when the odds are in your favor

I think sometimes – what would it be like to be an Ed – calm, deliberate, not afraid? In occasionally traveling with him, I have become, sometimes unintentionally, at least tiny bit more like him. And, I suppose, just a microscopic bit – he, like me. It has to happen if you share the same path as much as we do.

But I cannot say that I have taken on his fearlessness. It’s not that Ed courts danger. But he is completely without irrational fears and he is without some rational ones either.

Me, I waver. I’m bold, sure. I blog, I lecture, I travel, I try new things, I criss cross busy streets on a speeding bicycle. But don’t put me near an edge of a cliff, because I am sure I’ll topple down. My fear of lightening is legendary. And I have no interest in being in a small boat in the open seas with no land in sight.

Ed has no patience for irrational fears in others. He wont hold your hand and tell you it’s all right again and again. He’ll tell you instead that reality does not support your ridiculousness and then he'll move on. Or taunt you with melodramatic speculations about the brevity of life.

I push myself just a little in all wakes of life and nowhere more so than in the matter of irrational fear. But I know that you can’t merely talk yourself out of it. If you’re on an airplane and you’ve hit a violent storm and the plane seems to be cascading and bouncing madly, you’ll have most passengers’ hearts racing. And even if someone reminded them again and again that the chances of a crash are so small that it’s not even worth a quiver let alone a heart flutter, and that they are at far greater risk of crashing when driving their car to their daughter’s ballet lessons, they’ll still be afraid. If you put a bullet in a chamber and one thousand chambers stand empty and the gun is pointed at you and the trigger is pulled, all you can think of is that possibly in one second you’ll be dead.

Ed would say – quick and painless. The best way to go.

We remain, in this way, so very different.


It is our last day in the mountains. Indeed, I’m thinking that by afternoon we should be at our final short stop – at the agri-tourism (or, in Catalonia -- a "turisme rural," meaning a working farm with rooms) El Moli de Siurana, not too far from Spain’s Costa Brava and the town of Figueres.

But our hosts in Gombren keep telling us that we should consider seeing Vall de Nuria while we’re in the area. How far? – I ask. Not more than twenty kilometers from here. It’s so beautiful!

Doable. And so we leave Gombren on what looks to be a lovely morning...





...and pick up the road that heads straight for the still snow dappled summits of the Pyrenees.





We drive through the mountain town of Ribes de Freser...





...and continue down a winding road to Queralbs (where the road basically ends, though I see a sign for a footpath to France – a mere four hour hike).





In this tiny hamlet (resting at an elevation of 1200 meters) there is a train station with a cog rail line. We can take this up another 800 meters or so, following the raging Nuria stream along to the Vall de Nuria – a valley just below the majestic summits that we can see from Queralbs.





From the the Vall de Nuria, there is a hiking trail back down to Queralbs. Estimated descent: 3 hours and 20 minutes.

A switch of shoes for Ed, food and water into the pack, a sweatshirt for me (it’s cooler up there), maps from the rail station and we’re ready. We take the 11:20 up to the Valley.

The ride up is breathtakingly beautiful. Pines, rhododendrons, cascading waterfalls in a gorge with jutting cliffs and scree of rock. (I take almost no photos; the hike will offer better opportunities.)

But once we leave the train, I’m slightly disappointed. The valley has been developed for tourism. There are several chairlifts and a gondola and there is a tourist depot that is not insignificant. There are about a dozen short trails further up into the mountain and we take one of those, but it’s an uninteresting walk that weaves around the gondola posts.

(Though the short trail has its good moments: coming across these horses, grazing freely here, coming across a pure blue gentian flower, and letting yourself gaze up at the summits, rather than down at the recreational playground below.)













It’s 12:30. Time to begin the descent. But we both see that clouds have been forming around the summits. At the Queralbs train station, I had noticed that the weather station -- on display for all to see -- was predicting thundershowers. Is there any chance that we can do this hike and avoid being hit by bad weather?

I think not.





I suggest we take the train back. But Ed is of a different mindset. To him, the hike down looks nothing short of magnificent. Yes, there probably will be rain, maybe even a storm. These mountains are full of storms and rains. That is not a reason to give up on a hike.

I look at the sign.





That’s a long time to spend in bad weather. Still, I want the challenge. I start out with him but I keep glancing back at the clouds. Each time they look a little worse. Ed tells me that I am likely to ruin the trek if I keep fretting and worrying. I rather angrily admit that he is correct. I turn around and head up back up to catch the 1:02. See you when you get down!

He moves on, I retreat.

And then I stop. It’s as if I have that gun pointed at my nose, with thousands of empty chambers and a bullet lodged in one. I am terrified of a storm that is really not likely to hurt me. And I am giving up on a hike that is surely one of the more beautiful hikes in the Pyrenees.

And so again I turn around, this time to catch up with Ed.  (Do you see him on the trail? In the red t-shirt?)


 


Are you sure? He asks. Uh-uh – I answer, with very little conviction. I watch the train leave the station. It'll be fine, I say to myself. Look at the flowers, just keep on looking at the gorgeous flowers...









Twenty minutes into our descent we hear the first rumble and then the next and then the rain comes.

I suggest that we hide under a clump of pines and see if it quickly passes.





It does not quickly pass.

There are only two choices – return up or head down. Returning up by myself into the midst of the storm seems less appealing than continuing down with Ed.





Obviously you know we survived. I have to say, we descended the entire trail (except for the last twenty minutes) in continual rain accompanied by claps of thunder.





The trail was a slick stream of water. The rocks, so beautiful to gaze at, are monstrously difficult to navigate in the rain. I take out my camera only occasionally and when I do, it gets its share of raindrops. Toward the end, I have nothing dry on me to wipe down the lens.

Of course, irrational fears have irrational moments of comfort. I descend trails much much faster than Ed. This time I find myself scampering down quickly through the open stretches, only to wait for him under the shelter of pine branches. It feels safer there.

And the lower we get, the less scared I am. Some idea there about lightening not finding me at lower elevations. I begin to see again the details of the world around me.









I have to say that were it not for the storm, I would sing loud praises about not only the beauty of the descent, but the extraordinary maintenance of the path. As a bonus, there are frequent and reassuring signs telling you how much time you have left in your trek.

But, the rain is a constant and the feeling of cold wetness takes hold. About half way down, there is a shelter of sorts but there’s no point in stopping. However bad the storm is now, it could intensify. And, I am already somewhat cold. I have a hood, but the wet sweatshirt is only a slight blessing.





And so we continue through this splendid gorge until finally, the sign tells us we have only a few minutes left. Village horses, their coats glistening from the rain, greet us at the bottom.





Maybe “greet” is the wrong word here...





And now the village is upon us – all rock and wet slate, offering safety from real and imagined dangers.









We unabashedly change to dry clothing in the parking lot, eat our packed lunch in the car and drive out of the mountains, through Ripoll (where we pause for a pastry)...





...and due east toward the village of Suriana, where the sun is still shining and the sunflowers are blooming their little heads off.





We are in the thick of olive and wheat and sunflower country.





After a "drive around in circles" search for the right road, we find the "turisme rural."





The air is warm again. The table is set for a Catalan supper of salads and sausage. The air is calm. I am calm as well. Though every now and then I turn to Ed and ask -- what if... what if it had intensified? What it there was a downpour and we could not navigate the trail? What if??? He patiently tells me how we may have handled any one of my imagined exigencies. Then he asks Sara, who is serving us supper (she is actually the farmer's daughter), if he could have some more bread.

a day in Gombren

In my mind, few things are as frightening as being stuck high on a mountain during a raging thunderstorm. When Ed and I ran into the Scottish hikers back in France – the ones who helped us unravel the mysteries of the enigmatic trail back to La Illas, I asked – if you hike from day to day and you have hostel or b&b reservations for each night, what do you do if you have a day or two of unexpected bad weather? (Ed and I had hiked this way in Scotland, but we had a tent with us and no reservations, and besides, rain there is common. Fierce storms – less so.)

The Pyrenees are known for having raging storms.

The Scottish couple looked at one another, somewhat surprised at my question. Well now, that’s interesting. I guess we have been lucky. I don’t remember ever running into foul weather. I wondered then if it was sort of like childbirth – you tend to forget the miserable details and remember vividly the joy of the birth of your infant son or daughter.


Sunrise from our room above the restaurant in Gombren.





It’s going to be a glorious day.





A copious morning meal awaits us. (And an opportunity to pack some bread and cheese for a midday lunch.) A mountaineers meal, no? So different from a mere pain au chocolat on the Sorede square! Ah well, each has its special charm.





Each new country, each new region has a trail system that must be lernt. We have a decent map (on loan from the Fonda – there is no tourist office here, though you can also purchase some literature at their little shop). Ed has also searched the Internet. He has in mind about a five hour hike with possible variations if things get tricky (meaning we get confused with markings).

Overall, the Spanish trail markings here are good, but far far from transparent. A trail tends to have many blazes of color on trees or rocks. Too many. How do you deal with a red trail that goes in two different directions? Or that is conjoined, for a while, with blue and then the blue disappears?

Going up is easy: our first goal is the St Pere de Montgrony sanctuary and actually, for the lazy or infirm, there is also a long and winding road to it. We choose to climb the mountain, but others may skip this one and a half hour steep ascent. We like the challenge and the views. You never see one tenth as much out the window of a car.

We start at the village church. Sunday. The women are gossiping after the service. The few men wait at the village bar (also under the ownership of our restaurant family).









We find the red trail mark without problem. We soon leave behind the last village house (and the last village cat -- and there are many) and head straight up.





And as the valley recedes and the mountains come to full view, I begin to appreciate the enormous beauty and the diversity of the Pyrenees.



to the east



 
 to the south (with our village at the base)




to the west 


At the sanctuary, we fill our now five jugs of water (it was such a hot morning that we came prepared) but we notice we haven’t been drinking that much. A first sign that things may be cooling down.





I also see that the clouds are starting to build over the distant summits. It confirms what the radar map showed on the Internet. This evening there very well may be a shower here.

We now have some puzzling trail marks to figure out, but our map is pretty good. We choose a loop around the mountain. We are at 1400 meters and we have a little more climbing and a lot more walking before us.

The forest smells are magnificent, as are the flowers and of course, the views.











But our lookout is to the south and east. Our summit blocks the northwest. Looking straight up though, I see the first gray cloud.

Ed, I think the evening rain shower may not be in the evening. We have been hiking since 10:30. It is now only 1 in the afternoon.
He looks up. True. We may get wet. You can use the plastic bags from our sandwiches for your camera.

We continue in this way – looking for marks, me looking up every now and then at the no longer blue sky. We get lost once, but it’s our fault – we neglected to see a turn. There on the mountain ridge, as Ed and I separate to look for any slab of red on a tree, for the first time that day, the air seems threatening. When we reconnect, I suggest shortening the loop.

We pick up the trail and continue, looking now for the turn off that would allow us to start heading back to the sanctuary.

That is when I hear the first crash of thunder.

We are on a rather open path and of course, this makes me feel especially vulnerable. Funny how even in storms you tend to think that trees offer shelter.

I tell Ed he must walk faster, but that’s just dumb on my part because Ed always moves at a steady gate – up or down, it never varies. I tend to fly down mountains. He paces himself.

We have one of many in the next few minutes discussions about safety. He is convinced that first of all, we wont die, and second, if we do -- it’s a great way to go. I offer suggestions on how we may extend our lives some by hiding in bushes or getting rid of all things made of metal.

The storm is now just to the side of us – loud and clear.

What can I say – we are amazingly lucky. Not because no bolt of lightening strikes us – luck is not required for that, as the statistical probabilities are so in our favor. (Ed’s caveat: unless the bolt of lightening has your name written on it. Then you are doomed no matter what. I ask – do you think it has my name written on it? He answers – maybe. So don’t come near me! -- he is, by nature, inclined not to provide verbal reassurance.) We are lucky because the storm and the rains appear to jump over our mountain and move on to the next one and the next one, with merely a short-lived  sprinkle on our ridge – not even wet enough to dampen my shirt.





And now I grow bold. Luck does that to you – it makes you feel brazen and brave, as if it was your genius that prevented disaster.

I suggest we stop for lunch and it is one beautiful little spot! Filled with meadow flowers, looking out at the distant peaks.





If Alpine flowers are your joy, this is where you want to be on a late June day. (Almost as colorful are the rain barrels.)











We complete the loop to the sanctuary.

But it’s not raining and the storm appears to have moved on and so we consider our return to the village. Retrace our steps? Not if we can help it. We opt for the longer loop down the next mountain.

Fools.

We are maybe a fourth of the way into the descent when the next rumble comes through, loud and clear. And we are at a crossroads, without a clear indication which path is ours. (Too many markings in different directions.) I say rather urgently – let’s just go down this one. It’s an educated guess, but it is just a guess. Ed responds that I make foolish decisions when I am scared and I am now officially once again thunder shy.

But we haven’t a reason to not take the trail and so we continue. The rumble grows more pronounced and much more frequent, but again we are lucky. The rains have moved through once already (the trail is muddy and very slippery and one of us does wind up on his ass at one point), and they are hovering now, but holding back.

In my heart, I know we will make it down alright. I believe in the correctness of the trail and, being on the bottom third of a mountain feels a lot less frightening than being on an exposed ridge. Possibly for a lightening with your name written on it, it doesn’t matter, but fears are often irrational anyway and by this stage, I am no longer afraid.





We make our way down amidst light sprinkles and loud thunder...









...and by 5:30 we are safely back in the village.





And then the rains come down and the storm explodes and the power goes off.

As I said, lucky.

Our dinner tonight at the Fonda is a sweet, sweet gift. Typically the restaurant is closed Sunday evenings, but the family that runs it (he cooks, she manages, the two little boys – completely adorable and completely Catalan in name and spirit—help in all ways) has a pair of additional guests and so they decide to keep it open for the two tables.









And what a meal it is! I eat vegetables in a Catalan dressing and calamari, also in a typical Catalan preparation, and cherries with a yogurt ice.













The meal is intimate and casual and it gives us a chance to chat a little in a mixture of English and Spanish with the woman who helps run the Fonda.

We’re curious -- where do you get your ingredients?

There is a bio culture – organic farm – that we work with...
I listen to her speak to her sons. Catalan. What language do the kids speak in school?
Oh, Catalan. But they learn Spanish too.

And where did you learn such good English?

In Ripoll. I also learned Spanish and some French. What languages do Americans learn in school?
None in elementary school....
Really? But don’t you think learning them early is much much better?

Yes...

She puzzles on this one, then clears the plates with the help of one of the boys and refills our Cava flutes.

The Cava bubbles explode and new ones form. The wine is delicious and gentle. The day, in recalling it now, seems that way too. Time ages good wine and fond memories very, very well.