Run or Die (12 page)

The first steps I take are terrible. I shut my eyes at each step and monitor my breathing with every movement I make. I take small, slow steps and advance almost imperceptibly, like an injured bird that is unable to fly yet refuses to come to a halt and drags itself along, stubbornly trying to continue on its journey. I cover very little distance in a minute, and each step sends a violent pain through my body. When I put my foot on the ground, I feel the liquid in the blisters on my toes stinging and I grit my teeth. Small stabbing pains spread from my knees to my hamstrings and even as far as my hip.

I stop gritting my teeth and close my eyes, relaxing my face muscles in an attempt to fly to a world where pain doesn’t exist. My thoughts carry me to distant beaches, hot, seaside days when all I have to do is sleep under a palm tree and listen to the waves
that gently lap over my feet. The water is warm and cures my blisters. …

It’s hopeless. The sound of the waves becomes rougher, colder, and gloomier. Everything goes dark, and when I open my eyes, the wind is still blowing mist between my legs. I am climbing. The path that was earth and grass is now mud and water and fading quickly into the mist, as if to emphasize the fact that our steps are ephemeral, that they will be imprinted on the mud for a few seconds and then erased by the mist forever. These thoughts nearly make me forget the cold, the blisters, and the pain in my legs.

When I reach the point where Edu is waiting for me, we don’t need to say anything; the way I stare at the ground makes it obvious I am in another world, trying to make the miles speed by while my mind is elsewhere.

The descent brings me sharply back to reality. The first steps jolt me out of my dreams. Aches in my joints triggered by the climb turn into painful cramps in my legs and stomach. I don’t have the reserves of strength to withstand the throbbing, and my mind molds my surroundings, sculpting the pain even onto the landscape. The earth has changed into hard, vertical rocks. The mist no longer seems a gentle haze but a sharp thorn slowly piercing my skin. It has gathered speed and strength and spits out rain that drives against my body.

Time and miles pass in between the mists and my thoughts. My legs warm up, and the pain eventually subsides. The dark landscape has lit up, and a warm sun is shining. The valleys have gone by to the accompaniment of conversations, beautiful scenery, and laughter.

As soon as the mist lifts, the sun blisters down and heats the valley floors to temperatures that were hard to imagine this morning.
I am now at the entrance to Ordesa y Monte Perdido National Park, sheltering by the fountain in the shade of a huge red pine tree and eating a big roll filled with goat cheese and mountain ham to give me strength for the rest of the day. It is 5 p.m. and time is starting to slip away. I say good-bye to my colleagues from the Bujaruelo refuge who accompanied me from there to the bottom of the valley. I look at my watch: We still have a long ascent and descent before we reach our next overnight stop. We have no time to waste, and I must make the most of the lightness in my legs and the absence of pain to make rapid progress.

I wet my T-shirt and hat in the freezing water spurting out of the fountain. I put my head under the gushing water and let it run through my hair, behind my ears, and onto my neck and back to cool down the temperature my body has reached in the last few hours under the sun and to freeze the gloomy thoughts that occupied my mind earlier but now seem so long ago.

Greg has volunteered to accompany me on the ascent to the Goriz refuge. It will be a long haul, so we start off at a leisurely canter. We are not far from the end of this stage, but something tells me that the day is going to be a long one and that I will need to draw on my energy reserves.

As we pass tourists coming down from the top of the park, we are cheerful and enjoying the run. But after we’ve been climbing for an hour, Greg starts to feel the knee problems from the day before. The stabbing pain increases, and he decides to go back. I feel fine and so continue at a good pace to the entrance to the Ordesa cirque, where I meet Jordi, a ranger from the Goriz refuge, who has come down to accompany me on the ascent.

A gulp of water, a few words of conversation, and on we go. My head starts spinning, set off by the heat and sun that have been like
a furnace over the last eight hours, or perhaps it’s exhaustion from the total number of hours I’ve been running. It is the third day in, and I can feel the impact from the miles accumulating in my body.

The spectacular vision of the Ordesa cirque makes me forget my fatigue. From north to south, a spectacular wall of rock looms before me that looks as if it must have been carved by Roman slaves in ancient times. To my right, the Punta de las Olas and the Pico de Añisclo rise up over the wall of rock. To my left, the spectacular Cola de Caballo waterfall unveils her imperious might and makes it clear that
she
sculpts these landscapes, that her waters can break the toughest rock and destroy whomever dares to mount a challenge, that she is the proud queen of her dominion.

Opposite me, crowning the whole spectacle, is the summit of Monte Perdido, sailing in the sky like Zeus on Mount Olympus. Sixteen hundred feet of sheer mountain wall rise vertically over green fields where cows and horses graze and wild animals come close to the edge of the river that flows calmly by. Marmots doze peacefully on warm rocks, bathing in the last hours of sunlight. The spectacular expanse of mountain wall contrasts with the calm at the bottom of the cirque. I am filled with a sense of peace and tranquility. My fatigue recedes into a distant past as the power of this place enters my every pore, filling me with its energy for my run across the green fields.

The climb to the Goriz refuge brings me back to reality yet again. The ascent is stony and very steep, and the distance seems endless. In front, Jordi keeps urging me on as the slope gradually flattens out, and we reach a balcony where the refuge is situated. The rest of the rangers and hikers at the refuge welcome me with applause and encouraging cheers.

“Where did you leave from this morning?” ask a couple of hikers who have just come down from Monte Perdido.

“This morning … ” I think how distant that seems, as if several days rather than several hours had passed since we ran through the mist. “I started out from Somport.”

They look at me, at each other, and then back at me. They don’t seem convinced, but given the nods from the rangers and my very disheveled appearance, they seem prepared to accept what I said.

“Heavens! That’s incredible. Congratulations. Are you going to stay here now?”

What I wouldn’t give to stay here, to rest, to sleep, to eat. …

“No, I have to go down to Pineta.”

When I was running uphill with Jordi, we had considered the various options that would take us to Pineta. Normally, by this time of year the Pyrenees have lost almost all of their snow, but after a very cold winter and especially a very cold spring with a lot of heavy snowstorms, the mountains are still completely white. And what had so far been slabs or cornices of snow that allowed you to glissade easily down now are becoming bigger hurdles that are difficult to cross, at least in running shoes.

We reduce our options to two by immediately discounting the possibility of crossing the magnificent Brecha de Rolando. Now, as we go up, we are left with the option of crossing the Añisclo passage or going up as far as the Cilindro passage. The first option is the most attractive to me: a long downhill climb but then only a 650-foot ascent followed by a 5,000-foot descent to the valley bottom. The real problem is that to reach the Añisclo passage, you must negotiate a long, very exposed ledge halfway up the wall from Monte Perdido and the Añisclo passage. The shelf is equipped with ropes and chains and is hewn out of the rock, an easy clamber in the summer if you are used to moving around in the mountains. However, it’s currently covered in snow, and even if you were equipped with crampons, one slip (which wouldn’t be difficult if
you were in a rush) would send you hurtling down a 3,000-foot drop. That’s why we decided with the rest of the team to choose the second option: a climb of 3,000 feet over uneven snow to the Cilindro passage, at an altitude of 10,500 feet, to cross over the Pineta Valley, where I’ll have a 6,500-foot descent over snow and a couple of difficult passes.

This morning, one of the rangers, Piltri, had gone to explore the passage and had recommended I take an ice ax for the climb down. I follow his advice, and after eating a healthy omelet roll, I set out with Jordi in the direction of Monte Perdido. It’s a steep climb, but the snow is hard and we make good, easy progress. I follow in the footsteps of my colleague, who runs up fast. I struggle to follow, reminded yet again that the rest at the refuge gave my legs only brief respite.

At the halfway mark, as the last rays of sun illuminate this paradise, Jordi turns back to the refuge. I take the opportunity to look up and enjoy one of the best moments of the crossing. At an altitude of nearly 10,000 feet, I am surrounded by giants made of rock that rest on the cushion of snow where I am perched. I am tiny, very tiny, a single black dot on this blanket of snow spreading under my feet. On the right, the Brecha de Rolando shuts the door on the final rays of light and leaves the Taillón in darkness. I follow the ridge and catch in front a glimpse of the Cola de Caballo waterfall, which now seems innocent and harmless among these giants. Beneath my feet, night begins to fall over the floor of the valley. The animals at the bottom of the cirque are no longer grazing or enjoying the sun, and the chamois have gone up the mountain to look for somewhere to sleep. One last look to record the spectacle: I would love to stay there, watching the sun hide behind the mountains that I have been crossing since morning, but night
is falling behind my back and the descent promises to be as entertaining as it will be dangerous.

An hour after leaving the refuge, I have just climbed the last 650 feet to the passage. I have kept up a good pace and earned myself a few minutes of daylight for the descent, but a cool breeze warns that the minutes of light will soon end, so I don’t dally and begin my descent of the icy slopes.

Because it is the east face of Monte Perdido, hours have passed since the sun warmed the snow that has now changed into a layer of hard ice. What might have been an easy descent a few hours ago, glissading down on my backside, has turned into a perilous down-climb on which I try to slot my shoes into the holes the hikers left this morning and dig in the ice pick to avoid a very probable slip.

Gradually, not making a single stop, I reach the real down-climb. There is a pass between the rocks on a ledge some 50 feet high where the ice comes to an end. The ledge is fitted with ropes fixed to the rock with metal rings, and the crossing looks easy. I grip the ice pick in my left hand while I position myself opposite the mountain face and take the rope in my right. The strands in the rope have worn over time, but it is still in a reasonable state. In fact, it is probably not very old; it must have been put in place the previous summer. However, it has been a harsh winter and the rope has suffered from the many snowstorms and days of sun and aridity that have gradually discolored its original green into a rusty ocher. Even so, it looks strong, not one strand has broken, and no knock from any ax or crampons has left it in a fragile state, ready to break under a heavy load—although I imagine that after losing the weight I’ve lost over the past few days, I could probably hang from a woolen thread.

The snow that melted during the day has gradually penetrated the rope cover and soaked it. I put my hand on it; it’s frozen! I nearly drop it, but then I tighten my grip and start my down-climb. The icy water trickling inside the rope leaks onto my fingers, but at least my hand doesn’t burn when I run it along the rope.

I jump off the rock and fall on the snow. I leave the ice ax by the side of the rock for the mountain rangers to collect later and continue my descent. The slope is gentler now. It flattens out as I run down to the broad Pineta balcony. The light is almost nonexistent, but the sky is still clear, and the mountains are silhouetted perfectly around me. I leave behind Monte Perdido, and Cilindro de Marboré and the peaks of Astazou loom in front of me to my right. Beyond the extensive snowy balcony, night has fallen over the floor of the valley, where people are starting to switch on their house lights.

I can’t afford to waste any time, so I run quickly across the balcony. The snow is hard, allowing me to move quickly forward, although now and then I tread or leap too heavily and the crust of snow breaks and I sink down up to my knees. It’s been days since anyone took this route, and all footprints have faded from the snow. The path has been erased, but the truth is that the trail we are following to cross the Pyrenees doesn’t exist, has yet to be created.

I decide to take the strip of rock on the right of the balcony. It’s an easy descent: a snowy slope that gets steeper and steeper but that enables me to come down safely at a good pace. The tongue of snow is so broad it looks as if it must reach to the bottom of the valley; I clock up the feet at a fast rate as I slide and run down. The slope keeps getting steeper until, almost 1,000 feet beneath the balcony, the snow comes to an abrupt end and hangs over precipices that descend into the void, to what is now the black void of the valley.

“Shit. This wasn’t the right way!”

I think for a moment. I can’t get down this way. I must descend via the more easterly side of the balcony. The option of retracing my steps up the snow and across the balcony means I will waste a lot of time, and I have none to spare.

I finally decide to climb up the rock face veering to my right. It is an easy climb, though a fall would be fatal. I’m back on the balcony within half an hour and looking for the path again. It’s not pitch-black, but I know it will soon be impossible to make out the terrain. I switch on my headlamp, but luckily it is a clear night and the reflection of the stars on the snow means that I easily find the marks from footprints that hikers left days ago in soft afternoon snow. Now, however, the expanses of snow that hours ago were welcoming, cottony blankets, playful and inviting, have turned into knives of ice, unforgiving and aggressive.