Crónica de una muerte anunciada (part 2)
There simply wasn’t enough time to negotiate the horrendously difficult climb that was next on the evil agenda. I think some people suspected this as a few dropped out in Caín but I for one was still blissfully ignorant. In fact I didn’t even know what the cut off time was, not having paid attention during the pre-dawn briefing. I thought that if I survived the terrible Mesones it’d just be a question of plodding on.
Wrong!
I left the claustrophobic little village of Caín behind me. What must it be like to live all of your life in such a place, surrounded by towering pinnacles of rock that make the sky seem so far away?
The ascent of la canal de Dobresengos was endless. I posted a photo of the route a while ago but the worst part actually came right at the start. The path seemed to disappear and as I scanned for the little red flags that marked the race route I realized that there was one sticking out at a right angle.. directly above me. The “scramble” upwards resembled climbing the interior of a lift shaft although in the end it wasn’t as bad as it looked. There was a second scramble later on where they had even fixed a rope but I found it easier to use my hands and in fact I never felt exposed or at risk which had been one of my biggest worries.
The total ascent of Dobresengos is a staggering 1900m. I reached a point where I’d count 100 steps and then stop for a breather. One guy turned back. Two girls I’d done the first half of the ascent with dropped behind and then disappeared from view. One of them had mentioned that the second cut off time was at 1 o’clock and for the first time I realized that this might not be feasible. I came out of the shade. It started to get hot. I ran out of water. The relentless gradient evened out as we crossed an uncomfortable rocky landscape but then the “Horcada de Caín” reared up ahead like an ugly beast. This is a V-shaped cleft high up in the rocks which marked the end of the torture but it seemed an awful long way away.
I really was struggling by now. The few people left behind me were closing up and I felt incapable of reacting. I struggled to put one foot after the other on the loose scree and soon I was the last person actively taking part in the race. Oh for a nice grassy meadow to lie down in.
It was 12:45. There was no chance of reaching the mountain refuge of Urriellu for the one o’clock rendezvous, not for me and not for the 10 people in front of me. A race marshal perched on a ledge tried to convince me that I could tear down the mountain in 15 minutes but he wasn’t kidding anybody. In fact the next bit was even worse than the climb. There was no well-trodden path and the crazy paving of eroded limestone formed random jagged shapes which could cut your arm off if you fell. I trod very, very carefully, except through a couple of sections of snow where I slid down on my arse. It was easier, faster and more comfortable. Only fear of permanent rectal damage brought me back to my feet.
The Urriellu refuge lies in the shadow of the Naranjo de Bulnes. Here my journey ended. A couple of rock climbers hung from the northern wall like tiny spiders. I marvelled at their bravery. Another race marshal told me I was out of time.
“I know”.
An old photo of an ugly, bear-like man with a beret stared down at me from a plaque on the hostel wall. It was El Cainejo. The foppish young dandy next to him was definitely the Marques.
I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. I suppose indifferent was more the word. I’d crossed 2 of the 3 massifs of Picos, I’d visited a wonderful rock strewn wilderness that I hadn’t known before and I’d lived to tell the tale. My ankles were still intact, my feet were free of blisters and I’d taken some nice photos. I’d just been too slow. Maybe I should have used some of those walking pole things. Maybe I should have wolfed down power gels and electrolyte drinks (I avoid them, they give me the shits) but that wasn’t the point. I’d done Picos in the way I’d wanted to do it and that was just fine.
Took the easy way down to the finish line and went to look for some Picón cheese.
Postscript
Back in the real world I surfed through a couple of websites frequented by those connected to the event. On a forum, almost overlooked amongst the battle tales, the congratulations and the links to Picasa photo albums, somebody mentioned Mariano. Mariano, as I’d mentioned in an earlier post, had spent 25 years as an unpaid mountain refuge warden in a customized gun turret at 2300m. He had died in Santander on Saturday while we were running the race. His ashes will be scattered on Pico Tesorero tomorrow, a peak which watched down on his cabaña veronica refuge and which incidentally watched down on us while we climbed Dobresengos.
Total race distance covered: 35km (a.3000m ascent and 2000m descent) in 9 and a half hours.
My photos
here.
More (better) photos
here.
