Back in the Mountains; A Traverse of Vignemale

With strain I sit up from where I lay on the hard, concrete floor. The door is slightly ajar, a thin film of light flooding into the confines of the poorly lit space. I pull on some shorts and yank the heavy metal door open just enough to squeeze out. The grass is soft against the soles of my feet, the sun blinding, warm on my chest. I moved around sluggishly, dragging myself to the creek to get some water, becoming a little lighter on my feet with each step. As I get back Pablo is just waking up and poking his head out the door revealing the day nature has produce for us. I lay on the compact grass, watching the small cumulus clouds race the streaks of cirrus through the sky, feeling a little humbled by the towering masses of the mountains on either side of the valley.

* * *

30 Hours Earlier

The sound of music coming from the vibrating phone by my head easily awakens me from my shallow, intermittent sleep. 6:15. Time to go. It takes a few minutes to muster the strength to wrench myself entirely from my sleeping bag. Its still pitch black outside. I frantically stuff some things in a bag; mountain clothes, plenty of food and the other small items that a big day in the mountains demands. I tuck my crampons inside my helmet to try and guard the contents of my pack, placing them both at the very top. After strapping our ice axes to the outside we're off, heading for the barranco, a steep creek of sorts from where our ascent will begin.

The route through the hard stuff

Standing at the bottom it looks huge. And I probably can't see the whole expanse. The map shows we have almost one and a half kilometres of elevation to gain before we hit the rocky ridge. It seems almost laughable to me, watching the silhouettes of the mountains gradually gain more detail. We arrived well after dark the night before and now we are leaving the valley well before it is light. 

 

The traverse route; Refugio Labaza to Baysellance

We start ascending steadily. I watch the terrain change beneath my feet from pine roots, the sedges, to succulents and finally to rock. As the valley narrows I watch a family of ibexs dart up the cliffs, gaining perhaps 200m in minutes, sending loose rock down after them. At around 2700m the walking changes completely to rock. I walk up steep slabs, rendered clean by harsh winter after harsh winter.

The cairns are patchy at best. It feels like I'm back in Tassie all over again, having to do my own navigation and make route choices without the constant aid of tracks or other markers. But that's how I like it. I love the feeling of being completely immersed in the landscape I'm walking in, when its just you and the mountains and there's few signs of past visits to deter your eyes from the grandeur of the landscape.

Below the huge, smooth headwall that seemed to be made out of marble there are some walled bivvy sites which could have easily been big enough for small tents. My eyes follow the wall to the left, probing the mountains for any sign of the mystical corridor that would deposit us on the ridge forming the border between France and Spain. Nothing. Everything blends in from this angle. I guess it'll become apparent as we get higher. My eyes move down, following the curving mass of ice down the narrow gully. It seems the sun has only just hit it. We're making good progress.

After a long-ish break I shed the layers I put on to ward off the cool of the morning and attach my crampons. The glacier starts metres away. I start moving quickly on slopes of about 35 degrees, making sure my feet are far enough apart that there is no chance they will get caught on one another. As the gully narrows it gives the prospective climber a choice; a quite narrow and steep piece of ice, standing like a solidly reinforced bridge within the gully itself, or a section of easy rock, of course done in crampons. I took the ice very carefully before moving onto a little rock where I had to.

 

The glacier remained steep and got us higher quickly. In one point the slopes must have been at least 50 degrees and without any kind of anchors I was glad it was short lived. I firmly shoved my ice axe into the now semi soft glacier, kicking in steeps as I went. Lower down I thought I had seen a cairn. Turns out I was right. A huge cairn sits on a stretch of precariously loose rock between glaciers and once you are there the chimney itself becomes painfully obvious. 

Two eagles circle overhead, battling for my attention over the French grade III rock that is to come. Maybe the crux is higher up....

After a brief break I'm moving up the tight, enclosed corridor, staying well ahead of Pablo in different gullies in case I dislodge loose rock. Each move feels easy and has no exposure.

The chimney

As I pull myself up a small overhang my head suddenly emerges above the ridges. Wow. The bulk of the Pyrenees to the north is stretched out before me, rendered desolate by the harshness of each winter and dotted by small lakes nesting in amongst the rocky facades. My heart begins to beat a little faster. We are close. 

I can now see the two eagles circling in the valley on the opposite side of the ridge, gracefully cutting lines through the air far below, revealing how far we have come. The valley of Bujaruelo where we started now appears tiny, as if its merely the small groove in the landscape formed by a mountain creek. The ridge ahead is like a knife edge. I step softly, trying to be conscious of the loose rock I can see lining the tops of big drops on the surrounding slopes.

The cairns persist for a little while before disappearing for good. The ridge is relinquished for slopes of loose shale, a game of picking the line that's going to cause the least problems. When climbing European mountains loose rock is an innate part of the experience. I have never seen scrambling routes on good, clean rock.

I see too climbers, carrying rope on the ridgeline. Knowing I'm so close I can almost touch it I speed up and in less than 50m I'm standing on a small, shaley summit, finally on the border of the two countries. The Glacier d'Ossoue stretches out before me in a bowl ringed by a rocky ridgeline, one of the greatest remaining glaciers in the Pyrenees and quickly receding.

The ground shifts below my feet as I descend the rocky ridge to the edge of the glacier, chunks of rock tumbling onto its upper flanks. At least three parties are on the same ridge. I can see the silhouettes of two figures illuminated against the harsh alpine sun, victoriously standing on central peak. I can see another party of its rocky slopes and another in the saddle beneath it. And plenty on Vignemale itself.

This area is so well frequented that it's obvious where everyone walks on the glacier. There are no crevasses or steep slopes to excite. Only flat, easy walking and in five minutes the loose slabs of Vignemale's normal route extend into the sky above us.

It felt a little annoying to be putting crampons on and off for such a stretch. By the looks of the footprints in the snow many don't even bring crampons when coming from France. This would be incredibly hard work with 2.5km or so of glacier walking. Although the glacier seems to be fairly shallow and crevasse free the slopes are steep and your feet would be sliding everyone.

The summit being this close only pushes me harder. I climb up past a party that are using a rope to come back down, worried about the lack of features in the rock. I take a more direct route that most, following what appears to be limestone rather than the distinctive red rock. I see several more parties that aren't using protection but are roped up glacier style. From the looks of things their days would get very interesting if one of them was to slip. The other would be taken with them.

Most people just climb free, despite a few sections of loose rock. This is what I had chosen to do too and didn't once feel uncomfortable. The climb is technically easy and for anyone used to even Tassie's scrambly mountains it is non-problematic.

As I arrive on the rounded, compact summit the bulk of the Pyrenees takes shape, extending for hundreds of kilometres in each direction, the spine dividing Spain and France. The iconic mass of Monte Perdido is easily visible, deceptively close, with the highest summits of the Pyrenees beyond. I think of Andorra, nestled somewhere on the other side of those peaks, where I had been weeks earlier. Close if you're a bird but otherwise a huge distance away, guarded by battalions of serrated ridges of loose rock and deep valleys.

We spend more than an hour on top, intoxicated by the view. I swear I could spend all day on top of a mountain, just probing its nuances with my eyes, somehow never becoming bored. The occasional bird might pass by, sweeping and diving through a few circles above my head, momentarily pulling my attention away from the landscape. 

The broken red rock poses a bit more of a problem on the way down but still we arrive at the end of the rock and the start of the glacier quickly, strapping on crampons once again. The descent is somewhat tiresome. It goes without saying but the landscape is spectacular as per usual, however the walking feels somewhat monotonous after what we've already done. The glacier seems to go on forever. In total it might stretch on for two or three kilometres, terminating at around the same elevation as Baysellance Refuge, the most common starting point for an assault on Vignemale and the direction from which every person started that day but us. Nobody else climbed via the Corredor de Moscova, the far less frequented ascent route that we had chosen to ascend, starting from Spain, not France.

As we pass Baysellance a quick check of the time reveals it's after six. Daylight is receding. We've now been on the go twelve hours and have quite a few more to go before we can sleep.

100m of climbing is followed by 500m of descent. The tracks are great but that kind of up and down after a long day is enough to break anyone. The mountains are already illuminated before we start descending, shrouded in a warm glow. The north face of Vignemale sits entirely in shade, making in ominous, threatening, fully accentuating the size of the fissures in the steep glacier guarding its feet. 

 

On reaching the valley floor, another 500m of ascent awaits, a major mental challenge of the exhaustion levels we are now wearing. We sit down, the sun entirely gone from the valley, and rug up. We eat quickly, frantically almost, but then can't compel ourselves to get up. We linger ten minutes more, savouring the respite from standing.

The first few steps are a struggle. Then the food begins to kick in. It had been far too long since I'd snacked. As I get higher I feel stronger and as the grasses are relinquished for rock I begin to get excited. Before long I am standing above Bujaruelo once again. I watch Pablo climb the last few metres, a smile growing on my face.

We don't linger. We quickly dash down the winding path benched into the scree, marked by cairns. The sun set a reasonable time ago. By the time we reach the very bottom the light is well and truly on its way out, meaning it is around 9:45. We move faster, wanting to make as much progress before the light disappears altogether.

We were loosing the track even in the fading light. Once darkness sets in things are no different. What we thought would be an easy dash back down the valley turned into an off track walk in pitch darkness. The sky is completely clear but there is no moon. Few stars. We listen to the tumbling and falling of the creek, serving as a guide to deliver us back at Refugio Labaza, home.

The walking is open and easy, aside from a few steep slopes. It takes hours, we're moving so slowly. A few times we think we've passed it until I look at the mountains and think about what the alignment is like from the Refugio. The walk seems to drag on. And on.

Then we almost stumble on the rocks bordering a large creek. I almost start running. I recognise this creek. I recognise the valley it is pouring from. We have been here before. This is where we started climbing eighteen hours earlier. Eighteen hours.

I force the door open, a stiff, heavy piece of metal trying to bar me from sleeping, probably waking up the “neighbours”. Oh well. That door scrapes loudly no matter what.

I stumble in and find my sleeping bag. Despite the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements I'm out like a light. It's now 1:30. And we left camp at 6:45. Talk about a productive day.

* * *

Walking through the gates marking the end of the valley felt surreal. After the previous day we drag our feet, moving very slowly, nursing the pads on the bottom of our feet, or what is left of them. We had woken up at close to midday, no real surprise considering the events of the previous “day”. With only a kilometre left to walk we stop. I strip down to only my shorts and dash for the water under the bridge, lazily caressing the steep sides. I come to a tree hanging over the water and don't bother progressing any further. I simply throw myself in head first, cleanly breaking the perfection of the mineral blue pool.

A Little Spanish City and Little Else

We spent close to a week just in the city of Sabinanigo. We didn't do too much in all honesty. I got my blog up to speed during our once a day visits to the city's many bars. We relaxed in the parks for a good portion of the day and we quickly learned what our favourite siesta spots were. And we discovered some good camping with a soccer oval next door. On one day I climbed one of the light posts that would have been 30m high or so. I put my harness on and climbed the ladder but still I'll freely admit it, it felt very airy.

Towards the end of the week we drove back to Torla where Pablo rented a via ferrata kit from the rude guides that work in the city and had previously taken the others for some barranquismo. I'll be blunt. They really aren't nice people and to do business with them really feels like a scratch on one's concious. But we did. Out of little choice and price comparisons, nothing else.

Once Pablo had a kit we drove 5km down the valley to the picturesque town of Broto and parked on the fringes. A steep gorge with a large waterfall tumbling into it sits almost in the centre of town. We walked the five minutes to the base and gazed up for a while before clipping in. 

The first sections weren't the best. Low down the climbing wasn't technical, exposed, loose or slippery and I didn't even clip in for the first few sections. Then it crossed sections compromised by water; slippery, loose and simply bad climbing. It wasn't the best section of via Ferrata I had done.

Higher up the route traversed a shower of sorts. Water drips off the rock in plentiful enough quantities to get you soaked by the end. I took it very fast, trying to prevent that from happening. I'll just say I succeeded to an extent. Pablo wasn't so lucky, coming out very wet at the other end after giving the slippery ground more care than I did.

Following this there were several ladders on vertical rock and a tunnel. Some serious chimney skills were needed to stop your feet from entering the fast flowing water pounding across the “floor”. We both came out the other end with dry feet I'm happy to say.

As we popped out some guys in neoprene suits were swimming through the gorge, headed for the abseil point that marks the most technical bit of the barranco that sometimes follows the same route as the via ferrata. I watched them enviously, their presence arousing some kind of longing in me to have that kind of independence in the mountains. Europe would be a great place to get into it with well written up routes and plenty of fixed abseil points. 

The route crossed the gorge and followed its steep sides, revealing several spectacular waterfalls. We went for a walk in one section where the climbing stopped and while trying to traverse to another gorge Pablo managed to fall in up to his hips, saturating a good portion of his body for the remainder of the trip.

The sun was setting by the time we got back to Broto. The track pops out in the town through an alley that unusal passes practically through someone's house. Don't ask me.

Days later we had to return to the guides in Torla that we swore never to visit again. We had just rented ice axes and crampons and needed helmets as a safety precaution in the mountains, something we could seem to obtain anywhere else. I was not happy to support their business again.

This weather had to go before we entered the mountains

Los Pirineos

Pablo and I drove out of the valley of Albarracin late in the evening, once again winding through its lower reaches to gain the plains below, a long flat expanse housing a commercial airport for some strange reason. No towns of significance is close but weirdly I saw the planes of domestic airlines sitting on the tarmac.

We made good progress along the national road towards Zaragoza, stopping again in Burbaguena, the town with the impressive cathedral where I got the car stuck, and Daroca, the beautiful city that sits in an arid depression against mud cliffs. This time we headed down into the city itself and discovered it is actually popular with tourists and the Ayuntamiento has truly recognised their city's attributes, installing paid parking and various other amenities. We parked outside the walls and strolled through the streets, first stopping at the six-spout fountain outside the gate then passing through the arch providing the main access to the city, strung between two towers. It was late. We walked around a little, bought an empenada to share and sat by one of the city's five churches of substantial size, disproportionate for its small size.

Half an hour up the road we found camping in a desert-like valley on the fringes of a small Aragonese town. We set up the tent on good ground but as per usual I had to spend a little time removing a couple of prickly plants, capable of holing tent floors, from underneath. It was 11pm or so. After bad sleep the night before I had a tablet which sedated me into a deep sleep quickly.

The following day we drove the remaining hour into Zaragoza. It was a Sunday meaning my favourite bargain supermarket was not open but we still stayed in the park I found the last time and an adjacent cafe for most of the say. I did some research, called a friend from back home I hadn't spoken to in a long time and emailed my family who (well in all honesty only one of them) were worrying after a week of silence, instigated by the seemingly impossible prospect of finding WiFi in Albarracin.

We left the city at four and guessed our way out of the city, successfully navigating onto the Autovia that one takes to Huesca. One and a half hours later we were nearing our destination. For a long time before the immense mass of the 3000m peaks of the Pyrenees loomed over the hills and them in turn over the plains we were driving through.

Torla

We took an interesting route from Sabinañigo to Torla. I don't think it was the shortest but it got us there. It was tight and windy, many corners demanding speeds of a mere 50km/hour. Once in Torla itself it took a while to find the camping. Well that's what we said. We did take several false turns and had to ask a couple of people but it might have gone a little faster if we weren't cruising round the town at 20km an hour listening to music, enjoying the surroundings and taking in the crisp Pyrenean air.

Once we found the camping it took a lap around just to find the people we were looking. As we came back round we found Pablo's friends camping on a slope right by the entrance. I have no idea how we missed them. I was introduced to everyone. There was Diego and Cristina, who were a couple and two of Cristina's cousins. That being said over half the people were practically a family. Then there was Nerea, the only person already there from outside the “family”.

We left the car outside to avoid the excessive parking fee, our choice costing us a 50m walk each time we wanted to visit the car. We grabbed some food and went back in to join them for dinner. The sun had already set, yet again. Since I've been in Spain I don't think I've once eaten dinner before sunset or slept before 11:30. My body is definitely adjusted to the Mediterranean lifestyle.

The next day we went took a bus from the centre of Torla that deposited us higher up the valley, within the confines of the national park. The seven of us starting hiking, wandering along a road like “track”, gazing up at the towering crags and massifs of the Monte Perdido group. The glacial scarring in the valley was obvious and we took side trips to numerous dramatic waterfalls, plunging from pool to pool, making their way down to the more gentle part of the valley where Torla is situated.

It was definitely more gentle mountain activity than I am used to. We set out at about 2pm and finished up at about 8:30, allowing plenty of time to sit in the wake of the majestic waterfalls, the breath of the colossal volume lightly moistening your face. At one point Pablo and I deviated from the track, dashing down to the river and following its rocky shallows until yet another waterfall barred progress. A traverse above the fast flowing waters of the river and a bit of a scramble gave way to tufts of grass, providing an exit. We also spent a lot of time in the alpine meadows higher up, not pushing beyond the cirque that makes the beginning of the ascent to Monte Perdido proper. The occasional animal, difficult to determine exactly what it was, frolicked in the distance and the evening light played in the low grasses, illuminating the faces of wildflowers.

The next day we drove up the valley of Bujaruelo. Again we left late. A few kilometres before the end of the valley the road changes to dirt and everybody seems to lose the ability to drive. After seven overtakes and a few uses of the horn to alert other drivers to my presence we were at the end of the road, along with another hundred cars or something ridiculous, some camping, others hiking in the mountains.

After walking a little way into the mountains we came back down and I took a swim in the river underneath Ponte Bujaruelo, throwing myself head first into the icy, crystal clear waters underneath. After a few seconds I gasped and quickly swam to the shingle bank, pulling every part of my body from the snow melt. Suddenly I felt warm. What was otherwise a cold day had turned warm in contrast to the water temperature. For some reason I went in another three times. I learnt the length of time the water was bearable for and swam accordingly. I felt refreshed afterwards, lying on the grass, sub-summits of three thousand metre peaks poking over the top of the boreal forests lining the valleys.

The following day we pretty much just went for a drive. Most of it was narrow and windy, demonstrated in the many signs claiming “Adelantemientos Peligrosos”. Not a single overtake was taken. Except the three that were done on a straight in a gorge. Oh, and the straights before the towns. But never through them. Ever. Entering Ainsa a very weird thing happened. There was a random traffic light with no intersection or pedestrian crossing. It was red. I saw it at the last moment and went straight through.

Later I'd see a sign saying that if you go over the limit the light appears red. The car in front of me most definitely was and not without reason, the road suddenly changed from 90 to 50. I'm not exactly sure what the lights are supposed to do other than make the act of speeding more dangerous. It could easily cause someone to slam on their brakes, skidding and doing additional damage.

Ainsa is a beautiful town, perched on a low hill above a silty, wide river valley, the Pyrenees appearing as one wall of steep slopes capped with barren, rocky outcrops. We had lunch in the square and walked on the city walls. The wall is divided into two, forcing one to descend and then reascend to gain the other section. But not Pablo and I. We climbed up a few metres, walked across a narrow, 10m section with no railings then did a down climb. It was a little technical and I helped Pablo work out how to lower himself off the edge and find the tiny edges you have to use as footing.

Leaving the town we passed through rolling country side before turning directly into the bulk of the mountains themselves. All of a sudden the road rounded a blind corner and entered a very tight gorge, a chasm almost, with an equally tight road providing passage through it. For a long while I sounded my horn round corners and drove very cautiously, expecting a car to come the other way any minute. There was only a couple of spots on the whole road cars could fit through side by side. But other cars never came. After a while I saw a sign saying that it was one way. I had nothing to worry about any more.

We pulled over at a carpark at the entrance to the gorge only to discover that Diego had obviously stopped early. We weren't sure what to do so we called them and discovered that they had stopped for a hike. We went for one of our own and soon noticed them on the other side of the gorge, far below. They had managed to park in a place that made their desired hike a bit longer and we had coincidently found the right car park. We met them outside a little hermita, nestled into the cliff face. Underneath there was a very tight passage in the rock with an even tighter hole in the ceiling providing an exit. Everyone had fun grappling to get through the hole in the ceiling and working out how to pull their whole body through against the marauding force of the overhang.

On another day everyone else booked on a tour to practice barranquismo, the Spanish word for canyoning, but I declined. It was through an easy canyon and was quite expensive for a mere three hours. I couldn't see it being worth it. I spent the time writing, reading and doing a little climbing on the wall of a local bridge. This actually proved to offer great climbing.

When the others came back they told stories of how erratically the guides had driven on the tiny roads to access the barranco and of how rude they were. They hurried them through the canyon in a curt manner, interested only in money, not the value of offering a quality experience.

The next day the others headed back to their respective homes in the general vicinity of Madrid and in the adjacent region of La Mancha. We ate together one last time and then they left but Pablo remained. Having no real plans he decided to travel with me a little longer.

Bouldering in Medieval Spain

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As we passed through the tunnel, re-entering Albarracin, it was already late afternoon. We drove straight up the hill onto the plateau and I parked at the main parking, wanting to climb on a block a mere 50m from the car. I sent a 6a on the first block with an aggressive heel hook to slopey top out. I would later send the neighbouring 6c but I knew from the very start that it would take several sessions. The moves are very strong and need to be thought out and experimented with.

In a natural alleyway of sorts I went on to do an easy feeling 6a+ and a 6b that needed a very technical but static twist of the foot to grab one of the upper holds, leading to a heartbreaking top out, so typical of Albarracin. Once you grab the lip the work is far from done.

My week in Albarracin all kind of blends together. We found great camping close to a rocky outcrop with spectacular views into the valley. I climbed once to twice a day for two to three hours a session. We spent a lot of time lying on crash pads by the river where I camped on my first night, a place which seems well known for offering a great siesta. On any given day at least five cars stay there for hours, doing little but eating, sleeping, reading and listening to the sound of the fast moving water. Occasionally the smell of weed smoke drifts in with a breath of warm air.

We spent a lot of time in the town. One day we spent two hours wandering amongst the walls, marvelling at the occupational health and safety. Or rather lack of it. Albarracin's walls are still an exciting place. In one bit you can walk along the top with fifteen metre drops on each side and no railings. In others the stair cases are just incredibly narrow with an unprotected drop on one side. In a video I'd seen climbers jumping from one tooth of the wall to the next. Although easy it seemed crazy while there with huge consequences should you overbalance. The city seems compact from this high up, as if you could walk from side to side in two minutes. People feel absent, hidden in the depths of the city's alleyways. We stayed until an hour and a half before sunset, long enough to watch a light come over the city, changing the tone of the walls from cream to an earthy orange. 

With each day of climbing I felt the pads on the tips of my fingers becoming stronger. Not once did I draw blood on Albarracin's red sandstone. I pushed many problems at 6a and a considerable amount of 6b, including one very scary 6b+ highball. The line was vertical and crimpy, sporting many interesting moves high above the ground and a crux that scared me enough that I didn't feel like trying it the first time I reached the hold beneath it. Its a monster, some 6.5m high. When I topped it and looked down at the pads far below I couldn't believe I'd topped something that high with such small, technical moves. 

On one day we headed up to the town safety fortress. You can't usually enter it except via special arrangement. This is enforced by a solid steel door guarding the only probable entrance. I took my thongs off and climbed up onto some rocks. My feet were two metres above the ground before I reached the wall proper. I climbed up another 2.5m on small holds before I could grab the top of the wall. I hurled myself over. I felt so exposed now inside, as if the whole town could see me. A couple walked up towards the entrance and saw me. “Entrada?” They asked. “Mas o menos.” I replied. More or less. There is an entrance if you want to climb up 4.5m like I just did. 

I dashed around on top, admiring this unique perspective of the town. The town is definitely at its most impressive from here, the fortress being close to the very centre and at the perfect height. I did a full lap, keeping only my head poking out over the top of the wall, trying not to attract unnecessary attention. There's little inside besides wooden walkways, designed to protect archeological projects, and the ruins of a few buildings that would have once housed weapons and supplies.

Getting back down was easier than I expected. I grabbed the inside of two blocks making up the wall and lowered myself down. My feet found two small holds from where I could grab the lip. I delicately lowered myself back onto the rocks from where I could get back to ground level. I was in the clear. I love a good little urban climb from time to time.

When Pablo had been talking to someone in town they recommended we check out a certain bar that attracts a young crowd. On the night we chose to do this we walked to the terraced square above the cathedral before descending a flight of stairs into the alleyway below. On a lower terrace we got talking to an artist with incredible skill in monochrome that had immigrated to Spain from Cuba. We found him sitting, painting on the balcony outside his house, listening to music through a speaker attached to his computer. His taste in music was defined and strong. At times I found myself struggling to listen to what people were saying because the music was rigorously stimulating my thoughts. 

 He had a good grasp of English and a clear accent which he used to give some interesting insights into how he sees Spain. He told us how he hates traditional Spain because judgments formed the first time you see people and disputes can last a life time. He told us about how people clearly know about you and have a strong opinion of you before they have even met you. I agreed with him that these elements of traditional life seem good for nothing. I'd seen the same thing in the Italian community back home and have always thought of it as petty and small minded, immature even.

On one of the nights I set out at about 7:30 to climb alone. Some guys approached me and asked me if I was going to Arrastradero, a sector literally meaning “the dragger”. I said yes. They'd had trouble finding English speakers to ask. It turns out that they themselves were from Germany. We got talking, found the sector together and ended up climbing together until it was dark. One of them climbed at an extremely elite level, 8a. It was impressive just to watch him climb. To flash Esperanza, a very technical 6c, as if it was nothing. 

One of the others climbed at a grade that was similar to mine which was nice. They were all very friendly, fun people to be around and I ran into them every day from then on. On my last day in Albrarracin one of them came to struggle with El Cocodrilo with me, a one move 6b problem that is all of half a metre high. You start on your back before lifting up your weight and turning yourself completely upside down to arrive on top, straddling the head of the crocodile. It's definitely an interesting problem.

I was definitely sad to be leaving Albarracin at the end of our week there but I'm sure I'll be back. This year even. Its perfect in so many ways. You have an amazing historic town coupled with some of Europe, if not the world's best bouldering. It has so much to offer. Now I know all the ins and outs of the place. Where the best of the camping is. Which sectors I like to climb in. The ones I missed out on. My favourite problems. Where you can find friendly locals that sit out the front of there house all day, every day. There's not many places outside of my own state I know like that and its a special experience to feel that kind of connection to a foreign place.