping moving, and looking at the spot right in front of me which did, amazingly, prevent the hyperventilation which threatened to begin with every step. Past the dike of death, i felt like i could skip, except then the rain got stronger and so instead we did something more like upbeat trudging. We had at least FOUND the trail, although we had several more extended conversations and map-compass study sessions.
We walked through some beautiful terrain for the remainder of the afternoon, lush alpine meadows and jet black rock walls spiked with white marble or quartz like streaks. Eventually, we came to our next destination - Refugio Goritz (say goreeths). Since it had been raining all day, and some the day before, the river we had to cross right before the hut was like a raging torrent, so we walked a piece downstream, found a moderate bit right before the river falls off a cliff, and slogged through. No matter, we could dry out in our new home-for-the-night which was dry and warm and felt like the Ritz Carlton.
Inside the hut, there were plenty of other bedraggled, wet travelers who were passing time waiting for the weather to clear, or were delivered that day, like us, wet, muddy and somewhat dazed that there was a warm dry place. As you walk in the front door of the hut, you are greeted by a gang of smokers, huddled under the eave of the porch, so their cigarettes dont get wet. It turns out, its sort of a requirement that if you are Spanish, you smoke (i asked Nuria, our Spanish friend who doesnt smoke, later on how she could have escaped this cultural mandate and she admitted it was difficult and that she was always sort of seen as strange). Anyway, we booked ourselves a bed and a place at dinner (all in Castellano, amigos) and then i promptly crawled into my sleeping bag and had myself a long thorough nap. Over dinner we pondered our options as the rain seemed set in, and there was snow gathering at the pass we'd come over earlier that day. We could either wait it out another day, or 'make a run for it' (uh-oh, said Abi, maybe we could call it something else) and descend into Ordesa Canyon as planned.
We decided to go for it, and set out in the rain, crossing overswollen streams that, with a little more time, could become impassable. There was a steep descent from the headwall of the canyon to the canyon floor, beyond which the trail was gradual and very wide and well marked. We didnt somehow worry as much this time, even though it was a similar situation to descending the Breche with a 'mountaineering' route and a normal-people route. Instead, we just walked, mostly in silence because it is really difficult to hear in the rain because of the noise of the rain itself, and your hood covers your ears so everything is somewhat muffled. We made it to the bottom of the headwall, greeted by the Ordesa Waterfall which was an absolute raging tiger. It was like a pack of tigers, roaring and spitting and menacing. It was truly awesome, and frightening, like if you got too close it might reach out and grab you or let loose some watery tentacle. In awe, but cold and wet, we left the waterfall after a few minutes, but not before taking stock of the dozens of other, smaller waterfalls that were appearing by the minute on the canyon walls. It was our reward for slogging in the wet rain - there were waterfalls everywhere, as though they needed company and had been kept locked away the rest of the time. Spectacular.
We descended the canyon, pausing to look at the big waterfalls of the main river Ordesa, and arrived at the blessed cafe at the car park near the trailhead. That was one (er two, actually) good cup of coffee. This was where the bus to town goes from, and even though we had time and there is a trail we couldve walked, we opted for a 3 euro ride to town.
Torla became our little repose in the mountains. We found a lovely little gite d'etape (these are called auberge in Spain - which is funny, since thats still a french word, no?) and we strung a line and again splayed out all our soaking stuff all over the room. We stayed a couple of days there, drying out, contemplating life and wandering around this town of cobblestone and gift shops. The town was quite beautiful, and i must say that the shops were nicely done, at least not ALL of them were hawking over-the-top tourist crap. The streets were tiny, didnt appear to be fit for cars at all, and there were these little doorways tucked in through a corridor so it made me feel like i was in a medieval castle. All in all, we loved the town and i cant think of a better place to be stuck for a while.
When the rain finally did let up, we went for a walk back up the canyon. We could see white capped mountains where we had been a few days earlier, and the cayon seemed to glisten like a child's eyes after having a good cry. It felt like that too - the canyon was now warm and mild, and everything seemed fresh and crisp, recently scoured from the rain and wind. Everything was vibrant and smelled of damp earth and leaves.
Next day we set out for our last hut, up the GR-11 a few hours to Bujarelo. We didn't have much of a plan, since all of our distance planning was gone now that we'd spent several days in Torla instead of on the road. In Bujarelo we were greeted by the loveliest hut-auberge there ever has been. No plan needed when youre staying at Refugio San Nicholas! It was gorgeous with hot water and showers, good coffee and all the amenities of an auberge in town, but its out of town situated in a valley on a sparkling river. We stayed two nights, and explored one of the valleys nearby, which was filled with cows and big fat fuzzy marmots. The food was excellent, and food was available made-to-order (as it was at most of the refuges, but the food at Bujarelo was really good). We played some more cards and ate the rest of our store-bought food, and tried to bite down on the reality of leaving the mountains. We drank wine and hung out with the staff of the refuge who gathered around a hearth at night and drank wine and played guitar.
And that was the end of trekking in Spain! It was beautiful, and we were really glad in the end that we did what we did, and got to spend time in Torla and at Bujarelo. We saw some incredible scenery, and vowed to come back for more, sometime in the not-too-distant future. Bueno!
After a rest-afternoon, our fill of dinner (the food not as excellent as at Oulettes de Gaube, but hot and plenty nonetheless) and a course of hut-debauchery, we slept and woke for an early-ish start at 8. We were not overeager to get started, since when we woke up we peeked outside and discovered the cirque was enshrouded in clouds. We could just see the pass, with clouds hanging in the tops of the ridges. We contemplated waiting an hour or two hoping the coulds might burn off, but we decided to give it a go anyway. This turned out to be the RIGHT decision, since later in the afternoon, after we had crossed and were well away, the snow started to fall on the pass (we learned later).
We embarked on a long trudge up to the pass, which wasnt as terribly awful as it looked from down below. One step at a time, go at your own pace. We weren't in a rush, having learned that clouds dont necessarily mean thunder in the Pyrenees. The glacier crossing was little more than a few steps on gravel covered snow, although the gaping holes forming tunnels and pools in the ice were not in the least bit encouraging for counting on the stability of the ice, or for being reassured that there we wouldnt break through the top into some crevasse below. Fortunately, we made it across and did some scrambling which could have been worse but for the bomber handholds and dry rock. When we got to the top, the toothy gap that marks the border between France and Spain, the clouds swirled around us and while we could see the hut looking back the direction which we had come, the clouds were so thick looking north that we could barely see the trail. The mist would clear off in an ethereal dance, and we caught glimpses of a beautiful valley yawning out below us.
We had been warned about the two possible routes - the 'mountaineering route' and the normal-people route. The three of us agreed we were not insane, did not fancy the idea of climbing down pins put there who-knows-how-long-ago, and wanted to get to our destination that day instead of bivouacing in the backcountry, so we steered right for the normal-peoples route. Now we couldnt see much of anything. We had been told to 'just follow the cairns' which is a much easier thing to do when you can actually SEE the next cairn ahead of you (recall, Martha, hiking in Utah in the dark trying to find the next cairn on slickrock). Anyway, the going was s.l.o.w. because we couldn't see anything. Then the mist cleared for a minute and we made it to a clear trail that was still in the valley we were supposed to be in. We had made it down the talus slope and were walking on real ground, which seemed much better than picking our way through rocks. None of this situation was made better by the fact that the unbelievably beautiful view we had been told of was invisible, hidden in the clouds.
We picked our way downslope, and came to a crossroads. We got out the compass, and chose the most likely, from the compass and map, trail leading to our next destination. Our advisors had told us 'keep the big peak, circles on it, you cant miss it, on your right'. They were wrong - we COULD miss it, and did, since we never even got a glimpse of the landmark. So we did our next best with map and compass, but at that first junction we took the wrong path, had a nice little detour over razor sharp limestone jagged rocks (pretty cool rocks, actually) and spent an extra hour on that side trip. It was also around this point when, as it had just been foggy and humid before, it started to rain proper. We pulled on our waterproofs and wrapped the map in a plastic bag and continued on, now on the right trail, but still slow going since we werent sure and it was necessary to check the map and compass often. I was not encouraged at all by the warning our book had given about the maps made by Editorial Alpina, "these maps, while generally very good, do have some errors, and in some cases have had serious errors". We had tried for the other (better) maps, but these were the only ones the map store in Barcelona had that covered our entire route, and that had the refuges marked on them. In the end, the maps turned out to be really good and reliable, but it wasn't a feel-good situation in the wet-fog-losing-your-way entry into Spain.
Eventually we found the correct path, reaffirmed by the presence of other people coming from the other direction. One feature of this part of the day was climbing up a limestone arm flank of the mountain we were traversing, to meet the trail. As we climbed and hauled, the dropoffs on each side of the flank deepened, and my heart somehow found its way into my throat, stomach turning. My fear of heights prevented what was otherwise a supposedly fun bit, and i focused on keeping moving, and looking at the spot right in front of me which did, amazingly, prevent the hyperventilation which threatened to begin with every step. Past the dike of death, i felt like i could skip, except then the rain got stronger and so instead we did something more like upbeat trudging. We had at least FOUND the trail, although we had several more extended conversations and map-compass study sessions.
We walked through some beautiful terrain for the remainder of the afternoon, lush alpine meadows and jet black rock walls spiked with white marble or quartz like streaks. Eventually, we came to our next destination - Refugio Goritz (say goreeths). Since it had been raining all day, and some the day before, the river we had to cross right before the hut was like a raging torrent, so we walked a piece downstream, found a moderate bit right before the river falls off a cliff, and slogged through. No matter, we could dry out in our new home-for-the-night which was dry and warm and felt like the Ritz Carlton.
Inside the hut, there were plenty of other bedraggled, wet travelers who were passing time waiting for the weather to clear, or were delivered that day, like us, wet, muddy and somewhat dazed that there was a warm dry place. As you walk in the front door of the hut, you are greeted by a gang of smokers, huddled under the eave of the porch, so their cigarettes dont get wet. It turns out, its sort of a requirement that if you are Spanish, you smoke (i asked Nuria, our Spanish friend who doesnt smoke, later on how she could have escaped this cultural mandate and she admitted it was difficult and that she was always sort of seen as strange). Anyway, we booked ourselves a bed and a place at dinner (all in Castellano, amigos) and then i promptly crawled into my sleeping bag and had myself a long thorough nap. Over dinner we pondered our options as the rain seemed set in, and there was snow gathering at the pass we'd come over earlier that day. We could either wait it out another day, or 'make a run for it' (uh-oh, said Abi, maybe we could call it something else) and descend into Ordesa Canyon as planned.
We decided to go for it, and set out in the rain, crossing overswollen streams that, with a little more time, could become impassable. There was a steep descent from the headwall of the canyon to the canyon floor, beyond which the trail was gradual and very wide and well marked. We didnt somehow worry as much this time, even though it was a similar situation to descending the Breche with a 'mountaineering' route and a normal-people route. Instead, we just walked, mostly in silence because it is really difficult to hear in the rain because of the noise of the rain itself, and your hood covers your ears so everything is somewhat muffled. We made it to the bottom of the headwall, greeted by the Ordesa Waterfall which was an absolute raging tiger. It was like a pack of tigers, roaring and spitting and menacing. It was truly awesome, and frightening, like if you got too close it might reach out and grab you or let loose some watery tentacle. In awe, but cold and wet, we left the waterfall after a few minutes, but not before taking stock of the dozens of other, smaller waterfalls that were appearing by the minute on the canyon walls. It was our reward for slogging in the wet rain - there were waterfalls everywhere, as though they needed company and had been kept locked away the rest of the time. Spectacular.
We descended the canyon, pausing to look at the big waterfalls of the main river Ordesa, and arrived at the blessed cafe at the car park near the trailhead. That was one (er two, actually) good cup of coffee. This was where the bus to town goes from, and even though we had time and there is a trail we couldve walked, we opted for a 3 euro ride to town.
Torla became our little repose in the mountains. We found a lovely little gite d'etape (these are called auberge in Spain - which is funny, since thats still a french word, no?) and we strung a line and again splayed out all our soaking stuff all over the room. We stayed a couple of days there, drying out, contemplating life and wandering around this town of cobblestone and gift shops. The town was quite beautiful, and i must say that the shops were nicely done, at least not ALL of them were hawking over-the-top tourist crap. The streets were tiny, didnt appear to be fit for cars at all, and there were these little doorways tucked in through a corridor so it made me feel like i was in a medieval castle. All in all, we loved the town and i cant think of a better place to be stuck for a while.
When the rain finally did let up, we went for a walk back up the canyon. We could see white capped mountains where we had been a few days earlier, and the cayon seemed to glisten like a child's eyes after having a good cry. It felt like that too - the canyon was now warm and mild, and everything seemed fresh and crisp, recently scoured from the rain and wind. Everything was vibrant and smelled of damp earth and leaves.
Next day we set out for our last hut, up the GR-11 a few hours to Bujarelo. We didn't have much of a plan, since all of our distance planning was gone now that we'd spent several days in Torla instead of on the road. In Bujarelo we were greeted by the loveliest hut-auberge there ever has been. No plan needed when youre staying at Refugio San Nicholas! It was gorgeous with hot water and showers, good coffee and all the amenities of an auberge in town, but its out of town situated in a valley on a sparkling river. We stayed two nights, and explored one of the valleys nearby, which was filled with cows and big fat fuzzy marmots. The food was excellent, and food was available made-to-order (as it was at most of the refuges, but the food at Bujarelo was really good). We played some more cards and ate the rest of our store-bought food, and tried to bite down on the reality of leaving the mountains. We drank wine and hung out with the staff of the refuge who gathered around a hearth at night and drank wine and played guitar.
And that was the end of trekking in Spain! It was beautiful, and we were really glad in the end that we did what we did, and got to spend time in Torla and at Bujarelo. We saw some incredible scenery, and vowed to come back for more, sometime in the not-too-distant future. Bueno!
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