“from the sea to the mountains” Part One
Day One: Hendaye to Eltzaurdia
If you stop early and get a hotel on the first day of the HRP, are you not up to the challenge?
It was hot in San Sebastián and my mind was fixated on burning to a crisp while melting away in sweat climbing into the Pyrenees from the Plage.
So as any self-respecting hiker would do, I prayed for rain.
And boy howdy, I get it.
Not at the start though under cooling gray skies. My last drive with Juanxto to the French seaside village where the trail begins.
After a leisurely and heavily caffeinated and sticky sweet breakfast with Francesca, he offers me a tiny glass bottle. In it, I’ll collect water from the Atlantic to walk across the mountains and deliver to the Mediterranean.
Yes, you read that right – it’s glass. But very tiny and a kind, meaningful gesture. It’s not easy to collect water from the shore without plunging in, but I manage to gather a small swish then pocket it and off I go.
There’s a reason everything’s blooming
It’s an easy walk on urban paths passing bright blossoms framing sailboats and far off mist shrouded mountains.
My hair is thick and curling in this humidity and I wonder how I’ll manage on the uphills ahead carrying so much weight: crampons, warm clothes, warm bag.
Ahead, four kids hike with small packs. I follow them a long way, entering fields filled with corn and cows. They look back to laugh when I moo a response.
It’s muddy and damp and I have to pee, so tuck down a side lane. A man is there from Ireland. Friendly and excited to walk. Andrew, or Andy, is his name and he snuck over here for the same purpose.
We go separate ways before meeting again and walking. He’s walking the GR10 and we’ll split off later as I follow the high route.
This can’t be right
What’s fun about European trails is how often you walk directly through villages and pueblos. We come to one such place with a square and a pub, the four young hikers stopped for a coffee, naturally.
Next to them is a water spigot and I take it as a cue to drink what I have carried so far. We continue on, up and down on narrow roads, squeezed to the left by cars.
It has misted up to this point, but now the rain really begins to spit down and we both put rain gear on in a hurry.
Somehow, Andy either takes too much time or decides to go slower and I lose him on a steep eroding hill. The view is fogged in and I push on as he catches up.
Wait, weren’t you carrying a blue pack? And did you suddenly grow a mustache? Oh, you are someone new!
Jonathan is German (nickname “Yonni”) and we power up together, only to find we missed the marked trail.
At least the marked trail according to the guidebook author’s GPX track.
It takes a couple of tries up, down, up and down again as an older and far chunkier French couple passes by for the high route and call me crazy to take the low “correct” route.
Joni follows briefly into deep mud and overgrown bracken. Clearly people walked here before, but the trail is awful. It appears to sidle the mountain, but takes some wild, steep detours and leads over many washouts requiring extreme care to pass.
Day one, and the F-bombs are firing
Joni falls way behind, but I spot him as he yells out not to worry about him as he will return to the other trail. But stubborn me pushes on, seeing the pass I’ll head up to meet the other trail.
The bracken is so thick, I can’t see where I’m going. It’s also sopping wet and brushes me like s carwash making me also sopping wet.
I do all I can to keep from crying. I even stop swearing at the author who never updated his tracks to reflect a obvious route change. A slip here could end the trip is also pushed out of my mind.
I reach the road and naturally there’s a painted X on a rock to show the way is closed.
OK, I got through. I’m ok, just damp and likely far behind the others, but no biggie. I have no goal.
It’s steep up now to a high point all in mist when it begins to rain, hard and in earnest.
I don’t see my friends though two hikers descend with a “Bonjour!” The rain gets worse so I put on rain pants, passing a group of horses wearing bells. “No pictures today, guys.”
If you pay over €100 for an apartement touristique, do you deserve an extra roll of TP?
I descend now and suddenly see ahead a parking lot and a restaurant!
Up here they’re used to wet, bedraggled, drowned rats like me dumping their packs and sitting in a puddle of their own making.
I have a snack and try to decide my next move. The rain gets heavier and blows in sheets but I pack up thinking it must stop eventually.
Just as I open the door, Joni arrives, then Andy. Guys! I was sure they were far ahead, tents set and all cozy in their bags, but no, they feel just as miserable as me.
What is it about hiking? You meet people and connect fast, like you’ve known each other all your lives. We order omelette sandwiches on massive baguettes and dry out.
The mood is merry before it turns sour. Wet, cold, maybe a bit tired, I ask how much a room might be – for one, for two, for three?
It’s not too much and it’s a suite with a kitchen, so we take it, drawing straws for the hot shower and hanging our gear over every last bit of space.
Of course it eventually clears, but we justify our early stop by claiming the ground is saturated and it would have been a horrible sleep outdoors.
Andy is feeling a bit off with stomach problems and asks if I might get us another roll of toilet paper. I happily practice my French only to be admonished that one partial roll is all a room for three receives – ever.
I push hard but she is adamant. The men watch in stunned disbelief until she relents, taking a shine to Andy since her ancestral home is Dublin.
What an odd rule. She did eventually relent, as I said, but not without explaining this is not normal. Perhaps not for France. I don’t know.
We laugh it off as Joni and I plan tomorrow’s walk, looking for water sources and suitable camping along the way. This is when I notice the book lists all of the landmarks in French and Spanish while the map marks them in Eskierda (Basque)
Had I mentioned Basque has no language relatives?
Before coming here I tried in vain to load the correct map layers for Gaia on my phone. I requested support and tried numerous ways to load what I needed. In the end, I had to settle with just one map, skipping those specific to France and Spain.
Whoops!
Like our proprietress, this map with all useless-to-me place names, is all I appear entitled to.
Well, it’s past hiker midnight and the guys are knocked out. Tomorrow is supposed to be beautiful and I think I know where I’m going. The Basque region is only a week+ more…
In spite of rain and taking the wrong trail and weird French TP rationing rules and a glass bottle weighing me down and the shame of needing to rent a room at the very start, it turned out to be a pretty good day.
I made new friends and even saw the French couple at the restaurant, calling me a little crazy but in an endearing way.
Is the trail jinxed by such a start? Nah! It gives me something to laugh about as I work my way towards the big mountains and the heart of what walking trails is all about.
Day Two: Col d’Inzola to Atxuela
Today I learn why people describe the Pyrenees as ‘steep,’ while the guidebook speaks of this section as “easy.”
I could take that as my warmup, introduction or a warning of what’s-to-come.
Or simply take each day as it comes.
Frankly, I hike a good distance, maybe too far so early in a thru-hike. But the weather is fantastic and I always choose to take advantage while it’s on offer.
It starts with fog, a misty inversion below moving quickly as if the sea is vacuuming it up. I spy huge antennae-covered La Rhune like a breaking wave and wonder how I tackle that monster.
Breakfast is included but consists of a thin melba toast with jam and butter plus coffee and juice. At approximately 0% nutrition, it won’t be food pushing me forward but willpower.
30% grade
At first it’s roads and muddy track through forest but then I’m spit out onto a concrete road that goes essentially straight up, and I see the term ‘easy’ must come from the fact that it’s an obvious path not one without effort.
I walk with two bikers in ‘Haute Pyrenees’ shirts. They tell me they’re celebrating 50 years of friendship by pushing their bikes up mountains, then flying down to a big dinner.
The view is spectacular, absolutely breathtaking of green meadows and mountains and finally the sea. Limestone erodes in pancake piles.
Everyone is out, young and old, climbing into a fresh breeze to a rock-strewn meadow where horses wearing bells graze. A sign asks that we please refrain from spoiling the view by building rock cairns.
I take pictures and have mine taken then wander down through rocks and finally a steep descent to Col (pass) de Lizuniaga, where day one was supposed to end – good thing I saved all that for a clear day.
Roads and water sources
It’s roads now, through forest, past walkers and bikers and water fountains seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Joni catches up with me and we meet a Spanish HRPer named Heitor who promises us that two water sources remain.
Joni wisely fills up and I march on empty, only to discover I passes both – and a high pass remains.
Ah, the friends you make on long trails! Joni offers me a liter and we march on, strong and without worry climbing higher and higher above farms and tinkling bells below.
The views again are superb, perhaps more intimate with mountains feeling closer. I breathe heavily but move well – oh yeah, we’ve joined the GR11 now so no chance of getting lost.
At the top surrounded by mountains Joni decides to camp. I’m not so sure so I use cooking dinner to make up my mind.
Magic provided
Just as I finish the last of my vegetable soup and a bit of a multigrain baguette with a view, a couple walks by (again older and incredibly fit) I can’t remember now if I mention water rationing, but they tell us another fountain is below where they came up.
And that magic moment seals the deal.
We climb a tiny rise that for some reason receives a name, Atxuela, to set our tents. It requires a bit of searching to find a flat spot, then to kick sheep poo aside before setting.
And then we search for water, just a kilometer (or so) down the road. We find a dry trough, then a man-made pond filled with tadpoles. Finally, past the funkiest group of ponies with spots and stripes, all wearing bells, we find the fountain and fill right up.
What a place! The view is back to La Rhune, but the aforementioned ponies prefer a dense forest where they’ve mowed the grass down to a soft golfing green.
We record their sound and take pictures, fascinated by their big heads on out-of-proportion bodies, big rib cages hanging low.
Sunset
It’s a long sunset well past ten to the tinkling bells in surround sound. A sliver moons hangs above and the air feels chilled and damp, though I’m snug as can be.
It was a day to remember making up for the pouring rain. I blew it with the water, but have a nice, fresh, non-tadpole liter for my coffee tomorrow.
Day Three, Atxuela to Redoute de Lindux
Mountain to mountain
If you’re feeling strong and the weather is fine, keep moving forward, I always say.
Especially upon discovering the wee shop that sells food is closed on Mondays – and there’s nothing ahead for days.
I go far – 20 miles? And climb a lot, at least 6,000 feet I’d say though I’ll need to verify. I’ve been ripping out the pages as I go so the past is truly gone!
Tree hugger
The ponies wake me up as the sky lightens. The sonorous clang of brass tinkles in rhythm as they gnaw at the grass, then clangs loudly once they notice our weird tents in their feeding grounds and trot quickly past.
Joni sent a resupply to Arizkun, so plans a short day of likely waiting around.
So I am on my own now up with coffee early at our amazing view, then off on a tight, overgrown path through taller-than-my-head ferns.
I had planned to camp at “farm ruins surrounded by massive beach trees.” I would have missed the sunset, so happy I stayed above, but I stumble upon one of the most soulful spots I have ever encountered.
The beech are fat and squat their huge arms reaching towards the sun. They create a delicious shade over soft grass.
I can hardly tear myself away from this wee Eden, but head down winding through small villages of white buildings, red tile roofs and res shutters. Each village provides a water fountain, likely a tradition for the townsfolk as well as pilgrims.
I think I’m up way too early. Arizkun is closed tight, only one man sitting outside, maybe watching hikers touch the brass scallops that mark the way to Compostela.
Griffon Vultures
I head steeply up from here. It amazes me that I am on a road. I can barely keep moving upwards, how do vehicles.
And it’s hot now, really hot as I huff and puff my way higher looking down on all those red roofs.
Eventually I exit on a trail straight up in a farm field then through thorny bracken. Just as I’m starting to hate it completely, I enter another magical beech forest. These are gnarly too like bonsai on a steep mountainside of Burga, just shy of 3,000 feet.
I work my way up, no sign of a trail, but somehow pop out at a perch where I can see all the way to La Rhune. Griffon Vultures soar below me. Then above me and at me.
These are not your ordinary garden variety vultures. They’re enormous with a wingspan 7+ feet.
Again, I can hardly pull myself away. The view, the air, my bird buddies and tree pals. It’s sublime.
But I have my mind on a camp spot near water. When I get to this completely inappropriate location at 1:00 in the afternoon, a sign tells me Aldudes is only 45 minutes away.
Ramparts
I’d heard that the one place in town that sells food closes early on Saturday and reopens mid-morning Tuesday.
But I choose to ignore this detail and head down thinking perhaps the trail will provide. It provides, alright, with the store closed tight.
But I manage to have a lunch of local meat and a Basque country cooperative is open with even more local meat as well as cheese.
That should do for a few days. As long as I still have coffee.
So on I go, figuring I can get a few more miles since it’s light until 10 and I’m powered up on local meat.
Out of the wee town on a river means climbing. To be fair, there are one of two zigzags but mostly it’s straight up. Horses graze up here on a long ridge with views in all directions.
It’s a roller coaster down and up, then along a road in, you guessed it, beech forest. Water fountains appear along the way and I fill up, then climb straight up to ancient ramparts looking back again at La Rhune far in the distance.
Perfect for my tent if a bit windy. I cuddle in with a sunset and as it gets dark, the sheep herd rises as one to my spot, eating as they go and dinging loudly.
Day Four: Roland’s Redoubt to Forest
I’ve set the tent in the forest.
This is a good thing because there’s no view anyway since the mist came down. But it’s also dead quiet and any wind has been broken up by the trees.
I do have a light drizzle and my eyes are closing after a long, hard, superb day of multiple climbs climaxing in a straight-up-find-your-own-way climb.
I have a GPX track on my phone and am trying not to use it every 30 seconds since my battery is getting sucked dry.
But when I try to simply use instructions in the book, I blow past the hidden turnoffs and end up backtracking accompanied by a fair number of F-bombs.
But please let me tell you why I chose this hidden spot among the beech trees – because the wind got so wild last night, I hardly got any sleep. This after stuffing in earplugs.
The sheep followed me up to the ramparts like one of Charlemagne’s battle lines and finally lay down on a terrace. I wonder why the wind doesn’t bother them?
The tent was rockin and rollin as the sun turned the sky pink. I packed quickly, then laid my body on the tent so it wouldn’t launch. The ramparts have convenient trenches where I tossed everything until ready to pack – so wind-free, I even made coffee.
My first climb was steeply up on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. The wind was fierce, tearing at me and threatening to blow me over.
The pilgrims got an early start and I was passed by 50 or so all excited on their first day.
I’m on my fourth day and excited to see the biggest Pyrenees ahead, pointy and magical at this distance, light blue and ghostly.
It’s a long walk on roads, then shortcuts through sharp heather. I can’t believe I’m so high above the valleys, I just float up here.
Cows and horses walk right on the road, likely because locals offer treats.
The wind calms as I climb higher and higher next to massive triangular shaped mountains, bright green and grassy.
I miss the turn off completely, maybe because I simply don’t want to except that I will climb all the way down in there then straight back out.
The map doesn’t lie and I search vainly for an actual “path” but whatever I take delivers me to a beautiful cascading river – and six HRPers! I miss Joni already and after missing my turnoffs three times today (ok, maybe four) I’d love some company.
They’re all paired, Dan and Loretta from The Netherland, Riley and Rain from Australia and ?? from France. I’m awful with names.
We hang out in this glorious idyll, Dan offering me several cupcakes, which I dispatch in seconds! The climb out is a doozy.
But let me tell you – trails with switchbacks are like taking an escalator compared to the free for all up and out of the next valley.
It’s a huffing and puffing fest, but I rise up on the beautiful grass and wildly steep dropoff to the side in no time.
Listen, this is not bragging – this is sheer amazement my body still functions like this. The two French could hardly believe I’m like a steam engine, not particularly fast, but incredibly steady.
At the top, I follow the Aussies who never hesitate trying to navigate. They mention they will camp beyond, but point to the colossus that will require a climb.
A rushing stream runs through this valley and campsites are everywhere. I walk to the end of the ‘stage’ (a day’s walk according to Cicerone) but find the unmanned hut is gross and the lawn is torn up by animals.
A water source is said to be less than two hours walk (Europeans use time rather than distance since no kilometers are creates equal) and that feels like all that’s left in me.
Walking on tussocky hillside that has been terraced by animals is like very steep stairs. The view back up the valley is stupendous, a kite soars below me and sheep tinkle and baa.
As I reach the GR10 a thousand or so feet up, the mist rolls in and creates a total whiteout. Super timing on my part.
But as you can imagine, I’m dead tired. I’m moving along strategically to get myself in position to climb massive Pic d’Orhy before the bad weather rolls in.
At the moment, I’m cuddle in against a spooky “Knights Who Say ‘Ni!’” forest of gray and gentle wind in the tops.
Have I got more climbs in me? Sure! It’s why I came in this adventure, but now I hope to sleep all the way through the night.
