I had been looking forward to this day with the excitement of a schoolchild before recess since the middle of February, four months ago.
For unknown reasons that I have yet to determine there are many Via Ferrata routes set up in Andalucía. My best guess is that the oldest and most famous, the Caminito del Rey, which still exists today, may have served as a challenge to the local climbers who possessed plenty of free time, some powerful drilling tools and a need to create something challenging where before there was nothing but rock. I write this because as the hands of fate have decreed, the local guide that I hired two days later to lead me through the magic of the Torcal mountains, was the very same, the one who, along with two friends, in 1997 actually built the Via Ferrata that I was now about to climb. Serendipity comes in many flavours, this time must have been cherry garcia. I had imagined that a provincial or regional government had constructed the Via Ferrata, but I was wrong, at least in this case.
The Torcal mountains, near Antequera, are indeed magical like none other in the world, this because the mountains were eons ago underwater. Not that the sea here had receded, but rather here the mountains rose out of the sea and kept rising for well more than 1,000 metres. Thanks to their long life spent underwater followed by their recent history above sea level and to all the known theories of erosion by rock genre, the resulting formations of rock slabs teetering upon other similar slabs appear amusingly cartoon-like! The vistas, in all directions, nearly defy explanation, where every turn of the head and every step forward present yet another view of improbable juxtapositions of immense pizza pie slices of rock.
I had never hired a guide for a hike previously but we had little choice of accessing the mountains from our home base in Antequera except by minibus. Therefore I hired said minibus, and the guide was included. Another fortuitous decision as the route that he led us on would have been impossible to find without his lead. We walked along unmarked paths often so narrow and so close to the edge of various cliffs that it was simply smart to pretend that it wasn't so! His 'office' was the Torcal mountains, his playground growing up, and it was right next store, a couple of kms away, to where he and his friends decided to build their own personal Via Ferrata nearly 20 years ago!
By now you may be asking what exactly is Via Ferrata. Today it is a challenging climb up mostly vertical rock faces, with many twists and turns thrown in for good measure. Iron 'staples' are secured into the mountain face, spaced apart just enough to make the ascent difficult. These staples stand in for footholds and handholds allowing us to climb. Where there are ledges or cracks in the rock, there are fewer staples if any. All the while we are perched hundreds of metres above the ground far below. Throughout the journey, we are wearing a climbing harness and we are clipped onto a cable running the entire route with a caribiner. If ever one slips and falls, the attached caribiner would limit the fall to a foot or two or three at most. In fact there is little risk of injury, however anyone with a fear of heights or a fear of cliffs would be wise to stay away -- there is plenty of both! There are often other challenges along the route. In ours today we had to zipline across a ravine that revealed a 200 metre drop below our dangling feet. As the zipline was not downhill, one had to pull oneself hand over hand from one end to the other, all the while being suspended by the line. Very scary for some people; in my case: just plain fun! It was ironic however to learn two days later that our hiking guide explained how the zipline is no longer safe, how it needs to be completely replaced, but that the new Swedish owner of that mountain will tolerate climbers but not a repair party. What was scary for some and fun for others was evidently dangerous for all!
The biggest challenge for me today was dealing with the very high winds blowing. While waiting for the zipline to get set up, we all perched on a ledge -- imagine sitting astride a large horse and you'll get the picture -- which dropped precipitously on two sides very far below. Even though we were all clipped in, we were on an exposed peak, and the strong wind nearly blew me off the ledge several times. Of course I would have only fallen a couple of feet, but dangling from a cable, scratched up and possibly upside down wasn't my idea of entertainment.
Apparently the climbers rate the routes, K-1 through K-4; today's was a K-3. I understand the K-4 will have sections under a rock ledge where you are obliged to basically maneuver upside down along the rock ceiling like a spider, from the entry to the exit of the ledge, with just the staples fixed into the ceiling as your guide. Yep, I definitely want that challenge! There are other interesting features, too, elsewhere, like the monkey bridge, where you have to cross a ravine along a bridge made of three wires, one to walk on, the other two for your hands to hang on to. I am uncertain why it is called a monkey bridge, but I can guess having a long tail might come in handy.
Regardless of the various tests of courage, it is always a thrill to simply stop at any point along the route, lean back and gaze at the landscape from high up the face of a cliff, the valley below stretching many kms before another stark mountain obstucts the horizon, the cloudless blue sky uninterrupted by clouds, the sight of a herd of seemingly tiny goats passing below at some random place, the sound of their bells clanging all the way up to my ears and with their requisite shepherd dog keeping them moving along. Once the bells are out of range and between gusts of wind it is eerily silent while resting, giving me pause to reflect on my good fortune to be here at all, to have sought out this excitement far away from home and to look forward to the celebration party that is sure to follow our successful arrival at the summit at some nearby, unknown, secret restaurant in the middle of nowhere that likely does not even exist on TripAdvisor!
Here's hoping that you, too, are from time to time happy to be celebrating something in the middle of nowhere!
Ferrata or Bust Barry.
How many times in a person's adult life can you expect to do something completely novel, something never experienced, something imagined but never attempted?
I am not talking about driving a new model car nor dining in a new restaurant. Rather, something that tests one's mettle.
Today I chose to go whitewater kayaking for the first time! No instruction, no course, no YouTube video to guide me through the dos and don'ts.
While the others jumped into the two standard inflated rafts for the planned whitewater rafting adventure, I jumped into a kayak! You probably know that I have kayaked for many years but with precious few exceptions, all my experience has been on one sole lake in the Laurentians: no current, no rapids and certainly no white water!
With a dose of good fortune for me, the whitewater gods created the Rio Genil with many sets of exciting rapids, each set with increasing difficulty as the current flows downstream. I was luckily informed of this in advance so I was ready to be likewise increasingly challenged the whole afternoon. I decided it sensible to try some daring maneuvers early on, to take some risks, because failures and errors at the outset could become lessons learnt for the hardest passages towards the finale. It was a prescient decision.
When I first heard the tumultuous roar of the first set of rapids ahead, my heart started to beat a bit faster; I couldn't yet see what was coming as the river is continually winding with numerous immense trees hanging over the water's edges, completely obstructing the view ahead. We were in a canyon of sorts and the riverbanks were thick with foliage. Many of these trees have broad branches jutting out horizontally close to the surface, probably vying for some of the abundant sunshine streaming down. If I am not careful, the current can drive my kayak along the shore and off comes my head at the next branch! Almost as bad, many of these trees have tentacles which grow off the upper branches hanging straight down into the water; these harmless looking vines are spiked with thorns, ready to rip at your clothing or exposed skin. Please don't ask me how I know these details with such precision!
The cacophony of the approaching rapids is growing in loudness, now I can also feel the booming of the cascading waters and I see the two rafts ahead jerking to the left, then to the right, as their occupants paddle furiously to keep from capsizing. I know I am next, ready or not. I am also cognizant that I took on this challenge willingly, so against any natural tendency to be fearful and anxious, I chose to paddle more assertively, daring the river to control my destiny. My kayak was sucked into the first of several drops in the river, I was being splashed from all sides, soaked from directly ahead as the front of the kayak went underwater repeatedly, the noise was deafening but I screamed, "Si, si" (translation: "Yes, yes, give me your best!" ) and paddled hard to keep my kayak pointing ahead no matter how it was being bashed sideways from the churning, screaming white water.
All this happens fast, very fast, so I slowed down time in my mind to give myself a fighting chance. Soon enough I was again into calmer water and I paddled toward the shore to enter into the countercurrent and relax for a minute, catch my breath and re-evaluate.
I succeeded the easiest of what was to come so I decided to try to turn my kayak perpendicular to the current after the next set of rapids and see how I could control the forces attacking me. This didn't work out so well and I was quickly thrown out of the boat into the freezing cold water. Thanks go to the rafting organizers for the full wet suit and even the neoprene booties to keep me 'warm' so all I had to do was right the kayak and somehow get back on it.
The next few rapids went very well, too, so it was time for another challenge: the rafts, at one point, turned around and paddled hard back upstream to get their bows into a 'hydraulic' which essentially locks the boat in place, the waters flowing all around with the bow getting sucked down into a 'hole.' I tried the same trick, and managed to hang in there, magically stuck in place, the waters rushing around me, but my boat was neither moving downstream nor upstream without further effort. The problem arose when I backpaddled to extricate myself and the boat was swept perpendicular, capsized again, the cold, rushing water engulfing my body pulling me under, trying to scare the wits out of me, but I prevailed by remaining calm underwater for a few seconds longer until I could surface, breathe and then kick back onto my kayak anew.
A lot of excitement so far but I knew the hardest and scariest rapids were still ahead, waiting their turn to torment me!
What makes rapids more challenging, generally, is when the water level drops more precipitously, like mini waterfalls, with an uneven riverbed below and boulders strewn about causing the water to be very turbulent from many directions at any moment.
I had succeeded to control my kayak through each set of rapids so far, I had capsized twice, and now the two last and most difficult rapids were just ahead.
Again my heart started to speed up as I noticed that the rafts ahead of me had completely disappeared from view to a lower level! How high was this waterfall going to be? Had I reached the limit of my brand new skill?
With no time to debate the answers, the explosions of the fast moving current smashing onto the boulders below now filled my ears, I squeezed my paddle tighter and pushed my backside more firmly into the seat, trying to become one with the boat. I let out a scream and went over the falls, a couple of metres, no more, but the front end of my kayak was completely submerged and I was being whipsawed from all sides. I paddled as fast as I could think, reacting to the paroxysmal forces quickly to keep my kayak always pointing downstream, afraid to allow my craft to turn sideways as then my fate would be sealed.
The current launched my boat nearly out of the water, then rapidly a fresh set of waterfalls to maneuver through. I was yelling at the water, I believe, from pleasure, both telling it and reminding me that only one outcome was possible as I continued to steer my boat away from boulders and directly into the direction of the whitest, the frothiest waters. I was nearly catapulted out of the kayak at least twice but somehow willed myself to regain my seat and squeezed my paddle tighter as I used it as fast as I could to keep my craft more or less parallel with the current. I was quizically instantly reminded of my first experience landing my own aircraft, the instructor at my side yelling at me "right aileron, left rudder, left aileron, less throttle," so fast that I couldn't process the instructions in time, the runway approaching frighteningly fast. Here, too, I was silently shouting instructions at myself, left, right, right again, faster, harder, left...
Falling out of the kayak in the middle of the rapids now is dangerous compared with my earlier capsize experiences in calmer waters. This thought keeps me focused.
In one sense the experience seems to go on forever with the turbulent water appearing to have no end in sight as my focus is on the next two seconds, the next two metres. In another sense, I have already succeeded, I have arrived once again in calmer waters, my ultimate challenge achieved, and I am wondering how is it that it feels to me as though I am just stepping into the kayak at the start and not stepping out at the finish 90 minutes later!
Here's hoping you know better, whether your journey is just now beginning or has it already ended?
Whitewater Barry
