As I Went Out One Morning

During my first week in Bilbao, I went to a Sports Club meeting to get some general information on what kind of groups I might be able to join on campus.  I was told multiple times during that meeting that the Hiking Club was a very popular choice for international students, because it was a great way to see Basque Country while meeting local Spanish students.  Outdoors, sunshine, walking.  Sounds good to me.  Sign me up.  Can’t be too hard if “everyone does the hiking club.”

On Sunday, I woke up at 7:00, put on a tank top and my short shorts (I no longer care –stare all you like), threw a cereal bar in the pocket of my camera case, bought a small water bottle (I didn’t want to be carrying anything too heavy all day, so I didn’t bother brining my reusable, larger bottle), and was out the door.  The day before, I had told my friends at the dorm that I would be gone for most of the morning but would catch up with them by lunchtime.  Since we were meeting at 8:00 AM to start the hike, I figured I would be back by 1:00 PM at the latest.

I was sitting on the bench with my friend Emily where we believed the group was meeting as the clock approached 8:00, but there were no other students in site.  Were we in the right place?  We started to get a little worried, but we figured that Spanish people don’t really bother to be on time all too often, so we should give them a few more minutes.  It was then that I spotted a group of people on the other side of the street.  Let me specify: a group of middle- aged men with huge backpacks.  And huge water bottles.  And hiking boots.  And…hiking poles?  What the heck do they need those for?  And what exactly do the have in those huge backpacks?  And why are their pants so freaking tight, and their socks so high? Is that the hiking club that “all the international students” join?  Is that the casual, breezy, lazy-Sunday-stroll hiking club that I signed up for four weeks ago?

Emily and I crossed the street and approached one of the men.  Before we could even open our mouths, one of them spotted my plastic water bottle and gasped.  “Please tell me that’s not all the water you brought,” he said.  “...,” I coolly responded.  “You’re not going to make it through the day.”

Awesome.

Emily and I boarded the bus that was going to taxi us to the mountain, despite my desperate pleas to let me go back to the dorm.  The group consisted of burly old men, a few woman who looked like they could break my back with the flick of their pinky fingers, and one other American girl named Ali who was just as unprepared as were Emily and me.  Emily and I were definitely the youngest of the group, and by far the most out of place.

I had no idea where we were going, and was growing increasingly concerned as the bus ride carried on…and on, and on. It was 11:00 by the time we finally arrived at the mountain.  I was getting hungry.  I thought we would be halfway done the hike by this hour.

Well, there was no turning back now.  We were in the middle of God knows where so I no longer had the choice to run away and go back to sleep.  Here we go.

Hour 1: I am keeping a positive attitude, practicing my Spanish, and enjoying the scenery.  Rolling hills of endless green.  I spot some horses a few feet away.  How nice!  Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

I can do this.  I like ponies.

Hour 1.5: The hills expand in all directions.  I am confused.  I figure we must be either nearing the top and getting ready to turn around and head back, or better yet that this is a circular route and we’re almost done. 

Hmm...where are we going, guys?

Hour 1.75: We come across a tunnel at the top of a hill, and everyone reaches in to their backpacks and pulls out sandwiches, fruit, and granola bars, as well as extra bottles of water.  I guess it’s lunch time.  Ali asks, “Is it lunch time?”  One of the men shoots us a look of surprise and shakes his head, “No…no! No, this isn’t lunch time!  We’re just having a snack!”  I quietly swallow the last bite of my cereal bar.  Maybe they are planning on stopping at a restaurant to eat on our bus ride home.  That would be nice.

Where are we?

Hour 2.0: The group is presented with two options: The “short and hard” route, or the “long and roundabout” one.  I figure this must mean we have about half an hour to go and we are just planning how to get back to the bus.  We choose the “short and hard” route.  I see a sheet of rocks that goes straight upwards, but I figure it will only take a couple minutes to climb it, and after that I’ll be home free.  Let’s do it.

Hour 2.5: It’s been half an hour, and the sheet of rocks has not ended.  Nor is there any end in sight.  Every time I turn a corner, my heart drops.  After another 15 minutes, I decide that this is the hardest my body has been pushed in years, maybe ever.  The only thing keeping me going is the thought of falling behind and being left to die.  Just when I think I might be almost to the top of whatever monstrosity I am climbing, the sheet of rocks turns in to a mountain of rocks.  The realization that we actually are at the bottom of the mountain and haven’t really even started climbing dawns on me.  My eyes fill with tears as I look at the path ahead of me.  Scratch that, there is no path.  Just rocks.  Using my hands and feet, I start to climb.  I’m out of water.

Emily prepares to head up some rocks - this is one of the milder inclines (during the steeper ones I could not stop to reach for my camera).

Hour 3.0: There is a moment when I think I reach the top, and in a fleeting spurt of elation, Emily and I pose for a picture and congratulate ourselves.  I cannot breathe, and I cannot believe what I just put my body through.  Then I turn my head to the right and see the rest of the group…hundreds of feet above me…climbing the rest of the mountain that I did not even know existed.  “Emily, I can’t do this.” 

That one time I smiled.

Hour 3.5: Out of breath and out of energy, I slowly push myself to the peak.  I sit perilously on the top of a small rock and take in the view of the rolling hills and mountaintops around me.  I have made it.  I can’t see straight, but I think it’s beautiful up here.  The rest of the group reaches into their backpacks and begins eating the pounds and pounds of food they have brought to replenish their bodies, all the while drinking from their never-ending supply of water.  It is 90 degrees.  I am in the direct sunlight, on top of a mountain.  One side of my body is getting sunburned but I don’t have the energy to turn around.  I do not know how I will ever get down from here.  I want these people to finish their food as quickly as possible so that, 1.) I don’t have to watch them eat their delicious looking feasts as my stomach turns in on itself, and 2.) We can get a move on and get to the bottom of the mountain, where I hopefully can buy a new water bottle.  No such luck. Never have I hated the concept of a huge, relaxing, drawn-out Spanish lunch more. 

Basque Country in all its glory.

Hour 4: The group rises to begin the descent down the mountain.  I look in the direction the leader of the group is heading.  An endless slope at an incline far too steep to walk down, made up entirely of rocks, with little-to-no path to follow save a few rocks that are slightly more worn down than others.  My sneakers have no traction, and I slip on every single rock.  I have to travel sidewise and use my hands to keep my balance, repeatedly sticking my hands in pricker bushes to catch myself as I fall, screaming, “I can’t do this!!! I am scared of heights! There is no path! The rocks are falling out from under my shoes! Emily!!!!! I hate this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Every few seconds I find myself frozen with fear, desperately trying to figure out what my next move should be, and praying that the next step I take is on solid ground and that I don’t trip for the 156th time.

Is this a joke?

Goodbye, life.

Hour 4.5: Dehydration sets in.  The rocks become blurry demons that come in and out of my focus.  I don’t remember a lot of hour 4.5.  I think of this half an hour of my life as a truly traumatic experience, and I believe my brain is protecting me by erasing all memory of these thirty painful minutes.

Hey, at least you have a hiking pole.

Hour 5: There are sheep in my way.  Are you freaking kidding me?  Seriously?  I seriously DON’T have the energy to yell for these SHEEP to get OUT OF MY WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  If you know me at all, you KNOW how I get when I’m hungry, you KNOW how I get when I’m tired, you KNOW how I get when I’m overheated, but do you know what I’m like when I am all three of those things at the same time, dehydrated beyond belief, and falling down an endless mountain of rocks in the middle of nowhere?  God bless you, Emily.  God bless you.

There are tears in my eyes.

Hour 5.25: “I can’t F---ing believe I signed up for this F---ing club, I hate this, my knees hurt, I can’t see, I need water, whoever told me this was a good idea is an idiot, I am never, ever doing this ever again ever in my life, everyone here SUCKS, Spain sucks, I. HATE. SPAIN.”

Hour 5.5:  Suddenly, I realize the rocks are behind me.  I have once again found myself lost in a sea of endless hills.  I grow delirious and start running.  Running down a path that may have no end.  Just, running.

The road behind.

The road ahead.

Hour 6: Is that…is that a bar?  Is this my imagination or do I see people up ahead?  People drinking water?  People sitting down?  I skip ahead and realize that it is just not a mirage –a figment of my imagination spurred on my extreme dehydration.  I sprint to the bartender and ask for a bottle of water and a bottle of lemonade.  I come close to finishing both of them before I even find a seat.   I then see a hose spraying endless amounts of water into many a happy hiker’s water bottle, and realize I can drink as much water as I want.  I refill my water bottle and head back inside to the bar, picking up a menu.  Everything on the menu in Euskara (the Basque language).   I don’t speak Euskara. I wave the bartender over and point to the first thing on the menu.  “Give me this.”  I am given what appears to be almost an entire loaf of French bread with chorizo in the middle.  I eat it in about five minutes.  Had I not been stuffing my face with what tasted like the best food ever made, I would not have been able to handle the conversation I overheard between some of the group leaders: we aren’t finished yet.  We have a “Basque ten minutes” left to go, they say, smiling to themselves.

Hour 6.5: Half an hour later, I realize that a “Basque ten minutes” doesn’t really mean ten minutes.

Hour 7: An hour later, I realize it doesn’t mean an hour, either.  With every step, it feels like someone is taking an ax and attempting to amputate my legs from the knees down.

Hour 7.25: The bus.  I see the bus.  I SEE THE BUS.  I CAN SIT ON THAT BUS.  I CAN SLEEP ON THAT BUS.  I DID IT.  I’M DONE.  I AM DONE!

On the hour and a half bus ride back, I think back to the morning, coming up on twelve hours ago, and can barely believe everything that had happened between then and now.  I almost cried at least ten times.  I almost died about eight times.  I screamed at every living thing I saw.  I swore that showing up that morning was the worst decision I had ever made in my life.

But then again, I climbed a mountain.  A real mountain.  And the only real injury I had to show for it was a scraped knee.  I met some amazing people, and felt like a part of something bigger than myself.  As I hopped off the bus, I turned to one of the friends I had made along the way, Alex, to say bye.  “Hey Alex, maybe I’ll see you next time?”

I felt like Superwoman for the next few days.  This week was full of new experiences.  Aside from the setback of putting my body through hell and having a sliiight mental breakdown on the top of a mountain, a couple highlights include going with my cooking class to a Txoko (a Basque community kitchen) to learn how to cook three traditional Spanish dishes (Pecas, Tortilla de Patata, y Arroz con Leche), and going to the beach in Gexto with my girlfriends. 

In the Txoko - I needed a little help.

There’s always an adventure to be had.  Off to Barcelona tomorrow!  Abrazos.