This morning, Shenaz and I stood at the foot of what will always be remembered in our minds as the zigzag of doom; an interminable mule track winding its way 800 vertical metres through a pass between towering rock faces. Three hours and 38 gruelling hairpin bends later, we make it into the shade of Pena Remona where the path flattens out and crosses by several abandoned mineral mines. On rounding the apex of our first ascent, the arid boulder strewn landscape of the morning is replaced by a lush green vega.
This vega, Vega de Liordes is a vast sunken plain. Lazily meandering streams coagulate in peaty pools at its centre. The boggy earth around them is saturated with tufts of ochre grass that gradually intensifies in colour as it radiates over the plain and transforms to a deep emerald green on the outer slopes. Two lone rebecos can be seen grazing a kilometre or so apart, one near the pools and one on the green fringes. The vega is encircled by dark grey mountains, the tallest (Torre del Hoyo de Liordes 2474m) is cupped so that the deepest centre of its palm, where the sun has not reached all year, cradles a dirty patch of ancient snow. Another tiny fleck of white, nestled far below in the Western corner of the vega turns out to be a shepherd’s cabin. We head for a pass North of this cabin, leaving the vega at our backs but still marvelling at having seen an arctic tundra oasis suspended 2000m above the balmy Spanish coast.
The path begins to hug the contours of Pico de la Padiornia and the ground to our left drops away until we are walking along a cliff ledge.
Rebecos peer down from various ledges above, monitoring us as if this was the Congo and we are Captain Marlow in the Heart of Darkness; their painted faces appearing only to melt away again, into the rocky cover. Eventually, we break through the cliffs to our right and into a col full of grazing rebecos, lining the paths and the outlying ridges. It is as if we have stumbled upon a lost tribe. Dozens of unblinking eyes follow us as we make our way up the path, passing within feet of the herd. To our surprise very few move in fear. The big ones even seem cocky, eyeing us up as they chew on their fodder like thoughtful cowboys. I half expect to hear the ping of grassy mulch hitting a spittoon at any moment, it’s that silent.
On the other side of the col, the sun is drifting below a haze of blue in a corrugated landscape. To our right we can see our destination, the Collado Jermoso Refugio. A green roofed cabin perched on a grassy spine that juts like a headland into the deep sea of space between the Cares Gorge and the Western Massif behind it.
The refugio warden is sitting on the roof fixing a weather vane when we finely drag ourselves up to the door. We ask if he has any room and of course he can’t resist saying, ‘sorry full up’ before pointing us to a hatch in the ceiling with a grin on his face. Up in the attic of the old cabin we find mattresses and blankets, whilst a room below has a place were we can eat our yesterday’s pasta.
This vega, Vega de Liordes is a vast sunken plain. Lazily meandering streams coagulate in peaty pools at its centre. The boggy earth around them is saturated with tufts of ochre grass that gradually intensifies in colour as it radiates over the plain and transforms to a deep emerald green on the outer slopes. Two lone rebecos can be seen grazing a kilometre or so apart, one near the pools and one on the green fringes. The vega is encircled by dark grey mountains, the tallest (Torre del Hoyo de Liordes 2474m) is cupped so that the deepest centre of its palm, where the sun has not reached all year, cradles a dirty patch of ancient snow. Another tiny fleck of white, nestled far below in the Western corner of the vega turns out to be a shepherd’s cabin. We head for a pass North of this cabin, leaving the vega at our backs but still marvelling at having seen an arctic tundra oasis suspended 2000m above the balmy Spanish coast.
The path begins to hug the contours of Pico de la Padiornia and the ground to our left drops away until we are walking along a cliff ledge.
Rebecos peer down from various ledges above, monitoring us as if this was the Congo and we are Captain Marlow in the Heart of Darkness; their painted faces appearing only to melt away again, into the rocky cover. Eventually, we break through the cliffs to our right and into a col full of grazing rebecos, lining the paths and the outlying ridges. It is as if we have stumbled upon a lost tribe. Dozens of unblinking eyes follow us as we make our way up the path, passing within feet of the herd. To our surprise very few move in fear. The big ones even seem cocky, eyeing us up as they chew on their fodder like thoughtful cowboys. I half expect to hear the ping of grassy mulch hitting a spittoon at any moment, it’s that silent.
On the other side of the col, the sun is drifting below a haze of blue in a corrugated landscape. To our right we can see our destination, the Collado Jermoso Refugio. A green roofed cabin perched on a grassy spine that juts like a headland into the deep sea of space between the Cares Gorge and the Western Massif behind it.
The refugio warden is sitting on the roof fixing a weather vane when we finely drag ourselves up to the door. We ask if he has any room and of course he can’t resist saying, ‘sorry full up’ before pointing us to a hatch in the ceiling with a grin on his face. Up in the attic of the old cabin we find mattresses and blankets, whilst a room below has a place were we can eat our yesterday’s pasta.
No comments:
Post a Comment